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^llIBRARY'
THE
MAGNOLIA;
OR.
GIFT-BOOK OF FRIENDSHIP.
EDITED BY CLAKA ARNOLD.
BOSTON:
PHILLirS, SAMPSON, & COMPANY.
Kntered according to Act of Congresg, in the year 1854, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachuaett*
ADVERTISEMENT.
TffE present \olume forms the sixth of the series issued under
the general title of "The Magnolia;" and the increasing favor
which has greetf i it from year to year, has been not only gratifying
to the proprieto!*s, but has urged them on to higher efforts, and
induced them to incur a much greater expense in the preparation
of thi? than any of its predecessors.
New aid has been employed in preparing its embellisnments, and
in that respecv. it will be found to bear an honorable comparison
with the numerous gift-books of the season.
As the best guarantee for its literary character, the publishers
beg leave to Btate, that it has been under the same pd'^orial
eupervision frm the commencement of the series
CONTENTS.
Page
Friendship, 9
Dropping in to Tea, . 11
Christmas-Day in " The Bush," 19
A Thimble-full of Romance, 21
'Tis Better not to Know, 33
Music as an Accomplishment, 35
Crossing the Ferry, 44
Angelina's Fainted, 46
Spring Joys, 67
The Chatelaine, 59
Chimes, 74
Duty, 76
The Carrier-Pigeon, 94
The Maid of the Mill, 97
The Heart's Awakening, Ill
The Adventures of Carlo Franconi, 114
The Blessing, I47
Self-Love and True Love, 149
To M. A. G 182
The Withered Rose, 184
1*
6 CONTENTS.
Page.
The Mountain Daisy, 196
Clemence Isaure 197
The Portrait, 217
The Game of Proverbs, 219
Song of a Caged Bu'd, 228
The Trifles of Life, 230
The Summer Evening, 239
The Flower Gatherer 241
The Irish Mother 246
The Life Ransom, 248
Woman's Faith, 264
Lessons in the School of Life. 266
The Gambler, 271
Love and Ambition, 274
The Old Yew-Tree 280
The Angel and the Flowers, ... 282
Sonnet 288
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Bubjeci. Painter.
Presentation Plate.
Illuminated Title.
Spring Joys. Bouirer.
The Maid op the Mill. Corbould.
The Blessing. Bonnar.
The Mountain Daisy. Bouiker.
The Irish Mother. Scanlan.
Engraver.
Page.
Smith
67
Smith.
97
Smith.
147
Smith.
196
Smith.
246
THE MAGNOLIA
FRIENDSHIP.
We have been friends together,
In sunshine and in shade,
Since first beneath the chestnut trees.
In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy hearty
A cloud is on thy brow ;
We have been friends together —
Shall a light word part us now ?
We have been gay together ;
We have laughed at bitter jests —
For the fount of hope was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts.
But laughter now hath fled thy lip,
And sullen glooms thy brow ;
We have been gay together —
Shall a light word part us now ?
10 FRIENDSHIP.
We have been sad together :
We have wept with bitter tears
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered
The hopes of early years.
The voices which were silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow ;
We have been sad together —
Shall a light word part us now ?
DROPPING IN TO TEA;
FROM SAD EXPERIENCE.
I AM at the head of a small but well-ordered house-
hold, and blessed with a scientific husband. If there
IS any thing I pride myself upon, it is having things
neat and nice. I hate being put out of my way — it
fidgets me ; and if there is one thing in particular that
niiRes my usually smooth temper, it is that awful habit
my husband has of bringing unexpected friends to
lunch, breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, as the case
may be. How often have I said to him, " My dear
John, nobody can be more happy to see my Mends
than I am ; no one more happy to be introduced to
new ones ; but do not take me unawares ; let me know
in time to have something prepared."
But, alas ! it was always in vain. My dear husband
knows nothing of housekeeping, and he has no idea
12 DKOPPING IN TO TEA.
how hurtful it is to my feelings to see what would be a
comfortable little supper for two put before ten. He
can't conceive the horror of not having enough milk for
tea, and during that meal being obliged to send Jane
for more ; and then, somebody knocking at the door
during her absence, my poor deaf Mary answering the
summons, and bringing the most absurd name or
message.
" My dear aunt," said my niece, as sbe entered the
room one evening, " I have just had a letter to say
that poor little Annie is very ill, and mamma wishes
me to go home and nurse her, so will you just let
Mary carry my bag to the railroad, for I must be
off as soon as possible, to get there in time for
tea; it doesn't take more than a quarter of an
hour, so I shall have plenty of time, if I start
directly."
"Certainly, my dear," I replied, "then you will
leave Robert with me."
" Yes, aunt, I think so, if you please. There is no
occasion for his going home ; and he always enjoys
himself so much with you, that I think it is a pity to
curtail his visit.
" Well, now, my dear, go and get ready, or you will
be too late," said I, as I rang for Mary.
DROPPING IN XO TEA. IS
Jane answered the bell. — "Jane, just send Mary
to me."
" Yes, mum."
" Mary," said I, when she appeared, in my loudest
tone of voice, " I wish you to carry Miss Mordaunt's
box to the station; she is going home this evening;
get ready directly."
" Yes, mum ; and please could I stay and drink
tea with mother this evening, she lives close by the
station."
I considered a little, and then, in a moment of
weakness, I thundered out " Yes."
Mary curtseyed, and departed.
"And now, Jane," said I, when my niece and Mary
were fairly gone, " bring up tea, and tell your master
and Master Robert."
" Master's out, mum ; and said he shouldn't be
home to tea, but would have a quiet cup by himself,
like, when he did come."
" Well then, Jane, you need not bring up the urn
for Master Robert and me. The black kettle will do.
Here, Robert, my dear," said I to my nephew, as I
handed him his cup, " sit there by the fire. We'll
have our tea quite cosily together." So I drew
the small table, with my small Rockingham tea-pot.
14 DROPPING IN TO TKA.
and the black kettle, and his thick bread and butter,
and my muffin, between us ; and we sat, one on each
side of the fire, as comfortable as could be. Just
then, there was a ring at our bell. " What can that
be, Robert?" said I.
" The post, perhaps, aunt, or my boots come from
being mended."
" Please, mum, it's master, and two foreign gentle-
men," said Jane, as she entered, looking much flurried.
" Good Heavens ! " cried I, as I rose precipitately,
upsetting, as I did so, our small table ; so that nearly
all our store of milk was on the floor, mixing with
the tea and water, and bearing in its current my
unfortunate muffin, just as the gentlemen entered the
room.
" Why, my dearest Anne, what a state you are
in," said my husband, after he had introduced me to
the two foreigners. In answer to my husband'*
question, I faltered out that " I did not expect him.
And it never struck me till afterwards, how strangij*
it must have appeared to foreigners, that the sigh"
of a husband unexpectedly should cause the wife t("
upset her tea-table. But now my mind was mucl
relieved by the sight of my faithful Jane bringing i;
our best tea-service and silver teapot, which she depos
DROPPING IN TO TEA. 15
ited on the large dining-table. Then she quickly
cleared away my broken Rockingham, the black
kettle, muffin, etc. ; but, to my horror, replaced the
milk-jug on the table.
"'N^Tiat, Jane, is there no more milk?" whispered I.
" No, mum, not a drop," whispered she in return.
I had just given the kitten the last, when master
rung."
" Then you must fetch some directly," whispered I.
And now, with the hissing urn and the best tea-
service before me, and the prospect of more milk
speedily, I thought my troubles were at an end.
. "Anne, my dear, you have given me no milk,"
said my husband.
"I thought you did not like it," said I, in a
rather significant tone ; endeavoring to make signs
that I had none. But my poor husband never could
take a hint, so he passed his cup all the same, and
I was obliged to tell him he must wait till Jane
brought it up.
Another ring — "Ah, that reminds me," said my
husband, " that I asked Belmont and his wife to come
and take a friendly cup of tea with us."
"Mr. and Mrs. Belmont!" repeated I.
" Yes, and they are on their bridal tour ; she 's a
16 mOPPING IN TO TEA.
most elegant woman, and it was a very good match
for Belmont in money matters."
" Mr. and Mrs. Belmont," announced Jane, with
her bonnet and shawl on, ready to go for the milk.
" Mrs. Mordaunt, allow me to introduce you to my
wife," said Mr. Belmont to me. The lady bowed
coldly, as if she felt that she was an elegant woman,
and an excellent match ; — and now behold us ! My
cheeks flushed, my hair untidy, no milk, and the
elegant bride by my side, making a placid remark, on
the weather ! !
The milk came — the tea was over, and the company
safe in our drawing-room; as I led my bride up, 1
whispered to Jane, when we had been up about five
minutes to come and say somebody wanted to speak
to me, as I must see about the supper. The little ruse
answered; I gravely asked the bride to excuse me
for a moment, and then rose and left the room.
"Jane, just go and fetch me two shillings' worth
of tarts and cheesecakes," said I. Jane ran for her
bonnet. " And, Jane," I cried after her, " before you
go, ask Master Robert to go to the bell, if it rings
while you are out." "Yes, mum," she answered, in
the distance. I wonder if she heard me at that
distance," thought I ; " but surely she would not have
DROPPING IN TO TEA. 17
answered if she had not." Just as I had finished my
preparations, there was a ring a<t the bell ; " I will wait
and see who it is," thought I, " before I go up stairs
again." So I waited, but no one came. The bell
rang again. I ran up to the drawing-room wildly,
and opened the door ; the bride stared, I shut it
again, Robert was not there. "Robert," cried I, a*
the top of my voice; faintly I heard, "Yes, aunt."
" Where in the world are you ? " I cried angrily.
"In bed, aunt."
" Oh, you naughty, imfeeling boy, to go to bed
when you might be of so much use," I screamed, aa
I rushed down stairs to open the doy. I did open
the door, and what met my astonished gaze ? — the
Heriotts, the Blanters, and the Callers! — all in full
dress, guests my husband had invited to meet the
bride !
I muttered, I blushed, I made excuses, which of
course made every thing worse, and eventually led the
new comers into my drawing-room ; and there, what
met my sight ? — one of the foreigners on the floor ir
strong convulsions. My husband was trying to revive
him; he held up his head, while the other foreignei
was rushing about the room like one distracted, seizins
every thing in the shape of a scent-bottle, which h<
2«
18 DROPPING IN TO TEA.
applied either to the other's nose, or in spilling over
his face ; and, at the other end of the room the placid
bride had fainted in the arms of her husband, who was
in vain endeavoring to revive her.
" Let Jane bring some cold water, and you get your
sal- volatile, — and, stay, send Mary for Dr. Rent,"
cried my husband.
"Alas!" shrieked I, "I have no servant at home."
I left the room, I ran and fetched the water, I fetched
the sal-volatile, and as I returned I saw the astonished
Robert, wrapped in an old dressing-gown of my hus-
band's, peeping in at the door, and sobbing, " I didn't
want to go to l^d ; but Jane said you called after her,
and said I was to go to bed, and so I did." Regard-
less of his costume, I made him help me bring in the
water. Between us we revived the lady, and by the
time Jane came back, the gentleman was well enough
to be removed in a cab. The other guests were
dispersed before. Then, when all were gone,.! threw
myself upon a sofa: "John," said I, "it will be the
death of me, if you ever do such a thing again."
I do think John was moved at my suflferings, for
this has been my last experience as to being taken
unawares.
CHRISTMAS-DAY IN "THE BTTSH."
BT MARK LEMON.
I WONDEE, Edward, who will meet
To-day around my father's fire?
Dear sister May, with voice so sweet —
The very sweetest of the quire ;
And Mary too — poor widow'd girl,
She and her boy will sure be there : —
Here is the little golden curl
She gave me of her baby's hair.
Old Uncle John to-night will sing
"Will Watch," as he did years ago.
When I was quite a little thing,
I used to weep at " Susan's " woe.
And when they have the elder-wine
That mother keeps for Christmas-day,
They'll drink your health, dear Ned, and mine.
And wish we were not far away.
20 CHKISTMAS-DAY IN "THE BUSH.
And then they'll talk of all we planned
Before we crossed the mighty sea,
And wonder if this distant land
Can ever be a home to me.
Then one by one they will recall
Your love for me, so strong and true,
Your ever trustful heart. — and all
Will bless the God who gave me you.
A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE.
The tailor's wife had stitched since five in the
morning. It was now noon — the day after Christmas-
day, and there really was something for dinner. The
tailor was from home — the children were out, but it
was close upon twelve o'clock, and in a trice they
would be back, eager and hungry for their meal. Mrs.
Atkins put down her work — a very handsome waist-
coat of sky-blue satin, sprinkled with stars, and
bordered, it might be, with the zodiac, (the border
was so strangely beautiful,) clapped her thimble on
the mantel-piece, and hurried to the cupboard. At all
events, there was a dinner to-day ; and something
seemed to promise the tailor's wife a brighter time,
and a fuller table for the time to con e. Atkins had
gone to make inquiry about a ship that was to saU for
the other side of the world ; and though he had not at
the time a single piece of Queen Victoria' i minted gold
to purchase a passage for himself and fami y, he never-
theless would learn all the particular? • f cost and
22 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE.
aecessary preparation. It was a whim, he knew ; for
all that, it was a whim that controlled him beyond his
powers of self-argument, had he tried to exercise them.
And, all alone, Mrs. Atkins spread the table. There
was a piece of beef left, and a small piece of plum-
pudding ; and still the pudding remained small,
although Mrs. Atkins turned the plate that contained
it round and round half-a-dozen times, and took half-a-
dozen side-long looks at it, as though endeavoring to
behold it in the most improved light. But pudding is
not to be thus magnified.
The table laid, Mrs. Atkins thought she would
execute a few more stitches, filling up the time until
Atkins and the children came. As Mrs. Atkins
approached the mantel-piece, extending her fingers
towards the thimble, the thimble — of its own mo-
tion — fell over upon its side, with one distinct
prolonged sound, as from a silver bell ; Mrs. Atkins's
thimble, by the way, being of no such precious metal,
but of working-day brass. Mrs. Atkins drew back
her fingers from the thimble as from a nettle, when
the thimble — self-moved — rolled off the mantel-piece
and fell upon the hearth. And then, to the astonish-
ment and terror of Mrs. Atkins, who, strange to say,
could not at that moment scream, though in no former
A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 23
accident had she failed, when otherwise determined —
then, from the thimble began to pour forth, in small
quick puffs, smoke of silvery clearness. Mrs. Atkins
dropped in her chair, and sat with her eyes upon the
thimble, still puffing a shining vapor — puffing and
puffing, until, in a few minutes, the room was filled
as with a cloud, and every object enveloped in it,
save the small brass thimble that glittered like a speck
upon the hearth. In the midst of her terror, Mrs.
Atkins thought of her little bit of beef and fragmentary
pudding; but they were lost to her sight, muffled up in
the one white cloud that possessed the apartment.
After some minutes, the cloud cleared away, slowly
rolling itself up the chimney, and Mrs. Atkins's brass
thimble lay, like any other two-penny implement, upon
the hearth. The same well-worn thimble — the same
familiar common-place that for many a day had armed
her sempstress finger.
" How do you do, Mrs. Atkins ? " said a voice from
the mantel-piece.
Mrs. Atkins jumped round with the shortest of
jumps. She looked and saw a gentleman
"Well, he was the strangest of gentlemen, and he
was in the strangest position ! But we will tell every
tittle we know about him.
24 A. THIMBLE-FULL OF K0MANC;E.
Measured by tailor's measure, the gentleman's
stature might have been about six inches. A gentle-
man with a very clean and lofty look ; his hair an iron
gray ; with a few wisdom scratches made with an iron
pen — the sort of pen made out of Time's old scythes —
about the corner of his eyes, that had a ceiling-ward
look ; a look, moreover, of self-satisfaction. He was
very soberly dressed in black — very soberly ; and then
his white neckerchief was white and pure as a snow-
wreath. Mrs. Atkins thought she recognized in the
miniature man a/ well-known face; one of those coun-
tenances that, like a royal face upon a shilling, is the
property of every body who can possess it. She had
seen a picture of the Poor Man's Friend, and — no, it
could not be he ; it was impossible — nevertheless, the
face of the manikin was wondrously like that flesh-
and-blood goodness.
And the little gentleman, though somewhat uneasily,
sat among a sprig of Christmas holly that was upon
the mantel-piece ; sat, and with his best pains, looked
secure amid his bower of spikes.
" Hadn't you better take a chair, sir, or this stool ? "
— said Mrs. Atkins, as she passed her apron over a
three-legged piece of deal, — you'll be more com-
fortable, sir."
A THIMBLE-FULIi OF K.OMANCE. 25
" Thank you," said the little man ; his face puck-
ered as he spoke, and shifting uneasily, — thank you,
but people condemned to live in thimbles are not
allowed to be comfortable."
Poor creatures ! cried Mrs. Atkins, " it must be a
strait lodging, goodness knows. I never heard of
such a thing."
" Benighted, darkened being ! " cried the little man
in black ; " miserable, forlorn person," he continued,
as though from a platform, — did you never hear of
Solomon's brazen kettles?"
" Never, sir," said the tailor's wife, with great
humility.
" Know, then, that Solomon has at this moment a
thousand brazen kettles at the bottom of the sea ; and
in every kettle is a prisoner, confined for no good he
has done, depend upon it, to hear the sea moan and
roar, and answer it with his groans. And as in brazen
kettles, so" — and the little man sighed heavily —
" so in brass thimbles."
" I don't understand a word of it," said Mrs.
Atkins ; and with a resolute hand, she took up her
thimble, and turned it over and over, and almost
unconsciously brought the thimble to her nose. But it
3
2t) A THIMBLE-FULL OV KOMAXCE.
iid 7iot smell of sulphur — the thimble was the like
thimble it was before.
" For ten years have I lived in that thimble. Ten
years," cried the little man — and Mrs. Atkins stared
now at her visitor, and now took another look at the
thimble ; and then she courageously thrust her thimble
finger into the familiar brass, and nodded at the little
man among the holly, as much as to say, " Now you are
well got rid of, I'll take care you shan't get in again."
The little man seemed to understand the threat of
the look, for he said with a languid smile, — " It's no
matter now: my ten years are up — my time's out
to-day. All I have now to do is to confess my past
sins and the sufferings they purchased me, and then I
pass to peace. I've paid the penalty of my selfishness,
and my unquiet ghost will cease to haunt your brazen
thimble."
"A ghost!" cried Mrs. Atkins. "Well, I never
thought I could be so bold to a ghost. But then, to
be sure, you're such a very little one. What was
your name ? "
" Never mind," said the small man. " I was called
the Poor Man's Friend. And I can tell you, Mrs.
Atkins, that I have paid pretty sharply for the vanity
and vexation of the title."
A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 27
" That is, I suppose," answered the spirited little
woman, "you wasn't his friend at all? Only the
name, like? "
" Listen to my story," said the little gentleman,
again shifting himself among the holly leaves. " I
was, when I was alive, and enjoying my proper
stature, I was a man of exceeding wealth. Rich
indeed was I, and as every body thought — and at
last I got myself to think so too — very good, very
benevolent, very pious. Indeed, I had the habit of
talking so much about the duties of the rich to the
poor, that, for the life of me, I never could find
sufficient time to perform them. Nevertheless, I
could not forbear to talk — it was so pleasant, so
easy too ; and with no other effort, it made me a
name that smelt among my particular friends like a
sweet ointment."
"The inore shame for you," said Mrs. Atkins. "To
get a good name, and live upon it and do nothing for
it; why it's worse than coining — yes, passing bad
money is nothing to it."
"Very true, Mrs. Atkins," answered the unruffled
manikin. " Very true. Yet there's a deal of brassy
character passed for good. And it may sound right
enough upon the world's counter, but it won't do, Mrs.
28 A IHIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE.
Atkins, when the angels come to ring it. It won't do,
ma'am."
"I should say not," replied the tailor's wife, with
womanly decision.
" And so I found. It is now, madam, ten years ago
since I died. If you doubt me, take your way to the
cemetery. There, madam, you will see my monument.
There's no mistaking it — 'tis such a handsome thing,
with work enough in it to have kept the sculptor and
his family for a twelvemonth. I am there, ma'am, in
alto relievo in four compartments ; and in all four my
likeness by lamenting friends is considered very perfect.
In one place I am giving away quartern loaves — in
another I have taken off my own coat, and am serenely
offering the garment to a beggar — and the third"
" I recollect. Good as a picture to look at it — I
saw it with Tom and the children one Sunday. Then
we could get a walk on a Sunday ; and now it's no
walk, but for ever stitch. La, bless me ! and that's
you in that monument! Well, I never!" ejaculated
Mrs. Atkins. "And now I reco ect, what a lot of
fine stuff there's writ about you."
" Don't name it, ma'am," said the little man hastily;
" even as I am, my cheek tingles to think of it. And
when I reflect "
A THIMBLE-FULL OF KOMANCE. 29
"Never mind reflections," cried the tailor's wife
with decreasing deference towards her visitor — " but
come to the story at once. How did you get in my
thimble ? "
" That was my sentence — that was my dreadful
punishment," cried the little man.
"Punishment!" echoed Mrs. Atkins. "Well, to
be sure, little as you are, it must have cramped you
terrible. And what's so very droll, I never felt you."
"But I felt you — every stitch," said the manikin,
and he seemed to wince at the recollection. " How-
ever, to finish my story. You must know that,
although I talked to the last day of my life about the
duties of the rich, and the rights of the poor —
although now and then, for the look of the thing, my
name sparkled in a guinea subscription for a Home for
the Homeless, or some such public benevolence, I
would buy — buy where I might — I would buy cheap.
Every shilling saved, I considered as a new victory
over the extravagance of trade. It was- not for me to
inquire about wages — it was no part of my economy
to be assured that the journeyman could get his
shoulder of mutton and potatoes"
" Shoulder of mutton and potatoes ! " exclaimed
Mrs. Atkins, as though she spoke of the culinary
3*
30 A XHIMBLE-FULL OF EOMANCE.
marvels of Mahomet's Paradise — "Well, to be sure,
we had a bit of beef yesterday, but before then "
" I cared not if you, and such as you, lived upon
bran and water, if cheapness were in the stitches of
my coat — if my heart, my philanthropic heart, beat
beneath a waistcoat that, for economy of cost, defied
competition."
" More shame for you," said the tailor's wife.
" Talking of waistcoats, what do you think I get for
that blue thing there ? "
" Starvation ! " answered the manikin ; " for I see,
fine as it is — oh, I know the sort of thing noio — I
see it is one of the glories of prime cost that defy
competition. A pretty breastplate of defiance," said
the little man, " and well is such defiance punished,"
" How punished ? " asked Mrs. Atkins.
"That's it — that's the marrow of my story. That
is the why and the wherefore that I am here. At this
moment — now, woman, attend to me, for what I have
to say is worth the hearing — at this moment — there
are the ghosts of not less than ten thousand men and
women — excellent persons when alive ; the very pink
of goodness, with delicate white satin feelings, as one
may say — ten thousand spirits condemned for a certain
time to be imprisoned in thimbles."
A IHIMBLE-rtJLL OF ROMANCE. 31
" In thimbles ! " exclaimed the tailor's wife.
" In thimbles," repeated the miniature of the
departed Poor Man's Friend. "And their prison is
far worse than the brazen dungeon in which Solomon
shuts up his genii ; for they, at least, are not mocked
with an open cell — with a promise of liberty never,
until the appointed time be come, to be obtained.
Now the victims of the thimble may not budge. They
have employed the cheapest thimble when alive, and
the cheapest thimble is for a time their punishment
when dead. My time is up, and my wounds are
healing — but how, for these ten long years"
" That's just about the time — not quite — Tom
and I have worked for "
"For my tailor that was," said the manikin.
" How, for the time, have you tortured me ! "
"I — I couldn't do it," cried Mrs. Atkins, sharply.
"You couldn't help it — 'twas your duty and my
fate. Thus, for every stitch you took, I felt your
needle-head go clean into what seemed my flesh.
And my sense of feeling was sharpened into spiritual
suffering. For fourteen hours a-day, have I felt —
incessantly felt — the punctures of the tormenting
steel. Hundreds of thousands of little daggers
piercing me through and through, and with every
32 A THIMBLE-FTJLL OF KOMANCE.
stitcli, a jerk that seemed to snatch at every
nerve."
" Mercy on us ! " cried the tailor's wife.
"Ah, mercy on us," said the little man. " But we
ask mercy in vain who have had no mercy on others.
Live and let starve, was my inner creed ; it's a wicked
religion, Mrs. Atkins, and carries its after-punishment.
And depend upon it, they who, without care for the
comforts, for the necessities of the workers, will have
only the cheapest work, big as their names may sound,
and large as their presence in the world may be, —
their souls dwell in a thimble."
And here the little man vanished, and the Dutch
clock struck twelve, and Atkins with a brightened face,
with a child in either hand, and two following, came
home to dinner. Now Avhether Mrs. Atkins did, or
did not, tell to her husband her interview with the
manikin, is not here, or elsewhere, the business of
EED RIDING HOOD
'TIS BETTER NOT TO KNOW
BONO, BY SAMUEL LOVER.
You say you love me — can I trust
That she, by many woo'd,
By me, at length, has had her heart
To constancy subdued ?
Perchance some other love is there —
But do not tell me so : —
Since knowledge would but bring me grief,
'Tis better not to know.
Perchance that eye has beamed with love
In days I knew not thee.
That ruby lip hath bent in smiles
For others than for me ;
But let that lip, still, silence keep,
I'll trust its love-like show : —
Since knowledge would but bring me grief,
'Tis better not to know.
34 'us BETTEK NOT TO KNOW,
Oh ! what a simj .e fondness mine —
Wliose wislies make its creed ;
But let me thmk you love me still,
And I'll be blest indeed!
'Tis better that the eye ne'er see ^
Than ttiat its tears should flow : —
When knowledge would but bring us grief,
'Tis better not to know.
MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT.
BY GEOKGB HOGARTH, ESO.
Music is peculiarly a female accomplishinent. When
cultivated with regard to its true nature and its real
purpose, it brings into view some of the finest features
of woman's mind, and contributes to the fulfilment of
one part, at least, of woman's mission — that of shed-
ding a softening and refining influence over human
society. It is not by brilliant displays of artistic
acquirement and skill, that music exerts its power in
the circles of private life ; it is in its simpler forms,
and by its melody, its grace, its expression, and the
additional charm with which it clothes sweet and
pathetic poetry, that it arrests the attention and
touches the heart. And this is the case, as much in
the gay and fashionable party as in the privacy of the
domestic fire-side ; though it is in the latter situation
that Music appears in her fairest aspect, and bestows
her best blessings.
%
3kj music as an accomplishmexx.
Music is at present deprived of most of its charms
and most of its benefits by its end being mistaken.
It is regarded as the means of display, and with this
view its tuition is almost entirely conducted. Ladies
leam to sing, and to play on the pianoforte and the
harp, in order that they may "show off" when they
go into company. They spend an inordinate quantity
of time, labor, and expense, in the acquirement of this
one accomplishment ; they give enormous sums to
fashionable teachers, who make fortunes out of the
prevailing folly ; they practise three or four hours
a day for years together, to the neglect of more im-
portant and necessary studies ; and what, in nine
cases out of ten, is the result ? When a young lady,
thus " highly accomplished," brings her dearly-bought
accomplishment into action, what does it avail her?
She is, naturally enough, eager to display that which
she has made it the chief business of her life to attain ;
and consequently makes a point of singing and playing
as much as possible whenever she can find an audience.
Poor girl ! she is little aware how thanklessly her
efibrts are received. Instead of admiration she excites
nothing but ennui. Her bravura of Donizetti, or
fantasia of Thalberg, is the signal for a general buzz
of conversation, which she alone is too preoccupied
MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 37
to hear ; or, if a sense of politeness imposes silence
as a duty, the constraint only heightens the annoyance
and impatience of the company. When the elaborate
performance is over, it is followed by a profusion of
thanks and compliments ; those who talked the loudest
Avhile it lasted being the loudest also in professing the
delight and admiration it has given them. The fair
musician's vanity is flattered ; and she goes home quite
unaware of the real impression she has made, and
perhaps exulting in an imagined triumph over some
less successful rival. All this is so notorious, that a
highly-educated musical lady has come to be looked
upon as a bore, and music itself is felt, by those who
suffer from its inflictions, to be a social nuisance.
But the highly-educated musical lady, who " bestows
so much of her tediousness " on society, is more to
be pitied than blamed. She is the hapless victim of
a course of education which not only fails in its direct
object, but by precluding her from pursuing objects
of greater moment, tends to make her ignorant, friv-
olous, and vain. The blame rests with her parents
and friends, who ought to have sounder views of what
is really necessary to form her mind and promote her
happiness.
It ought to be considered, that music cannot, in
4
38 MUSIC AS AN ACCOilPXISHMEKT.
private society, be successfully used for the sake of
display. In the present state of the art, no amateur
performer can hope to excite pleasure or admiration by
means of vocal power or great execution. It is not
now as it was once. At present, such is the variety
of public concerts, operas, and musical performances of
every kind, that the great body of the public are quite
accustomed to hear the principal singers and instru-
mentalists — are able to appreciate their qualities and
criticise their defects. A lady in a drawing-room, who
sits down to entertain a company with a " scena "
from an Italian opera, or a brilliant production of
some fashionable pianist, ought to remember that
probably every body in the room has heard the same
piece sung by Grisi or Jenny Lind, or played by
Thalberg or Dulcken ; and that she is exposing herself
to an unpleasant comparison, by attempting lamely and
imperfectly what the company have heard executed
with finished excellence ; and this will be the case,
even though she may be, for an amateur, a really
superior performer. But the truth is, that not one
lady-amateur in a thousand who makes such ambitious
attempts, can acquit herself even decently. If she
sings, it is a thousand to one that she strains and
forces her voice out of all tone and tune, and trans-
MTJSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 39
forms the brilliant roulades of the composer into inar-
ticulate screams ; if she plays, that she produces a
mere clatter of unmeaning noise and confusion. And
these enormities are committed bj'^ persons who, con-
fining themselves within the lihiits of their own
powers and attainments, might really " discourse most
eloquent music," and gratify the ears as well as touch
the feelings of their listeners.
It is a great mistake to suppose that the best music
is the most difficult of execution. The very reverse,
generally speaking, is the case. Music of a high order
certainly demands high gifts and attainments on the
part of the performer. But the gifts of nature may
be possessed by the amateur as well as by the pro-
fessor ; and the attainments of art may be the result
of moderate study and application. A young lady
possessed of a sweet and tunable voice, a good ear,
intelligence, and feeling, may cultivate music in its
grandest and most beautiful forms, and may render
its practice a source of the purest enjoyment, not only
to herself but to her domestic and social circle.
Many ladies do this, but they have not been fashion-
ably educated. Sense and reason, not the prevailing
example, have been consulted in their studies, and the
result has made them really accomplished musicians.
40 MT7SIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMEKT.
In order to become so, every natural gift must be
cultivated by solid instruction. The principles of the
art must be well understood. The rules of harmony
and composition must be studied so far as to enable
the pupil, if not to compose, to comprehend the designs
of the composer, and the technical means whereby he
produces his effects. The voice must be strengthened
and purified, ungainly habits must be removed, and
distinct utterance and elocution acquired. The mind
must^e opened, and the taste exalted and refined, by
acquaintance with the finest productions of the art —
an acquaintance which ought to extend from the
Oratorio of Handel to the national ballad. With the
young pianist a similar course should be pursued.
A correct method of fingering, and a familiarity with
the scale in every variety of key, must be imparted
at the outset ; and this vvdll give a command of the
instrument quite sufficient for every purpose of an
amateur performer.
A lady so educated is far above making music the
means of frivolous display. She never commits the
folly of endeavoring to rival professional artists in the
achievement of tours de force, and thus exciting ridi-
cule instead of admiration, and causing weariness
instead of pleasure. She select? Vier music from every
MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 41
hrdiich of the art, choosing what she knows to be
suitable to her powers, and what her taste tells her
is intrinsically good and beautiful. In such music
she may feel without vanity (and her hearers will
feel so too), that she subjects herself to no disparaging
contrasts ; and a well-grounded but modest confidence
will enable her to do justice to her own talents. Such
a singer will bo at no loss for resources. She will find
them in the works of every school in Europe, not
excepting even (when discreetly chosen) the geins of
the modern Italian and German stage. She will be
able to give power to the inspired strains of Handel,
grace to the charming melodies of Mozart, and truth
and pathos to the simplest effusion of the rustic muse
of Ireland or Scotland.
Concerted music, both vocal and instrumental, is
getting more and more into use, in society. It is no
unusual thing to see a small party of ladies and
gentlemen grouped round the pianoforte, and engaged
in singing the duets, trios, and quartets of some fine
Italian, German, or English opera ; and the chamber
trios and quartets of Mozart, Beethoven, Hummel,
Reissiger, etc., for the pianoforte, violin, flute, and
violincello, give a delightful variety to the enjoyments
of a social musical evening. On these occasions the
4*
i2 MirSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT,
most prominent parts of the performance fall to tlie
ladies ; and those ladies only*-, can acquit themselves
with intelligence, steadiness, and effect, who have had
a sound and substantial musical education. The
dashing bravura singer, and the pianist who aspires
to emulate Thalberg, are helpless and useless in music
like this. In their vain endeavors to gain the power
of dazzling and astonishing, by exhibitions of vocal
and manual agility, they have wasted ten times the
amount of toil that would have enabled them to join
in those musical conversations which abound in the
fairest flowers of genius, and the richest treasures of
art, — conversations which afford delightful pastime to
those who carry them on, and, when supported with
grace, spirit, and feeling, never fail to engage the
animated attention of the listener.
