) > > 1 ■> 1 t c r c r t c c t r t t t < e « TBl'l TMOM^fi T. ASH C3355»mTT STKEST, THE WWM CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEARS PRESENT. PHILADELPHIA: THOMAS T. ASH— CHESTNUT STREET. 18 34. AYII ' ' ' , ' c' ' , ' , I ' ' I ' < ' ' .' ' ' ' c * t ' c c c "^ ' ' ' < Entered act:oi"d'in,T;.taAcf - TfiOMAa T. Ash, in the clerk's office of the district for the eastern district of Pennsylvania. A. WALDIK, PRINTER. PREFACE. In presenting to the public a new annual, the publisher has deemed it right and proper, that something novel and striking should appear in its character. The mezzotinto style of engraving, al- most new in this country, has been brought to great perfection in England, and has deservedly received the approbation of the public ; the mezzotinto plates m the Friendship's Offering have ever been con- sidered the most beautiful in the volume. It is therefore in that style that the American Offering will be presented. The publisher has not hesitated to give the finest plates that could be furnished, in the full confidence that a generous public would remunerate the heavy expense incurred in the work. ivi185448 4 PREFACE. Mr. J. Sartain, an artist already favourably- known to the public, has spared no pains to excel. Of the character of the literary contributions to our volume, the names of their respective authors will afford sufficient assurance. Every care and attention have been given to the mechanical department. The publisher will be pardoned therefore for hoping, that, as the present is, to a considerable extent, a costly and elaborate, it may also prove an acceptable Offering. CONTENTS. Introduction. Moonlight. The Philosopher with his Kite. Poetry. The Tournament. Old Maids. The Fountain. The Captive Bird. A Sketch. Facts and Fancy. The Brides of Venice. The Sunset Hour. Stanzas to the Memory of Sir Walter Scott. Look on that mountain. To my Father in Heaven. The Whirlwind. The Sybil's Cave. The Alps. The Promise. The School in an Uproar. The Leaf To an Infant on its Birth-day. Page. 7 C. W. T. 9 H. F. Gould. 10 Mrs. Sigourney. 12 Author of "The Aris- tocrat." 13 Miss Sedgwick. 17 J. Houston Mifflin. 47 A. D. W. 49 J. J. G. 51 T. H. 56 Rogers' " Italy." 87 Kate. 88 C. W. Thomson. 89 A. D. W. 91 Kate. 94 H. F. Gould. 95 Anna B 98 Willis G. Clark. 105 107 Mrs. Hughs. 157 H. F. Gould. 164 Mrs. Hughs. 166 Q CONTENTS. Pago. Les Epoux. Mrs. Sedgwick. 1G8 The Pilgrim. Mrs. Sigourney. 197 To the Wind. C. H. W. 198 Emeline. Mrs. Hughs. 200 Lines to a young lady. A. D. W. 220 Woman's Love. 222 Death of Raphael. T. H. 225 Fairies. E. S. R. 232 The Dahlia and the Mignonette. Anna. 236 An Address to my Heart. 239 The Interview. Robert Morris. 242 The Learned Man. 244 EMBELLISHMENTS. 1. Presentation Plate. 2. Moonlight. 3. Vignette Title. 4. The Tournament. 5. The Fountain. 6. The Brides of Venice. 7. The Alps. 8. The Village School. 9. The Pilgrim. 10. Death of Raphael. 11. The Interview. Mezzotinted by J. Sartain. (( (( (( (( (( (( i( (( Engraved by W. Keenan. Mezzotinted by J. Sartain. (( ■ -> J INTRODUCTION. ADDRESSED TO THE LADIES. To you, wlio alone can give charms to the eartli, And fill it with pleasures and beauties, — Who refine us with sentiment, cheer us with mirth, And make sweet delights of our duties; To you, who can give inspiration to wit, And brighten the features of sorrow, — Who the old shaken mansion of age can refit. And smooth every wrinkle and furrow ; To you, who can fashions create with a nod. When fancy your favour engages, — Wliose finger of scorn is a chastening rod, Which baffles the wisdom of sages ; — This Offering we bring. Oh ! disdain not to smile, But give it a place on your table ; For you can at once all our terrors beguile. And to Hope prove an anchor and cable. No dull prosing sermons before you we bring, Nor will with philosophy bore you ; But flowers sweet and rare, from the fancy which spring. And from hearts that admire and adore you. t^ r r , r c,^ c c c •^ trc.TioN. Yet all is as artless and pure as yourselves ; Not a word will call rouge to your faces, Save such rouge as the Loves, those young sly little elves, Call to add to your numberless graces. Taste, sentiment, Vvit, have combined their best powers, To charm, to amuse, to excite you. While Love, gentle Love, brings his bouquet of flowers, And exerts all his skill to delight you. And when from the husband, the lover, or friend, You receive, as a proof of affection, The Offering, oh, say what emotions must blend With the gift, and cement the connection ! And how sweet, as you turn o'er its pages, to think Such love as you there see depicted. In large copious draughts, you, too, freely may drink. Nor by judgment nor conscience restricted. How sweet is the thought which this book is design'd To keep ever lively before you, — Tliat, absent or present, your friends still are kind, And your husbands or lovers adore you. Then take to your hearts what we lay at your feet. And our efforts