We are not to suppose, however, that music, like
reading and writing, " comes by nature." Nature
supplies the requisite gifts ; and when these are
wanting, it is best not to attempt the pursuit. What
can be more absurd and more pitiable, than to see
an unfortunate victim of fashion condemned to scream
and thump the keys of the piano for several miserable
hours daily, without voice, ear, inclination, or the
slightest hope of success, while some fine talent tliat
MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 43
sTie really possesses is left wholly neglected ? When
the natural gifts do exist, it requires careful and judi-
cious cultivation to render them productive of fruit.
In this fastidious age, even the simplest music demands
a pure style and nice execution; and the presence or
absence of these will be apparent even in the perform-
ance of a ballad or a waltz. But, so much being
necessary, it is the more essential that the youthful
pupil should be spared what is not necessary ; and it
is any thing but necessary to lead her to seek the
gratification of vanity — and to find nothing but dis-
appointment and mortification — by emulating the
mechanical achievements of professional artists.
CROSSING THE FERRY.
(^FKOM THE GERMAN.]
BY DORA GE.EEN'WELL.
I cKossED this Ferry once before.
All looks as then it looked of yore ;
Before me still, in evening's gleam,
The Castle shines above the stream.
But not within this boat, as then,
Two dear companions cross again, —
A Friend, a Father, — one in truth ;
The other rich in hope and youth.
One wrought on earth in quiet, he
Departed also silently ;
The other foremost rushed, to fall
In storm and struggle first of all.
CKOSSING THE FERKT. 45
Thus when my musing fancy strays
To thoughts of earlier, happier days,
Must I the dear companions miss
That Death has snatched away from this.
Yet, what so close binds friend to friend
As soul with kindred soul to blend ?
Those hours that fled like spirits past
Still link me unto spirits fast !
Then take, oh ! boatman, take the fee
That threefold noAv I tell to thee.
With willing hand, for spirits twain
Have crossed the stream with me again 1
"ANGELINA'S FAINTED!"
BT RED RIDIN& HOOD.
The talk was of Hottentots —
" Don't speak of 'em," cried Miss Angelina Dafiy,
•' I'm certain of it — if I were only to look at a
Hottentot, I should faint — I must faint."
" Fiddledee ! " said Miss Lilly white ; and there
was a hush — a pause in the conversation ; for when
Miss Lillywhite exclaimed " Fiddledee ! " it behoved
thoughtless young ladies to look to themselves. Now,
Miss Daffy had a great talent for fainting. Perhaps
the talent was originally a natural gift ; nevertheless,
it could not be denied that a frequent and earnest
cultivation of the endowment had brought it to per-
fection. Miss Daffy, at one minute's notice, could
faint at any time, and upon any subject. She could
faint at either extreme of the day — faint at breakfast,
or faint at supper ; could faint with equal beauty and
truthfulness, whether the matter to be fainted upon
"Angelina's faintjed!" 47
were a black beetle, or a blackbird — a bull or a
bullfincli. She had wonderful powers of syncope ;
though, it must be allowed, like most folks haunted
with a despotic sense of their own genius, she now
and then employed it a little out of place. Vanity,
however, is a human weakness. For a philosopher,
to his own satisfaction, has proved, that the peacock
takes no pride in its own effulgent glories, but, all
unconscious of their beauty, spreads them because it
was ordained to do so ; and, after all, had Miss Daffy
been philosophically examined upon her proneness to
faint, she would have attributed the habit to no self-
complacency, but to the simple but inevitable truth
that she was made to faint. She would not have
recognized any beauty in the art of fainting, but
merely the natural consequence that to faint was
feminine. Eve, she thought, was made for sal-
volatile.
Miss Lillywhite was a spinster of seven-and-forty,
"I am six — seven — eight-and-forty, next birth-day,"
Miss Lillywhite would blithely observe, as the year
might be. And this gay veracity was the more
pleasing in Miss Lillywhite, inasmuch as she might
have passed for forty ; nay, had she stickled ever so
little for it, she might have got off with six-and- thirty
48 "ANGELI^'AS FAIls'TED.
at most — a happy, blooming six-and-thirty ; for Miss
Lillywhite, like a true Englishwoman, can-ied in her
unfading beauty the assertion of her British race.
How much triumphant beauty all Over the world fades
and yields, as teens blow into twenties, as twenties
wrinkle into thirties ! Now, your truly beautiful
Englishwoman, with her carnations and lilies, will
carry her colors up to two-score-and-ten. Nay, we
have known some veterans, blooming with a sprinkling
of years over tyrannous fifty. And Miss Lillywhite
was as jocund as she was handsome. It is said,
there is no better preservative against the melancholy
changes wrought by time than honey. We know not
whether Miss Lillywhite was acquainted with the
Egyptian truth : if not, she had unconsciously acted
dpon the unknown recipe, and had preserved herself in
the sweetness of her disposition — in the honey of
her goodness. She was a pattern old maid. Yet a
pattern, we would hope, never to be followed ; for it
is such women who make the real wives and mothers.
Miss Lillywhite, like Miss Venus de Medicis, should
remain a single perfection : alone in sweetness and
beauty, to show what celibacy and art can do ; to be
idmired as samples, but never to be added to.
Miss Lillywhite was an old schoolfellow of Mrs
"Angelina's tainted!" 49
Daffy's, and was passing the Christmas-time with hei
early friend and family. Now Angelina Daffy — e
pretty creature, with more goodness in her than she
dreamed of — had, as we have indicated, this weak-
ness ; she must faint : and carrying out this will, as
a first principle, she had duly fainted through the
whole round of the holidays. She had fainted at
snap-dragons on Christmas-eve — fainted, very emphat-
ically fainted, when surprised under the mistletoe on
Christmas-day — fainted when the bells rang in 1850
— and fainted, dead as a stone, as a nervous guest
declared, when prevailed upon to crack a bon-bon on
Twelfth-night. "Angelina's fainted!" had become
household words in the homestead of the Datfys.
And so, can it be wondered at that the ingenuous
Miss Lilly white, at this last threat of Angelina's, to
faint at a Hottentot — should rebuke the maiden with
more than ordinary vivacity ? The truth is. Miss
Lillywhite had been much provoked : even on the
previous Sunday, when Angelina had menaced to
faint at the clergyman — a very handsome, meek
young man, who preached a maiden sermon with great
promise of preferment — Miss Lillywhite could only
scold the maiden into firmness, by threatening to give
her up, unattended, to the care of the beadle. Therc-
6
•,0 "Angelina's fainted!"
fore, when Angelina, returning to her weakness,
expressed herself ready to go off at the very look of
a Hottentot — therefore, all previous provocation con-
sidered, can it be wondered at that the patience of
Miss Lillywhite fairly exploded with — "Fiddledee?"
We think not; and take up the stitch of our little
story.
"Fiddledee!" said Miss Lillywhite.
Miss Angelina looked surprised — amazed — and
gradually became very deeply wounded. At first, she
raised her eyes towards Miss Lillywhite as though
doubtful of the truth of her impressions ; but the set,
stern features of Miss Lillywhite — if you can couple
the expression of sternness with the thought of a clear,
bright open face, bright and clear as Dresden china —
convinced Angelina that it was the lady visitor who
had really spoken. What, under the new and painful
circumstance, could Angelina do ? Why, she fell back
upon the strength of her weakness : she instantly made
an ostentatious preparation to faint. Her eyelids were
slightly tremulous — she swallowed one sob — her neck
took one swan-like curve, and — and, in another
second, there would have been the old, old cry of
the house of Daffy — "Angelina's fainted!"
But
"Angelina's fainted!" 61
Miss Lillywhite jumped from her chair, and reso-
lutely passing Mrs. DafFy, made direct to tlie sufferer,
who, half conscious of the attempted rescue, was
fainting all the faster. "Angelina," cried Miss Lilly-
white, v/ith a restorative shake, "this is aflfectation —
folly — hypocrisy — nonsense ! "
Miss Angelina Daffy opened ho orbs, and in a
moment sat upright, with her prettily cut nostril
dilated, and the tear that was coming into her aston-
ished eyes almost frozen, and indeed, altogether, in
such a state of amazement that she must — no, she
would not faint ; it was not a time to faint, when so
cruelly offended.
Miss Lillywhite drew her chair beside Angelina,
who was every moment hardening in dignity. " My
dear child," said Miss Lillywhite, " you must give
up fainting — it's gone out of fashion."
" Fashion, Miss Lillywhite ! Do you think that
feelings "
" Fiddledee i " again repeated Miss Lillywhite ; and
Angelina sternly resolved not to say another word to
so strange a person — to so unpolite a visitor. Angelina
crossed her arms in resignation, determining — since
her mamma would not interfere — to suffer in silence-
Miss Lillywhite might be rude — might say her worst.
52 "Angelina's fainted!"
"When I was eighteen, your age," said Misa
Lillywhite, " and that, my dear, is nearly thirty years
ago, I used to faint, too. I enjoyed fainting very
much ; indeed, my dear, I question if ever you take
greater pleasure in fainting than I did."
" Pleasure ! " exclaimed Miss Angelina. Who could
remain dumb un§er such an imputation?
"Oh, I know all about it — pleasure, my dear,"
said the remorseless Miss Lillywhite. " You see, it
gave me a little consequence ; it drew upon me general
notice ; it made me, as it were, the centre of a picture ;
and it was a pleasure — not a healthful one, certainly,
but still a pleasure — to enjoy so much sympathy about
one. To hear, whilst I was in the fit — I don't know,
my dear, whether you hear, when fainting, quite as
well as I did — to hear expressions of concern, and
pity, and admiration, and — do you hear them dis-
tinctly ? " Angelina could not answer such a question :
she could only look lightning — harmless, summer-
lightning — at Miss Lillywhite, who inexorably con-
tinued. "I can confess it now — I used to enjoy the
excitement, and therefore went off upon every reason-
able opportunity. It was very wrong, but there was
something pleasant, exciting in the words ' Miss
Lillywhite's fainted ! ' Oh, I can remember them, my
"Angelina's fainted!" 53
dear, as though it was only yesterday. But, my love,"
said the cruel spinster, taking the young maid's hand
between her own, and looking so benignly, and
speaking so sweetly — "but, my love, we may faint
once too often."
Angelina was very much offended — deeply hurt that
Miss Lillywhite should for a moment associate her own
past affectation with the real existing weakness then
and there before her. Nevertheless, there was such
quietness, such truthfulness, and withal such an aii
of whim in the looks, and words, and manner of the
elderly spinster, that the young one gradually resigned
herself to her monitress.
" We may faint once too often," repeated Miss
Lillywhite, and she sighed; and then her customary
smile beamed ahout her. " Of this dreary truth am
I a sad example."
" You ! Miss Lillywhite ! " said Angelina.
"Listen," said the old maid. " 'Tis a short story ;
but worth your hearing. When I was nineteen, I was
about to be married. About, did I say ? Why, the
day was fixed ; I was in my bridal dress ; at the altar :
the ring, the wedding-ring at the very tip of my fingei
when"
"Mercy me!" cried Angelina, "what happened?"
5*
54 "Angelina's fainted!"
" I fainted," said Miss Lillywhite, and she shook
tier head, and a wan smile played about her lips.
"And you were not married because you fainted?"
said Angelina, much awakened to the subject.
"As I have confessed, it was my weakness to faint
upon all occasions. I enjoyed the interest that, as I
thought, fainting cast about me. My lover often
looked coldly — suspiciously ; but love conquered his
doubts, and led him triumphantly before the parson.
Well, the marriage-service was begun, and"
" Do go on," cried Angelina.
" And in a few minutes I should have been a wife,
when I thought I must faint. It would seem very
bold of me in such a situation not to faint. I, who
had fainted on so many occasions, not to swoon at the
altar would have been a want of sentiment — of proper
feeling, on so awful an occasion. With this thought, I
felt mj'self fainting rapidly ; and just as the bridegroom
had touched my finger with the ring, — I went off;
yes, my dear, swooned with all the honors."
" Do go on," again cried Angelina.
"As I swooned, the ring slipped from the bride-
groom's fingers, fell upon the stove, and was rolling —
rolling — to drop through the aperture of the stove
that, from below, admitted heat to the church, when —
"Angelina's fainted!" 55
though swooning — I somehow saw the danger, and,
to stop the ring, put forth ray foot."
"Well!" exclaimed Angelina.
" Too late — the ring rolled on — disappeared down
the chimney of the stove, — and then I fainted with
the greatest fidelity. Hartshori and sal-volatile came
to my aid. I was restored — but where was the ring ?
'Twas hopeless to seek for it. Half-a-dozen other rings
were proffered ; but no — it would be an evil omen —
there would be no happiness, if I Avere not wedded
with my own ring. Well, search was made — and
time flew — and, we were late at church to begin
with — and the ring was not found when the church-
clock struck twelve."
" Well ! " said Angelina,
"Well!" sighed Miss Lillywhite, "the clergyman,
closing his book, said, ' It is past the canonical hour ;
the parties cannot be married to-day ; they must come
again to-morrow."
" Dreadful ! " exclaimed Angelina.
" We returned home ; my lover upbraided — I
retorted ; we had a shocking quarrel, and — he left
the house to write me a farewell letter. In a week
he was on his voyage to India ; in a twelvemonth he
had married an Indian lady, as rich as an idol, and
56 "Angelina's fainted!"
I — after thirty years — am still Caroline Lilly white,
spinster."
It is very strange. From the time of the ahove
narrative there were two words never again breathed
beneath the roof-tree of the Daffys. And these
unuttered words were —
" Angelina's fainted ! "
iri w omiiu Ot .
gF^0R3iQ J@¥Sa
SPUING ^OYS.
BY C. W. 0.
Like the sweet whisperings
Of some blessed spirit.
From the immortal world
The good inherit,
Are these delicious airs,
This breath of Spring,
Whispering of coming bloom
On zephyr's wing.
But many a stormy day
Perchance may rise.
Ere Spring descend on earth.
From azure skies :
And many a cutting blast
May blight the bud.
And shake, with sullen howl,
The flashing wood.
^8 SPRIIfG JOYS.
Then, while the prosperous gales
Of Fortune blow,
While Pleasure takes the helm
And Youth the prow,
Think not. too happy one !
That joy shall be
Always as bria;ht as now
It shines on thee!
THE CHATELAINE;
OR, "put it down in the BIIiL."
BY S. N.
" Now, my dearest Agnes, do look ! Here is the
most exquisite little basket I ever saw."
" Where ? "
" Oh, there ; at the end of that chatelaine. Oh, I
positively must have it. You know I really want one,
Agnes. One of the swivels of my chatelaine came
undone the other day, and all the things dropped off.
I found two again, to be sure ; but still, that's not
enough. Come, Agnes, let us just go in, and ask the
price, at any rate."
The two girls entered the shop, and their footman
remained outside.
" Agnes," continued Rosalie, " look ! Here is
a bracelet that would just suit mamma. It was
but the other day she was saying she wanted one
60 THE CHATELAINE.
How beautiful it is ! What is the price of it, Mr.
Ne'wman ? "
" Let me see," said the man, taking up the bracelet.
" Six pounds ten, Miss."
" Well ; that really is not much. Is it, Agnes,
considering how beautiful it is. And how much is
that little basket?"
" Thirteen shillings. Miss. Solid gold."
"And how beautifully chased it is!" observed
Agnes.
" Well, Agnes," said Rosalie, " I think I must have
it. It's true, I have not any money left ; but I'm sure
I can make mamma give it me. Besides, if we get
the man to put it down, she must have it ; — and it's
not like ready money, you know. We have a bill
here, and it won't make much different. Indeed, she
does want a new bracelet dreadfully ; and, somehow,
she never will buy expensive things for herself, unless
I have them set down; and then, you know, she is
obliged to keep them."
Agnes Blandford was one of a large family, carefully
educated not to be extravagant herself, and trusted
with very little pocket-money ; but she had a. bound-
less idea of the wealth of mammas in general (Rosalie's
in particular), and thought it a most excellent thing if
THE CHATELAINE. 61
they could be inveigled into buying any thing : tliey
having, as a race, a marvellous propensity to covetous-
ness, which must be carefully checked by their daugh-
ters. Rosalie was of the same opinion. She also had
no pocket-money regularly allowed her, but lived upon
mamma, getting five pounds from time to time, when-
ever poor mamma was in a weak mood, and would
suffer herself to be coaxed over.
" Then, you'll send them this evening, about eight,
Mr. Newman, if you please," said Rosalie; and the
two girls left the shop, both thinking they had done
a very clever and virtuous action.
Rosalie's parents, the Hargraves, lived in great
style ; they appeared both rich and fashionable —
fashionable they might be, but the appearances of
riches were most deceptive. The money for Mrs.
Hargrave's weekly bills issued in weekly struggles
from Mr. Hargrave's pocket — they were living beyond
their income ; but out of three daughters and four
sons, two of the daughters were comfortably married,
and all the sons were established in professions ; so
there was only Rosalie to be provided for; and she
was betrothed, and would probably be married in
about three or four months' time ; so that the dashing
town establishment need only be kept up but a very
6
02 THE CHATELAINE
sliort time longer, and then Mrs. Hargrave would
remove to a pretty villa in the suburbs, where she
would live in complete retirement, for the health of
self and pocket ; and Mr. Hargrave would come up
and down by the omnibuses, being careful not to
bring in a friend to dinner over often. With this
prospect in view, Mrs. Hargrave struggled on, Avith
what misery, and with what hairbreadth escapes, only
those who have kept up an expensive establishment
on small means can ever tell. In the mean time, she
thought it was no use telling Rosalie of their diffi-
culties : she was shortly to be married to a wealthy
young merchant ; and though she was extravagant,
what did that matter ? she would have plenty ; and it
was a pity to check the generosity of her nature !
Besides, Mrs. Hargrave had some strange feelings, as
though it would lessen her daughter's respect for her
parents, if she knew of their money troubles. The
little daughter was only eighteen, and understood
nothing at all about money ; and she was so gay and
thoughtless, that she would scarcely have believed
Mrs. Hargrave if she had told her. Indeed, several
times, when she had said, " Keally, you must not
be so extravagant, Rosalie, I cannot afford it,"
Rosalie had laughed : " Ah, that's the old story,
THE CHATELAINE. 63
mother dear. Now you know it's all nonsense,
isn't it?"
So Mrs. Hargrave determined to let matters e'en
go on as tlicy had done, and contented herself by
making sacrifices of various little things which she
otherwise woiild have had for herself, to make amends
for her daughter's extravagance, — partly from affection
for her child, and partly from that miserable feeling of
secrecy in money matters which makes so much misery,
and which exists too often between mothers and
daughters, fathers and sons, husbands and wives.
Had Rosalie known from the first that her father's
apparent wealth was really all appearance, her natu-
rally good heart would have made her most willing to
forego all extravagances, and she would have learned
the wholesome art of self-denial, and have been much
more fitted for her future career in life, whatever it
might be.
That evening after dinner they were all assembled
comfortably in the drawing-room ; Mr. Hargrave in a
large arm-chair, with a handkerchief over his face, in
a quiet dreamless sleep. Mrs. Hargrave was sitting at
the table, with a green shade between her and the
lamp, and an open book on a small reading-desk
before her ; but, what with the heat of the fire and
^4 THE CHATEXAINE.
the quiet of the room, she was gradually nodding off
to sleep also. Leopold Malvern, Rosalie's betrothed,
was sitting on the other side of the fire, and Rosalie
at his feet on a cushioned footstool, which she was
very fond of. They were quite a pretty picture, they
looked so happy and comfortable ; he stooping down to
whisper something in her ear, and she leaning her
pretty little head almost against his knee, like any
child. Rosalie was always treated like a child — and
she liked it ; but she was a woman too, and capable
of doing more than any one suspected for those she
loved.
The formal automaton footman opened the door :
" If you please, mum, here's a parcel from Newman
and Hardwick's."
" Mrs. Hargrave awoke. " It must be some mistake,
James," said she ; " I have not ordered any thing."
" It is directed to you, mum," said James, as he
brought the packet to the table.
" Oh, I ordered it, mamma," broke in Rosalie. She
had been so )ccupied with what Leo had been saying,
that she haan't heard what had passed at first.
Mrs. Hargrave looked round in utter fright, for
visions rose up before her of the sacrifices of neces-
saries that must be mtde to cover this extravagance.
THE CHATELAINE. 65
But nothing could be done ; so she told the man to
put down the parcel, for that it was all right, as Miss
Rosalie had ordered it ; and the man left the room.
Mrs. Hargrave endeavored to look as if she thoughi
what she said, totally unconscious that the obsequiout
servant, who disappeared at her bidding, and wlic
seemed neither to see nor hear any thing that passed
before him, had often talked over her difficulties in the
kitchen, and lamented what a thorn in her side she
must find Miss Rosalie's extravagance.
Poor Mrs. Hargrave opened the jewelry, and Rosalie
sprang to the table to show it off; she put the bracelet
on her own round white arm, and held her fanciful
little basket up to the light. " Now, my dearest
mother, ain't they beautiful ? Leo, just look at this
bracelet."
"And pray how much did they cost, Rosalie?"
asked her mother.
" Six pounds ten shillings the bracelet, and thirteen
shillings for this little love," answered Rosalie.
" That is too much — I really cannot afford it," said
Mrs. Hargrave rather seriously. " They must be sent
back," continued she, after a short pause.
" Oh, mamma, mamma, pray don't send them back ;
it will look so shabby — so horrid : besides, it was but
6*
66 THE CHATELAINE.
the other day tnat you said that you wanted a bracelet
so much ; and I really must have this dear little
basket. Now do — there's a good mother."
" My dear Rosalie, I have told you that I do not
choose to have the bracelet ; I am the best judge of
what I want, I should think."
"Well, then, I will just take the money out of
papa's pocket ; he won't be angry with me, I know,
for he hates any thing to look stingy." Rosalie sprang
forward to her father.
" Rosalie, Rosalie — don't disturb your papa. How
very troublesome you are ! I really beg you'll never
do such a thing again without asking my leave. I can
buy what I want, without your doing it for me."
Rosalie retired to her seat. Again she leaned her
head towards Leo's knee, almost crying. He stroked
her hair (as though she were a child) to comfort her.
" Leo," said she, looking up, " when I belong to
you, you won't scold me if I do such a thing, will
you?"
Leo stooped down, and kissed her forehead, but he
said nothing ; for he knew he should not have the
heart to scold her, and yet he felt that hers was an
awkward propensity.
The three months passed on rapidly, and, at last.
THE CHATELAINE. 67
Leo and Rosalie were married. It was a Very gay
wedding ; the bride was lovely, the bridegroom was
handsome. Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave were in the most
•
excellent spirits, and gave a magnificent breakfast
which was very well attended. The speeches were
much less stupid than usual on those occasions ; and
nobody cried. Indeed, the people were all very
merry ; for every body said what a good match it was
in every respect. They ' went their bridal tour, and
returned home. Leo took a beautiful house for his
bride, and she chose beautiful furniture. Mr. and
Mrs. Hargrave retired to their country villa, and
things went on as comfortably as possible. Rosalie
had no mamma to ask now ; so she just had the things
the liked put down in her own bills. She was fond
of dress; fond of jewelry; fond of novelties; but Leo
liked to sec his dear little wife beautifully attired —
and wished her to have what she liked — besides, he
was rich and could afford to spend a little more than
was, perhaps, absolutely necessary oa his young bride j
and as they had a large acquaintance, and brides are
expected to go out a great deal and to dress well, he
was not surprised that his expenses were considerablev
but he hoped they would soon decrease, and so for
the first year or two they went on capitally.
68 THE CHATELAINE.
After that there came a change : the wheel of
fortune turned. Leo lost first one of his ships, and
then another ; his speculations failed ; and, at last,
one sad gloomy Christmas, he came home one day-
through the dark fog to his wife, and told her that
he feared he was a ruined man. Rosalie was aston-
ished ; she had thought the riches of her husband
inexhaustible, and she had acted accordingly. The
dinner was passed over in gloomy silence ; and, after
it, the husband and wife, with thoughtful faces, left
the dining-room, and with the doors of their drawing-
room close shut, they sat down to talk matters over.
Leo sat in the chair by the fire, and Rosalie where
she always did, at his feet ; but she was quite a
diSerent Rosalie now, to what she was two years
before ; there was no thoughtlessness in her face
now — no, nor passionate grief even. Leo was aston-
ished ; he had expected quite a scene : hysterics and
reproaches, and bewailings, or, at any rate, tears ;
but Rosalie was calm and serious. She looked
determined to meet her misfortune courageously ;
and Leo felt it a great help to him, as it gave
him courage : and he loved his little wife still more
than ever; though it was no longer as a mere
child, but as an esteemed friend, with whom he
THE CHjCTEXMNE. 69
could reason calmly as to what was best to be
done.
" Must we leave our house ? " asked Rosalie, tim-
idly ; for she felt that would be indeed a trial.
" Not if I can manage to meet my expenses this
Christmas," replied Leo ; " I hope and trust your
bills are not large."
Rosalie was silent.
" Have any of the Christmas bills been sent in,
Rosalie? "
" Yes, some of them, Leo."
" Have you any idea how much they come to,
dear ? I mean not the house bills, but your bills,
my love."
" I don't know, but I am afraid it's a great deal. —
Are your bills heavy, this half-year, Leo ? "
" No, — r knew that things were going badly with
me, though I had no idea how badly, so I took care
to keep my bills under."
" Oh ! if I had but known too," said Rosalie,
sorrowfully.
" I wish you had ; but I thought it woidd only
frighten you, perhaps needlessly. — And besides Ldid
not know, darling, how well you can bear things.
Will you get those bills you have," continued he.
70 THE CHATELAINE.
after a short pause, " that we may look them over,
and see if it will be possible for us to remain in our
house ? "
Rosalie rose ; she opened her exquisite little desk,
and gloomily took out three or four long bills ; silently
she put them in Leo's hand, and sat down again. He
looked them over, and she heard him sigh heavily,
but he said nothing. She knew they were enormous ;
higher this year than they had been before.
" Leo, may I look at your bills ? " she said, meekly.
He gave her his accounts, and she looked them over.
She was astonished how much lower they were than
hers ; astonished to find how many things he had
denied himself. — Then, for the first time, she burst
into tears.
" Ah, my dearest Leo, how many things you have
done without ! How many things you have denied
yourself that you really must have wanted, and all to
spare me ! Oh, I see it all ; you thought that, by
being so economical yourself, we might get over this
Christmas very well in spite of my extravagance. Oh,
Leo ! Leo ! how selfish I have been ; I might have
known that you did not leave off port wine and cigars
because you were tired of them. Oh, will you forgive
me, Leo ? I know I am the cause of all our difficulties.
THE CHATELAINE. 7l
If I had not been so extravagant, all might have been
well — but even now, perhaps, with a little assistance
from papa "
"Your father cannot assist us," returned Leo,
gloomily; "he says he has the greatest difficulty to
live himself."
" Well, well," cried Rosalie, " then we must sacrifice
every thing, so that we can pay but what we owe ; for
it's no matter being poor, so that one is not in debt.
Oh, how selfish I have been ! But Leo ! dearest Leo !
will you promise me one thing? — that another time
you will tell me how poor we are, that I may make
sacrifices too. There are so many more things I can
do without than you can (oh, how blind I was!) —
I'll have no more jewelry. Ellen shall make all my
things at home (oh, how I hate the sight of that
wretched name Mademoiselle Delphine de Paris!);
and ril do without millions of things that are of no
consequence to me : I will have no more bills ; and
I shall be so happy, for I shall feel that I am doing
right."
"My darling Rosalie," said Leo, as he kissed her
affectionately, "how foolish I was not to have told
you my difficulties from the first; it would have saved
you much sorrow and privation now. We must let
72 THE CHATELAINE.
this house, and go into lodgings. I will make the
greatest exertions ; we will sell the furniture of our
house to pay our private debts ; my father will help
me with my business ones ; and in another year T
trust we shall be all right again; and I will confide
all my joys and troubles, my wealth and poverty, to
you ; and you shall be my dear darling wife and
helpmate."
How worthless and paltry her trinkets appeared
now ! How she hated ever to think of them, and
how firmly she resolved, if she should once be free
from the load of debt that weighed so heavily upon
her, how differently she would act for the future !
All this passed through Rosalie's mind with the
rapidity of lightning ; and when Leo ceased speaking,
she felt an altered being. From that moment might
he dated the commencement of a new era in her
life.
It is pleasant to add, that the timely aid of a
friend prevented the sacrifice of the house and furni-
ture ; and that the following Christmas found Leo
and Rosalie free from all debts, but those which
they could easily pay. Rosalie, however, never
forgot the lesson she had received ; and during the
THE CHATELAINE. 73
whole of her after life, if she took a fancy to any
expensive trinket, she always paid for it at the
time, and never, on any account, desired the jeweller
to put it down in the bill.
7
CHIMES.
BY FLORENCE WILSON.
Those joyous bells fall heavy on my ear,
That used to murmur with so sweet a tone ;
Nature, in unison, looks dark and drear,
And all the blandishments of life seem gone,
Now that thou'rt passed unto that haven blest.
Where world-worn spirits find at last a place of rest.
Yet, in my fancy, I behold once more
Those kindly features and that thoughtful brow ;
I press to mine those loved lips o'er and o'er.
And rest thee on my bosom even now,
As I have rested in mine infant day.
When thy caresses charmed each childish grief away.
Mother ! I think it stiU to thee is given
To bless me with thy presence, even now,
CHIMES 75
The ministering angel under Heaven,
Who calms my mind and soothes my fevered brow.
Ah, no ! upon this shadowy vale of tears,
We're parted now, to meet in brighter spheres.
DUTY:
TALE.
Stern Lawgiver ! yet dost thou wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace ;
Nor knew we any thing so fair
As is the smile upon thy face :
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong,
And the most ancient heavens, through thee,
are fresh and strong.
Wordsworth.
"Why do you dwell so much, dear mamma, upon
the necessity of acting from a principle of duty? It
seems so cold and severe a word ! and it is so much
easier and happier to obey you and papa because I
love you, than because it is my duty to do so." As
Lucy Edwardes gave utterance to these words, she
fixed her eyes with so fond and earnest a gaze upon
■nuTY. 77
her mother, that Mrs. Edwardes looked sadly on her
for a moment ; but her pale countenance was soon
lighted up by a soft tender smile, such as mothers
only can bestow upon their offspring, and she replied,
" may it long be your privilege, my child, to obey
your parents joyously and freely as you do now, but,
perhaps, in after life, you may remember your mother's
word, that affection is never so pure or steadfast as
when it is guided and controlled by duty. — Duty,
not cold and stern, as .it exists in your imagination,
but tender and gentle amid its high and firm resolves.
— Duty, such as I trust will be familiar to your heart,
when the earlier and more ardent impulses of affection
may have passed away. . . . But I will not enlarge on
this subject now, as it seems distasteful to you, my
love ; " added Mrs. Edwardes, while her head sank
back upon her couch, as if she were wearied by the
effort of speaking. Lucy pressed to her lips her
mother's hand, which she had held within her own
during the brief moments of their conversation ; and
rising from the footstool whereon she had been seated,
entered the conservatory, near whose open door, the
invalid's sofa was placed, and plucking a sprig of
heliotrope, which she knew to be her mother's favorite
flower, laid it on the work-table at her side. Mrs.
7*
78. DUTY.
Edwardes smiled gratefully upon her daughter ; and
Lucy inquired whether she would like some music. —
" Yes, let me have one of your beautiful Scotch airs."
— " Or my last new Italian song, mamma ? " —
" Whichever suits your ov/n taste best, my love." —
Lucy seated herself at the piano, and poured forth a
full tide of song, which at other times would have
gratified her mother's ear ; but the closed eye and
hectic flush bespoke suffering too acute to be soothed
by mortal melody.
All this while, Mrs. Edwardes had been watched by
another anxious eye ; for Lucy had a sister, about a
year older than herself ; and just then, Marion
Edwardes was seated at the other end^f the drawing-
room, seemingly engaged in sketching, but her pencil
was held in silent thoughtfulness, while she looked
earnestly towards her mother. After a moment's
hesitation, she arose and going into the next room,
brought back a restorative which she ofi'ered to the
invalid ; a look of grateful love rewarded her consid-
eration, and she inquired in a low voice : " Is the
music too much for you, mamma ? " — " Oh, no ,"
don't mar Lucy's pleasure : I am stronger again." —
But Marion turned round and whispered to her sister,
" I think, Lucy, some simpler melody would please
DUTY. 79
mamma better, for she does not seem well enough
to-day to enjoy such brilliant music." — " That is
just one of your old-fashioned notions, Marion ; as if
an air of Bellini's could be more hurtful than some
ditty which has been sung for ages by shepherds and
ploughboys ! . . . but if mamma is suffering, I had
better not play at all," she continued ; and closing
the instrument, rose up from her seat. Observing
that Marion looked grieved, she added in a contrite
tone : " I hope, dearest Marion, you are not displeased
with me ; I would not vex you for worlds." — So
saying she kissed her cheek, and resuming her em-
broidery, seated herself once more at her mother's
side.
This little scene had passed behind Mrs. EdAvardes'
couch, but she had overheard some of her children's
words, and her eye rested anxiously on them both.
The entrance of her husband introduced new topics
of conversation, and as she exerted herself to enliven
the leisure hour which was always devoted to her,
he could not realize to htmself that the being, whose
soft cheerfulness and harmless wit formed the delight
of his home, was abovit to pass away like a shadow
from the face of the earth.
A year had elapsed since the day just alluded to.
80 DUTY.
The sun shone as brightly as ever upon the gay con-
servatory, whose fragrance had often been so grateful
to the drooping invalid. The sound of music was
still heard within that pleasant drawing-room. Books
and work were, as heretofore, scattered throughout the
apartment. But she, whose presence had once shed a
calm joy around these household comforts, was gone :
and her young daughters looked sad and desolate in
their sable garments. Yet theirs was the sadness of
a spring morning, whose clouds and sunshine are so
happily blended together, that one would not give up
the tempered brightness of that changeful sky for the
brilliancy of the noontide hour. She who was gone
hence, had spoken words of peace and hope which
dwelt within their hearts, as pledges of their mother's
bliss; and her spirit seemed to hover around their
domestic hearth, binding together more closely than
ever those who were dearest to her on earth. Her
widowed husband seemed to centre all his love and
all his hopes in his two daughters, who now formed
his only household treasures.
Marion and Lucy were at an age which peculiarly
needed a mother's care, for they were just springing
into womanhood; but all that a father's tenderness
could supply was bestowed by Mr. Edwardes, who, in
DtTTT. 81
each leisure hour, directed their studies, shared in
their pursuits, and gave them every healthful recreation
they could desire. He seemed to live for his children,
and they loved him with that devoted affection which
is the happiest bond between a father and his daugh-
ters. Marion was his daily counsellor and stay, for
she united to all the freshness of seventeen, the
ripened judgment of a more advanced age ; but Lucy
Avas his pride and his darling. Her dark eyes rested
on him with such fond affection — her childlike play-
fulness was so bewitching — her voice so full of sweet
modulation ! Yes, Lucy was her father's favorite, and
she knew it.
In the earlier days of his widowhood, Mr. Edwardes
had turned chiefly to Marion for comfort, and her silent
tears were his best earthly solace ; but as . his grief
became less poignant, he found relief in the society
of his younger daughter, whose occasional bursts of
sorrow were less oppressive to his spirits than the
quiet sadness of her sister.
As time wore on, Marion spoke more rarely than
heretofore of her beloved mother, whose image, how-
ever, dwelt within her heart, and whose words she
ireasured up as a storehouse of wisdom and conso-
lation. Lucy, on the other hand, loved to talk with
S2 DUTY.
her father of the "being so dear to them both; and
these conversations tended to lighten the burden of
their sorrow, and to prepare them for a participation
in other thoughts and joys, connected with the present
rather than with the past.
It was a calm autumn evening. The sisters were
standing together in a bay window, from whence they
watched the setting sun as it sank behind the distant
hills which bounded their horizon. Marion's hand
rested on her sister's shoulder, and it seemed as
though some painful recollection had been awakened
by the beauty of the scene, for a tear stole down her
cheek, which, being observed by Lucy, she gently
kissed away. At this moment their father entered
with an open note in his hand.
" Here is an invitation for you, my children, to
Florence-court."
"Are we to go ? "
" May we go ? " escaped at the same moment, from
Marion and Lucy's lips.
" Just as you please ; for I have no wish to deprive
you of any innocent enjoyment. What say you, my
grave and gentle Marion?" inquired Mr. Edwardes,
addressing his eldest daughter.
" Oh, papa, as far as my choice is concerned," began
DUTY. 83
Marion, but perceiving a shade of disappointment on
Lucy's countenance, she added, "let dear Lucy decide;
I will do whatever she likes best."
Lucy's features lighted up as she expressed the
delight it would give her to accept Lady Leslie's
invitation, saying that Isabel Leslie was such a
charming person that she longed to see her again.
" Well, my little enthusiast, you shall go there ; but
this is rather an impromptu friendship you have formed
for Miss Leslie ; you have met but once — besides, she
is several years older than you are."
" Yes, yes, papa ; but she is so beautiful and so
kind, and sings so divinely ! I cannot help loving
her."
Mr. Edwardes rallied her for a few moments longer,
and then returned to his study. Marion looked rather
graver than usual ; but Lucy was too happy in antici-
pation of the morrow, to observe her sister's saddened
aspect.
The second year of Mr. Edwardes' widowhood had
passed away, and the beloved mother of his children
was about to be replaced by a younger and more
beautiful companion. Isabella Leslie was on the eve
of becoming the mistress of Hazlewood. Lucy's heart
leaped with joy at the prospect of having her friend
84 DUTY.
the inmate of her home, so that she could enjoy her
society without the many interruptions which had
of late somewhat excited her impatient disposition.
There was but one drawback to her happiness. She
could not conceal from herself that the union in which
she so fondly rejoiced, was painfully unwelcome to her
sister. Marion's calm smile and quiet demeanor might
have deceived an ordinary observer; but the eye of
affection could detect a struggling heart beneath this
peaceful exterior. This discovery would have affected
Lucy still more deeply, had she not thought it
strangely unreasonable of Marion not to share in the
ardent attachment she felt for her friend. At times,
the remembrance that her mother had not desired the
acquaintance of the Leslie's family for her children,
would give her a momentary pang ; but this unwel-
come thought was quickly expelled by her determi-
nation to believe, that had Isabella's excellences been
known to her mother, she would gladly have chosen
her as the companion of her daughters.
The bridal pair had returned from their wedding
tour, and on their arrival at home, Isabella was greeted
by Lucy with the same ardent enthusiasm which had
marked her attachment since the first day of their
meeting; Marion was there too, and in the cordial
DUTY. 85
welcome she gave her father's wife, no shade of
gloom was suffered to overcloud this their first family-
meeting. Mr. Edwardes was too much engrossed with
his own happiness to observe the changing color of his
eldest daughter at this trying moment ; but the
haughty expression of Isabella's eye, as her glance
rested on Marion, showed that there was one at least
who had detected the hidden feelings of her heart.
Isabella was not destitute of many good qualities, but
her natural vanity had been fostered by an injudicious
mother into arrogance and self-conceit. Alas ! how
often does mistaken affection check the unfolding of
kindly virtues within the bosom of its idol ! even
like some parasitic creepers which stifle the blossoms
of those fragrant shrubs around which they have
entwined themselves with an aspect of clinging
tenderness.
The sisters were now emancipated from the restraints
of the schoolroom, but their old place of study was
still appropriated to their exclusive use ; and there, a
few hours were daily spent by Marion in reading or
in other favorite pursuits. There too, she often sought
refuge from petty mortifications which awaited her in
the drawing-room; nor did she ever trust herself to
rejoin the domestic circle, until she had obtained
8
86 DUTY.
Strength to fulfil cheerfully the new duties which were
now allotted to her.
In this quiet apartment she was seated one after-
noon, when Lucy rushed into the room, and throwing
her arms round her sister's neck, exclaimed passion-
ately, " You are the only one now left to love or care
for me, dearest Marion! Oh how bitter it is to
be deceived where one has trusted so fondly — so
entirely ! "
"What do you mean, my love ? " inquired Marion,
with an anxious look.
" You know, Marion, how I have devoted every
thought to my father and Isabella, — how I longed
for their union, — how I rejoiced at its accomplishment.
"Well, they no longer care for me. I am not necessary
to their happiness ; nay, my presence seems unwelcome
to them; but," added she, rising up with an air of
offended dignity, — "I will not tamely submit to such
insulting treatment. They shall learn that I can exist
without them. The world is wide enough for them
and me."
Marion, though used to occasional outbursts of her
sister's ardent temper, looked perplexed and grieved.
After a moment's hesitation, she said : " Surely, you
are mistaken, Lucy ; although papa has, of course, less
DUTY. 87
leisure to bestow on us now than in former days, yet
he is very kind ; and as for Isabella, it is impossible
but that she should love you."
" Yes, with such love as a stepmother may bestow,
but not such as I have a right to expect from my
chosen friend. And, as for papa, he is so engrossed
with his young wife, that I believe, at heart, he cares
very little for you or me, although you may choose
to believe the contrary ; for my part, I will not be
deceived by him or by Isabella either."
" Dear, dear Lucy," said Marion gravely, " do you
remember that he is our father, and that it is our duty
to love him, and to love her for his sake ? "
" Duty ! that is so like yoi;, Marion. You are a
very wise teacher truly, but you cannot make me
love by rule," said Lucy scornfully.
" Indeed, I did not mean to teach you, dear Lucy ;
but you cannot forget who it was," she added with a
trembling lip, " who it was that taught us that Duty
Avas the highest and holiest principle of life. You
cannot foi'get who it was that warned us how the
strongest affection might sometimes waver, if not
controlled and guided by a sense of duty."
Lucy burst into tears, and throwing herself anew
into her sister's arms, cried out, " Ah ! my be^^ved
88 DUTY.
mother, would that she were here again, to pity and
direct us,"
"We cannot recall her, dearest Lucy, nor, perhaps,
ought we to wish to do so ; but may we not best
cherish her memory by endeavoring to obey all her
wishes concerning us ? "
" It is so hard ! so very hard ! " observed Lucy.
" You cannot know, Marion, how difficult it is to be
gentle and loving to those who are wounding and
annoying you ; for you are naturally so kind and good
that you have no struggle in doing what is right."
" No struggle ! " replied Marion, mournfully. " Oh,
Lucy ! how little do you know of the long, bitter
struggles I have had before it was possible for me
to overcome painful and rebellious feelings, so as to
be able cheerfully to fulfil the duties of my present
position."
" Is it possible, dearest Marion ? and I knew
nothing about it. How cold, how hateful, you must
have thought me ! "
" No, no. I always felt sure that you loved me,
although we seemed unhappily to be estranged for a,
while."
" Oh ! I shall never — never be like you, my dear,
good Marion," said Ijucy, in a renewed agony of grief.
DtTTT. 89
" Say not so, dearest Lucy ; for are we not both
equally weak and frail in our best resolutions ? and
have we not the same unfailing promise of strength to
cheer and support us in every time of trial ? Only let
us ask earnestly for it, and act honestly up to our
convictions of what is right, then all will be well, and
happy too."
" Happy ! " reechoed Lucy, with an incredulous
smile.
" Yes, happy, my dearest sister ; for we cannot but
remember how often our beloved mother told us, that
the path of duty is the way to happiness, even in this
present life."
We will now pass over two years of the domestic
life at Hazlewood ; and, at the end of this period, we
find Isabella the mother of a lovely boy, whose birth
had made her dearer than ever to Mr. Edwardes ;
indeed, the little stranger seemed to be a sweet bond
of love, drawing the whole household nearer to one
another.
Hour after hour Marion would steal into the nursery
to gaze upon her new-born brother, and her gentle
caresses soon made her welcome to the infant. As
for Lucy, her admiration of him was unbounded ;
and Isabella, whose whole being seemed soften<^d
8*
90 DUTY.
and elevated by the new sensation of maternal love,
could not but look kindly upon those by whom her
little one was so tenderly cherished.
Alas ! a worm was within this early bud of domestic
joy. Isabella saw her babe droop and wither at a
time when her own failing health rendered her unable
to yield all those fond offices of love which a mother
best can bestow. Marion supplied her place with
untiring devotion ; nor was Lucy less anxious to
watch over her dying brother ; but the ardor of her
spirit somewhat disqualified her for the patient stillness
which a sick room requires. Marion directed her zeal
into the more active channel of attendance on Isabella,
whose indisposition, combined with anxiety, often
made her sensitive and irritable. This was a time
of trial to tlie new-formed principles of Lucy ; but,
amid some failures and discouragements, she gradually
learned the blessedness of forbearing, as well as of
acting from a sense of duty. Keeping this high aim
steadily in view, she found, moreover, that insensibly
her affection for Isabella was reviving, and that it was
no longer a passionate emotion, but a kindly, unselfish
love.
When Isabella came to suffer that bitter anguish
which a bereaved mother alone can know, Lucy saw
DUTY. 91
without jealousy that she turned intuitively to M irion
for comfort ; — to Marion, who had borne with Christ-
ian meekness her neglect and scorn ; — to Marion, who
had fostered her little one with unwearied tenderness.
To her she now sought for sympathy ; and it was
yielded to her in all its gentle and unalloyed purity,
fresh from the fountain-head of mercy and of love.
The first agony of maternal grief was past, and
Isabella, unwilling to make othei's more miserable by
indulging in the luxury of solitary woe, had rejoined
the domestic circle. It was a cold autumn evening,
and the family party were collected around their
nreside, at that twilight hour when English reserve
is wont to be unlocked, and the thoughts of English
hearts to be more freely spoken. Isabella had just
placed on Marion's finger a mourning ring, in
remembrance of the babe who was so dear to theni
both, and almost involuntarily she pressed the finger,
with its precious burthen, to her lips.
" Oh, Marion." she exclaimed, " how could I have
been so cruel to you ; and how were you able to bear
so gently with my unkindness ? "
" Surely, it was my duty to do so ; besides, you
never meant to be cruel or unkind, dear Isabella."
" Not deliberately, perhaps, but that is no excuse
92 DXJTT.
for my conduct, neither can I be so ungenerous as to
accept it as such."
" That confession is worthy of you, my noble-minded
Isabella," said Mr. Edwardes to his wife ; " nor can /
feel myself guiltless of having somewhat neglected
those who are very dear to me ; but how can we
atone better for past errors, than by acting for the
future on "Marion's principle ? "
" Not mine, dear papa, do not call it mine ; it was
taught us by our beloved mother, and you know from
what high and holy source she drew it."
Isabella drew a deep sigh. " Ah ! Marion, what a
treasure your mother must have been; would that I
were like her."
" That is a wish, which every heart here might well
reecho for itself," rejoined her husband; "but why,
dearest, should we not adopt the same principles which
were her guide, and seek for the same strength which
was her stay ? then we, too, shall know the happiness
arising from a steady adherence to duty, and which,
my children," he added, with a look of aifection upon
his daughters, " which my children, I rejoice to think,
have already found."
Isabella's glance bespoke a deep though silent
acquiescence. Lucy almost sobbed for joy, as she
DUTY. . 93
threw herself into Isabella's arms, exclaiming, " Ah !
we shall all be happy again, shall we not ? dear
Isabella."
The mother's heart had been too recently wrung
with misery to respond cheerfully to Lucy's expectation
of happiness ; but, while returning her affectionate
embrace, she whispered, " We shall, at least, have a
home of peace and love."
" And shall we not indulge in bright hope too ? "
inquired Marion, softly. A gentle pressure of her
hand was the only answer given.
Mr. Edwardes sat silently by, gazing upon his wife
and daughters ; his look was one of tenderness and
admiration.
That twilight conversation was prolonged until the
shades of night fell thickly around the inmates of
Hazlewood ; and that dull autumn evening, which
began with such sorrowful reminiscences, was followed
by a long course of tranquil happiness, such as can
only be experienced by those whose love has been
strengthened by trial, and whose most ardent affections
are swayed by the firm yet gentle hand of Duty.
THE CARRIER-PIGEON.
Speed, speed upon thy way !
I send thee on a gentle errand, — fly,
And work my bidding ere tlie parting ray
Fades from the western sky.
The summer woods are dark.
And murmur lovingly, yet pause not thou
That bearest tokens onward to thine ark,
More sure than leo.f or bough !
In sunshine bathe thy breast,
Stay not within the swift and glancing rill
To dip thy wing ; for thee a sweeter rest
Is waiting, — onward still !
Forth from the casement — there
She leans to gaze upon the sky ; and now
*
The evening light lies golden on her hair.
Lies warm on cheek and brow.
THE CAERIEK-PIGEON. 95
She looks unto the west, —
It is for thee she watches : thou wilt be
Soon by her hand, her gentle hand, carest, —
How softly, tenderly!
But first beneath thy wing
It trembles, while she seeks my letter; well
She knows, ere yet she frees the silken string.
All that it hath to tell !
And yet the heart would fain
Hear what it best hath loved repeated oft;
It falls and rises, beating with the strain,
In measured cadence soft.
Like childhood's ear that drinks
Some oft-told story, some remembered rhyme,
It knows and greets each coming word, yet thinks
Them sweeter every time.
Ah ! would that to her heart
She chanced but once to press the folded line,
Then all the warmth to sudden life would start
I breathed on it from mine !
96 THE CAKKIEK-PIGEOK.
The love, the tenderness,
That found in words no kindred language, tliere
Would seek a fond interpreter to guess
All they may ne'er declare.
I do but stay thy flight, —
Speed on thy way ! The summer Heavens are wide.
Yet through their broad and untracked fields of light
Thou wilt not need a guide.
My thoughts before thee fly, —
Thou needest but to follow where they lead ;
They have one way — ah, would that with thee, I
Might also follow ! — Speed !
I: C^riicn^Zd.J
UinJlL WU,
THE MAID OF THE MILL.
BY H. A.
" The Maid of the Mill ! " exclaimed Janet Foster,
as she glanced at a pretty engraving she held in her
hand. " What a picturesque costume ! How much
more becoming than these uniform dresses we are all
wearing now-a-days ! And such a uniform life as one
must lead, too ! Every body talks on the same
subjects — lives through their days in the same way.
Dear me ! why was not I born a Maid of the Mill,
that 1 might live a freer life, where I should not have
to discuss the opera and the latest polka ! Such
tedious men as there are about ! And I have the
consciousness, all the time, that none of them care a
penny for me. I am Miss Foster, the orphan heiress,
and so Harry Stanton laughs at my jokes, and Mr.
Gray sends me flowers. Old Mr. Beauseant makes
his weekly visits, and all the girls look at me with
envy. But, really, with this pretty costume on, — this
9
98 THE MAID OF THE MILL.
short dress, so much freer than our sweeping robes, —
this becoming little hat, to say nothing of the little
white feet, — if I had only been born to these, I think
I might have made a picture, too ! "
So soliliquized pretty Janet Foster, who had been
all her life petted and spoiled, and had never once
expressed a wish but it was gratified as soon as it
was uttered. And in this instance, her usual fortune
did not fail her.
A letter was brought in to her : — " From Sandis-
knowe ! What out-of-the-way place is that ? Ah,
from dear Miss Miiicent : now for a long letter upon
rural felicity ! "
Dear Miss Miiicent was no longer Miss Miiicent ;
but she had so long borne that name, that it was
difficult to bestow upon her her new appellation of
Mrs. Stubbs.
Miss Miiicent had held the office of governess to
Janet Foster. This had not been a trying duty ; for
her pupil had possessed such a boundless good humor,
and such veneration for Miss Miiicent, th^t the task
of educating her had proved an easy one.
Nevertheless, Miss Miiicent did not so much enjoy
eating " the bread of dependence," but that she could
prefer to accept Mr. Stubbs's offer, and live on flour
THE MAID OF THE MILL. 99
of liis own making. When, upon the death of hih
first wife, and tlie, marriage of his only daughter, Mr.
Stubbs had looked round for some worthy person to
take charge of his mejiage, his thoughts turned towards
the rosy-cheeked maiden who had left Sandisknowe
in her youth, to seek her fortune in the world. Since
then his own fortunes had risen ; he owned himself
the little mill that decorated the valley of Sandisknowe,
and found now that Miss Milicent was not sorry to
retire there again, and leave behind her a world that
had never treated her flatteringly.
And now her letter enlarged upon her new-found
domestic happiness. She described the care with
which Mr. Stubbs had arranged the pretty cottage
that formed her home, the neat vegetable garden, but,
most of all, the picturesque beauty of the country
round about, that truly equalled all those pictures
that the memory of her childhood had painted for
her, and which she had often retraced to Janet. She
concluded by hoping that when Miss Janet should
be longing for a retreat from the gayeties about her,
she would come to Sandisknowe, and take possession
of the cottage chamber, that was already adorned
with reference to her taste.
With Janet, action followed upon thought, as
100 IHE MAID or THE MILL.
quickly as her words were wont to flow; and it was
not many days before she found herself on her way
to the happy valley. She had found no difficulty in
obtaining the consent of her Uncle and Aunt Standfast
(with whom she had lived from her infancy), to this
step. Mrs. Standfast, too, promised secrecy upon the
subject. She agreed not to let Harry Stanton, or
the Grays, or any of Janet's friends, know of the
place of her retreat. She was the more willing and
able to promise this, for she was not a woman of
many words. Whether from the depths of her
philosophy and experience, she had learned that
silence is golden, or whether she had educated herself
to the habit of never speaking until she had something
to say, — and her placid mind was seldom awakened
by the dawning of an idea, — it would be useless to
strive to discover. Mr. Standfast v/as so enveloped
in politics, that after Janet had mentioned tho spot to
which she was going, and he had recalled that the
village had never a vote to throw, he dismissed the
whole subject from his mind.
Thus it was without any obstacles, Janet found
herself ensconced in her governess's new home* Nay,
more had her fond hopes been realizv^d ; slia had
gained possession of the wardrobe that Miafo K^Tvily
THE MAID OF THE MILL. 101
Stubbs had left behind, when she had gone to foreign
parts with her officer bridegroom. The costume of
this true Maid of the Mill had suited Janet admi-
rably — the little mirror in her apartment had shown
her it was not unbecoming. The kindly Mr. St:ibbs
was willing to humor her fancy, and allow her to
imagine that, in occasionally weeding his borders, in
drawing the water from the light bucket in the well,
and filling a picturesque pitcher at times, that she
was performing the duties of the Maid of the ^lill.
To these services she at length added another — that
of carrying to Mr. Stubbs his noon-day meal. The
good-hearted man was willing to forgive her, when
Sier love of the beautiful occasionally interfered with
^er punctuality, and when she lingered on the little
bridge to watch the water plunging below, or some
cloud hovering over the tree-tops in the little valley.
Aunt Milicent, as Janet now insisted upon calling
her, would kindly pass over in silence any little
mishap, such as the letting fall of the rustic pail, that
Janet occasionally strove to bear upon her head in
peasant fashion ; and the privileged Janet Avas able
to taste of all the sweets of rural life, fancying she
was bearing its burthens.
It was one lovely day, Janet had started towards
9*
102 THE MAID OF THE MILL.
the mill, with her little pail in hand, when she paused
a few moments, as she often did, to look up the
stream, and watch the sparkling waters, as they
trickled along their rocky bed, with the long plants
drooping over them, refreshed by the dropping spray.
As she turned away her head, her eyes caught those
of a young man, who was leaning on a fence near
by, who had apparently been watching her for some
time. He moved away when he was observed, and
Janet, a little confused, hastened on. But her
thoughts all day were filled with the remembrance
of the large striking eyes that had been fixed upon
her, though she, at the same time, recalled that the
young man had been simply dressed, and from his
manner she had fancied he must be one of the farmers
in the neighborhood. Towards evening, as Janet was
moving about in the cottage garden with Mr. Stubbs,
the same young man was seen to pass along. Mr.
Stubbs beckoned him in, and then explained to Janet
that he was a " new hand," that he had employed
only a few days, but he considered him a smart young
man, and was anxious to encourage him. Janet turned
away as Mr. Stubbs greeted the young man : — "What
a pity," she thought, at first, " that his station is not
a little higher, such a figure and such eyes as he has ! "
THE MAID OF THE MILL. 103
Afterwards, she reflected that such were the characters
she had wished to become acquainted with ; that
honesty and sterling worth such as this young man's
face seemed to show, ought to have a charm in her
eyes greater than the gifts of intellect or of position.
Perhaps the simple grace, and the diffident, reverential
manner of the young man, assisted Janet in these
conclusions ; and she found herself soon entering into
conversation with Mr. Stubbs and his guest. This
was the first meeting, but was followed up by many
others with Oswald Lansing. In conversation, he
appeared so unassuming ; he showed such a pure,
even refined love of nature ; and, besides these, a
desire for information on many subjects, that Janet
was insensibly attracted towards him. He appeared
to have found time to read a great deal, and testified
a familiarity with the poets. Janet was glad, too, that
fortune had favored him with a more euphonious name
than that of her new protector.
" I wonder," said Janet, one evening, as, with Mr.
and Mrs. Stubbs, and their new friend, she sate in
the pretty porch, " I w'onder if any of the truly
high-born ladies did ever lay aside their gay life, and
live happily in such a spot as this ? Or are there
really any pleasures greater than these, such as we
104 THE MAID OF THE MILL.
enjoy to-night, which they would look back upon
with regret?" Janet, with her new-formed love of
rural life, asked this question from her heart, but she
tried to veil it under her assumed character of the
miller's niece.
" I have often wondered, rather," said Oswald,
" whether Tennyson's tale of Lord Burleigh can be
a true one. Have you read it. Miss Burns ? — (Janet
had preserved, in her retreat, only the ' Janet Burns '
of her name) — You remember, then, that the village
maiden, as the wife of Lord Burleigh, could not sustain
the ' burthen of an honor unto which she was not
born.' "
" I remember," said Janet, " that it is the only
time I ever heard of any one dying of humility, and
I have wondered if that were a possible thing."
" People have suffered," said Aunt Milicent, " from
thinking they were not great enough for their duties."
" It is my private opinion," said Janet, " that a
woman is equal to any rank, and can become it well,
if she has only the heart for it. And I believe that
the Lady Burleigh suffered more from the deceit her
lover had played off upon her than from the honors
that had been thrust upon her shoulders."
Oswald wished to discuss the question, to show
THE MAID OF THE MILL. 105
that, as Lord Burleigh, the viHage maid would never
have recognized as a lover the landscape painter whom
she could listen to. But Janet was afraid she was
assuming too high a tone for her present character.
She was constantly surprised at the quickness and
originality of Oswald's mind. " How much move
suggestive and fresh," she thought, "than those of
my old lovers ; it must be true, then, that such a
life as this, is a greater awakener of genius, than one
passed in the conventionalities of society." Oswald
Lansing had discovered that Aunt Milicent and Janet
occasionally devoted some hours to the study of
Italian. Much to Janet's surprise, he begged to be
allowed to join them at times. It was a language
which he had coveted the knowledge of. His reading
of Milton had excited in him a desire to become
acquainted with the language of that country, of
which that great poet seemed to preserve so warm a
remembrance. Janet was surprised at the readiness
of their new scholar, while Oswald was on his side
astonished to find how much Janet had already
acquired. Thiis many weeks passed away. Janet's
daily walks to the mill were at a more quick pace
than formerly ; but, in returning, she would linger
along the path, seemingly deep in thought. Oswald
106 THE MAID or THE MILL.
was always busily at work at the mill, full of animation
in his occupation, yet ready to say something so truly
original, and sometimes witty, that it would form the
subject of Janet's thoughts on her way homeward.
It was after an evening at the cottage, that Oswald
took his way down the stream towards his home.
" Can it be possible ? " said he to himself, " that all
my romantic visions are realized? Have I really
found a country maiden, unsophisticated, unacquainted
with city airs and wiles, who adds to a graceful person
and face, a cultivated mind, or one quite susceptible
of cultivation ? Such refinement of manners, too !
How much more meaning is there in a single motion
of Janet's, than in the set airs and graces of a gay
lady of fashion ! "
Abstracted in these thoughts, Oswald did not
observe the approach of an angler, who was lazily
strolling along, till he was roused by ' an excla-
mation ; —
" Oswald ! Oswald Lansing ! — thanks to the new
moon, I have hit upon some game worthy a whole
day's angling! And so we have come upon your
concealed retreat! Here it is that the philosopher
finds in nature that peace that the world denies him !
But tell me now, what brought you here to this dull.
THE MAID OF THE MILL. 107
quiet nook of ttie world, what keeps you here, and
will you come away with me to-morrow?"
" Nonsense ! " said Oswald. " Why should not
the same thing draw me here that brought you,
Frank?"
"And in costume, too, if my eyes do not deceive
me. Is that an Italian debardeur's dress, or is it
the true peasant of the country that you assume ? It
is not unbecoming, in truth ! "
" It is appropriate to the place," said Oswald. " I
tell you I am tired of your drawing-room life. There
is more variety in the changes that morning, noon,
and night bring on this little valley, on the little
stream that flows through it, with its picturesque
bridge, its ancient mill, than"
" Oh, a mill ! — a miller's daughter, perhaps ! Have
you a poem upon the fair maiden's eyebrows ? "
" Mr. Stubbs's only daughter is married, and, at
present, I believe in India, where "
"Where you would not object to my following her.
But I am not inclined to accept your polite invitation
at present. I would give you a day, and allow you
to initiate mc into rural delights, but I have wasted
my only spare day in a fruitless search after the trout
that my innkeeper promised me ; so this night is all
1;''^ THE MAID OF THE MILL.
♦^iidt I can bestow upon you, and you must show me
my way back to the rural mansion where I hope a
savory supper is awaiting me."
A month had passed away, when, as Janet sat at
the cottage window with Aunt Milicent, — an unac-
customed sight, a letter, was brought her. Janet read
it once, twice, then gave it to Aunt Milicent ; and, at
length, when she had concluded it, both burst out into
laughter, of which Janet's was the most immoderate
as well as the most musical. The letter was from one
of her old friends, who began by saying she had, at
last, drawn out from Aunt Standfast the place of
Janet's retreat; and knowing she must be famishing for
want of tidings from the world, she had seated herseli
to write her a gossiping letter. After relating Harry
Stanton's last joke, describing the last fashion, and
giving an account of the last ball, (which Janet
recognized as the very picture of all the balls she had
ever attended in B,,) Maria went on, — "Pray, in
your wilds, did you ever meet with Oswald Lansing?
Frank Vivian declares that he fished him up, in just
such an out-of-the-way place, with just such an unpro-
nounceable name, as your Aunt Standfast says you
have retired to. He would be a real jewel, if you
jould find him ! He is rich and handsome, then he
THE MAID OF THE MILL. 109
is the best polker I ever knew, and has the greatest
amount of small talk of any gentleman of my acquaint-
ance. Harry Stanton is silent before him. After
flirting with all the girls at the seaside, where I met
him last summer, it seems he has retired, in disgust
with society. But I must tell you how Harry Stanton
wears his willow for you "
But Janet neglected to notice what were the motions
of Harry Stanton, in her amusement at the thought
of the masquerade she had been playing with Oswald
Lansing. A gleam of light came over " that wonderful
breadth of information and depth of intellect," that
she had detected in the young rustic.
In the midst of their merriment, Janet and Aunt
Milicent were aroused by the voice of Oswald Lansing
without the window. He wished to know the subject
of their amusement. Janet answered thoughtlessly, by
giving Oswald her letter.
Could Janet reconcile herself to marrying one who
was a leader in high society ? Could Oswald forget
his dreams of elevating a maid of the mill to that
refined circle she was worthy to move in ? These
were questions that were quickly answered. A rural
cottage rose soon, on the pretty knoll looking down
upon the mountain stream. Harry Stanton facetiously
10
110 THE MAID OF THE MILL.
called it Stubbs's Lodge ; but Janet and (Jswald
Lansing were quite too bappy to beed tbe idle jokes
of their old society friends. Oswald occasionally
acknowledged tbat be was not sorry that Janet had
already compared the gay life of the world with the
quiet routine of her country home, and had seen
" the folly " of the former ; while Janet was obliged
to confess that beside the attractive simplicity she had
fancied in the rustic Oswald, she was not sorry to
have a refined high breeding, that he must have
learned elsewhere than in the mill of Sandisknowe.
But the principal ornament of the new cottage, is a
sketch of Janet, in her pretty costume as the " Maid
of the Mill," watching the flow of the water.
THE HEART'S AWAKENING
BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.
Only yesterday a Child,
She the little rosy maiden,
Hers the glee of laughter wild !
Now her brow with thought is laden.
From behind her eyes there gleams
Light which tells of stranger-dreams,
Faint, like summer morning breaking,
With the shadows warfare making ;
It is waking — it is waking !
Gone for aye the childish peace.
Bounding, trotting at our call ;
Slowlier, with a sweeping grace.
See her tiny foot-prints fall :
Silenter the babbling tongue,
When her elder friends among ;
112 THE heart's awakening.
Yet her speech new music making,
And her words new meaning taking,
Now her Girlish Heart is waking !
She hath opened Nature's books.
Leaf by leaf they turn for her ;
And her soul, as still she looks,
Heaveth with a gentle stir.
Stars, — that were but stars before
Shown by scientific lore,
Off such prosy fetters shaking, —
Are with spirit-lustre breaking
On the Heart that's newly waking!
She will sit in listless thrall
Gazing on a fleecy cloud;
Or upon the waterfall ;
Or upon a flowery crowd ;
Or on bee and butterfly ;
Or on birds that climb the sky;
As she were dull earth forsaking —
Life from dream-land only taking.
Meet for Young Hearts just awaking !
THE heart's awakening. 118
There is yet another change
For the pensive little maiden : —
Now good angels near her range ;
Be their white wings wisdom-laden !
She no longer solely looks
Into Nature's extern books,
Though she musing sits apart :
She hath found a subtler teacher,
And a more impassioned preacher,
In her wakened Woman's Heart
10*
THE ADVENTURES OF CAKL,U JfJXANCONI,
AN ITALIAN FEASANT. BELATED BY HIMSELF.
TRANSLATED BY MRS. JAMBS WHITTLE.
My parents resided within a short distance of
Campiano, one of those mountain villages remote
from the high road, and rarely visited by strangers ;
here they possessed a small farm, and were at the time
of my birth amongst the wealthiest people of the
district. One of the earliest events I can remember
was the festival in celebration of the christening of
my little sister ; relations and friends came from miles
around, and during several days kept up one continued
scene of festivity and dancing. My childish heart was
delighted with the bright, gay costumes of the women,
pleasant stories, and friendly faces of the men, the
music, dancing, and usual accompaniments of such a
festival. Yet with all my pleasure, it seemed to me
that the little being, whose admittance into the church
THE ADVENTURES OF CAKLO FRANCONI. lio
of Christ had given rise to all this gayety, was
forgotten ; and I stole away from the busy scene,
climbed up the steep and narrow stairs, and, kneeling
down beside the cradle, gazed on her, as a devotee
upon the image of the Virgin Mother. The child at
length awoke and began to cry. I took her in my
arms ; and, as if conscious of the love that swelled
within my heart, she soon ceased her wailing, and
nestling in my bosom, again fell asleep. A feeling
then arose in my heart which influenced my whole
after-life. Nanina ! gioja mia ! as I then watched your
slumbers, I tasted the bliss that crowns man's life with
rapture, of loving and protecting a beloved object.
The birth of this sister had been a source of intense
happiness to me. Child as I was, (at that time but six
years old,) I felt when first her dark eyes opened on
me, that life became brighter and happier. As years
passed on we were inseparable ; we neglected the
companions of our own age, and knew'' no greater
pleasure than to wander hand-in-hand through the
mountain pastures, watching the sheep and goats as
they browsed on the scanty herbage around us. I
cannot define the thoughts and feelings which then
filled our young hearts to overflowing; it seemed as
if every thing in Nature spoke to us.
116 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI.
Ill this blissful state our first years were passed, and
another infant was added to our little family. Sorrow
was as yet unknown to us ; but soon, too soon, alas !
it came — how sudden, how desolating was the evil
that befel us ! One morning early in the month of
July, Nanina and I had risen betimes to accompany
our parents to the neighboring town of San Stefano,
where the annual festival of the Madonna dei Fiori was
to be celebrated. We had never before quitted our
village, and the proposed journey filled us with
delight. Two mules were brought to the door, on
one of which my mother was quickly mounted, with
Nanina before her ; the other was intended for me,
while our father walked beside us. The day, though
cloudy and unpromising, had but little influence on
our gayety ; and as we climbed the steep mountain,
we talked and laughed merrily, regardless of the
stormy clouds that gathered around us. Wlien we
reached the' summit, the rain began to fall, but the
valley beneath us was bathed in sunshine, and we
hastened forward ; behind us all was darkness ; black
masses of clouds obscured the horizon, and a dense fog
veiled Campiano from our sight. On reaching San
Stefano, however, all trace of storm had disappeared ;
the sun shone down with golden splendor ; crowds
THE ADVENTURES OE CARLO EEANCONI. 117
were thronging to early mass in the principal church,
and acquaintances greeted us at every step. Arches
and festoons of flowers decorated the streets, and
garlands of ribbons and bright pieces of carpet were
displayed from the windows of the houses ; the steps
and centre aisle of the church were strewn with
flowers ; hundreds of tapers burned on the high altar ;
and before the shrines, ornamented with pictures and
statues, knelt crowds of men, women, and children,
in various and, to us, novel costumes. On quitting
the church, we joined a procession of priests and friars,
which accompanied the image of the Madonna, in
whose honor the Festa was held. This figure Avas
once a year borne through the streets with great
solemnity, and presented to the adoration of the
people ; it was placed on a platform, and, covered
as it was with gold, silver, and artificial flowers, it
seemed to iis the most beautiful and wonderful sight
we had ever beheld.
When we had seen the Madonna conveyed back to
the #hurch, we hastened to the house of a relative
where it had been agreed that we should pass the
night, returning to Campiano the following morning.
During the afternoon, the sky again became overcast,
and the ridge of mountains we had passed in the
118 THE ADVENTUKES OF CAKLO FKANCONI.
morning was hidden by dark and heavy clouds ; thk
wind suddenly rose and blew a hurricane, Avhile the
rain fell in torrents. My father, who well knew the
nature of these storms, became uneasy ; his eye
wandered restlessly to the hills behind which lay our
home, and turning to my mother, he said, " Would
to God, Francesca, that we were safe at home ! " The
storm continued through the night ; but it was evident
that its greatest violence had been spent before it
reached San Stefano. The morning dawned in
loveliness ; all Nature seemed refreshed by the late
rain, and my father reanimated by the scene, cast
aside the gloomy forebodings of the night. We took
our departure early, and slowly wended our way up
the narrow road, which was slippery with the late
rain ; but our sure-footed mules marched steadily on,
and w6 reached the summit in safety. "WTiat a scene
then met our eyes ! what terror seized upon our hearts
as we gazed below ! The country around Campiano
was converted into a vast lake, from which the
village, placed on an eminence, rose like an island.
The Taro had burst its banks, and the whole valley
was inundated. My father turned to vis in speechless
horror, and my mother falling on her knees, buried her
face in her hands. No time, however, was to be lost,
THE ADVENTUKES OF CARLO FEANCONl. 119
and we hurried down the mountain. The viHagers
were watching our descent, and where the waters
rendered it impossible to proceed on mules, they had
a boat in readiness to transport us to the village.
Never can I forget the awful scenes that met our
eyes as we rowed on ; we saw within a few hundred
yards of us the spot where our home had stood ;
house, out-buildings, all had disappeared, and the
rushing waters flowed over the ruins. The Taro,
foaming and boiling, rolled on, its former bed marked
by the greater strength of tte current ; beams and
rafters of houses, dead bodies of animals, and, still
more horrible, of men were drifting down the tide.
As we gazed, my father's face became deadly pale,
and my mother clasped her hands in agony, when
they beheld a cradle tossed on the agitated waves.
" My child, my child ! " shrieked the wretched mother,
but ere the words had passed her lips, the cradle was
overwhelmed, and disappeared. This was but the first
of a series of trials. The river had swept away all
that we possessed. Ere the domestics left in charge
of the premises could escape, death had overtaken
them : not one was left to tell the tale of desolation.
We readily found shelter in the village, for my
father's high character and kindly nature had made
120 THE AUVENTUKES OF CARLO FKANCCMl.
him universally beloved ; every one pitied Bernardo
Franconi, and many doors were opened to receive
tlip houseless family. Night closed on the dismal
spectacle, but brought no rest to my poor father ; he
was a ruined man ; all, all had perished in this dire
catastrophe — all, save his wife, Nanina, and myself.
I remember to this hour the expression of his face, as,
clasping my mother to his heart, he said, " God leaves
me you, Francesca ; blessed be His holy name ! "
But even this source of happiness was not long
spared to him. My mother, at all times in delicate
health, never recovered the effects of that dreadful
night ; her rest was broken by the fancied cries of
her drowning child, and though she strove to keep
the knowledge of her state from us all, she yet knew
that she was dying ; and soon, before the spring
flowers succeeded to the Avinter floods, she was laid
in her quiet grave. From that time I never saw
my father smile; he was kind, and careful to provide
what comforts he could for us, but his heart was
broken ; I have seen him sit and gaze upon Nanina,
until his eyes were blinded with tears ; her beauty
and gentleness so forcibly reminded him of his
Francesca, that her presence only gave him pam
instead of comfort. By the assistance of some
THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. I'Z I
rel:itives he established himself in another little
farm ; but he was listless and dispirited, and our
present was a sad contrast to our former home.
Repressed in all expression of cheerfulness or childish
glee, by the silent sorrow of our father, we sought
amusement in the village ; and amongst the many
houses in which we were welcome guests, none had
such powerful attractions for us, as one small cottage.
There is something beautiful in the friendship that at
times springs up between the old and young, when
age remembering its early days, gives warm and loving
sympathy to youth, and youth laying aside its too
boisterous mirth, listens reverently to the teaching of
age. Pietro Dossi, the aged inhabitant of our favorite
cottage, had in his younger days visited many distant
lands ; travelling from place to place in company w ith
other boys, as a vender of images, he had at length
amassed a sura sufficient to enable him to realize his
early dream of purchasing a small piece of land in
the neighborhood of his native village ; this he had
cultivated with his own hands, until the approach of
age rendered repose necessary to him, and he now
dwelt in Campiano surrounded by his old friends,
honored and respected by all who knew him,
imparting, from his store of traveller's tales, pleasure
11
122 THE ADVENTTJKES OF CARLO FKANCONI.
and instruction to the young. Nanina and I were nevei
happier than when listening to him, — she seated on
the old man's knee, and I, sitting at his feet playing
with Jacopo, the pet monkey, who was Pietro's sole
companion. He related his adventures for our diver-
sion ; and as he told of foreign countries, I longed to
follow in his track, and see and learn for myself. This
desire grew stronger and stronger within me ; but the
thought of my father and his loneliness, checked its
fulfilment. Events, however, soon happened which,
by throwing me on ray own resources, opened my
path to England, for it was to London that all my
longings turned.
I had barely attained my fourteenth year, and
Nanina was in her ninth, when my father was
suddenly attacked by a fever, which in a few days
carried him to his grave. We were now left orphans
in a world of which we as yet knew nothing ; strangers
alike to the cold unkindness and to the genuine benev-
Dlence, that have in turn chilled our hearts or cheered
jur wandering steps in foreign lands. I was too
young to undertake the management of a farm; and
as my father, since our heavy loss, had only rented
a few acres of land, it was soon arranged that we
should quit our home.
THE ADVENTUKES OF CARLO EKANCONI. 123
In our sorrow we had repaired to Pietro for
sympathy and counsel : to him I revealed the
longing of my heart ; and, entering at once into
my views, he offered to give me, as my stock in
trade, my playmate Jacopo, the monkey. I was
unwilling to deprive him of his old favorite ; but he
said that Nanina should live with him during my
absence, and thus his gain would be greater than
mine. Poor Nanina heard my proposal with dismay :
she could not imagine a life in which I should have
no share, and at first she opposed herself vehemently
to my leaving her. "With tears and sobs she implored
me to take her with me ; but to this -Pietro opposed
so many arguments, that at last she seemed to yield
assent. She now busied herself in preparing my little
wardrobe, which was carefully tied up in a handker-
chief, and fastened to my back. Jacopo was gayly
dressed in a new suit of scarlet cloth, and Nanina had
attached to his collar a blue ribbon which she took
from her own slender waist. Putting this into my
hand, she kissed me passionately, and, leading me to
the door, said, " Carlo, you will see me in your
dreams." I did not then heed her words, but had
afterwards good cause to remember them ; I then
wondered at her calmness, and thought she could
124 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO EEANCONI.
not love me as I loved her ; for my own heart was
torn with anguish at leaving her, while she seemed
cheerful, and parted from me with a smile.
With a heavy heart I ascended the hill from which
I was to take the last view of my native village.
When I reached its summit I sat down on the grass,
and for the first time in my life felt the misery of utter
loneliness. I strove to recall the delight with which
I had dreamed of setting out on this journey, but in
vain. Nanina's image rose before my mind ; and,
covering my face with my hands, I burst into tears.
I soon however remembered, that although I should
no longer be near to love and guard her, God and
the Virgin would still protect my sister ; and to their
care I now solemnly committed her. I felt that,
though I should no longer walk forth with her to
see the rising sun gild our beloved mountains, or
Avatch the moon shedding her soft light over the
scenes endeared to us by memory, yet wherever I
wandered, the same sun and the same moon svould
shine on lus that shone on Nanina ; and in this thought
I found much consolation. Then, gaining hope from
the future, my heart leaped with joy to think of the
time when I should again return to Campiano, and
pour the riches gathered in my travels at Nanina's feet
THE ADVENTURES OF CA.RLO FKANCONI. 125
Tkoughts such as these gave wings to my feet, and
1 ran briskly down the hill that led to Vizerano.
There I was to spend my first lonely night. I was
unused to beg, and it was with a timid step that I
approached a small but well-stocked farm-house that
lay in my road. I did not ask for food : Pietro had
carefully stored my little wallet with what would last
me several days : I only begged to be allowed to
shelter my weary limbs in the barn. My request was
kindly granted; and, after sharing a morsel of bread
with Jacopo, and taking a draught of milk which the
good woman gave me, I lay down on a bundle of
straw, with my monkey nestling close to me, and
fell asleep thinking of Nanina. Early in the morning,
a faint streak of light falling on my face aroused me —
was I awake, or was it only a dream ? — beside me
sat a figure, so beautiful, that for a moment I took
it for the good angel who is said to watch over
the slumbers of young children ; yet it had the form
and face of my sister. I started up, and, rubbing my
eyes to assure myself that it was no dream, I found
myself clasped in Nanina's arms. " Oh ! Carlo," she
exclaimed, " did you think that I could live without
you? You must not send me back, for I should die,
away from you. Let me go where you go : I will
11*
126 THE ADVENTtTRES OF CARLO FRANCONI.
never vex you, if you will only let me follow you."
With these words she clung to me with an energy it
was in vain to resist ; and, as I returned her embrace,
I felt that death alone should ever again separate us.
As we journeyed on, Nanina told me how she had
stolen away when Pietro thought she was in bed,
and creeping softly down, had set off in the twilight.
She had heard Pietro describe the house at which I
was to sleep, and reaching it in the early dawn, she
entered the barn, and taking her station beside me,
had patiently watched for my awakening. We spoke
of our dear Pietro, and grieved for his loneliness, thus
left without Jacopo or Nanina, but we soon forgot this
sorrow in our joy of being together, and proceeded on
our way, until after some hours we came within sight
of a large town.
We now began our trade, and soon a crowd of boys
gathered round us, attracted by Jacopo's gambols.
Nanina, amused by the laughter and delight of the
children, excited him to show off all his tricks ; and
when at last putting her hat into his paw, he ran
round the circle, bowing and grimacing to each
individual, and soliciting charity in his own facetious
way, it was returned with more money in it than we
had ever before possessed, and we pursued our journey
THE ADTENTURES OF CARLO PEANCONI. 127
in good spirits. Pietro had desired me not to sleep in
any town, cautioning me that my funds would soon
melt away if I trusted to the hospitality of cities ;
we therefore journeyed on from place to place, meeting
with various fortune, but on the whole with kindness
and liberality. Whenever, weary, hungry, and foot-
sore, Ave were refused the shelter we solicited, we
comforted each other with the thought of London,
recounted the wonders we had heard, and creeping
close to each other, fell asleep under a hedge,
dreaming of rich, beautiful England.
Our way lay through France ; and the kind-hearted
peasantry, who were then busied in the vintage, often
invited us to join their noon-day meal. It was a
lovely autumn, and as yet we had experienced no
severe weather ; an occasional storm drove us to seek
shelter beneath some shed, or wide spreading tree, but
we were too well inured to a mountain life to fear what
rain or wind could do to us. At length we reached
Boulogne, and by this time our little stock of money
enabled us boldly to take our passage in a vessel that
was sailing for London. Poor Nanina was terrified
when she saw the steamboat, and was told that in it
she would sail away on to the wide sea. I comforted
her as best I could, hiding my own fears that I might
128 THE ADVENTURES OF CAKLO FEANCONl.
not add to hers. We had a fine passage, and about
noon entered the Thames. The sight of the num-
berless vessels that crowded the noble river filled
us with astonishment, and Nanina's exclamations of
natural and unfeigned delight interested many of the
passengers for us. One young lady came to us, and
sitting down by Nanina began to speak to her ; but,
alas ! not one word could we understand ; we could
only shake our heads in reply, when much to our
surprise she addressed us in our own beloved language,
asking where we came from, and what we were going
to d6. Nanina simply replied, that we were come
from Campiano to London, to make our fortune; at
which the young lady smiled. We told her that we
were going to see a friend of our father's, who lived
in London, and who would, we were sure, take care
of us. She looked at us sorrowfully, and stroking
back Nanina's raven locks said, " poor children ! "
(poveretti,) and then turning to a gentleman spoke
to him in English. I am sure she asked him to be
kind to us, for w^hen the vessel stopped at the great
Custom House in London, the lady bade us keep
close, and follow them on shore. What we should
liave done but for their care, God only knows. We
■were so pushed and jostled by the crowds of people
THE jfDYENTURES OP CAELO FKANCONI. 129
who were hurrying to land, that Nanina began to
cry ; but the kind gentleman lifting her in his arms
carried her safely to shore, and placed her on a large
trunk beside his daughter, then calling a little carriage
he put us into it v/ith Jacopo, and, paying the driver
his fare, told him to take us to the place where we
hoped to find our friend.
It was now dark ; the lamps were lighted, and
as we drove rapidly along the streets, our surprise
was excited by the brilliant gas-lights, and Nanina
contiually exclaimed, " See ! Carlo, see ! how beautiful ;
another, and another ! and the fine shops, and crowds
of people; London is, indeed, beautiful!" Still we
drove on ; there seemed no end of streets and houses ;
my brain whMed, and I scarcely knew Avhether I were
waking or dreaming. At last we turned into a narrow
lane, and soon our driver checked his horse, and I
heard him say something I did not understand, but I
knew by his mentioning the name of Manelli that we
must be near our destination ; he drove on a few steps,
and then opening the door signed to us to alight.
Taking Nanina' s hand, with Jacopo seated on my
shoulder, I followed a boy who led the way through a
dark passage to a house, at the door of which he
knocked and then left us ; it opened as by magic, and
130 THE APVENTUEES OF CAKLO FRANCONI.
a loud voice called to us from the top of the stairs in
no very gentle tones. I was afraid we had been
wrongly directed, and Nanina, terrified at our strange
situation, the darkness and the harsh sounds of the
English tongue, followed me up the steep stairs,
clinging tightly to my arm. At the head of the
stairs we found a woman with a candle in her hand;
she spoke roughly to us, and I suppose asked what
we wanted. I blushed and stammered, and drawing
from my pocket a letter which had lain carefully
concealed there since I left Campiano, I gave it to
her, saying, "II Signor Manelli e in casa?" She
grumbled out some angry words, but a voice from
the interior of the room replied, " Si, si, entrate :
son qui, cosa volete ? " These words, uttered in oui
tiwn sweet language, reassured me, and we entered.
Manelli was seated at his table, employed by the light
of a powerful lamp, in constructing something, which I
afterwards found was a barometer ; he seemed a man
about forty years of age, and the kind expression of
his countenance encouraged me to speak to him. I
related my simple tale, and asked if he remembered
Pietro Dossi, who had given me the letter for him.
At the mention of his name Manelli's face brightened ;
"Remember him," said he, "yes, truly, we were dearer
THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 131
to each, other than brothers." He then kissed Nanina,
and bade us hearty welcome to his home. I saw,
however, that our arrival was by no means so agreeable
to the woman who had shown us to the room, and soon
an angry contest ensued between her and Manelli upon
the subject. It ended by our being provided with
supper, and told to lie down on some straw in a corner
of the room, where, tired and exhausted, we soon fell
asleep. In the morning Manelli took me aside, and
told me that the woman I saw was his wife ; that she
was an Englishwoman, and could speak but little
Italian ; that she was really good and kind-hearted,
but had a strange way of showing it, and that unless
Nanina and I could resolve to be obedient to her,
and do all she asked, we must make up our minds to
bear many a scolding. He added that he was too poor
to maintain us in idleness, and proposed that I should
go out into the streets with my monkey and see what
I could earn, while Nanina remained at home to help
his wife. I did not like the plan, I was afraid that
Madame (as we were bid to call her) would be harsh
to Nanina ; but as Manelli spoke kindly, and as if he
desired really to help us, I acceded to his wish, ana
sallied forth, begging Madame to take care of my little
sister, and promising to bring back what I earned,
132 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO ERANCONI.
to pay for our supper ; she gave me a crust of bread
to eat when I was hungry, and desired me to be
careful of my money.
My first day's ramble produced but little ; I was
bewildered by the novel sights and sounds that met
me at every step, and wandered on from street to
street, forgetful of the object of my expedition, until
tired of walking, I sat down on a door-step to eal
my bread. I then remembered, that, if I took nothing
home with me, Nanina and I were to have no supper ;
and seeiiig that Jacopo's attempts to snatch the food
from my mouth faster than I could put it in, had
already collected a little crowd around me, I excited
him to more and more antics ; each new trick elicited
fresh bursts of merriment from the bystanders, and
when I held my hat and said, as Madame had taught
me, " Give a penny to poor Italian boy," many were
dropped into it. Elated by my success, I now tried
to retrace my steps, anxious to show my gains, and
feeling richer than I had ever been before, for amongst
the pence I found a silver coin, which seemed to me a
fortune in itself; this I intended to give Nanina : but
Avhen I reached our miserable lodging, the landlady
seized upon me, insisted on my showing her all my
money, and grumbling that it was no more, told
THE ADVENTURES OF CARXO FKANCONJ 133
me we could have little supper that night. I was
indignant at this treatment, but a look from Manelli
checked the angry words which were ready to burst
from my lips. Nanina was silent, and I thought I
saw traces of tears in her eyes, but did not venture
to ask their cause, for I had begun to tremble before
Madame. As we fell asleep, Nanina whispered softly,
" Carlo, do not leave me ; I will go with you." The
next day I proposed that she should accompany me,
but this Madame vehemently opposed, threatening to
turn us both out of doors if I dared again to speak
of such a plan, and adding, that I had better take
care to bring home more money, as she could not
keep us for nothing. Days and weeks passed on,
during which our life continued much what I have
described it ; Madame was kind or cross in propor-
tion to the money I brought home, and I gradually
became more and more afraid of her. I could not
help sometimes asking myself where was all the kind-
heartedness which Manelli had told us we should find
in Madame, and I often wondered why he, who really
loved us, did not interfere in our behalf; but I found
out afterwards, that he stood in as much awe of his
wife as I did.
After some months I began to feel that, with all my
12
1*4 THE ADVENTURES OF CAKLO rKANCONI.
Iibor, I had not laid by a single shilling towards the
object that was ever present to my thoughts. I dared
not ask to be allowed to do so, but the thought made
me miserable. I saw, too, that Nanina was changed ;
the brightness of her eyes was dimmed, the elastic step
was gone, and, what was worst of all, her merry laugh
w^as hushed ; she was pale and languid, and I thought
she drooped like a flower shut out from light and air.
She had ceased to ask to accompany me, but often
when I left her, I saw the tears spring to her eyes ; she
never complained, but I knew she was unhappy, and 1
determined that we would leave Manelli's house, and
try our fortunes in the world alone once more. My
resolution was strengthened by a circumstance which
awakened me more fully to the real state of afiairs.
Returning earlier than usual one afternoon, I heard
in ascending the stairs the screams of a child ; as 1
listened my heart stood still ; could it be Nanina, my
darling Nanina ? Again the sound struck on my ear.
It ivas her voice ! and amidst cries of pain I heard
her say, " Let me go, let me go, indeed I did not tell
him ; I will never let Carlo know how you beat me,
only let me go now, I will do all j^ou bid me."
Furious, and not knowing what I did, I rushed into
the room, flew upon Madame, who was raising her
THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO ERANCONI. 135
hand to strike the child, aimed a blow at her head,
which stunned her for a moment, and quickly seizing
Nanina I hurried down stairs, and ran along the
streets, until feeling safe from pursuit, I sat down,
and placing my sister beside me, comforted and pacified
her alarm, promising never to allow her to return to
Madame. She then told me how often she had been
beaten, and that Madame had always threatened to
make me go without supper if she ever told me how
she was ill-treated. Thus the intrepid little creature
had patiently endured all, rather than that I should
lose a meal. " I could not let you starve, Carlo, mio,"
she said, " you who worked so hard for me." How
could I help loving this sister ? how ever reward her
for such devotion ?
The evening had now closed in ; a keen wind was
blowing from the north, and to us, with our Italian
temperament, the suffering occasioned by the cold was
extreme. Hitherto we had known nothing of personal
hardship, we had been sheltered in a warm room, had
slept on dry straw, and though our food had been
grudgingly given and often in scanty portions, yet
we had never known what actual hunger was ; now,
we were houseless, supperless, friendless, but not
hopeless ; we were free, and in this lay a happiness
136 THE ADVENTURES OE CABLO EBANCONI.
that we could neither define nor comprehend. I
took Nanina's hands in mine, chafed them, and
wrapping her in my coat drew her close to me,
and crept under the slight shelter afforded by the
doorway of a shop. Here, with Jacopo crouched
beside her, she fell asleep, and I was happier when
thus watching beside her, than I had been since we
entered London ; I was once more her protector, and
I would not have exchanged my bleak and lonely
post for the softest bed in London. I did not sleep,
for my mind was busily revolving plans for the future ;
remembering Pietro's advice, I determined to quit
London with the early dawn ; I thought that in the
country we might find kind people, who would give
us food and perhaps money. Having thus resolved,
I waited patiently until the morning began to break,
Avhen, awakening Nanina, I told her my intention ;
she eagerly caught at the idea, for a vague fear of
remaining near Madame still occupied her mind. The
streets were already alive with carts and foot passen-
gers, and we walked on through long interminable
streets ; Nanina, who had rarely left the one room we
had inhabited, was equally amazed and delighted.
The shops were opened one by one, and she gazed
in at the large windows, on all the beautiful things
THE ADYENTUEES OP CAELO EEANCONI. 137
displayed, with childish curiosity. I had, fortunately,
about a shilling in my pocket, the proceeds of the
previous day's campaign, and with part of this I
bought two rolls and a cup of warm coffee from a
man at the corner of the street. Jacopo came in for
his share, and thus refreshed we resumed our walk.
In about an hour's time, the long rows of tall houses
gave place to detached villas with gardens before them,
and by-and-by these became less frequent, and then
ceased entirely.
We were once more in the country ; our spirits
revived under its influence, and we involuntarily
quickened our pace. Hitherto we had kept along the
high road, but I now deemed it advisable to quit the
beaten . track, and we turned into a little lane which
seemed to lead towards a village at some distance.
We wandered on more and more slowly, for we had
come many miles, and evening was now drawing near.
We soon approached a large farm, whose well-filled
court-yard and homestead bespoke true English com-
fort ; before the house was a pretty little garden, where
a few bright crocuses and snow-drops already peeped
abo-»-c the ground, and in a little porch sat a fat and
rosy farmer's wife, beside whom a little girl, about.
Nanina's age, was playing. Attracted by the sight of
12*
138 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI.
the child, Nanina, who had run on before me, stopped
at the wicker-gate and called me to come quickly to see
"la bella fanciullina." I feared to offend the good
woman, and chid Nanina for her rudeness, but Jacopo,
who had leaped upon the gate, began to play off his
antics, and so charmed the little girl, that she screamed
with delight, and clapping her hands, began to talk
to us. We had learned a few English words, and
quickly made acquaintance with her. We were
invited with Jacopo to enter the court-yard, and soon
a number of the servants, with the master and mis-
tress themselves, were gathered round us. When the
monkey had played off all his tricks, the goodman
turned to us, and asked us whither we were going,
and where we intended to pass the night. Finding
that we did not know, he invited us to go in with
them, and share their supper. After eating a hearty
supper, I ventured to ask, as a further boon, that we
might be allowed to sleep in the barn ; this was
readily granted, and a promise of breakfast before
we started the next day, sent us to bed with happy,
grateful hearts. It had been a prosperous beginning
to our travels, and we set forth on the following
morning with renewed hope.
I cannot tell of all our adventures. At times we
THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 13v
met with rough unkindness ; at some houses the dog-
was set upon us, and often we were compelled to lie
down under the hedges and shelter ourselves from the
biting blast, as best we could ; at other times we were
treated kindly, and many were the acts of generosity
we met with even amongst the poorest classes. Spring
came at last, and summer brought us compan;tive
comfort. Our little purse grew heavier and heavier,
for we never willingly drew from its store, but con-
tented ourselves with the food that was given us in
charity ; and when this failed we frequently suffered
actual hunger, rather than take from our treasure.
Alas ! alas ! I did not know that by this course, I vras
laying the foundation of a future misery which I would
have given every farthing of that hoarded money, nay,
every drop of my heart's blood, to have averted. My
mind recalls but little of the time that followed ; — the
events of that summer and autumn rest dimly in my
memory ; my thoughts revert to one period marked
by such sorrow as I had never before known; all
other things seem trivial, and I hasten on to the
following winter.
The season was unusually severe even for England,
and our sufferings were intense ; whilst I tried, and
often, as I thought, successfully, to shield Nanina from
140 THE ADVENTURES OF CAELO FEANCONI.
the keen frosty air, I saw not, I kneAV not, tlie canker
that was secretly undermining her constitution. I did
not even guess that such things were, or that death
could touch that lovely creature. I saw that she grew
less able to walk ; I heard her cough through those
long weary nights ; I felt her hot burning hands, and
wiped from her fair forehead the moisture that gathered
there ; yet stUl I dreamed not she must die. Nanina,
my beloved ! how gladly would I then have died for
you ! Yet no ; the gentle, timid girl, rests in her quiet
grave, safe from the blasts of chilling wind, free from
all care ; and I was even then content to live alone,
since she was spared all further sorrow.
One afternoon, soon after Christmas-day, Nanina,
who had never before complained, sat down on a
stone, by the roadside, and told me she could gp nn
further ; her sunken cheeks were bright with a hectic
bloom ; her eyes shone with unnatural lustre, and
unused as I was to illness, I thought she did but
jest. I took her hand, and begging her not to give
up so soon, pointed to a house at a little distance,
to which Ave were directing our steps. She rose and
tottered on, leaning more and more heavily on my
arm, until with a faint sigh she fell on the ground.
" Carlo," she said, " I cannot move ; let me lie here
THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FKANCONI. 141
and rest ; by-and-by I will try again. Ob, let ma
rest ! " I was now alarmed, and covering ber witb
my coat, I ran on to tbe large bouse I bad pointed
out to ber. Emboldened by my terror for Nanina I
knocked at the door, and tbe lady of tbe house
fortunately passed through the ball at that moment,
and bearing tbe earnest tones of my voice camt
forward ; my tale was soon told ; she instantlj
offered to go with me to Nanina, and giving ordei>
to tbe servants to attend vis, avc hastened to the
spot where my dear sister lay. She was quickl)
carried to tbe house, and there my poor fading
flower was tended witb a kindness that God will,
I trust, reward. My prayers are all I have to give
in return for it ; but surely they are heard in Heaven,
when offered so fervently as mine are, night and
morning, for our benefactress. Nanina never rose
from the bed on w^bich they laid ber. Beautiful as
an angel, she won all hearts by her sweetness and
patience. All, but myself, saw that her hours were
numbered. I alone watched and hoped with confi-
dence to see the fever leave ber : daily she failed ;
but pain had left her. She called me to ber one
morning, and said, " Carlo, I wonder what death is.
Sometimes I think, as I lie awake in tbe night, that
142 THE ADVENTUHES OF CARLO FRA.NCONI.
perhaps I am dying." I looked at her ; and the truth
thus simply put hefore me, flashed upon my mind with
a conviction that its dread fulfilment was at hand. I
covered my face, and sobbed convulsively. She went
on : " Carlo, you must not cry : it is not hard to die ;
it is no pain like that I had before I came to bed ; all
is so quiet, it is so sweet to look thus into your face ;
I shall not leave you long, and jou will spare me to go
to our mother and the Virgin, and I shall pray for you,
Carlo, and still be with you, and you will come to me
in Heaven ; now stoop down close to me, and let me
feel your face, for it is getting dark, and I cannot see
it. Carlo, dearest Carlo, I am so happy ! now let me
sleep." She lay with my hand clasped in hers, and I
watched beside her, thinking that she slept ; for hours
I sat, until startled by the change in her countenance,
and the cold rigidity of her hands, I tried to waken
her. Nanina was not there, — her spirit had fled, and
.before me lay the cold remains of the most lovely of
God's creatures !
I do not know what followed ; all is darkness ; I can
recall no event ; days, weeks passed on unheeded by
me ; I sat in the small churchyard beside that grassy
mound, with poor Jacopo by my side, dead to all
consciousness of things beyond. At length she who
THE ADVENTUKES OE CARLO FRANCONI. 143
had given shelter to my beloved Nanina's last hours,
called me to her room ; she told me that she felt for
my sorrow, and did not blame it, but that the time
was come when I must rouse myself; that I could not
live in idleness, for God had given me strength and
understanding, and I must use them ; she added, that
to grieve for the dead with such absorbing sorrow was
selfish ; that God who had taken Nanina to Himself,
required me to show my love for Him, by not
indulging in useless grief, and thus murmuring at
His decrees ; that I must strive to live, so that when
Death came to me, I might be worthy to go, where
that pure and gentle spirit had already gone before
me. I was not insensible to her words; I felt their
truth, and resolved to rouse myself. My kind patroness
had already laid a plan for my future life. I know
not how it was that such an interest had been
awakened in her heart ; surely it was for Nanina's
sake ; I was her brother, and as such became the
object of so much kindness.
Mrs. Morton had friends in London whom she
interested for me, and by their means I was admitted
into one of the many schools in which instuction is
liberally and gratuitously given to the poor ; here I
lived a year, and then having by the bounty of Mrs.
ll'i THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONl.
Morton been apprenticed to a barometer-maker, I
learned this trade thoroughly, and by pursxiing it
steadily for a few years, became possessed of a sum
beyond my early dreams of wealth. Amidst all my
trials, I had never lost sight of the object for which
Nanina and I had toiled and suffered ; my heart turned
more and more to my native country, and when at last
I revealed to Mrs.. Morton my strong desire to return
to Campiano, she met it with her usual kindness;
encouraged me to put my plan in execution, and
added to my store so generously, that I was p^ ced
beyond the reach of poverty.
Before I set off on my return to Italy, I visited
Nanina's grave, and prayed that her spirit might
accompany me on my homeward journey, and share
in that return; thus cheered by the consciousness of
her presence with me, I might be less oppressed by
the loneliness of that journey which we had so often
in fancy performed together. I revisited many of the
places in France which I had seen with Nanina, and
arrived at length at Campiano. Pietro Dossi was
still alive, and I felt that, in my reunion with him,
something was left me to live for; I bought a small
farm, and taking the old man to my home, I had the
THE ABVENTUKES OF CARLO FKANCONI. 145
comfort of rendering his last days happy. This source
of interest had roused me from the melancholy which
had settled on my soul, and when Pietro urged me
to marry, I listened at first impatiently, then by
degrees with interest, and finally, as the idea took
a more definite form by my increasing admiration
for Maria Donelli, an old playfellow and friend
of Nanina's childhood, I yielded an unhesitating
assent to his wishes, and took my bride home in
time to aid me in fulfilling the last duties to our
good old friend.
Years have rolled on ; around my hearth are many
little beings, in whose childish joys my youth is
renewed ; amongst them is one, dearer to me in my
secret heart than all beside — another Nanina; in her
lovely features and infantine grace I see my sister live
again. Maria, my gentle wife, is sitting beside me as
I write, wondering at the deep emotions that have been
roused as I have recalled my past life : she loves me,
and I am blest in her affection.
At the request of my kind friend and benefactress, I
have written this sketch of my life. She says that
from my tale many may learn to regard the poor
Italian boys who travel through the world, without
13
146 THE ADTENTUKES OF CAKLO FKANCONt.
home and without friends, with more consideration,
and cheer them in their lonely wanderings by a
kind word or act : such are like the dew that
falls on the thirsty earth to blossom like the rose.
THE BLESSING.
BY H. H.
Dark is the sky with thunder-clouds,
While breathes that agt'd one
His fervent gratitude to Heaven
Amid the mountains lone,
For the mercy of the present hour,
And for the mercies shown
To him and his continually,
In the seasons that are gone.
His little grandson calmly views
The tempest gathering round ;
For though the words cannot be heard,
Yet, in their whisper'd sound,
The boy a heartfelt safety finds ;
And it seems holy ground
To his young eye, where they two sit
On the gray rocky mound.
148 THE BLESSING.
Not oft in crowded scenes of life,
When the richest feasts are spread,
Does such accepted prayer arise
As o'er the peasant's bread,
Who at the close of every day,
Rests a toil-wearied head,
Soothed by a hope that Heaven remains.
When mortal life is fled.
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
9
BY MRS. JAMES WHITTLE.
In the deep bay-window of the library of Oldcourt
sat two girls absorbed in honest discourse ; the varying
expression of their faces, as the conversation proceeded,
showed that the subject which occupied them was one
of strong and peculiar interest to both. They were
beautiful, but their beauty differed as the hues of
Spring and Autumn. The youngest was graceful as
Hebe herself; her bright hazel eyes sparkled with
gayety or melted into tenderness ; now quick as light-
ning flashed from beneath their long silken lashes, and
then overflowed with tears, as some softer emotion
touched her heart ; her rich auburn hair fell in wild
beauty over her snowy neck, and her form, slender as a
sylph's, was replete with grace; — formed to love and
to be loved, she seemed too bright and joyous a
creature to face the cures and troubles of this world.
The countenance of the other, on the contrary, was
IS*
150 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVli.
remarkable for its calm serenity ; her fair high forehead
bespoke a powerful intellect, and the pensive expres-
sion of her clear gray eyes, while it spoke of past
suffering, told of present peace, and far from marring
the perfect beauty of her face, gave it a character so
pure, so heavenly, that unconsciously a reverence
mingled with the love which she inspired.
"Margaret," said the younger girl, " I wish you were
as happy as I am ; surely you cannot love my brother
as I love Alfred, or you would not to-night look so
serious."
" If it is a proof of love to be always merry," said
Margaret, with a smile, " then, indeed, must I plead
guilty to your charge."
" No, Margaret, I do not mean exactly that ; but
love seems to me so absorbing a feeling, that it should
drive all care, all clouds, away. I should think it
high treason to my love for Alfred," she added, with
a blush, "to be sad to-night."
" I am not sad, Emily ; thoughtful I cannot but be
on the eve of such a day."
A shade of disappointment crossed Emily's face, as
she exclaimed, " Oh, Margaret ! I thought that you
loved Edward Avith your whole heart."
" Do you doubt it ? Do you not know that I
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOTE. 151
have loved your brother for years, and that to-morrow
I am to become his wife ? Could I marry him unless
I loved him ? "
" No, dearest ! I could never doubt you, who are the
soul of truth and goodness ; but your present feelings
are so strangely different from my own. To-morrow I
too, shall become a wife ; but the thought which
brings only rapture to me, makes you grave and full
of care."
" I am older .than you, my dear Emily, and, there-
fore, less sanguine. I have, however, no fears for the
future that interfere with my present peace of mind ;
in Edward's noble character, sweet temper, and firm
religious principles, I shall find a secure anchorage for
my happiness. I love him, and ti'ust him implicitly ;
and yet I cannot take this important step without some
anxiety. When I think how high Edward's standard
is, and that he has chosen me to be the friend and
companion of his life, I tremble lest I may fail
him."
" Fail him ! Oh, Margaret ! can you believe it
possible that your love should ever change ? "
" No ! not while life and reason last ; but there
must be a higher, sterner principle than even love
itself, to guide us safely through the dangers of this
152 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
life. Impulse is at best an uncertain pilot ; and love,
without reason, often leads to misery."
"Love — such love as I feel for Alfred — can never
mislead. I love him better than myself, better than
the whole world beside ; to live for him, to die for him,
is all I ask. With him every joy will be doubled;
nay, pain and care themselves will lose their bitterness
when endured for him. Such love as this fills the
heart, to the exclusion of every doubt, of every fear."
Tears rolled down Margaret's cheeks as she gazed
on the enthusiastic girl ; for she knew that time must
dispel her dream, as care and trouble are the portion
of all, and sorrow too often visits us through the beings
we love best. Drawing the fair girl close to her, she
imprinted a long and fervent kiss upon her brow, and
whispered a prayer that it might be long ere the
brightness of that spirit should be dimmed by sorrow.
The following morning dawned in perfect beauty ;
the sunshine streaming through the deep-set windows
awakened all to the business of the day. Oldcourt
had never before witnessed such a scene — the whole
neighborhood was astir at early dawn ; trains of
villagers flocked from all parts, eager to be present at
the important ceremony, and to join their voices to
the prayers and blessings that were showered on the
SELF-LOVE AND TEUE LOVE. 153
young people whose weddings were that day to be
celebrated.
The noble domain of Oldcourt, and the large estates
thereto belonging, had for many centuries been in the
possession of one family, who had transmitted their
rich acres, together with a fair unsullied name, from
generation to generation. Simple and unostentatious
in their habits, upright and liberal in their dealings,
the Mortons were respected by their aristocratic
neighbors, revered by their equals, and idolized by
their tenantry and dependants. Marmaduke Morton,
the present head of the family, was a fine specimen of
an English country gentleman ; his noble countenance
and demeanor bespoke that independence of character
which is found peculiarly amongst the class to which
he belonged ; and while his courteous manners won
the love of all, no one had ever dared to take a liberty
with him, or infringe the bounds of intimacy he pre-
scribed. He had two children; a son, in whom his
hopes centered ; and a daughter, whose gay, volatile
nature, while it shed sunshine through the house, yet
caused her parents many an anxious hour. Emily
had been from infancy the petted darling of the
family ; her sparkling vivacity, graceful figure, and
beaming countenance, rendered her so fascinating.
154 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
that her faults were unheeded ; she took the heart
by storm, and if reason would at times have whispered
blame, she disarmed it by an ingenuous confession of
lier folly, or by the playfulness with which she parried
all attempts at remonstrance. Her brother Edward
was the idol of her heart; thoughtless and giddy
as she was, she had sense to perceive, and a heart
to feel, the beauty of his character. Edward was
worthy her affection; trained under the careful eye
of his parents, his education had been eminently
calculated to fit him for his future position, as one
of the wealthy landholders of England. His father
had early taught him to regard wealth as one of
" the talents " committed to man by God himself.
He pointed out to him the duties and responsibilities
which the possession of such an inheritance as his
involved; taught him to respect the rights of all his
fellow-men ; and while he inculcated virtue by good
and noble precepts, by his own example, more potent
far, he won the heart of his son to love it for itself.
Edward inherited his mother's gentle nature, and to
her he was indebted not only for the softer graces of
his character, but for a reverence for holy things,
which, imbibed in childhood, had in after years
matured into deep religious feeling. Yet must we
SELF-LOVE AND IKUE LOVE. 155
confess that this gentleness often degenerated into
indecision, and led him at times to acts unsanctioned
by his better judgment.
Within a mile of Oldcourt, nestled amidst the hills,
lay a beautiful old manor-house, called the Grange ; a
fine avenue of chestnut trees led to the house, which
looked the abode of peace and happiness. The large
mullion windows were twined with the most luxuriant
climbing plants ; the deep porch, embosomed in roses
and myrtles, opened into a spacious hall, the walls of
which were ornamented with antlers, whips, horns, and
other implements of the chase, without any pretension
or show ; and there was throughout the house an air
of refinement and elegance which none could mistake.
Many might have called the old house dull, but none
who had ever enjoyed its boundless hospitality, or
breathed its atmosphere of tranquil happiness, would
have uttered such treason. In this peaceful spot had
dwelt for many years a family of the name of Grahame ;
in its happiest days five daughters and one son had
gladdened the hearts of their parents ; but death had
been busy amongst them ; four girls had followed each
other in quick succession to the grave, and Margaret
and her brother Alfred alone remained to cheer their
aged father ; their mother, a delicate fragile being, had
156 SELF-LOVE AND TBUE LOVE.
sunk beneath the weight of her afflictions, and now
slept beside her children in the quiet churchyard.
On Margaret these sorrows had fallen with peculiar
severity ; in her sisters she had lost the sweet com-
panions of her childhood, and the friends of her youth ;
she beheld them, one by one, sinking to the grave,
with calm fortitude, but the final blow given by her
mother's death seemed to stun her. In the first
moments of her grief, she had sunk into a state of
dejection, from which nothing could rouse her; but as
soon as the last rites were performed, Margaret awoke
from her sorrow, and in the efforts she made for those
she loved, she found a peace which the world cannot
give : none knew, however, that her calm, unselfish
conduct, concealed a sad and weary spirit — none knew,
but one beloved friend ; to him she had long confided
her most secret feelings, and in his devoted love had
found the sweetest consolation earth could afford.
Edward Morton had loved her since they had first
played together as children, and time had ripened
these youthful feelings into a firm and enduring
attachment. Margaret had yielded a slow consent
to listen to his vows of love ; sorrow had left an
indelible impression on her character ; she viewed
lif«, if not gloomily, yet earnestly ; to perform its
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 157
duties, to bear, and to suffer submissively, seemed
all that she now looked for ; it was therefore long
before Edward could induce her to seek in his affection
a new source of hope and comfort. " No, Edward ! "
she had replied to his oft-repeated entreaties, " I am
not able to be to you all that a wife should be ; seek
not to darken your own bright future, by taking to
your home so sad a heart as mine." Edward's love
was too sincere, and founded on too accurate a
knowledge of her excellences, to be influenced by
Margaret's distrust of herself; he waited patiently,
and saw with joy the veil gradually dispelled that
overshadowed her noble spirit.
A circumstance soon occurred that tended to hasten
their union. Mr. Grahame's pecuniary affairs had
become embarrassed for a time, owing to the unex-
pected failure of his banker, in whose hands he had
placed a large sum, preparatory to its investment in
an advantageous speculation ; but the retrenchments
rendered necessary by this loss, were regarded as
trifling evils where so much real sorrow existed. On
Alfred's prospects, however, this event exercised an
important influence; he had passed through college
with honor, and had just returned home, uncertain
what path in life to choose, when this misfortune
14
158 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
happened. It incited him to immediate action, and
stimulated him to secure an independence by the
pursuit of an honorable profession. The law was his
choice ; his talents were great, and the excellence of
his connections promised him a shorter probation as a
briefless barrister, than is the lot of most young men.
Alfred Grahame was by nature sanguine and ardent,
perceiving no evil until it was forced upon him in its
stern reality, thinking all men true, until compelled
oy their acts to acknowledge them otherwise ; he was
the very reverse of his sister ; life to him was all
brightness ; sorrow, though acutely felt for the time,
glanced ofi" his gay spirit, as arrows- from the polished
steel; to live and to enjoy were synonymous with him,
out sorrow has its own blessed task to perform, and
fails not, sooner or later, to find its way to all hearts.
Alfred had been settled in London several years, and
had risen high in his profession. His handsome person
and refined manners, united to his brilliant powers of
conversation and sparkling wit, rendered him a favorite
wherever he went, and admitted him into the best
circles. Society was his element ; in the conflict of
intellectual warfare, in the strife of gay repartee, in
the sallies of sarcasm and wit, his soul delighted;
the flattered and courted favorite of all, there wa?
SELF-LOVE AND TEITE LOYE. 159
reason to fear that he might become vain and selfish,
when after an absence of many months he returned to
the Grange.
The intimacy that subsisted between the Mortons
and the Grahames had been rather increased than
diminished by the events recorded above. Sorrow
and distress had awakened all the best feelings of
Mr. and Mrs. Morton, and what had been at first
but a mere acquaintance between the two families,
had, in adversity, ripened into a warm friendship.
Alfred had spent but little time under his father's
roof, since he first quitted it for school, and during
the last two summers, his vacation had been spent in
travelling ; so that his visits to the Grange had been
limited to a few days ; it was not surprising, therefore,
that he and Emily Morton had not met for several
years ; he remembered her as the p'etted plaything of
her father's house, he found her a lovely Avoman, such
an one as in his dreams he had pictured to himself, the
heroine of his life's romance. There was so much in-
their characters mutually to attract, that it was matter
of little surprise when it was reported that Alfred
Grahame was the accepted lover of the fair Emily.
Visions of a more splendid alliance for this darling
child, might have visited her father's heart, but in
160 SELF-LOVE AND TKUE LOVE.
the unimpeachable honor of his family, and in the
talents and rising fame of Alfred, he found ample
compensation for the want of rank and fortune.
Emily loved him with a passionate devotion that,
in Alfred's eyes, heightened every charm ; she
exercised over him the most unbounded sway ; it
was her delight to make him feel and glory in the
fetters she had cast around him, and to lead him
a willing captive to her caprices. Alfred pleaded
for a speedy union, urging his want of all domestic
ties, and loneliness, when absent from his beloved
Emily. Edward Morton, too, emboldened by the
successful issue of Alfred's suit, pressed his own so
earnestly, that Margaret consented that the same
day should witness the marriage of the two brothers
and sisters.
Our digression has been long but not unnecessary,
since it enables us to recognize friends in the party
now assembled round the altar in the village church
of Oldcourt ; the wedding arrangements have been
made in accordance with the simple taste of the two
families, the ceremony is performed in the quiet little
church, in the midst of a numerous assembly of the
tenantry and villagers ; no procession of gay equipages,
no retinue of servants, no splendors attend the
SELF-LOYE AND TRUE LOVE. 161
important c;vent ; all that can gratify the heart or
please the fancy has been thought of, but cold
formality finds no place on such a day ; the cere-
mony is regarded by all parties as a solemn religious
rite, not to be profaned by any worldly pomp. The
church stands in the park ; the path which conducts
to it winds through beds of sweet flowers and wild
tangled shrubberies, until it enters the open park,
where, overshadowed by ancient oaks and other
forest trees, beneath which herds of deer graze
unmolested, it terminates in an avenue of lime trees
which conducts to the little gate of the churchyard ;
the picturesque tower of the church, partially covered
with ivy, forms a pretty object at the end of this vista.
Along this path the villagers have ranged themselves,
to see their beloved benefactors pass ; the ground is
strewed with flowers, and many a murmured blessing
breaks the silence of the scene. The ceremony is
ended, the irrevocable vows are uttered, and in the
hearts of all there reigns a deep and holy joy, that
shines forth on the countenances though the tongue
utters no sound. And now the procession is seen
quitting the church, dispensing with the carriages as
needless appendages ; the party is returning, and, as
they proceed, the villagers fall into their train, forming
14*
162 SEIii'-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
a long line, until they reach the house, on the lawn in
front of which tables are spread, and with true English
hospitality all are invited to partake of the feast. The
family retire to the repast prepared for them, and soon
the sound of rattling wheels announces the departure
of the young people ; a departure undimmed by aught
of sorrow, for in such unions there is cause alone for
thankful joy even in the hearts of those who are left
behind.
Three months have passed away. Let us peep into a
pleasant drawing-room looking into Hyde Park ;
beside the open window Alfred is ensconced in a
lounging chair ; at his feet, on a pile of cushions, her
arms resting on his knee, and with eyes gazing up
to him with unutterable love, Emily is kneeling ;
lovelier than ever, radiant with happiness, she looks
more like an angel than a mortal : at least so Alfred
seems to think, for, parting the luxuriant ringlets on
her fair brow, he suddenly exclaims —
" Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again."
" Love me not, Alfred ? The thought has madness
in it;" and tears filled her eyes.
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 163
" Foolisli child," said he, kissing her fervently, " I
did but speak that which is impossible ; the world
were in truth, a chaos without thee, my heart's joy ! "
"Yet, Alfred, she to whom those words were
addressed, found cause to rue the day that she had
listened to the voice that uttered them: 'men are
deceivers ever,' — so runs the old song."
" Men may deceive, but never where they love."
" And thou dost love me," said she, with an arch
smile, " to have and to hold, for better, for worse,
love, and honor, and cherish — those were the words,
Alfred — till death do us part?"
"Ay, Emily, till death do us part! Now let us
go into the Park: the air is cooler, and a saunter
beneath the trees will refresh us."
" Trees, said Emily, contemptuously, where shall we
find them ? Heigho ! for the green sward and the
old oaks of dear Oldcourt ! London is suffocating in
this hot weather."
"London versus Oldcourt, with me," said Alfred,
gayly.
" Oh ! a desert or a dungeon were Heaven with
thee, beloved as thou art," said Emily, twining her
arms round him in sportive fondness ; " so come
into the Park, and I will swear the grass is greener,
164 SELF-LOYE AND TRUE LOYE.
the trees finer, the air purer than in any other
spot."
And what were Edward and Margaret doing?
They had agreed to take up their residence at the
Grange; Margaret could not resolve to leave her
father, nor would they either of them consent to the
desire of Mr. and Mrs. Morton, that they should
take possession of Oldcourt, while they sought a
home more suited to their present wants and wishes,
near their children; — to supplant his father there,
to deprive him of any part of his estates, one day
sooner than death would compel him to do, was an
idea not to be harbored for a moment. The Grange
was so near Oldcourt, that in fixing their residence
there, Edward would still be able to help and advise
with his father, while at the same time he left Mar-
garet to comfort the declining days of her remaining
parent. The evening was closing in, and Margaret
was sitting beside her father's chair, having read him
to sleep as usual ; she remained absorbed in thought ;
her sweet face had lost much of its pensive expression,
and a feeling of deep calm happiness seemed to per-
vade her whole being. There were eyes resting upon
her, as she thus sate, that told volumes in the intensity
SELF-LOVE AND rKIXE LOVE, l65
of tlieir gaze ; she raised her head and met them ; a
bright gleam stole over her countenance as she said,
"Ah, Edward ! are you there ? "
"Yes, Margaret, I have been sunning myself in
your quiet happiness; dearest, may I not believe my
prophecy already fulfilled ? Joy and peace have again
taken up their abode in your breast, and I — I am the
happy cause."
" Yes, Edward, day by day brings me fresh sources
of contentment ; could I dare to be sad, while you
are beside me ? Can I witness your goodness to
all around you, your active beneficence, and not
desire to be like you? I believed that my heart
was with the dead, but you have taught me that
for every being there is a sphere of usefulness and
duty. You have roused me to a sense of new
responsibilities, and in accepting them, I find new
life, new joy springing in my heart, all this I
owe to you, dear Edward ! "
"And what do I not owe to you? You are my
counsellor, my better self, my resource in all
difficulties."
" May it ever be thus ; thus mutually dependant,
may we never fail each other. Will you walk to
Oldcourt ? I have sadly neglected my school of late.
166 SELF-LOVE AND TEXJE LOVE.
and want to" speak to Mrs. Bond about some wor! ;
will you come ? "
Ours can be but glimpses into the lives of those
whose history we attempt to sketch. Again we visit
Emily's home. Is all there as bright as when last we
saw her kneeling beside her husband ? Alas, it ia
not so ! A demon has insensibly crept into the
charmed circle, and is despoiling its beauty.
"Emily, why will you not go with me to Lady
Bilton's this evening?" said Alfred, laying down his
book ; " you know how I like to have you with me,
how I delight to see you admired, as you are wherever
you go."
" I am tired, I cannot go," was the only reply.
" Nay, darling, if I ask you to oblige me you will
go; time was," he added, incautiously, "that you
thought only of pleasing me, nothing that I could
wish seemed irksome to you, but now," — and he
sighed.
"Alfred," she said, fixing her keen eye on him;
" time was when I was all you needed, all you
desired; when my love sufficed you, and in my
society you found all that made existence sweet, but
now, — and she paused with an abruptness that
betrayed a jealous, wounded spirit.
SELF-LOVE AND TKUE LOVE. 167
" Now, you would say, I need other excitement."
"No, Alfred, now I would say you love me no
longer ! " and she buried her face in the cushion of
the couch on which she was reclining.
"Emily," he exclaimed; "I love you, passionately
love you ; I would sacrifice life, and all I value most,
to secure your happiness ; but I fail in every thing ;
you deny me the pleasure of feeling that I succeed, in
this, the first desire of my heart. I see you restless,
and often, forgive the word, wilful. Love accepts no
enforced sacrifices, and I shall not ask you to oblige
me, if my requests are always to be met in this
spirit;" so saying, he quitted the room, and quickly
returned, dressed for the evening.
" Oh ! Alfred, you are not going without me," she
said, peevishly, raising herself on the sofa ; " how
cruel you are ! "
" No, Emily, I am not cruel ; but if you choose
your part, I must take mine ; I can no longer
exclude myself from the society of my friends, as I
have hitherto done, in accordance with your wishes ;
neither will I force you unwillingly into society."
He bent down, kissed her, and went away.
" Poor Emily ! it was the first time Alfred had
<hown a determination to follow his own judgment
168 SEXF-LOVE AND IKUE LOVE.
rather than her caprices ; hitherto she had led
him whither she would, but the time was come
when the force of habit had begun to make itself
felt ; he had lived too much in excitement, and
Emily's power to fascinate him was already failing.
Had she known that neither wit nor talent, beauty
nor grace, can avail a wife in the attempt to rivet
the chains which she has thrown round her lover,
she might still have preserved his love and theii
mutual happiness ; but alas, for her ! a creature of
impulse, she knew not that her love, to be the pure
ennobling principle of life, must be founded on self-
conquest ; that self must be subdued, and the tyrant
temper overcome, ere it can rule with its best and
holiest sway ; that love, to its perfect work, must be
first gentle and patient, then firm and courageous,
holding as its highest aim, the well-being of its
object ; indifferent to all that interferes with this,
and ready, at every call, to sacrifice itself to ensure
the happiness of the one beloved. Such was not
Emily's love ; she would have died to save Alfred
one pang ; she lived but in his presence, drooping in
his absence like a flower deprived of sunshine and
air ; she idolized him, worshipped the ground he
walked upon, but she could not yield to him one
SELF-LOVE AND XKUE LOVE. 169
single caprice, or for his sake control one petulant
word. Poor Emily ! she now hid her burning face
in the sofa cushions, and with the feeling of desertion,
sobbed herself to sleep. Such scenes were now, alas !
too frequent ; Alfred had truly loved Emily, and
would have been easily won by her to become a
domestic character, had she possessed the- true key
to his heart and mind ; but she continually wounded
his self-love by reproaches, which he felt to be unjust,
and resented in anger. Reconciliations took place,
amidst tears and protestations of unchanged and
unchanging affection ; but the wounds thus inflicted
are never healed ; they bleed inwardly, and burst out
afresh on the slightest suspicion of offence.
At the Grange, on the contrary, all was peace.
Margaret's disposition to sadness had gradually given
place to a cheerful, healthy tone of mind ; and as she
bent over the cradle of her darling child, if tears stole
into her eyes, they were tears of grateful joy. One
thing alone startled her at times from her tranquillity ;
she saw that in spite of Edward's great virtues, and
strong religious feelings, he needed strength of pur-
pose, and steadiness in the pursuit of what he knew
to be right. Many would have recognized in this,
only one of those faults that, leaning to virtue's side,
15
170 SELF-LOVE AND TKUE LOVE,
are too easily overlooked and pardoned ; but not so
did Margaret view this weakness in her husband's
character ; she saw the dangers to which it exposed
him, and, with a wisdom that love alone could have
inspired, she gently warned him against them.
" I shall not go to Embleton to-day, Margaret," he
said one morning.
" Why not ? I thought that you had appointed to
meet Sir John Gascoigne there ; your father seemed to
think delay might bring further trouble on the poor
Ash tons ; surely you will go, dearest."
" One day can make but little difference, I think ;
I shall be sure to meet Gascoigne at the cricket
match to-morrow ; I had every intention of going
this morning, but Frank Ardley is just come from
Oxford, and he wants me to go to Hensley to give
him my opinion of a horse he wishes to pur-
chase."
" I am sorry it has happened so unfortunately ; you
know best whether in this case delay is permissible,
but surely appointments on business should be kept,
Edward, even at the cost of disappointing Mr. Ardley."
" Why, Margaret, Ardley is such a good-natured
fellow, that I do not like to refuse him."
" I thought he was no favorite of yours, Edward ;
SELF-LOYE A.ND TKUE XOVE. 171
I have often heard you blame his extravagance and
dissipation."
" True, my love, I have not much dependence on
his principles, but he has a kind heart, and that
covers a multitude of sins. Have you any commands
at Hensley? We shall be home to dinner, dearest."
Edward knew that he was wrong ; and hastened
to make a speedy retreat, lest Margaret's arguments
might divert him from his purpose ; but as he drove
along, his conscience smote him : it was however too
late to retract. The horse was bought, and the two
acquaintances were preparing to return, when they
met a friend of Ardley's who persuaded them to
adjourn to the hotel, where a party of Oxonians was
assembled; dinner was served, and " i< was impossihle''''
to refuse their urgent entreaties to remain : Edward was
uneasy ; he knew that Margaret would wait for them,
and perhaps grow anxious ; but as he had never yet
learned the important art of saying " No," he yielded
It was late ere they reached the Grange at night.
Margaret had indeed watched anxiously for her
husband's return ; during his absence Mr. Morton
had called, and he expressed the greatest surprise
and indignation on learning that his son was not
gone to Embleton. He entreated Margaret to urge
172 SELF-LOYE AND TKUE LOVE.
him on his return to lose not a moment in executing
the commission he had entrusted to him, adding, " By
this delay Edward has not only placed in jeopardy
the welfare of an honest and respectahle family, but
he has caused his father, whose word has hitherto been
honored by all men, to forfeit a solemn promise ; let
Edward look well to this matter, for Marmaduke
Morton cannot brook dishonor." Hour after hour
passed ; dinner had been announced, but Margaret
could not eat ; surely he would soon return ; the old
turret clock struck ten, eleven, still he came not ;
midnight was long passed when Margaret's ears,
rendered keen by intense listening, detected the
sound of approaching wheels. " There he is at
length!" said she, and she rose to meet him; but
before she reached the outer door a gentleman pre-
sented himself, who in extreme agitation apologized
for the unseasonable intrusion, and asked if Mr.
Morton were at home. On Margaret's replying that
he was not, but that she expected him every moment,
the stranger exclaimed: ''It will be too late! My
poor wife ! " Margaret, affected by his genuine grief,
invited him into the library ; he tottered to a chair,
and covering his face with his hands, said, " Forgive
me, madam ! it is a cruel blow ; my wealth I could
SELF-XOVE AND TEUE LOYE. -173
have parted Avith ; I have with unshaken trust laid
my children in the grave, for death is God's own
messenger ; but disgrace, dishonor, ruin — oh, it is
too much ! " and the unhappy man burst into an
agony of tears.
"Calm yourself," said Margaret; "I believe I see
my husband's friend, Mr. Ashton ; Mr. Morton will
be here ere long, and all will be right ; he will do
all he can to aid you."
Her kind words and kinder tones in some degree
reassured Mr. Ashton, and he went on to say, " If
before nine o'clock to-morrow certain sums are not
forthcoming, I shall be dragged to prison ; my credit,
my good name will be gone, and I shall be a ruined
man ; of this money your excellent father-in-law
offered to advance a part, if Sir John Gascoigne
would guarantee the remainder ; his verbal promise
I held as secure as any legal deed, and failed to
procure a written paper from him ; this evening I
found to my dismay that without such a document
Sir John refused to fulfil his part of the contract;
to-morrow morning is the latest moment that I can
hope to keep my creditors amused by promises, and
a prison will be my only portion ! "
Margaret now saw at a glance all the distress that
15*
174 SELP-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
fidward's delay had occasioned ; to his care this paper
had been entrusted, with the injunction that he should
see Sir John and negotiate the business for Robert
Ashton, who had been suddenly thrown into pecuniary
embarrassments by the failure of an extensive mercan-
tile speculation, in which he had been incautiously
engaged. Edward's dismay was great, when, on his
return home, an hour afterwards, he found Mr. Ashton
sitting with his wife, and learned from them, that his
weakness of purpose had nearly betrayed him into
being the cause of his friend's ruin. He lost no
time in repairing the evil ; he was with Sir Johrl by
early dawn ; secured his written engagement to
advance the needful money, and waited on Ashton's
principal creditors. On his return home, Margaret
met him with tearful eyes, but she uttered no word
of reproach ; Edward, touched by her forbearance,
pressed her to his heart. " Oh, Margaret," he
exclaimed, " how unworthy I am of such a friend,
such an adviser ! would that I could become more
like you, more firm, more true to my own heart ;
but weak and irresolute, I do the very things my
soul abhors ; guide me, strengthen me, that I may
be more worthy of you."
" Nay, dearest Edward, do not speak thus," said
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 175
Margaret, leaning on his shoulder and looking on
him with admiring love , " the fault, though fatal in
its consequences, is in itself but trivial ; and surely,"
she added, smiling, " by our united efforts, we shall
succeed in routing a feeble enemy."
And so they did ; faithful to each other in all things,
faithful even in blame, did these two noble beings v.alk
on through life, aiding and strengthening each other's
virtue.
About six months after the above incident, Alfred
and Emily came to Oldcourt to spend the summer
months. The lovely girl had changed into the pale
§nd listless woman, and every one who looked at her
mourned over the alteration. Margaret mourned too,
but it was for the moral change she detected not only
in Emily, but in her brother. Emily's countenance
bore the traces, even in its sweetest moments, of a
settled discontent, while a fretful, restless expression
marred all its former beauty. She had now two lovely
little girls, but even for their sake she scarcely roused
herself to exertion ; even to their winning ways and
exquisite grace she seemed indifferent, while to Alfred
they were the source of mbounded joy and pride;
he lived in them, and see aed careless of all beside.
To Margaret this appeared as unnatural as it was
176 SELF-LOTE AND TRUE LOVE.
distressing ; she saw that Emily shrank from th3
delight which Alfred felt in these children, and
became impatient and fretful whenever he noticed
them in her presence, as if she were jealous of the
love he felt for them.
One fine summer morning, Margaret having tempted
her sister to stroll in the park, they found themselves
in the path which led to the church, and by which, four
years since, they had returned to Oldcourt, two happy
brides. Margaret recalled that day to Emily's remem-
brance, adding, how diiferent were her feelings as a
wife to those she then experienced.
" Difierent, indeed ! " Emily replied, with bitternes#:
" you were right, Margaret, to fear marriage as you
did ; oh ! how cruelly have my dreams been dispelled
— how mad and foolish it is to think that love can
last ; it is truly our unhappy lot
'to make idols,
And then find them clay,'
Alfred, whom I believed so true, so kind, so devoted
to me, see him now — he scarcely knows if I am
present or absent. Oh, Margaret, my heart is broken :
would that I could lay my .ead down and rest in that
churchyard."
SEIiF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 177
" Dearest Emily, do not say so ; you have far tod*
many blessings to venture on such a wish ; — at all
times wrong, in you it is doubly so."
" Ah ! you do not know all. I look at you some-
times with wonder, and, I am afraid, with envy ; you
are so happy, you have found Edward all you believed
him."
" And has Alfred been false to you, that you should
envy me ? "
" Not false, perhaps ; but he has ceased to love me,
and I am wretched."
" Alfred does not appear to me more happy than
yourself, and yet you still love him."
" Love him ! — yes, it is my misery still to idolize
him ; I cannot leave him out of my sight — I care
for no earthly thing but him."
"But your children?"
" Oh ! yes — of course I love them ; but " — She
stopped, and tears choked her voice.
"But what, dearest?"
" I cannot tell you — you would not understand me,
and would only blame me."
" When did I ever blame you ? Surely you can
trust me ; I desire to see you happy, and if I <^\iuk
you have erred from want of experience, I will strive
17S SELF-LOVE AND TEUE LOTE.
k) set you right, as one frail, sinful creature should
alone correct another, in the spirit of true love ; speak
freely to me, my dear sister, let me be your friend and
comforter."
Emily, unused to such kind and reasonable
treatment, covered her face and burst into tears ;
then recovering herself, she went on to say, " If
you had been always by my side, I should have
been wiser and happier, but I have no hope, no
comfort now; Alfred will never love me again,
and the world is all dark to me."
" Are you sure he has ever left off loving you ?
Alfred is not one to change lightly ; what has
happened to make you think him less loving than
formerly? "
"Cannot you see," rejoined Emily, pettishly "how
indifferent and careless he is about me? he never
wants me, any one's society is preferable to mine ;
he leaves me alone for hours, sits in his room
studying, he says, while I am solitary and deserted."
" This is so unlike Alfred ; are you sure you have
made his home a happy one ? Have you always been
cheerful and considerate of his wishes, have you met
him with smiles, and been willing at times to
sacrifice your own inclinations to gratify his ? "
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 179
" I would have given up every thing to him,
Margaret, but he told me he wanted no sacrifices."
" If you made him feel them as such, no wonder he
would not accept them. Love does but half its work,
if it cannot succeed in making all sacrifices appear
as nothing. As wives, we must not expect to receive
the same outward marks of devotion that were yieldcv
to us before marriage ; the manner of evincing afiec-
tion may, nay, it must change, and yet the feeling can
remain unaltered. Have you not looked for too much
from Alfred, and exacted too much subservience to
your wishes, while you yielded too little deference
to his?"
Emily colored and hesitated, then replied : " You
may be right to a certain extent ; but Alfred has
thrown me off", he goes his own way, seeks his own
amusements, cares only for the children, and forgets
my existence ; he is always in society, while I do not
care for it."
" Perhaps you let him see too clearly your dislike
to society, forgetting, Emily, that the habits of
years' standing may have become a second nature
to him."
"Alfred knew that I hated those stupid dinner-
parties, and yet he teased me to go with him; 1
180 SELF-LOVE A?rD TEUE LOVE.
only wanted htm, while he found my company
wearisome."
" Then you refused to accompany him ? "
" Yes, certainly ; why should I go, when I have
no pleasuffe in such things ? and he could not want
me, you know," she added rather doubtfully.
" Alfred may have submitted to your caprices,
Emily ; but a man who loves his wife, as he loves
you, likes to have her always with him ; even in a
crowd he is conscious of her presence, and rejoices
in the admiration she excites."
" I care for no admiration but that of my husband,"
said Emily, coldly.
" But you may care whether you give him pleasure,
or selfishly refuse to do so. Believe me, Emily, a
woman not only contributes to her husband's
happiness by studying his wishes, but acquires
influence of the best kind — an influence, for the
use of which she is responsible to God."
" Do you think, Margaret, that I could ever gain
such an influence over Alfred ? He looks upon me
as a spoiled child, and treats me as such."
" You can gain it, dearest Emily, if you earnestly
desire to do so ; learn to be patient, endeavor to find
out what your husband really desires ; he will not
SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 181
lead you astray, for he is kind and generous, and
higli-principlcd. Do not think of yourself so much ;
think more of him ; and you will find the happiness
that you have hitherto sought in vain."
" Saying this, Margaret kissed her sister, and left
her to reflect on what had been said ; conscious that,
in spite of her waywardness, Emily had too much
good sense not to perceive and act upon the truths
she had heard. Faithful to her brother as to Emily,
Margaret pointed out to him the rocks on which
he had wrecked his own and his wife's happiness;
and long before they quitted Oldcourt, she saw a
better understanding established between them. Nor
were lier warnings forgotton on their return to
London. Emily was amazed to find that Alfred
sought less, than before, the excitement of society,
while she was more than ever ready to be his com-
panion in all he desired. By a slight mutual
concession, these two hearts were preserved to each
other, and peace and joy took the place of fretfulness
and misery. Thus may it ever be ! Warned in time,
may the selfish learn that safety can alone be found
in loving others better than ourselves ; and may
love become in all hearts an active principle of good,
seeking not its own, but the happiness of others.
16
TO M. A. G.
I KNOW not what — a nameless charm
Invested all thy motions ;
And, as I gazed my heart grew warm
With strange, yet sweet, emotions.
We met again ; — thy gentle touch
Thrilled all my latent pulses;
But, lest my soul should hope too much)
I thought of Love's repulses.
We met again ; I watched thine eye ; —
It ever shunned my glances ;
And I began to brood and sigh
O'er fortune's fickle chances.
Thy smiles were given to all but me ; —
To all but me thy speeches ;
How flatt'ring such neglect may be,
Experience only teaches !
TO M. A. G. 183
A sickly feeling o'er me came;
I felt my spirit dying;
Thy gentle self I could not blame,
So blamed my fond relying.
We met again, to say farewell ;
But when I spoke of parting,
Regretful tears in silence fell.
Thy secret love imparting.
What fond emotions stirred my breast
When I beheld thy sorrow !
Then every doubt was set at rest,
And brightly dawned the morrow !
And still around thee hangs the charm
That drew my first attention ;
And still my heart as fondly warm,
In love knows no declension.
THE WITHERED ROSE.
[fKOM a PASTOK's RECOXrECTIONS.]
It is now between thirty and forty years since 1
entered on my pastoral office in the quiet neighborhood
where I live. When I first undertook its duties I was
young and energetic ; and though I feci myself to be
as active as I could reasonably expect after the lapse
of so many years, I begin to think myself not quite
so young as when I first took charge of my flock.
My tastes are more subdued. I no longer aspire
after bold, wild scenery, but become every day more
satisfied with the tranquil views which surround me ;
and as I look from the window of my snug parsonage,
I fancy that the pleasant fields, sprinkled with their
store of daisies, are fresher and greener than when
first I saw them ; the gurgling brook, across whose
waters the willow here and there casts a shadow,
seems to make sweeter music as it winds its way,
than it used when first I heard it. The very sound
THE WITHERED ROSE. 185
of the mill, which formerly disturbed me, has now
sach a lulling effect, that I should feel something
was wanted to my repose were it to cease ; and each
year the steeple which out-tops the trees in which
the church is embosomed, becomes a dearer object to
me. How often have I seen groups on the Sabbath
morning leading their way through the pleasant green
lanes to the House of Prayer, called by the chimes
of its bells ; — on many an one of that dear flock
whom I had christened, have I bestowed the nuptial
benediction ; and over, alas ! not a few of those I
held in my arms at the baptismal font, I have
performed the last rites. Among all my young
parishioners, there was not one that I loved more
than Jessie Williams ; it was not for her beauty,
remarkable as it was ; it was her pleasant and
caressing ways and her sensitive nature which made
her irresistible. She was but a few months old
when I christened her, and she had already lost her
father ; and this dear child was now all in all to her
poor mother. I have often seen her when an infant
lying on the lap of the widow, whose silent tears fell
as she leant over her, trying to trace in her infantine
features a resemblance to him Avho was gone. I felt
deeply interested in the early sorrows of the young
16*
186 THE WITHERED ROSE.
widow, and in the piety whidi sustained her under
them. As the child grew apace, her affectionate
disposition, and the manner in which she attached
herself to me, made me love her so dearly, that she
became almost necessary to my happiness. She was
about seven years old when I was slowly recovering
from a severe fit of illness, and she Avould steal softly
to my bedside every morning with the bunch of flowers
which she had collected, and with the little basket of
strawberries gathered by herself, and she would feed
me with them from her own tiny fingers. She was
of such a warm and confiding nature, that she was the
favorite among all her young companions ; and it
was even remarked of her that she never lost a
friend except by death — her kindness was so
unwavering, and her constancy so secure. No
wonder that she was the comfort and the delight
of her mother's days ; the pride with which she
looked at her was but natural, for she was indeed
lovely ; and years, as they sped on, stole nothing
from the innocence and warmth of her heart. One
of her young friends, her own especial friend, was to
be married, and Jessie was to be bridemaid, and the
bride entreated to have her home to spend some
time. Jessie longed to accept the invitation, and th«
THE WITHERED HOSE. 18?
young girls in the neighborhood promised to be
company for her mother during her absence ; and
she, glad to see her darling gratified, gave a ready
permission. The bridal-party went to the town of
, and it so happened that the bridegroom's
greatest friend, Captain Danvers, was quartered
here. The friends were delighted to meet, and the
young officer was soon domesticated in his house.
He was a great acquisition to the little party, for
besides being remarkably prepossessing in manners
and appearance, he was skilled in the accomplishments
most prized in society ; and, captivated immediately
by Jessie's- beauty, he made himself as agreeable as
possible. Ever by her side, he could look at or
listen to nobody but her. He attended her to all
the pleasantest walks in the neighborhood ; he sung
for her beautiful songs of his own composition with
the most exquisite taste. Jessie was enchanted, and
could have listened for ever. Week after week sped
on, intimacy and confidence increasing every day.
All the verses which he wrote were repeated to her,
and copies given ; and never were verses more
expressive of deep affection and touching tenderness.
Jessie's name was not mentioned in the effusions,
but her heart told her for whom they were meant.
188 THE WITHERED ROSE.
Once, indeed, the name did escape, and the betrayal
produced the greatest confusion on his part as well
as on hers ; but in this very confusion there was
so much meaning and sympathy that it was very
delightful to her. Sometimes vague expressions of
affection, and allusions to feelings and intentions,
seemed but the prelude to an open avowal of his
attachment and his wishes; to Jessie's truthful and
confiding disposition, his words, his looks, and his
attentions were as sure a pledge of affection as any
verbal declaration. As the time for her return home
drew near, he became sad and abstracted, and tears
rose to Jessie's eyes when the moment of leave-taking
came ; and then he spoke, as he often did, of their
meeting very, very soon, for he had got her permission
to visit her at home.
" You may be sure," he added, " that I shall not be
long after you ; and will you promise me, that when
you see me wending my way up your avenue one of
these days, you will not desire the servant to say not
at home 7 "
A smile and a blush gave Jessie's answer, and he
raised the fair hand, which he had fondly clasped, and
kissed it passionately. Jessie travelled homewards,
elated by love and trust. As she threw herself into
THE WITHEKED ROSE. l89
her mother's arms, slie felt that there was not in all
the wide world one so happy as herself. .... Long
did she wait for that promised visit, and still she would
saunter to the window, and watch as far as eye could
reach the windings of the road ; and often has her
heart jumped to her lips, as she fancied that she could
discern in the horseman who approached, the air and
figure of him for whom she looked. The first glow
of morning light and the last of departing day dis-
covered the poor girl watching for her -lover. Thus
weeks and weeks passed over, and then doubts arose ;
he might have never loved, as she had thought ; he
might have forgotten. But ah ! that cannot be — did
he not write those lines with his own hand and his
own heart — and is he not good and true ? And then
she would read over and over again the passionate
lines which he had penned — lines so fixed in her
memory that she needed not to have read them, but
that she loved to see the very words that he had
written, as if they could ensure his constancy ; and,
reassured, she would look to the clear blue skies, and
think that the blessing of Heaven Avould rest upon
love pure and unalterable as theirs ; but months went
by, and still he did not come. At length, she heard
by mere chance that the regiment Avas under orders
190 THE WITHEBED EOSE.
for foreign service ; — he then would surely come to
open his mind before the seas parted them, at least
to take leave of one who had appeared for a few happy
months to have been all the world to him. He came
not ; but ere long was on his way to a distant land.
Poor Jessie strove to stifle her feelings, but she could
not hide them from her mother, from whom she had
no secret. They soon wrought a sad change in her,
which even a casual observer could not but perceive.
Her mother's looks constantly followed her, for her
languid air and dejected countenance awakened most
anxious fears ; for my part, I could not see her without
the most melancholy foreboding that we were not to
have her long. There seemed a sublimity in her
shadowy form as she passed along the aisle of our
little church, as if she were no longer of the earth;
and the tones of her voice were so sweet and touching,
as she joined in the psalmody, that I thought them
already fitted for mingling with a celestial choir ; tears
would trickle down the cheeks of her young com-
panions as she sung. I felt greatly troubled about
her, — physicians were consulted. Alas ! they cannot
prescribe for disappointed feelings ! They could only
recommend tonics ; atid, as they could not specify any
particular ailment, they referred her case to general
THE WITHERED BOSE. 191
delicar.y, and pronounced it somewhat precarious, and
requiring great care. Every month that went was
evidently loosening her hold of life, and she was
gradually fading away. Some family arrangements
just at that time, required my presence in London,
where I was detained for a few weeks. When I
returned, I was shocked to see how much worse
Jessie was than when I had left home. She was
sadly wasted. Her poor mother still had hopes; for
hope is the last thing with which we will part, " albeit,
though that hope is vain ; " and at times when I have
called and talked mth her, I have been persuaded to
hope, though there was nothing to justify it. Few
have not experienced the delusion so often described
by poets ; and Moore has spoken the feelings of many,
when he says of those who were under similar circum-
stances with ourselves —
"We still had hope — for hopes will stay
After the sunset of delight ;
So like the star that ushers day
We scarce can think it heralds night ! '
However, increasing weakness became too e'vident,
and the dear child could no longer take her seat by
192 THE WITHERED ROSE.
the open window, to look out upon the green fields
and woods ; but was obliged to keep entirely to bed.
One morning a message was brought that Mrs. Will-
iams was anxious that I should go over as soon as
possible, for that Miss Williams was much worse,
and was wishing earnestly to see me. With a heavy
heart I obeyed the summons. As I went on my way,
fancy conjured up the scenes in which I had been
accustomed to s6e Jessie take her part ; I could
picture her a merry little sprite, bounding on through
the paths before me, filling her held-up frock with
wild flowers, which she gathered at random on her
way, and ever and anon turning to look back at me
with a lightsome laugh, while the breeze blew her
hair about her sweet face. As I drew near the porch
before the door, the odor of the roses and woodbine
with which it was covered brought many a recollection.
How is it that the perfume of flowers, so evanescent
in itself, is so powerful in recoiling feelings and
awakening the memories of o'l-her days ? How often
the sweet girl welcomed me at that porch ! What
afiectionate looks and glad tones used to await me
there ! I was soon by the bed where she lay, and
by which her disconsolate mother was sitting. She
looked at me with a sweet smile, but none of us could
THE WITHERED ROSE. 193
ftpeak for a moment ; she then said a word, but it was
eo low that I did not hear it. Her mother, to whom
it was addressed, took a glass which held some flowers
from the table where it stood, and brought it to her.
With a weak and trembling hand she took a rose
from among them, and handing it to me, said, " It
is not the first time." "No darling — no darling —
it is not indeed." " How kind you are, my dear sir,
how very, very kind. I perceive how sorry you are
to see your little Jessie lying sick ; but I sometimes
think that I may recover. You are used, dear sir,
to see sick people ; do you think I may recover ? I
should like to walk along the green fields, and among
the shady trees, as I used ; and to hear the singing
of the birds; — do you think that I shall ever?" I
could not speak, but I pressed the dear wasted hand
which I held. " But I have things to say," resumed
she, after a moment's silence : " what I have upon my
mind, before you pray beside me — what I feel most
of all — is my own dear mother — I should like to stay
by her side — but you will say all to comfort her, and
you will often sit by her, and talk of me, I have very
often heard you say, my dear sir, that you thought we
should know our friends in heaven ; think of that, dear
mother — don't cry so — think of that, dear mother.
17
194 THE -VVirHERED KOSE.
And another thing that I would ask you to do — and
that is all — I would ask you, my dear sir, if ever
chance should throw in your way any that may think
that they have done me wrong — that may think that
through their means I have been disappointed in any
way — to tell them I had no anger towards them ;
and if such a word as forgiveness should come to be
mentioned, say that I forgave, and bid them not to
let a thought of me disturb their peace." A tear
trembled on her eyelash as she spoke, but she soon
looked in our faces with a smiling countenance
There was a holy calm about her, as she joined in
our devotions, which was soothing to her mother's
feelings, as well as to mine. Towards evening she
appeared very languid, and complained of fatigue, but
said that if her mother rested her head on the pillow
beside her, she thought she could sleep. I thought
she had fallen into a sweet sliimber before I left the
house, but I found, on sending early the next morning
to inquire for her, that it had been her long last sleep,
so easily did that sweet spirit pass away. I had taken
the rose that she had given me from my bosom, and
placed it in the page that I had last read to her, in my
prayer-book, and I felt it was no profanation ; it has
remained there ever since, and whenever I look a*
THE WITHERED KOSE. 195
the poor faded flower, it recalls a scene whicli I can
never forget. Though. " all her pleasant things are
laid waste," the poor mother bears her affliction
patiently, and takes comfort in thinking of so good
a child. Nearly two years after Jessie's death, I
saw in the newspaper, a notice of Captain Danvers's
marriage to a rich heiress. I need not say how I
felt. I opened the book which lay beside me, and
looked at the poor withered rose.
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY.
O FLOWEB upon the mountain top !
With, tints so soft and rare,
What charm, in this sweet world of ours.
Shall we to thee compare ?
Thou'rt like this gentle maiden's cheek
So delicately fair,
Than which in this sweet world of ours
There's naught so soft or rare.
O maiden fair and delicate !
With lowly modest mien.
Among the lovely things of earth,
Can aught like thee be seen?
Is not the lowly mountain flower
A fitting type of thee.
Blooming unconscious that an eye
Looks on it lovingly ?
CLEMENCE ISAURE;
OK, THE FLOKAI, GAMES.
A HISTORICAL TALB.
It was a cold frosty morning in November, 1478,
two knights, mounted on noble and richly-caparisoned
steeds, advanced rapidly along the banks of the
Garonne towards the city of Toulouse. At some
distance from the gates of this ancient capital of
Languedoc, they approached an humble dwelling,
whose outstretched sign proclaimed the important
fact, that " Here Poirot lodges both man and horse."
The youngest of the travellers, addressing mine
host, who had hastened to his open door on hearing
the sound of horses' feet, inquired of him which
was the way to the castle of the Countess of
Toulouse.
"You have not far to go, Sir Knight," replied the
man, pointing towards the town ; " follow the course
17*
198 CLEMENCE ISAUEE.
of the river, and where yon dark shadow rests so
heavily, you will find the castle. But may I not
offer you some refreshment, noble sirs ? " continued
the host.
" Not now," replied the younger stranger, " but
I thank you for your information ; " and dropping a
piece of money into his hand, he galloped on. After
a moment he reigned up his steed, and addressing his
companion : " Have I made my wishes clearly under-
stood by thee, my good Raymond ? Thou knowest
how my honored and lamented father, the Lord of
Nesle, pledged himself before his death to the Count
of Toulouse, that I should marry his daughter,
Clemence Isaure. All the articles of the contract
have been drawn out between them, and a fine of
ten thousand golden crowns imposed on either of
the parties who may decline fufilling the engage-
ment. I have never seen my betrothed, and truth
to say, I thought of nothing less than coming to
claim her hand, when last week, I received through the
king's courier a letter from the countess, acquainting
me that her health was failing fast, and that she
dreaded leaving her daughter alone in the world,
and therefore requested my presence at her castle,
for the fulfilment of my father's engagement."
CLEMENCE ISAURE. 199
" The heiress of the house of Toulouse must be
wealthy, Sire Amaury."
" Immensely rich, Raymxjnd."
" Is she young and pretty ? "
" Ah ! that is what I am somewhat doubtful about,
Raymond ; and therefore am I come incognito, to
ascertain for myself, whether it be not better to pay
the ten thousand golden crowns than to marry."
" I have heard, far and near, of the wit, talents,
and learning of the lady Clemence."
" That is just what alarms me, Raymond ; a learned
woman, who perhaps understands orthography ! Out !
How tiresome that would be, Raymond ! Why, I
"would as soon marry my preceptor as a learned
lady. But here we are at the castle gate. Now,
let me see if thou dost remember thy part."
" Listen, my lord. I am a messenger from you,
old Richard, your trusty attendant, and the bearer of
a letter from you to the countess as well as a gift
to her noble daughter. So far, all is true, but now
comes the fiction ; for you, the Sire of Nesle, the
most amiable and distinguished young nobleman at
the court of France, are to be my squire — the poor
scion of an honorable family, — and now your name
is"—
200 CLEMENCE ISAUEE.
"Gerard," said Amaury, smiling. "Now, sound
the horn."
Raymond having obeyed, the porter appeared ; and,
after conveying Raymond's message to the lady of
Toulouse, quickly returned to summon the travellers
to her presence.
" Wliat an ancient castle, my master ! " whispered
the young Marquis de Nesle to his companion, as they
followed the servant through a long suite of gloomy
apartments. How sad and silent it is ! methinks
that science breathes in every corner of it. I lay
a bet that the lady Clemence is as old and as stiff
as these portraits of her ancestors."
At this moment, the servant who preceded them
having raised a tapestry-hanging, they found them-
selves at the entrance of a vast saloon, at the
extreme end of which were two ladies ; one of whom
presented the very image just portrayed by Amaury.
She was seated in a large easy chair, and on a low
stool at her feet was a young girl, whose rich dark
ringlets fell in profusion on her neck and shoulders ;
her back was towards the door, and she was repeating
aloud some poem, to which the elder lady listened
with the deepest attention. The strangers were no
sooner announced, than the young lady, rising up
CLEMENCE ISAUKE. 201
hastily, revealed to the Sire de Nesle a countenance
radiant with health and beauty."
" Be welcome," she said, addressing Raymond.
" Pray, sir, excuse my lady-mother from advancing
to greet you." And then, with a look of inexpres-
sible sadness, she pointed to her mother's closed and
sightless eyes.
Raymond bowed with profound respect; and
drawing from beneath his cloak a Bible superbly
bound, and clasped with gold, together with a
parchment sealed with green wax, whereon were
stamped the arms of the noble house of Nesle :
" Madam," said he, " these are sent by my lord
and master, the Sire of Nesle. A very important
affair detains him unwillingly for a few days at
court."
Amaury's eyes were fixed upon the lady Clemence
with s>irprise and admiration.
" A Bible, a printed Bible ! " exclaimed Clemence,
opening the book and placing it on her mother's knees.
" Oh, what a treasure ! I have never seen one of this
impression before."
"Is it very readable, my daughter?" inquired the
countess, feeling with her long 'vhite fingers the pages
of the book.
202 CLEMENCE ISAUEE.
" ! perfectly so, my clear mother ; only listen a
moment," and her eye fell on the following passage : —
' And now, if ye will deal kindly and truly with my
master, tell me ; and if not, tell me, that I may turn
to the right hand or to the left.' " It is the passage
of Genesis, where Abraham's servant arrives in Meso-
potamia, to choose a wife for his master, Isaac," said
Clemence, addressing her mother.
" The history of Abraham's servant is my own, noble
lady," rejoined Raymond.
Clemence blushed deeply.
" Your allusion to this history, sir, reminds me of
my neglect in not offering you and your young
companion some refreshment ; " and summoning an
attendant, she desired that the evening repast might
be served as speedily as possible.
"Clemence," said the countess, "read to me the
Sire de Nesle's epistle."
While breaking the seal, her daughter observed in
a low voice, " You know, dear mother, the only
condition on which I would consent to accept the
Sire de Nesle for my lord and master."
"There is a fine, my child," said the countess.
" We can pay it, my lady-mother."
"But there is a promise pledged, child."
GLEMENCE ISAURE. 203
" There is also a Smif la Vue, madam, and I may
not perhaps please the Sire de Nesle."
" Oh, impossible ! " imprudently exclaimed the pre-
tended squire.
Clemence looked at him with so noble and severe
an aspect, that the aged Rajmond hastened to address
her.
" Pardon my squire, noble lady ; he is the
impoverished scion of an ancient family, and
my master has somewhat spoiled Gemrd by his
kindness."
" Gerard ! " repeated the lady Clemence, " your
name is Gerard, sir ? " said she, addressing Amaury
with an air of modest dignity.
"It is impossible to deceive you, noble damoiselle.
I am the Sire de Nesle ; " for before the candid and
inquiring glance of Clemence deception seemed uselesf;.
The aged countess rose up hastily.
"The Sire de Nesle here already? Oh! pardon
my emotion. Sire, but the desire for my child's
happiness is mingled with sorrow at the thought of
losing her so speedily."
" Behold in me, madam, the most respectful of
sons," said the Sire de Nesle, bending his knee to
salute the countess's hand. Then turning towards
204 CLEMENCE ISATTKE.
Clemence, and seeing her pale and silent, he added.
" Are you displeased with me fair lady ? "
" Although it would have been more generous of
you, Sire, to appear at first in your own character,"
replied Clemence, " I bear you no ill-will ; but before
we pledge ourselves" —
" Clemence ! " interrupted her mother hastily.
" Pardon me, dear mother," resumed the young
girl, with a trembling voice, " Sire de Nesle, my
mother has me only in the world. You see her
misfortune. I alone am able to make her smile, to
shed a little sunshine on her darkened life. Promise
me, therefore, here on this Bible, on the first gift I have
received at your hand, that you will never separate me
from my mother. With this assurance, I am willing
to accept you as my lord and master ; to be your
wife, your companion, your attendant, if needs be."
" I promise it," said Amaury, as deeply moved as
the Lady Clemence herself.
" Dear, dear child," said the countess, pressing her
daughter to her bosom, " God has been merciful in
leaving me such an angel. Sire de Nesle, know
what a treasure you are receiving from me. For
the sake of relieving the tedium of her blind
mother's life, she has devoted herself to »tudy
CLEMENCE ISAUEE. 205
during the joyous spring-time of her hfe. She has
•passed many a midnight hour in searching the olden
chronicles, that she might find wherewith to amuse
me on the ensuing day. She has made herself
mistress of the gay science, that she might sing to
me, at twilight, lays of love and glory. Peace, my
daughter, I will say all. She has studied not for
fame, not even for the mere love of knowledge, but
for her mother's sake. Such a daughter must prove
a tender wife, a virtuous mother. Sire de Nesle, oh,
love her well, and make her happy ! "
Tears rolled down the aged countess's cheeks ; nor
could Amaury and Raymond listen, without being
deeply moved. As for Clemence, she concealed her
emotion beneath a smile, and, addressing the countess,
said, " Leave my praises, dearest mother, I pray
you, to less - interested judges, and let us think only
of these noble gentlemen, who honor us with their
company. Perhaps they may favor us with some
account of what is doing at court in Paris. Tell us
somewhat, I pray you, concerning this wondrous art
of printing, and whence this costly Bible was
procured."
" My father purchased it from Gutenberg himself^
during a journey he made to Mentz, in 1452. John
18
206 CLEMENCE ISAUKE.
Gensfleiscli, for that was Ms real name, had just
then entered into partnership with Fust, one of
whose workmen, Peter Scheffer, had invented cast
metal types instead of those rude wooden letters,
strung together with pack-thread, which had been
previously used."
" They have, no doubt, raised statues to Gutenberg
and Fust," said Clemence.
"So far from it, fair lady, that Fust had a narrow
escape of being burnt to death," replied the Sire de
Nesle.
Both the ladies made exclamations of surprise.
" Yes, truly, for so it was, that Fust coming to
Paris with the hope of selling his Bibles there, the
copyists were so enraged at his offering them at a
lower price than they demanded for their own books,
that they accused him of magic ; and, by my faith, he
was about to be burnt, when the king took him under
his protection, purchased his books, and gave him an
asylum in his palace."
" Well done of Louis ! I love him for that ! "
exclaimed Clemence, with almost childish glee.
At this moment, supper was announced ; and after
having gracefully fulfilled the duties of hospitality
Clemence, at a late hour of the evening, announced
CLEMENCE ISAURE. 207
to the travellers, that their apartments were prepared ;
so bidding a courteous good night to the ladies of
the castle, Amaury and his companion followed the
attendants, who preceded them with torches of
blazing resin.
The city of Toulouse discoursed joyously concerning
the splendid alliance about to be formed by the last
remaining scion of the noble house of Toulouse ; *
and even the cTged countess seemed for awhile to
forget her own sorrows in the approaching happiness
of her child. Amaury was deeply enamored of the
lady Clemence, and she received with gentle satis-
faction the many proofs of his tenderness and
devotion. Sometimes, however, even in her happiest
moments, a shade of sadness would steal across her
features, clouding for a while the bright serenity of
her countenance.
It was the eve of that eventful day on which their
marriage contract was to be signed. Clemence, who
had often expressed her peculiar love for violets,
found, on rising, a large nosegay of her favorite
* The house of Nesle was one of the most ancient and noble,
as well as one of the wealthiest families in France.
208 CLEMENCE ISAXJKE.
flowers upon her toilet-table. The weather being
intensely cold, she expressed her surprise and admi-
ration at so unexpected a gift.
" And how much more would my dear mistress prize
them," said Susan, her foster-sister and attendant, " if
she knew that they well nigh cost the Sire de Nesle
his life this morning."
"Good heavens! what do you mean?" inquired
Clemence, turning deadly pale.
"And it would have been all my fault too,"
continued Susan. " Oh ! I never would have for-
given myself. Only imagine, my dear mistress, that
having overheard the Sire de Nesle say yesterday
that he would gladly give a pound of his blood for
every violet he could procure, I told him that he
might obtain them at a much cheaper rate ; for that
the astrologer who lives at the opposite side of the
Garonne, possessed the marvellous art of making
them flourish at all seasons, and was willing
enough to sell them for a few livres tournois. So,
this morning at break of day, Pierrelle rowed the
Sire de Nesle across the river in his boat ; it was
Pierrelle who told me all about it. The astrologer
had only this one bunch of violets, for which the
Sire de Nesle gave I don't know how many crowns:
CLEMENCE ISAXJRE. 209
and on his return in the boat, he was so overjoyed
at his prize, that in a fit of laughter he leant carelessly
over the boat, and dropped the flowers into the river.
Behold you ! without making any more ado about
it, my lord springs into the water and seizes the
nosegay, but the water was so deadly cold that it
chilled his limbs and he could not swim. Fortunately,
Pierrelle drew him safely into the boat."
"And he has not been hurt?" inquired Clemence,
breathlessly.
" He has only caught cold," replied Susan.
Clemence, looking upon the violets with emotion,
placed them in her dark hair, and descended to the
saloon, where she found Amaury seated by the blazing
hearth. He rose to greet her, and fixing his eyes
upon the violets, seemed by his glance to thank her
for wearing them.
" I ought to scold you. Sire Amaury," she said
to him, " for thus adventuring so precious a life,
but I go to seek my mother, that she may do so."
" Stay a moment, dearest Clemence," said the
knight ; " let us converse awhile, I have so many
things to say to you. Raymond is gone to Paris
this morning, and I have charged him to prepare
your house without delay, and to engage your
18*
210 CLEMENCE ISAXJKE.
domestics. He lias my Commands to spare no
expense, and all must be ready before spring."
" Do you think, Amaury, that my mother will then
be able to undertake so long a journey ? "
" Your mother, Clemence ! does she mean to
accompany us to Paris?"
" Amaury ! do you already forget the stipulation
I made on the evening of your arrival, and your
own promise on the Bible ? "
" Pardon me, dear Clemence ; but have you also
remembered that my duty will recall me at that time
to court? And will you refuse to accompany me
thither ? "
" No, assuredly, Amaury, but my mother can come
with us."
" And she shall be mistress under my roof, even
as she is here," said Amaury, with tenderness.
" I expected no less from your courtesy. Thanks,
dear Amaury," said Clemence, in a grateful tone.
" How I shall rejoice, Clemence, to present you at
court; to see you loveliest among the lovely, wittiest
among the witty ; for you will eclipse all those
noble ladies with your wit and your acquirements."
"What an idea," said Clemence, laughing ; "as if
one studied for the sake of eclipsing others ! Oh, no.
CLEMENCE ISAURE. 211
Amaury ; it was only to amuse my poor mother, I
assure you," she added with a sigh.
" Be it so, Clemence, but you will not object to
shine at court for the sake of pleasing your husband,
will you ? "
" It will be my happiness and my duty, Messire."
" There are to be brilliant fetes in honor of the
marriage of the Dauphin with Anne of Brittany.
You shall be present at them all, and no lady^there
shall surpass you in magnificence of dress."
" And my mother, what will she do, Amaury, while
I am dancing ? " inquired Clemence, after a moment
of sorrowful hesitation.
Her question was unheeded by Amaury, who
continued : " And if I am called to the king's
councils, of which there is an early prospect, you,
beloved Clemence, shall be the sharer of every secret ;
you shall ever be at my side in the hours of my
retirement, and my own opinion shall never be
suffered to prevail over yours."
" But, while I am thus .. occupied with aflfairs of
state," said Clemence in a melancholy and reproachful
tone, " who will take care of my mother, Sire de
Nesle?"
" Your mother ? " said Amaury, suddenly struck
212 CLEMENCE ISATTKE.
with, the change in Clemence's countenance. " Your
mother ! I thought not of her, dearest ; your mother
is her own mistress, nor would I presume to regulate
her course of life. But what ails you, Clemence ?
Have I said aught to displease you ? If I have been
so unfortunate, it has been most unwittingly, believe
me. Wherefore are you going away?"
"I have not seen my mother to-day. Sire de Nesle,"
replied th.e young Toulousaine, gently disengaging her
hand from Amaury, who held it between his own ; and
she left the apartment hastily.
The Sire de Nesle saw her no more on that day,
and the ensuing morning, while he was yet unrisen,
Clemence's page presented him with a letter from his
young mistress, accompanied by a small ivory casket.
Amaury's heart beat violently while be broke open
the blue waxen seal, whereon were impressed the
arms of the house of Toulouse. He read as
follows : —
" Messike — You know not with what deep sorrow
SD.y heart has been filled since yesterday morning ; that
conversation has engrossed all my thoughts, and now
my resolution is formed. Sire de Nesle, I can never be
your wife, nor that of any other knight ; in afflicting
CLEMENCE ISATTRE. 213
my poor mother with blindness, God has said to me,
' thou shalt never quit her,' — and ought I to suffer any-
human being to reverse this sentence, and say to me,
' Quit thy mother and do my pleasure ? '
" Yesterday, in planning your future life and mine,
you thought not of my mother, and when I reminded
you of her, you seemed astonished, and said to me,
'OA, I did not think of her.' This is not said to you
by way of reproach. Sire ; or it would come with an
ill grace from me. How could I have expected you
to reserve the first place in your thoughts for my
mother, when I had forgotten, that, in becoming your
wife, she could no longer' be my first thought, — my
first duty ?
" You are young, noble, rich. Sire de Nesle, and
you will find women who will be happy to bear youi
name and to devote their whole being to you. As for
me, I could not do so, for I owe it all to her whose
happiness depends solely upon me. If I were married,
my poor mother would, in fact, be alone in the
Avorld. Where could she find another daughter,
when the child whom Heaven had bestowed on
her, had preferred her own happiness to hers ?
No, my mother, thy daughter will never leave
thee.
214 CLEMENCE ISAUKE.
" Ah ! Sire, you cannot love my mother as I do,
and in depriving her of a part of my love, what
could you give her in exchange ?
' ' If your heart is sad, because of this decision,
remember that mine is breaking ; but my mother !
what would become of her without me ? Even
yesterday, — see the evils I was preparing for her in
future ! — yesterday, while conversing with you, I had
forgotten her a moment ; she was already risen when
I entered her chamber ; I had lost her first greeting
and her earliest smile. Think then what it would
be afterwards ; no, no ! my decision is made. It has
caused me much misery, I assure you ; and so I have
a favor to ask of you. If you wish me to see you
again without painful disquietude, — to be in your
presence without distress, speak to me no more, I
beseech you, of your past projects ; for pity's sake,
act towards me as if we had never been affianced to
each other. I can be your sister, your friend, but
never can I be either a wife or a mother. This is
God's will, let us bow to it.
" Among your many gifts, I have kept only one, —
the bunch of violets, — which is very precious because
of the life which was endangered in its preservation.
The others are enclosed in a casket which will ba
CLEMENCE ISAURE. 215
delivered to you by my page ; you will find therein,
also, the ten thousand crowns fine.
" If your delicacy forbids your acceptance of this
sum, I pray you give it to the printers in Paris, who
are such benefactors to our country, and to whom I
heartily wish success in their work.
" And now, Sire Amaury, if you have the courage
to come and say, ' Farewell, my sister ! ' I am ready
to receive you ; if not, depart, and may heaven's
choicest blessings be your portion.
" CXEMENCE ISAUKE."
The Sire of Nesle was overwhelmed with sorrow on
reading this letter, for its earnest simplicity deprived
him of all hope of shaking Clemence's determination.
He admired the courage of this young girl, who
renounced all the pleasures of the world for one
only bliss, that of tending her mother ; and amid
the fullness of his admiration, he would again and
again feel tempted to combat her resolution ; but
there was something so holy and so pure in this
devoted love of a daughter to her widowed parent,
that at length he overcame the desire of his heart.
As for Clemence, always guided by the wish to
amuse her mother, whose love was her dearest
216 CLEMENCE ISAXJRE.
recompense, slie gave herself up to literature, and
by her example and influence, rekindled among her
countrymen a taste for the helles lettres.
In former times, Toulouse possessed an institution
designated the " College of the Gay Sciences^
Clemence Isaure reanimated it by a magnificent
foundation, the floral games, which, established
during her lifetime, was confirmed by her will.
On the 3d of May, prizes were distributed annually
to the best poems presented to the College, and
these prizes consisted of golden violets of the richest
and most delicate workmanship. This annual fete
was opened by a mass, a sermon, and an ample
distribution of arms to the necessitous poor.
Clemence Isaure died at the age of fifty, unmarried ;
and was quickly followed to the tomb by that mother
whoss life had been embellished by her talents and
filial piety.
THE PORTRAIT.
BT W. C. BENNETT.
Yes, there it blooms for ever I
That girlish face so fair,
Upon the breathing canvas, —
And yet not only there ;
For, like as is its sweetness,
Far fairer is it wrought.
In all its gentle beauty.
Upon the painter's thought.
Lo, while his pencil drew her,
Within the stately room
Love took his stand beside him.
Amid its gorgeous gloom ;
And as upon the canvas
Each feature stole to sight.
Love stamped it in the painter's thought
In colors yet more bright.
19
218 THE PORTRAIt.
Nor fleeting were the touclieg
Of that immortal art —
They bloom in hues unfading,
Though youth and years depart;
The painter's head is hoary, —
Her fair face wrinkles fill,
Yet, bright as when Love drew it.
His thoughts retain it still.
THE GAME OF PROVERBS.
[from the FEENCH.]
BY H. H. W.
A PARTY had assembled at the seat of Sir John
Hatton to spend the Easter recess. The host and
hostess were a little of the parvenu genus, but they
were very amiable, and their great wish was to make
their country-place, to which they had only lately
succeeded, agreeable. As they were very rich, and
had a magnificent house in a beautiful country, and
as, moreover. Sir John kept a good table, had a
first-rate chef de cuisine, and was remarkable for his
excellent wines (for before the death of his cousin,
the late Sir John, he had been a wine-merchant). Sir
John and Lady Hatton had no difficulty in collecting
a host of friends about them in town, and of these
they determined to select only quite the elile for
their country party. The only difficulty was whom
220 THE GAME OF PROVERBS.
to choose. Lady Hatton, whose father had kept a
shop, wished to invite only the great and fashionable ;
but Sir John, whose education had been somewhat
neglected in early life, preferred men of talent and
science. Lady Hatton was too amiable to contend
with her husband, and so Sir John invited all the
first-rate statesmen, men of science, poets, novelists,
and artists he could get. Unfortunately, however,
the result was not exactly what he expected. The
men of science did not mix well with the men of
letters and the artists; for they had no subjects in
common, they felt as strangers to each other ; and
each, conscious of the celebrity attached to his name,
was afraid of committing himself, and doing any
thing which a stranger might think unworthy of
his previous reputation. Nothing can cast a greater
chill over society than a fear of this kind. It is
a perfect wet blanket to the fire of genius. So the
party, though consisting of some of the cleverest men
of the day, was undeniably slow ; it was worse, it was
dreadfully dull ; and in spite of the good cookery, and
the good wines, the dinners did not go oS" well, for
the guests would not talk. In the drawing-room they
were still silent ; they sauntered about, opened books
and laid them down again, and looked the pictures
THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 221
of ennui, though. Lady Hatton bustled about and tried
to make herself agreeable, and Mrs. Delcour, a joung
widow, who was pretty, and quite aware that she was
so, flirted with all the men she could get to listen tc
her. Lady Hatton's own two daughters, who had
just left school, gave no assistance in entertaining
the guests, for they were too shy to talk, and made
so many difficulties about playing or singing, that it
was quite painful to ask them.
Only two days of the week, for which the party
had been invited, had passed, when it became quite
evident to Mrs. Delcour, that something must be
done, to save the whole party from dying of ennui,
or eloping how they could : indeed one or two had
already begun to talk about expecting letters on
m'gent business, which would compel them to tear
themselves away, etc., etc. On the evening of the
second day, therefore, when the whole of the party
had left the dining-room, and the gentlemen were
lounging about the drawing-room in a most discon-
solate manner, Mrs. Delcour suddenly exclaimed,
"We must get up a proverb."
"What an excellent idea!" cried Lady Hatton,
" I have often heard of proverbs being performed by
persons of rank and fastiion."
19*
222 THE GAME OF PROVERBS.
"It shall be done." said Mrs. Dclcour. "But
how shall \vc sot about it? Stanhope, you arc jusl
the man to assist me. Don't you approve of the
plan?"
" I think it admirable ; but as to assisting you, I
must beg you to excuse me."
" No excuse. You are quite celebrated for things
of this kind. I heard that, you had the entire
management of the prrjverbs at Lady Herbert's last
winter."
" It was precisely what happened there that has
decided me never to attempt to get up a proverb
again."
" But what did happen there ? "
"You know Lady Herbert's gouty old uncle, the
Admiral, and how much Lady Herbert always wishes
to please him? "
"Oh, yes, yes! lie's an old bachelor, and very
rich. — Well?"
" He was to choose the jjrovcrb, and he chose ' (Jood
wine needs no sign.' "
"Rather an odd subject; but you have such talents,
you can spiritualize any thing."
" So they all said ; and so, at last, I suffered
myself to be persuaded to undertake it. There is
THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 223
a fine picture gallery at Herbert Castle, with an arch
near the centre, from whicli it was easy to lot fall
a curtain, and doors at each end for the sejiarate
ingress and egress of the performers and audience.
There were plenty of performers, and the ladies
were all crowding round me, eager to know what
they should wear. I told them what they pleased,
so that they did Init act as / pleased. They promised
every thing that could be desired, and so I drew out
my plan."
" I dare say you had a good deal of difficulty in
making them learn their parts."
" Difficulty ? Difficulty is no word for it ! It was
absolute martyrdom ! Tlicy would not learn ; they
woidd not remember ; and I could never get them
all together to rehearse."
"But what was the end?"
*' You sliall hear. Finding that some of my actors,
who would perform in spite of every thing, had neither
memory nor presence of mind, IIk; idea struck me, to
tell them, if they found themselves in any difficulty,
to say, ' I hear some one coming ; ' and, unfortunately,
I communicated this idea to them all."
" But why unfortunately ? The idea appears to me
a very good one."
224 THE GAME OF PEOVERBS.
" So it did to mo ; but it did not work well."
"How so?"
" The companj' were all assembled. All the beauty
and talent of the neighborhood were collected together.
Every body was in high spirits, and all were impatient
for the performance to begin — and — as Lady Herbert
had whispered about that the whole was arranged by
me — all eyes were turned towards me, and —
and "—
" Well ! well ! We can imagine all that. Go on ! "
" The first person who was to appear was the sister
of the Admiral, an old maid, tall, thin, and bony, with
a very long neck, and a skin like shrivelled parchment ;
and she would absolutely take the character of a Swiss
peasant, with all the accoutrements complete."
" Oh ! I see her ! Miss Priscilla in a boddice, short
petticoats, and a little flat hat, stuck on the side of her
head ! How absurd ! "
" Absurd, indeed ! She was reclining in a pensive
attitude with a crook, when the curtain drew up, and
when she came forward, waving her lean, naked arms,
and sighed deeply, the effect was so ludicrous, that a
suppressed titter ran through the assemblage ; and the
poor shepherdess, losing her presence of mind, gazed
wildly around, and then pressing her luand upon licr
THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 225
side, she exclaimed, ' I hear some one coming,' and
then sat down, looking just ready to faint."
" How very droll ! "
" So the audience seemed to find it ; but it was
any thing but droll to me, for she should have made
a long speech, which would have served as a key-note
to all the rest ; and it was now clear, that if the others
did remember their parts, the audience would be in
the dark as to what they were about, for want of
the explanation which was to have been given by
this unlucky shepherdess."
" Well ! what happened next ? "
" The second performer, who was rather dull, but
who had worked hard to master the difficulties of his
part, hearing his cue, rushed in, totally unconscious of
what had happened (for he was absorbed in what he
was to do himself) and began his first speech, which
unluckily turning upon what the shepherdess ought to
have said, but did not say, and which he was supposed
to have heard, quite overcame the politeness of the
audience, and they burst into peals of laughter ; and
when the unhappy actor, whose part was tragic, and
who could not think what made them laugh, after
looking round for a moment or two in dismay, said,
also, ' I hear some one coming,' the efiect was over-
226 THE GAME OF PKOTEKBS.
whelming. The audience, including even the Admiral
and Lady Herbert, were almost in convulsions ; and
the curtain fell amidst vehement cries of ' Bravo !
Encore ! '"
" At any rate, the audience were amused ? "
" Yes ! And Ave laughed it off as well as we
could ; but it was rather hard work, particularly as,
during the remaining three or four days that I was
obliged to remain in the house, if ever I hesitated or
stammered about any thing — and really I did make
more blunders than I ever did before in my life —
my friends were sure to laugh, and to suggest that
probably ' I heard some one coming.' "
During this dialogue the whole party had collected
round Mrs. Delcour and Mr. Stanhope ; and as the
ludicrous distresses of the latter made them lausrh,
it had the effect of thawing the ice that seemed to
have bound up their faculties ; and they all agreed
to take a part in a new proverb, in performing Avhich
they promised to behave better than the unfortunate
performers at Herbert Castle. A proverb was selected,
and a rough outline of the mode in which it was to be
worked out having been settled, the rest was left to the
performers to fill up, which they did so admirably, that
THE GAME OF PKOVEKBS. 227
every body was delighted ; and proverbs and charades
were performed alternately during the remainder of the
week of vacation, which they all agreed was one of the
pleasantest they had ever passed.
SONG OF A CAGED BIRD.
Oh, could I gain yon woodland grove,
How light would be my wing!
How would I gayly, wildly rove
Amid the flowers of Spring!
And, oh! how jocund were my song,
How free my bounding flight ;
Roving my native hills among.
And fluttering with delight!
And with first rosy peep of day,
From waving branch I'd rise;
My blithesome song from spray to spray
Should echo thro' the skies.
But no! — the gay and happy band.
Singing in careless glee,
And wandering free in sunny land.
Have no fond thought of me !
SONG OF A CAGED BIRD. 229
In flow'ry mead, and forest glade,
Sad should I sit alone ;
E'en in the hawthorn's silvery glade
My song would be my moan.
And where would be the kindly voice
That cheers my lonely hour,
If it were my ungrateful choice
To fly her fav'rite bower?
But the fair hand that tends me here,
Is kind and constant too ;
Ah! would those distant shades be dear
If from that hand I flew?
Ah, no! — the heart that fondly beats
With Gratitude's sweet chain,
Tho' smiling freedom kindly greets.
Would ne'er be free again!
20
THE TRIFLES OF LIFE;
OB, TBIFLES NOT ALWAYS TBIVIAL.
BY M. H.
Ix is wont to be affirmed of women, in a sarcastic
tone, that their lives are made up of trifles, — and,
perhaps, in a certain sense the accusation may be
a true one, for the duties which are allotted to our
sex consist chiefly of quiet and unobtrusive offices,
which, in their rapid succession, may seem trivial
to those wnose minds are occupied with the stirring
business of life ; but we would venture to remind
these contemners of our homelier lot, that small
matters only become trifling by the trivial spirit in
which they are pursued ; that this material world
itself, " clogged with its weighty mass of joy and
woe," is composed of atoms, and that the long
flight of ages, bearing upon their wings the destiny
of humanity, is measured out by single moments.
THE TKIFLES OF LIFE. 231
Let us not, therefore, undervalue the value of trifles,
but strive to impart a dignity to every occupation,
however humble or however passing be its nature,
by the spirit of truth and kindliness with which it is
performed. It would, indeed, be well for us women,
if, even in our highest and gravest duties, we kept
in mind the gentle admonition of the poet, —
"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the great God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."
Even in our efforts to do good to others, may we
not oftentimes fail from a want of that loving spirit
which clothes the most trivial acts with' grace, and
which enables the possessor of it, whether poor or
rich, to soothe the sad and ruffled spirit, and to
strengthen the feeble one? It has occurred to me
more than once in my life, to observe from my own
experience how closely the bonds of human fellowship
may be drawn together by some small links of passing
kindliness, so trivial that they scarcely seem to merit
record ; and yet I am tempted to note down here one
•r two such instances, in the hope that they may
encourage others of my own sex whose circumstances
232 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE.
may preclude their doing great, things for others, but
whose hearts may nevertheless long for opportunities
of aiding those whose spirits droop as they pass wearily
along the highway of life.
% it- ■» ii^ a- %
"She won't give you a flower — not she, indeed!"
Such were the words which met my ear, as I hurried
through the streets on a showery spring morning,
carrying in my hand a nosegay of those early blossoms
which are doubly welcome to our sight, as the har-
bingers of sunnier hours and brighter skies. I was
on my way to an invalid, to whom flowers were indeed
even a valued gift — to her tliey cheered the long
hours of lonely suffering, and every bright hue and
lovely form seemed to suggest thoughts of soothing
hope and comfort, whilst they directed her mind to
that All-mighty and yet All-loving Father who, whilst
He " calleth the stars by their names," is yet careful
thus to clothe the grass of the field, and to lavish
beauty on the very herbs that we tread beneath our
feet.
A far different being from this patient sufierer was
she whose cold, scornful words had fallen so harshly
upon my ear. As I walked hastily along, anxious to
escape from the increasing rain, I had not perceived
THE TKIFLES OF LIFE. 233
by the side of the path a middle-aged woman, of
repelling aspect, who held in her arms a sickly child,
that reached out its little hand, with a longing gaze,
towards the bright flowers which I held, and struggled
in its inarticulate language to express its wish to pos-
sess the treasure. It was in answer to these demon-
strations on the part of the child, that the mother had
made the observation which had drawn my attention,
and arrested me in my course. I stopped, and pulling
out some of the gayest and gaudiest of the group,
placed them, with a few words of kindness, in the
infant's grasp, whilst the mother thanked me, and
fondled her crowing child with an expression of
mingled surprise and pleasure.
The incident was a trifling, and might seem an
unimportant one ; but how often has it since recurred
to my mind, as I have passed in the way those whose
countenances have betrayed inward feelings of discon-
tent with their own lot, and dislike towards those who
possessed more of the comforts and luxuries of life than
themselves. What a key to the heart-burnings, the
jealousy, the dislike, which are felt, alas ! by many
a poor man and woman to their neighbors, lies in
those words, spoken by a mother, in bitterness of
spirit, " iS/te would not give you a Jlowerf
20*
234 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE.
For the relief of absolute want and wretchedness,
few who are blessed with this world's goods, are
so hard-hearted as to refuse the contribution which
it costs but little effort to bestow — but it is not
money, mere money, given and received, which will
draw together in kindly union the hearts of the
richer and the poorer classes amongst us. It is
rather that interchange of words and deeds of
kindness, which it might seem almost trivial to
enumerate, but which speak more to the hearts of
our fellow-men than hundreds given with a cold
heart or a careless hand. Well has it been said by
a writer of the present day, whose observations on the
" Ways of the Rich and Great " * are full of valuable
hints on this and kindred subjects : "In the ordinary
intercourse of good offices, it is very important to be
•pleasant to the poor, for services alone will not
cultivate their affections, and those who would visit
them for every-day purposes of charity, should be,
by their nature and temperament, genial, cordial,
and firm. In order that the poor may feel that the
rich are in sympathy with them, the rich must take
a pleasure in their pleasures, as well as pity then^
* Taylor's "Notes from Books."
THE TKIFLES OF LIFE. 235
in their distress. When the rich give of their
abandance to those who want bread, it may be
supposed to be done for very shame, under the con-
straint of common humanity. When they take order
for the instruction and discipline of the poor, they
are conferring a species of benefit, for which, however
essential, they must not expect a return in gratitude
or affection. But if they bear in mind, that amuse-
ment is in truth a necessary of life, that human nature
cannot dispense with it, and that, by the nature of
men's amusements, their moral characters are in a
great measure determined, they will be led so to
deal with the poor as to make it manifest to them
that they like to see them happy, and they will be
beloved accordingly."
Nor is it merely those who are rich in this world's
goods who have the power thus to dispense happiness
around them. Well would it be for us each one to
remember that every man who breathes, whether
master or servant, employer or employed, young and
old, rich and poor, each has it in his power, as he
passes along his own life-path, either to shed a ray
of sunshine on that of his fellow-man, or to darken
it by his shade. Well do I remember, though many
a year has passed since then, how pleasant to me
236 THE TEIFLES OF LIFE
was one such little act of kindness, slio'vr by one
who was herself dependent upon the bounty others
for her daily bread. Old Bessie Milman had the
charge of an empty house which we were furnishing,
and, whilst it was still in an unfinished state, I went
thither during several successive mornings, tempted
by a new piano, to practise before breakfast. Pooi
Bessie thought that " the young lady must surely
be cold and hungry, so long without her break-
fast;" and never shall I forget the look of anxious
kindness with which she came up to me in her neat
old-fashioned white cap, and well-folded kerchief,
carrying a nice roast aj^ple, surrounded with crumbs
of bread, which she thought I might " perhaps be
able to relish," nor the pleasure she seemed to feel
when she saw that I was gratified by her kind
thought of me. This may seem almost too trivial
an incident to notice, but it was one which early
impressed on my mind the conviction, that the poorest
as well as the wealthiest has it in his power either to
bestow a Jlower upon his neighbor, or to plant a thorn
in his path.
Which of us are so fortunate as not to remember,
amongst the circle of our acquaintances, some from
whose socipty we shrink with a sort of instinctive
N THE TRIFLES OF XIFE. 2117
dread ? not on account of any moral evil m their
character or disposition, but simply because we never
leave their presence without feeling, as some one has
rather quaintly expressed it, as if " we had been rubhed
np the wrong toay." They may be, in reality, most
kind-hearted people. If you had a fever, and required
their care, they would watch over you night and day ;
but, in your hour of health, and, as they conceive, of
happiness, they would never thiuk of "-giving you a
Jlower ; " they would not even be able to understand
why you should want one.
On the other hand, can we not each recall to mind
some happy being — whether he be rich or poor, it
matters not — whose very presence seems to cast oil
upon troubled waters, whose kindly tones cheer the
drooping spirit, whose look of sympathy and love is
balm to the wounded heart, and to whom the poor,
the suffering, even the little child, will turn as if by
instinct, and feel assured that there, at least, no
chilling repulse is to be feared, but that " such as
he has," even if it be only a jlower^ he will give it
to them with an ungrudging heart.
Happy, notwithstanding " all the ills that flesh is
heir to," would this world be, if we were each one,
in our o^vn sphere, to cultivate more of this spii'it;
238 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE.
to seek, as we pass onwards through life, for oppor-
tunities of gladdening the heart of our fellow-man,
and being ever ready to
" Give and forgive, do Good and love ;
By soft endearments in kind strife,
Lightening the load of daily life."
THE SUMMEK EVENING.
I iiOVE the summer evening
When the sun has left the west,
And when upon the wood-crowned hill
The golden clouds still rest.
The light breeze sweeps the unmown grass.
Refreshing, sweet, and cool,
And shadows from the birch trees pass
Upon the surface still as glass
Of the shallow meadow-pool.
The sheep upon the barren downs,
The copse upon the hill,
The hawthorn on the village green,
All now are hushed and still ;
And let me lean upon the stile
Above the corn-clad slope,
"Which oft has heard the whispered word
Of dawning love and hope.
240 THE SUMMEE EVENING.
Beside it in the running brook
The flow'ring rushes wave,
And in the waters cool and bright
Their rosy clusters lave ;
The dewy grass beneath your feet,
The calm blue sky above,
The wild flowers bright beneath the hedge,
All whisper now of love —
That power which to man is given
To leave on earth one trace of heaven,
To cheer in toil, and care, and strife,
To brighten all our mortal life,
To check our sighs and dry our tears.
And chase away our craven fears.
And whisper. There is hope above,
For love is Heaven, and God is Love.
THE FLOWER GATHEREK,
[fKOM the GERMAN OF KRTTMMACHER.I
God sends upon the winds of Spring
Fresh thoughts into the breasts of flowers.
Miss Bremer.
The young and innocent Theresa had passed the
most beautiful part of the spring upon a bed of
sickness ; and as soon as she began to regain her
strength, she spoke of flowers, asking continually
if her favorites were again as lovely as they had
been the year before, when she had been able to
seek for and admire them herself. Erick, the sick
girl's little brother, took a basket, and showing it to
his mamma, said in a whisper, " Mamma, I will run
out and get poor Theresa the prettiest I can find in
the fields." So out he ran, for the first time for
many a long day, and he thought that spring had
never been so beautiful before ; for he looked upon
it with a gentle and loving heart, and enjoyed a run
21
242 THE rxOWEK GATHEEEK.
in the firesli air, after having been a prisoner by the
sister's couch, whom he had never left during her
illness. The happy child rambled about, up and
dovpn hill. Nightingales sang, bees hummed, and
butterflies flitted around him, and the most lovely
flowers were blowing at his feet. He jumped about,
he danced, he sang, and wandered from hedge to
hedge, and from flower to flower, with a soul as
pure as the blue sky above him, and eyes that
sparkled like a little brook bubbling from a rock.
At last he had filled his basket quite full of the
prettiest flowers ; and, to crown all, he had made a
wreath of field strawberry flowers, which he laid on
the top of it, neatly arranged on some grass, and
one might fancy them a string of pearls, they looked
so pure and fresh. The happy boy looked with
delight at his full basket, and putting it down by
his side, rested himself in the shade of an oak, on
a carpet of soft green moss. Here he sat, looking
at the beautiful prospect that lay spread out before
him in all the freshness of spring, and listening to
the ever-changing songs of the birds. But he had
really tired himself out with joy; and the merry
sounds of the fields, the buzzing of the insects, and
the birds' songs, all helped to send him to sleep.
THE FLOWER GATHERER. 243
And peacefully the fair cliild slumbered, his rosy
cheek resting on the hands that still held his
treasured basket.
But while he slept a sudden change came on. A
storm arose in the heavens, but a few moments before
so blue and beautiful. Heavy masses of clouds
gathered darkly and ominously together ; the light-
ning flashed and the thunder rolled louder and
nearer. Suddenly a gust of wind roared in the
boughs of an oak, and startled the boy out of his
quiet sleep. He saw the wholet heavens veiled by
black clouds ; not a sunbeam gleamed over the
fields, and a heavy clap of thunder followed his
waking. The poor child stood up, bewildered at
the sudden change ; and now the rain began to
patter through the leaves of the oak, so he snatched
up his basket and ran towards home as fast as his
legs could carry him. The storm seemed to burst
over his head. Rain, hail, and thunder, striving for
the mastery, almost deafened him, and made him more
bewildered every minute. Water streamed from his
poor soaked curls down his shoulders, and he could
scarcely see to find his way homewards. All on a
sudden a more violent gust of wind than usual
caught the treasured basket, and scattered all his
244 THE FLOWER GATHEKEK.
carefully collected flowers far away over the field. His
patience could endure no longer, for his face grew
distorted with rage, and he flung the empty basket
from him, with a burst of anger. Crying bitterly,
and thoroughly wet, he reached at last his parents'
house in a pitiful plight.
But soon another change appeared ; the storm
passed away, and the sky grew clear again. The
birds began their songs, anew, the countryman his
labor. The air had become cooler and purer, and a
bright calm seemed to lie lovingly in every valley
and on every hill. What a delicious odor rose from
the freshened fields ! — and their cultivators looked
with grateful joy at the departing clouds, which had
poured the fertilizing rain upon them. The sight of
the blue sky soon tempted the frightened boy out
again, and being by this time ashamed of his ill-
temper, he went out very quietly to look for his
discarded basket, and to try and fill it again. He
seemed to feel a new life within him. The cool
breath of the air — the smell of the fields — the
leafy trees — the warbling birds, all appeared doubly
beautiful after the storm, and the humiliating con-
sciousness of his foolish and unjust ill- temper
softened and chastened his joy. After a long search
THE FLOWEK GATHEEEE. 245
he spied the basket lying on the slope of a hill, for
a bramble bush had caught it, and sheltered it from
the violence of the wind. The child felt quite
thankful to the ugly-looking bush, as he disen-
tangled the basket.
But how great was his delight, on looking around
him, to see the fields spangled with flowers, as
numerous as the stars of heaven ! — for the rain had
nourished into blossoms thousands of daisies, opened
thousands of buds, and scattered pearly drops on every
leaf. Erick flitted about like a busy bee, and gathered
away to his heart's content. The sun was now
near his setting, and the happy child hastened home
with his basket full once more. How delighted he
was with his flowery treasure, and with the pearly
garland of fresh strawberry-flowers ! The rays of the
sinking sun played over his fair face as he wandered
on, and gave his pretty features a placid and con-
tented expression. But his eyes sparkled much
more joyously when he received the kisses and
thanks of his gentle sister. "Is it not true, dear,"
said his mother, " that the pleasures we prepare for
others are the best of all?"
r 21*
THE IRISH MOTHER.
BY L. G.
Dbink, cliild, 'tis the last drop in the can.
Yet it is all for you ;
Our poor old cow, — that too is gone, — •
And what are we to do ?
Yet drink, child, drink!
They drove her off, — the poor old cow, —
She went to pay the rent;
There's nothing left to keep us, now
That every thing is spent :
Yet drink, chUd, drink!
Youi father, he has gone away,
Far, far over the seas.
To a happy land, wherein, they say,
There's naught but wealth and ease:
Then drink, child, drink !
THE IKISH MOTHER. 247
And we will follow him there, we two,
We will follow him over the sea
To the land where there is so little to do,
And a lady perhaps you will be !
Then drink, darling, drink!
THE LIFE RANSOM.
BY GEORGIANA C. MUNEO.
Softly the west wind stole over the sunny lake,
and welcome to us was even its low faint breath, as
we sat in the deep shadow of the forest trees in the
sultry hour of summer noon-tide. Before us the broad
Huron was flashing in the sun rays, divided from the
flower-gemmed bank by a belt of glittering sand, while
on our right the bold headland stretched far into the
sleeping waters, whereon rock, and tree, and grassy
mound were brightly mirrored.
Nothing of life stirred in the silent wilderness, save
the brilliant butterflies hovering around more gayly-
tinted blossoms, and the bright humming-birds, with
their emerald and ruby plumage, glancing like jewels
in the sunshine, fluttering over the flowery shrubs,
and darting away across the honey-comb quartz that
gleamed between us and the point, with a low hum
as though they were murmuring tales of the gold
THE LIFE RANSOM. 249
which slept below. But all the unsunned treasures
which the gold-bloom might indicate, were in worth
far below the priceless offering once laid upon those
stones ; and many, many years must pass away, ere
time, or change, the foot of the stranger, or the
hand of the gold-seeker, shall banish the memories
which cling around the spot. Though strange to
us, they were familiar to more than one of our
companions, and as we sat there beneath the lofty
sycamores, with the noonday sun pouring down light
and beauty on the fertile earth and deep blue waters,
the tale to which we listened, gained, perchance, a
deeper interest from the scene of its relation.
The coming winter had breathed his first frost-
spell over the forest, turning to crimson and gold,
and silver, its garb of varied green, when, one eve-
ning, a girl sat on the grassy bank watching the
latest sunbeams fade from the glowing sky and
darkening lake. The sunset hues had left the
clouds, and the stars were glancing forth to mirror
themselves in the blue waters, but still the girl kept
her post ; gazing along the shore, and afar in the
distance. She was alone, yet the line of tall trees
bordering the forest concealed an Indian encampment,
and above their heads several columns of gray smoke
250 IHE XIFE RANSOM.
were soaring up into the evening sky, while the mur-
mur of voices rose on the air, and at times peals of
laughter echoed through the woods.
But Wabegwona cared not to join in the merriment.
She was watching for the return of her nearest rela-
tive, who had ever been to her as a brother, and
dreaming such dim visions as she could dream of
the scenes and the people among whom her mother
had been born. For, though her hair was dark as
midnight, and her features those of the race with
whom she dwelt, there was enough in the maiden's
fairer complexion and deep blue eyes to have won
her the name of Wabegwona (White Lilly), which
was bestowed upon her by her tribe.
" Her father, long dead, had been a great chief,
but her mother had been found as a child by the
Ottowas among the ruins of an American out-post
which another nation had destroyed; and, carried
away and adopted by them, had become the wife of
one of their bravest warriors. Yet, amid all the
contrasts of her wild forest life, the fair-haired
daughter of the pale-faces had retained some faint
recollection of the past to breathe into the wondering
ear of her child, before she, also, was called away,
and Wabegwona was left an orphan — alone, save
THE LIFE RANSOM. 251
for Laguiab, the son of her father's brother, who
had taken her to his home, and bade his mother
look upon her as a daughter. And the young men,
to whom her smile was cold as sun-lit snow, and the
old women, who were for ever whispering like the
forest leaves, said that Laguiab would make her his
wife. But the maiden's heart was still in her mother's
grave, and the boldest hunter and bravest warrior of
the Ottowas feared to draw it thence too rashly, lest
it might shrink away from his touch.
And now a dark speck glided among the starbeams
on the lake, and a canoe came bounding forward
eagerly, like a wild deer to its favorite haunt. It
was that for which Wabegwona watched, and a smile
lit up her features as she beheld it, and her thoughts
which had been wandering far beyond the dark forest
and the gleaming waves, flew back to the present.
" The rifle of Laguiab has not been idle," said
Wabegwona, who stood on the shore to welcome her
cousin. " He has lingered long, but his canoe is
heavy."
" The rifle of Laguiab has been his encrriy," replied
the hunter niournfully. " Let my sister bid the young
men come hither, for the load in his canoe lies heavy
on the heart of Laguiab."
252 THE LIFE KA-NSOM,
One glance liad told tlie girl tliat a stranger lay
to all appearance lifeless in the canoe, and she
hastened to summon the hunters from the fires,
around which they were talking of the past day's
exploits. Then she went on to tell her aunt of the
guest they might expect.
How Wabegwona's heart beat as the Ottowas bore
the wounded stranger into the lodge, and she saw
that he was not merely young and handsome, for
that was little then to her, but of the race her
mother had always loved ! And when the medicine-
men had done their best, and so they said, charmed
the bullet out of the wound, and spoken the wise
words which would make their herb-potions drive
away the evil spirit of fever and call back health
to the sufierer, then Laguiab came to her and told
her how a branch had caught the trigger of his
rifle, and, without his touch, it had struck down
the white hunter in the moment he first beheld
him.
" But Wabegwona will be a sister to the pale
face," continued the young Ottowa. " She will know
that it is the heart of Laguiab which lies wounded
in his lodge, and she will watch over the stranger
as the eagle watches over her young one, until
THE LIFE KANSOM. 253
his Avings are strong, and his eyes can look boldly
on the sun."
As the summer Avind was Laguiah's voice, and
the maiden's will was the rush which loved to bend
before it ; for no brother could be dearer than he had
ever been to her. But the strong grasp of sickness
was on the stranger's frame, and it was long ere all
their care could loosen it ; and often, as she sat
beside his couch, while the spirits of the past and of
the absent seemed hovering around and in communion
with him, did Wabegvvona fear that he would pass
away to the Happy Gardens of the pale-faces, and
leave a shadow on the soul of Laguiab. For, though
the Ottowa had slain many foes on the war-path,
until his fame was on the earth, as the lights*
whose name he bore were in the sky, and shone in
the sight of many nations, and women trembled at
its rushing sound, and warriors mused on what it
might portend ; still the young chief sorrowed for the
aimless blow which had struck down a tree whose fall
might crush many flowers, but gave no place for glory
to spring up. But the summons had not gone forth,
and the Englishman was left to find the life to
* Laguiab is the Indian name for the Aurora Borealis
22
254 THE LIFE HANSOM.
which he awoke, a wilder dream than all his fever-
visions.
"Weeks and months had glided by ; the snows which
had not fallen when Seyton was brought to the Ot-
towa's encampment, had melted away with the hours
for ever vanished, and leaves were bursting forth on
the trees, and flowers were starting up among the
bright fresh grass with all the rapidity and vigor of the
vegetation in that region. But spring did not find
the Ottowas where the autumn left them, on the point
beside the gold-bloom. Death had breathed on one
of their fairest plants, and when it mthered and died,
they, as is frequent among the Indians, deserted the
scene of the misfortune, and their lodges were now
raised, and their fires lighted on the shores of a quiet
bdy several miles lower down the lake.
Again it was evening, and Wabegwona sat on the
star-lit strand. But this time she was not alone, for
Seyton was by her side, telling her of the mighty river
beside which dwelt her mother's people and his own;
and of the stately dwellings along its shores, and
down where the salt waves broke in restless murmurs
that were for ever whispering of the distant island far
towards the rising sun, where it moaned and dashed
around their forefathers' graves.
THE LIFE HANSOM. 255
And he told her, too, of one who would gladly bear
away the fairest flower of the forest to bloom within
one of those proud dwellings ; and of a love which
would guard it against the tempest, and shelter it from
the burning sun-ray, and cheer it, if the breath of
sorrow, which wanders every where, should bow it to
the earth.
The maiden smiled as she listened, but the English-
man wondered if it were in pleasure or in scorn, for
the faint light revealed her face but dimly.
" Has Wabegwona no words ? " he asked. " Say,
must the pale-face regret that her voice called him
back, when his spirit was on the wing ? "
There was a minute's silence, and then the low
sweet voice of Wabegwona came like music on the
ear. " Why should an Ottowa girl speak r " was her
reply. " The words of the pale-face are the stars ; the
heart of Wabegwona is the lake whereon they rest.
Let them look down and they will see no other light
reflected in it."
A joyful exclamation was on Seyton's lips, but it
was stayed, as a shadow fell on the sand, and a form
stood before him. It was Laguiab ; the starbeams
showed him deadly pale, and his arms were folded,
und his lips compressed, while his glance was as
256 THE LIFE KANSOM.
tliough the true Aurora Borealis had flashed upon
them.
" Laguiab is a fool," said he, bitterly. " His rifle
was wise, but he was angry with its wisdom. Are
there no blossoms beside the distant waters, where the
pale-faces build their lodges so high up into the sky,
that the stranger must come with a tongue keener and
brighter than the knives of his people, to steal away
the only flower an Indian loved to look upon ? The
heart of Laguiab was spread before my sister," con-
tinued the warrior, reproachfully, to Wabegwona.
" Had the White Lily looked into it she would have
seen nothing but herself. But a white mist has come
before her eyes, and she cannot see — a strange wind
has whispered in her ear, and the voice to which she
once listened is forgotten."
The Ottowa paused ; but, siirprised by the accusa-
tion of treachery, of which he had no thought of being
guilty, Seyton hesitated to reply. And Wabegwona
bowed her head in silence, for love for Laguiab was
strong within her heart ; but it was only as a brother
that he had always mingled in her thoughts, and she
had never dreamed of hearing such words from his
lips. After a moment, he resumed more fiercely —
" But why should that mist stay to blind the eyes
THE LIFE BAXSOM. 257
of Wabegwona? Laguiab's arm is stronger tbau his
voice, and his anger is a mighty tempest, Avhich breaks
down the forest as it passes. It shall sweep the mist
from his path, and the eyes of the White Lily can look
once more on his face."
As he spoke the last words, Laguiab drew the
tomahawk from his belt. Seyton had risen to his
feet, but not to fly ; though a strange thrill shot
through his heart, as he stood for a moment defence-
less before the enraged Indian, like a ftiwn awaiting
the panther's spring. The bright weapon gleamed in
the starbeams as the Ottowa raised his arm ; but the
next instant it was whirled far over the lake, to bury
its keen edge in the slumbering waters.
" No," said the Indian, in a low deep voice, " the
arm of Laguiab is strong, but not strong enough to
strike his friend. The pale-face has slept in his lodge,
and hunted by his side, and an Ottowa chief cannot
take the life he has watched over. There is a cloud
on Laguiab ; but the stars are bright, and the clouds
cast no shadow on the lake. Let it be so — the path
of my brother shall be open to the great villages of
his people. Rut let not his glance be ever dark
towards the White Lily, which his hand has torn
from the home where it was loved and sheltered in
22*
258 THE LIFE HANSOM.
the forest, to plant it afar where the axe of tl'
stranger has left no branches to cover the earth."
.And before either had time to answer, Laguiab
had plunged amid the dark cedars Avhich reared their
lofty heads near the shore ; nor did he return to the
encampment until the silence of midnight rested or
its bark-covered lodges and smouldering fires. The
next morning, Seyton asked in vain for his host ; for,
before the last star faded from the sky, the young
chief, with some half-dozen hunters, had gone into
the woods in quest of game. Had they remained,
they would have found more need for their rifles.
But no thought of danger was in the minds of the
Ottowas. Not that they had no enemies, but that
^ney dreamed not that any of their foes were near
enough to raise the war-whoop within their hearing.
It was the oft-repeated tale in those regions, — the
wildcat stealing on her prey while it slept. But this
time in the daylight. All was hushed and still, as
though the voice of pain or discord had never echoed
through the wilderness, when suddenly a youth rushed
into the centre of the lodges, crying : — " The Winne-
bagoes ! the Winnebagoes ! "
A wild shriek of woman's terror was the reply, to
be instantly followed by a shriller cry of agony, which
THE LIFE RANSOM. 259
told that the work of destruction had begun, and to
be in its turn lost in the terrible war-whoop of the
Winnebagoes, as they rushed upon the unprepared
and unsuspecting Ottowas. We will not describe
the scene of bloodshed and desolation. It is enough
that death and fire reigned every where, and that
Wabegwona, who had taken shelter beneath the
branches of a fallen tree, saw Seyton, stunned and
bleeding, carried away alive to meet a darker fate
than had befallen her tribesmen.
When Laguiab and his hunters returned at sunset,
they found their encampment a heap of ruins, and
those they had left in life claimed nothing now at
their hands, except a grave and revenge ; so said the
sorrowing and indignant warriors, when they heard
the tale which Wabegwona alone remained to tell.
But other thoughts were in the young chief's mind,
as he looked upon the maiden's face, and saw in
it the agony which rent her heart; and his gaze
lingered on her pale features while his tribesmen
spoke of seeking another band of their nation, some
days' journey distant, to join with them in wreaking
on their foes the vengeance they were too weak to
take alone.
" Another chief will lead the young men," said he,
260 THE LIFE KANSOM.
quietly ; " Laguiab's path is over the water, but be
must go alone. Let not Wabegwona weep as though
the sun were gone for ever. Day will come back to
pour sunshine on the darkened lake, and the drooping
Lily will raise her head again."
The night had passed away, and the morrow's sun
was shining gayly and brilliantly on the scene we first
described, and Seyton stood in the centre of that spot
of gleaming quartz, to take his last farewell of life,
and view calmly as he could the terrible preparations
for its close. How the thought of Wabegwona, and
of that distant home, whence the wild spirit of adven-
ture had lured him, came round him in that moment
when death in its most dreadful aspect stood before
him, and cruel hands, and savage looks, and taunting
words, surrounded him in that lonely and beautiful
spot, where he must close his eyes in agony, far
away from all he loved, with not one kind glance or
friendly voice to support him in the fearful hour of
trial !
Just as the signal for its commencement was to be
given, a youth, who had accompanied the war party
to serve as an unsuspicious-looking scout, approached
the chiefs, and intimated that a stranger claimed the
privilege of entering and leaving the camp immolested.
THE LIFE RANSOM. 261
Safe conduct was accorded, and in a few minutes a
young Indian advanced into the circle of expectant
warriors, with the haughty step and lofty air of one
accustomed to be honored and obeyed. Despite the
usual self-control of such assemblages, the name of
"Laguiab!" ran in wondering tones around the
circle.
" The Winnebagoes looked for Laguiab," said an old
chief, with a hidden sneer. "Had he flown up into
the sky, or dived like an otter into the lake, when
the war-whoop was sounding through the woods?"
" Laguiab has followed the Winnebagoes," said he
coldly, " to ask if they ever heard his name."
" It is the name of a brave warrior," replied the
Winnebago. " There is no greater in his nation."
The dark eye of the Ottowa flashed proudly for a
moment, then he said, as coldly as before — " Would
the Winnebagoes like to boast to their women that
they had slain that warrior? or a pale-face whose
name they never heard ? "
"The path of Laguiab is open," replied the old chief.
" The Winnebagoes will not keep what is not theirs."
" Let the pale-face be as free as the wind which
wanders over the lake," said Laguiab, " and an Ottowa
chief will be the prisoner of his foes."
262 THE LIFE KANSOM.
The old chief waved his hand, and in an instant a
ready knife severed the thongs which bound Seyton
to' the stake.
"Laguiab! Laguiab ! this must not be !" exclaimed
the Englishman, springing to his side. " What have
I done, that you should die for me?"
A mournful smile flitted over the Ottowa's face.
He pressed Seyton's hand, and whispered in his ear :
" There is sorrow in the heart of Wabegwona, and
the eyes of Laguiab could not look upon her tears.
It is well — Laguiab is content. The voices of his
fathers are in his ears, calling him away, and an
Indian must follow to the Land of Spirits. Why
should he stay ? The light of Laguiab will shine
no more upon the night of the Ottowas ; but the
White Lily will be happy in the shelter that she
loves."
Then turning away, he spoke a few words to his
captors ; and before the Englishman well knew the
purpose of the Indians, who once more seized him,
he was speeding over the deep waters, far away from
the fatal spot where the life of Laguiab was being
paid the fearful price of his liberty.
And there, on the gold-bloom, was offered up to the
noble heart of the Ottowa chief, the sacrifice of a self-
THE LIFE RANSOM. 263
devotion, against which, not all the wealth, slumbering
in the untouched mine, could ever weigh. The next
tempest swept away the traces of the sacrifice ; and
Avhen we heard the tale, and looked upon the spot,
all was calm and bright, as though the passions of
man had never cast a shadow upon the earth, though
oven then the name of Laguiab was still loved and
wept over in one dwelling far away on the banks of
the St. Lawrence. And many, many more years must
glide into the past, ere the memory of that deed shall
die away, or it cease to be recounted to those, who,
like ourselves, may chance to rest in that wild but
lovely scene, amid their wanderings in the West.
WOMAN'S FAITH.
BY B. B. M.
•* Lady ! lie gives thee back the vow
He once might call his own ;
For fallen are his fortunes now,
And all his bright hopes gone.
Now poverty, thou peerless maid !
Rests on his noble brow."
She raised her tearful eyes and said —
*' I love him better now."
*• Lady ! the noble form ye loved
Is marr'd with care and woe ;
The step that once so graceful moved
Is thoughtful, sad, and slow.
He may not claim his promised bride,
He gives you back your vow."
" I love him still," she softly sighed,
" I love him better now."
woman's faith. 265
"I love him better now," she said,
" Though wealth and lands are gone,
Than when proud nobles homage paid,
Though now he's left alone.
Tell him that true love ne'er hath known
Change, when it loved before ;
Tell him the heart that was his own
Is his for evermore."
23
LESSONS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE,
BY MES. JAMES WHITTLE.
" What did my aunt mean, when she said to
you this morning that my education would never
be finished? Surely, mamma, I am not always to
remain at school. I am sure I often wish the time
were come, when, instead of having to leave you at
the end of every holiday, I could always stay with
you, dear mamma, and wait on you, and nurse you,
and try to amuse you, when you look so sad, and
so weary; and sometimes it seems to me that I learn
more in listening to you, and hearing you read to
me, than I do from all the regular lessons I learn
during the whole half-year. Do you know, mamma,
I remember every thing you tell me, while all that I
learn by heart, to say to Miss Brewster, is forgotten
in a minute. When shall I leave school, and be
always with you ? "
The little girl, as she asked this question, looked
LESSONS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 267
eagerly into lier mother's face, and saw that large
tears were rolling down her cheeks. Fearful lest
she had been the cause, she threw her little arms
round her neck, and kissed her again and again.
The mother raised her languid head from her pillow,
as she replied, " Fanny, sit down beside me, on the
sofa, and let me tell you what your aunt and I
mean, when we say that your education will never
be finished. While we live, we may still learn some-
thing, and the school in which you at present study
is only the first class in that wider school, the world,
in which, by-and-by, you will have to take your place,
— in which I, Fanny, am a scholar."
" You, mamma, a scholar ? Why, you are a woman
— a wise, grown-up woman. You have no lessons to
learn, no tasks to repeat, no punishments to bear,
no"—
" Stay, Fanny, I have all these. I have many
lessons to learn daily, many tasks to perform, many
punishments to endure. Do you think that I lie
here on this sofa, day after day, and month after
month, without learning any thing ? "
" Oh no, mamma ! You are always reading large,
wise books."
" Yes, my dear child ; but it is not always from
2G8 LESSOXS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.
books that we learn lessons in the great school I
told you of. Life is bestowed upon us by God ;
that great and good Being, who creates nothing in
vain, had some wise purpose in breathing into each
of us the breath of life ; it is for us to find out
what particular task God has apportioned to us ; to
learn what this is, is the important lesson which must
be studied in the great school of life."
" But, mamma," said Fanny, after a longer pause
than was usual with her, " how can a little girl hope
to find out what God intends her to do ? God cannot
care whether my lessons are said well or not ; what
can I do, that can please God, or show Him that I
am wishing to find out what He intends me to do ? "
" You can do what you know to be right in the school
in which you are for the present placed ; you can learn
to be obedient to those who are older and wiser than
yourself; you can be kind and affectionate to your
schoolfellows, willing to give up your own will to
theirs ; you can be careful not to resent any unkind
word which may be said to you ; you may help those
who are weaker than yourself; you may comfort any
who are unhappy ; and if, amongst your playfellows,
one has done a A\Tong action, you may, perhaps, by
kindly pointing out to her the harm she has done.
LESSONS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 269
induce her to strive in future to avoid all sin. These
duties, my little girl, belong to your position as a
schoolfellow ; and the same duties, rightly and faith-
fully discharged, make good men and women, good
servants and good masters, good parents and good
friends, good statesmen and good kings. Greater
duty there is none, whether in you, as a little child,
or in the queen upon her throne, than that you
should do unto others what you would wish others
to do unto you. And this, Fanny, is one of the
lessons that we all have to learn in the great school
of life. Another, and far more diiRcult one, is that
of bending our wishes to the will of our Father in
Heaven. You, who are happy and gay, to whom
sorrow seems a thing still far distant, a sort of
awful stranger, who may one day come into your
home, but who is as yet unknown to you, may
think it an easy thing to say those words, which
daily you repeat : ' Thy will be done ; ' but, Fanny,
dear, it needs a brave heart, and a firm trust in
God, to say that little sentence when sorrow really
comes ; when Death first enters our home, and takes
away the little girl from her mamma, or perhaps the
mother from her child ; then it is that we must learn
the hard task of submission ; and many are the tears
23*
270 LESSONS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.
that are shed ere that difficult lesson be learned. Or
it may be that sickness comes, as it has come to me,
Fanny, binding me like a prisoner, with fetters of pain,
to one spot ; depriving me of all my former pleasures,
and rendering me useless to others. To bear the pain
that never leaves me, to lie here, and never again
go forth into the fields with you, and show you the
glorious works of God, there set before us — to do
this, and be patient and content, and be able to say,
' Thy will be done,' is not an easy thing ; and this,
Fanny, is the lesson I study daily."
The little maiden's eyes were full of tears ; she
knelt beside the couch, hid her face in her mother's
bosom aflid was silent. Then looking up, a smile
brightened her sweet face, as she said, " And yet,
mamma, you are happy ; no one smiles as you do,
no one looks more cheerful ; " then, after a minute's
pause, she added, " Ah ! mamma, I see it all now ;
you have learned your lessons well, and as I am never
unhappy when I do and say all my governess requires
from me, so you are happy, because you have learned
to do and say all that God requires of you."
The mother smiled, and said, " Not all, my child ; "
but her heart was glad that Fanny had thus learned
one of the lessons of Life's Great School.
THE GAMBLEK.
BY ANNETTE BLASHFORD.
J LOVED her with a love profound,
Oh ! a love which made all seem
A blank, and desolation,
Save the halo round that dream !
I garner' d in my fond heart
Those happy thoughts of joy,
Which from their very freshness
Made me feel again a boy !
She was very fair to look on.
And I oft in fondness thought
That influence superhuman
Had that wond'rous beauty wrought.
Her eyes, they were so purely blue.
That when they skyward turned,
It seemed as Heaven sent down the light
Which there serenely burned.
272 THE GAMBLER.
Yet she forsook me ! prayers were vain
To change a foredoomed fate :
She bowed to Mammon ! life to me
Became a tedious weight!
We met and parted. Yes, she wept,
As though her heart too bled;
And when she left me, wreaths of snow
Had gathered o'er my head !
My hair was bleached in one short night;
Oh, she thinks not of the cause !
My bosom turned against mankind,
Whose worldly, unjust laws.
Make it no crime to doom the heart
To sorrow, gloom, and sin.
Because a rich man coveting
Our prize, with gold may win !
She married. On that fatal day
My birthright home I sold !
And with a maniac shout, I blest
Her darling idol. Gold!
" I'll buy forgetfulness," I cried,
" And love ; for that she's proved ; "
Yet somehow, though I squandered much,
Nc sorrow was removed !
THE GAMBLER. 273
I flew to cards, and wine, and dice,
Yet not one heart's pang stirred,
For even midst the wildest mirth,
Her soft, sad voice I heard.
It called to me with prayers and tears,
Beseeching me to think
Of the gulf which I was hanging o'er.
With ruin on its brink.
I often thought she loved me still,
And for her parents' sake.
Had taken up this weight of woe,
For them a home to make.
I saw her once, and in her eye
Arose a sudden dread;
I was so changed, remorseless fear
Visioned me from the dead!
I'm poor and ruined now, and all
Look coldly down on me ;
And every thing has past away,
Save that curst memory !
Around it, wreathe Jier golden curls,
I look on my silvered hair;
And think, — does she remember still I
Is she still loved, and fair?
LOVE AND AMBITION;
OK, THE OLD MAN AND THE HOSE.
It is not very long ago since the aged Marchese di
B — used to be seen occasionally within the walla
of our " fair Florence," * visiting her noble works of
art and aiding her Institutions by his counsels and his
liberality. This venerable man, after having spent the
flower of his years in the public service of his country,
and filled with credit the highest offices of the state,
had, on the approach of old age, withdrawn into an
honorable retirement, where his days rolled on in the
enjoyment of literary ease and kindly benevolence.
Rarely did he quit his beautiful "Villa, except for a
brief visit to some of the Italian cities, where he loved
to seek out the remains of antiquity, or to wander
through the noble picture-galleries, with which so
many of them abound. On such occasions, he was
• " Firenze la Bella."
LOVE AKD AMBIXXON. 275
■wont to leave behind him his numerous retinue of
servants, and set out in a modest equipage, accom-
panied only by a confidential valet, and a favorite
nephew, whose enthusiastic love of the heaux-aris
made him a suitable companion in such excursions.
One day they were visiting together a celebrated
picture-gallery. The guide who accompanied them
passed along from one chef-d'' CBUvre to another, des-
canting fluently on their various merits, and scarcely
deigning to stop a moment before any works of lesser
note. They stood before a painting of Titian's, and
the guide had commenced his accustomed panegyric,
when he perceived that the old gentleman was gazing
intently on a work of inferior merit, which hung close
to Titian's gorgeous painting. It represented a youth-
ful lady, simply yet elegantly clad, who was in the act
of placing in her bosom a rose, on Avhich she gazed
with a gentle smile, as if it were the bearer of some
message of kindness or of love. Her countenance
beamed with ingenuous candor, and the innocent
brightness of her glance added to the loveliness of her
features.
The old man appeared to be fascinated by the
portrait which absorbed his whole attention, so that he
allowed the guide to go on with his professional story
276 LOVE AND AMBITION.
without giving the slightest heed to what he was
talking about. The latter, observing this engouement,
stepped back a little, and pointing to the lady's
portrait, said aloud : " It must be conceded that this
also is a good painting. It is by Francisco Porbus,
a distinguished portrait painter. The subject is
unknown ; but it may readily be perceived that the
likeness is an admirable one, for it breathes life in
every feature. The position is full of grace . the
coloring of the flesh is faultless .... What transpa-
rency ! what light ! Observe the harmony subsisting
between the white robe and the dark upper garment,
although the tints contrast so strongly . . . . " But at
this moment, a gay young noble entered, with all the
airs of a fashionable connoisseur ; and the guide,
leaving his discourse unfinished, hastened to welcome
the new comer with a profusion of bows, leaving the
old man still entranced before the unknown portrait.
Rousing himself at length from his reverie, and
drawing a deep sigh, the Marchese addressed his
nephew, on whose arm he was leaning, and whom,
unconsciously, he had in the depth of his emotion
almost pressed to his bosom.
" Be not surprised," said the old man, " at the
lengthened contemplation I bestow upon this unknown
liOVE AND AMBITION. 277
picture. It revives the saddest and yet sweetest
emotion that was ever awakened within my breast. I
was like unto thee ; in all the vigor of my youth —
beloved by my parents — surrounded by every earthly
good — heedless about the future — little dreaming of
the luminous career (as flatterers call it) which I
should afterwards pursue. It was at sunset, in the
dear and joyous month of May, and I was walking
with a fellow-student in his garden. His only sister
was with us. Her features did not resemble this
lady's, but she had the same sweet and ingenuous
countenance, and like her, she was dressed with perfect
simplicity, unadorned, save by one beauteous rose
which she had gathered while we were standing
together gazing on the glorious sunset. I almost
mechanically plucked one from the same branch, and
after a few moments' silent admiration, we pursued
our walk. "While conversing together, my fair com-
panion's flower dropped out of her hand, whereupon I
hastily picked it up and offered her mine in its stead.
She accepted it with a smUe, and placed it in her
bosom, worn as is represented in the picture before us.
I cannot describe the happiness which at that moment
filled my breast : but too soon the impression wore
away, for it was about that time that I obtained my
24
278 LOVE AND AMBITION.
first official employment. It is true, that I accepted it
out of obedience to -my father's wishes, for no dream
of ambition had yet bewildered my mind ; but before
long its snares were successfully spread around me ;
and amid the smiles of princes, and the adulation of
courtiers, the image of my fair young friend gradually
faded out of my thoughts. I scarcely knew that I had
loved her, until, in a time of mental anxiety and deep
disappointment, I bethought me of the young maiden
and the rose. Her image floated across my vision,
like those refreshing waters which are often seen afar
off in the desert, but which vanish from the longing
gaze of the traveller as he approaches nearer unto
them. Even so did the idea of domestic love and
peace pass like a pleasing dream before me amid the
turmoils of public life ; but such moments of happy
thought were rare and fleeting. I had entered a
career of emulation, and could not bear to be sur-
passed by my rivals in fame. Titles, honors, wealth,
luxury, all these have I attained ; and yet, on looking
back at my long and brilliant course, my thoughts rest
with pleasure only upon the one bright yet tranquil
hour which preceded all this glory. Now, all is over
— early love .... manly ambition .... successful pride
.... But amid the many favors scattered around my
LOVE AND AMBITION. 279
path, I have slighted the only one which could have
brought a daily sunshine into my domestic life."
The old man ceased, and after a moment's pause, he
added, with a deep sigh : —
" My friend, when these eyes are closed in death,
suifer not a deceiving hand to record in marble that I
was great and good, and wise and happy ; but take
care, I charge you, to have a simple rose sculptured
upon mv tomb."
THE OLD YEW-TREE.
Oh ! solemn and dark is the old Yew-Tree,
That has braved a thousand years ;
In the churchyard it waveth gloomily
Amid the mourners' tears.
And its gnarled old boughs of massy mould
Have heard strange language spoken ;
What tales could their changeless age unfold,
"Were its lasting silence broken !
They have heard the merry joy-bells peal
For battles won triumphantly ; —
They have echoed the heavy passing-bell
When Death hath had the victory.
They have seen the gushing stream of mirth
Rolled back by the tide of sorrow,
And the joy, that a morning gave to birth,
All quenched in woe to-morrow.
THE OLD YEW-TKEE.
281
They have seen the pomp of the bridal day,
And beauty by true love won;
They have watched the widowed mother pray
O'er the grave of her only son.
Oh! mournful thoughts dwell around the Yew,
'Neath its black and mossy shade ;
But ages pass, — it rests green and true,
While stately forests fade.
And though the Yew Tree hath entwined its root
Round the dead, where they peaceful lie,
Yet its fadeless branches upward shoot.
Emblems of immortality !
THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS.
[translated from the DANISH.]
" Each time that a good child dies, an Angel of
God comes down to earth, takes the dead child in
his arms, spreads abroad his large snow-white wings,
flies forth over all those places which the child had
loved, and plucks a whole handful of flowers, which
he bears upwards with him to the throne of God,
that they may bloom there in yet greater loveliness
than they had ever bloomed on earth. The good
God folds all these flowers to His bosom, but upon
the flower which He loveth best, He breathe^ a kiss,
and then a voice is given to it, and it can ^ in in
the song of universal blessedness."
Lo, all this did an Angel of God relate, whilst he
bore a little child to Heaven ; and the child heard
as if in a dream, and the Angel winged his flight
over those spots in the child's home where the
little one had been wont to play, and they passed
THE ANGEL AKD THE FLOWEKS. 283
through gardens which were filled with glorious
flowers,
" Which of all these shall we take with us, and
plant in Heaven?" asked the Angel.
Now there stood in the garden a slender and
beautiful rose-tree, but a wicked hand had broken
the stem, so that its boughs hung around it withered,
though laden with large half-unfolded buds.
"The poor Rose-tree!" said the chUd ; "let us
take it with us, that it may bloom above there in
the presence of God."
And the Angel took the rose-tree, and kissed the
child because of the words it had spoken ; and the
little one half opened his eyes. They then plucked
some of the gorgeous flowers which grew in the
garden, but they also gathered the despised butter-
cup, and the wild heart's-ease.
" Now then we have flowers ! " exclaimed the child,
and the Angel bowed his head ; but he winged not
yet his flight towards the throne of God. It was
night — all was still — they remained in the great city,
they hovered over one of the narrow streets in which
lay heaps of straw, ashes, and rubbish, for it was
flitting day.
Fragments of plates, broken mortar, rags, and old
284 THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS.
hats, lay scattered around, all whicli bore a very
uninviting aspect.
The Angel pointed out in the midst of all this
confused rubbish, some broken fragments of a flower-
pot, and a clump of earth which had fallen out of it,
and was only held together by the withered roots of
a wild-flower, which had been thrown out into the
street because it was considered utterly worthless.
" We will take this with us," said the Angel ; " and
I will tell thee why, as we soar upwards together to
the throne of God."
So they resumed their flight, and the Angel thus
related his story : —
" Down in that narrow street, in the lowest cellar,
there once dwelt a poor, sick ooy ; from his very
infancy he was almost bed-ridden. On his best days,
he could take two or three turns on crutches across
his little chamber, and that was all he could do. On
a few days in summer, the beams of the sun used to
penetrate for half an hour to the floor of the cellar ;
and when the poor boy sat there, and let the warm,
sun shine upon him, and looked at the bright red
blood flowing through his delicate fingers, as he held
them before his face, then was it said of him ' He
has been out to-day.' A neighbor's son used always
THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 285
to bring him one of the young boughs of the beet h-
tree, when it was first budding into life, and this
was all he knew of the woods in their beauteous
clothing of spring verdure. Then would he place
this bough above his head, and dream that he was
under the beech-trees, where the sun was shining,
and the birds were singing. On one Spring day, the
neighbor's son also brought him some wild flowers,
and amongst these there happened to be one which had
retained its root, and for this reason it was placed in a
flower-pot and laid upon the window-sill quite close to
the bed. And the flower was planted by a fortunate
hand, and it grew and sent forth new shoots, and bore
flowers every year ; it was the sick boy's most precious
flower-garden — his little treasure here on earth — he
watered it, and cherished it, and took care that the
very last sunbeam which glided through the lowly
wdndow, should shine upon its blossoms And these
flowers were interwoven even in his dre. ais — for him
they bloomed, for him they shed around t eir fragrance
and rejoiced the eye with their beauty; and when the
Lord called him hence, he turned, even in death,
towards his cherished plant. He has now been a year
with God, a year has the flower stood forgotten in the
window, and now it is withered, therefore has it been
2b6 THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS.
thrown out with the rubbish into the street. And this
is the flower, the poor withered flower which we have
added to our nosegay, for this flower has imparted
more joy than the rarest and brightest blossom which
ever bloomed in the garden of a queen."
" But how comest thou to know all this ? " asked
the child whom the Angel was bearing with him to
Heaven.
" I know it," replied the Angel, " for I was myself
the little sick boy who went upon crutches. I know
my flower well."
And now the child altogether unclosed his eyes, and
gazed into the bright glorious countenance of the
Angel, and at the same moment they found themselves
in the Paradise of God, where joy and blessedness for
ever dwel!
And God folded the dead child to His heart, and he
received wings like the other Angel, and flew hand in
hand with him. And all the flowers, also, God folded
to His heart, but upon the poor withered mid flower
He breathed a kiss, and a voice was given to it, and it
sang together with all the Angels which encircled the
throne of God ; some very nigh unto His presence,
others encompassing these in ever-widening circles,
until they reached into Infinity itself, but all alike
THE ANGEX AND THE FLOWEES. 287
were happy. And they all sang with one voice, little
and great ; the good, blessed child, and the poor wild
flower, which had lain withered and cast out amongst
the sweepings, and under the rubbish of the jflitting
day, in the midst of the dark narrow street.
SONNET.
BY CALDER CAMPBELL.
" No more, oh ! never more shall I retrace
Through seaward brae, and yonder sandy shore ! **
It was a prophecy, — for never more
Hath it been mine, in that dear native place,
To look on many a loved familiar face ;
For death hath oft been there, as sickness sore
With me, since then. — Yet memory, oft, before
Mine eyes doth set each scene, and fill each space
With objects of the past : autumnal fields.
Strewed with gold sheaves, where sleepy Ceres nods
'Neath the sun's smile, — stretches of heath that yields
Abundant honey, — moors, where hares abound.
And throbbing furzes, heat-struck, burst the pods,
Scattering ripe seeds amidst the moss around!
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