to please you still cherish ! Oh, cast on our " Offering" your smiles, ever sweet ; For without them, alas, it must perish ! MOONLIGHT. O how soft, like snow descending, On the earth the moonlight falls ! Mid the solemn arches bending. Shining o'er the massy walls I Day's bright beam is all too glaring Such a picture to express, Where the scenes of art are wearing Time's serene and solemn dress. When the hand of age has sprinkled Moss and ivy all around. And the spot, by winters wrinkled. Seems a kind of haunted ground, Show it not 'neath day's broad pinion. Flaring through the summer sky ; But amid the moon's dominion, Feast the contemplative eye. Then the hidden springs of feeling Gush unbidden from the heart, And, the beautiful revealing, Cherish nature, brighten art. C. W. T. 10 THE PHILOSOPHER WITH HIS KITE, BY H. F. G OULD. Flying a kite ! — at a childish play ! — Is Franklin mad ? Have the noble powers Of his mind been crushed ? Is this the way A wise philosopher spends his hours ? " I am not mad," he calmly said, Who gave the line to his silken kite, As into the regions of air she sped, And pulled for more in her daring flight. " I'm going to do what none has done Since man has breathed, or the spheres have whirled- To show the lightning where to run, And turn its point for the rising world. " The secret sparks that the vapours wrap In their dusky folds, I'm going to bring Across my kite, with her iron cap. And down to me on a hempen string. THE PHILOSOPHER WITH HIS KITE. n " For, ere yon sable cloud shall wink, I '11 make her carry her head so nigh To its sable face, she shall reach and drink From the fiery stream of its awful eye. " In truth and soberness, now, I aim (Though none before me has aimed so far) To lead the electric wildfire tame Out of the cloud to fill my jar. " The debt I will bring on the world is such As the greatest and richest never can pay, Till, for ages to come, they shall do as much, As, flying my kite, I do to-day I" 12 " Lo ! God hath given thee all them that sail with thee." .^cts xxvii. 24. Father, who o'er time's boisterous tide, A precious bark art steering, — Mother, who, anxious, near his side, Each distant storm art hearing, — Bind ye the promise to your breast, Thus by the angel spoken ? BeHeve ye that your circle blest Shall gain the port unbroken ? Wide sever'd on tlieir voyage course. Some idol-child ye cherisli, Mid stranger-seas and billows hoarse, Far from your side, may perish : Still trust ye o'er these waves of care To meet in God's communion ? — Oh, be your life a sleepless prayer To gain that deathless union I When, stranded on yon fatal shore. Time's last faint watch-light burneth. And lone ye seek that shadowy bourne From whence no foot returneth, — Then be the souls that with you sail'd To your embraces given ; And may you trace each graven name On the bright scroll of Heaven I L. H. S. #-*§- .(ft #... .it jiSL^SC- 13 THE TOURNAMENT. A field of red emblazonry is bursting- on the sight — Of glittering gem, of lady fair, and steed, and g-allant knight, — Stern, bearded men, all sheathed for strife — and breasts of softer mould — Dark, twisted mail, and love-lit smiles — pennons, and clotli of gold. Lo I tliere be virgins, round whose waists the jewell'd belt entwines, And in their hands, held gallantly, the glittering dagger shines ; And there be chiefs, yea, men of blood, well skilled the sword to wield, With lady-scarfs on every breast, love- tokens on each shield. Saint Mary, patroness of peace ! Oh what a sight is here I — What trumpet-clangs, and Babel-cries, and tumults stun the ear ! 14 THE TOURNAMENT. And thou, thou dragon-crested saint I — in this, thy battle- rite. What ruby lips and sparkling eyes are urging to the fight I And whence is this — where warriors grim, unblushing, strive to kneel ? And whence is this — where maidens fair preside o'er steed and steel ? And whence is this — where feudal chiefs unbend their stately pride — Where Life and Death, and Love and War, seem seated side by side ? Whence comes this scene of joyous strife, of courtly jest and jar — This gaudy plume that dances o'er the iron helm of war ? It is — it is the tournament — that pageant wild and high. Where glory seeks to gild her beams from woman's glanc- ing eye I Up — up I the signal trump is heard, tlie heralds cry amain, Charger and crest are reeling now, and spears are rent in twain. And shouts and clanging blows resound, and mingled cries between — Hurrah I the very fates might shriek for joy at such a scene I THE TOURNAMENT. I5 Even beauty pants with hope and fear ; for waves that vir- gin throng-, Like bending roses when the wind too rudely sweeps along ; And banners stream, and sparkling eyes gaze fearfully below — Saint George for merry England ! — was ever such a show ? Marked ye yon knight whose azure scarf is fluttering at his breast. Whose gilded spurs are red with gore, whose lance still holds its rest ? Even as he urged his matchless steed, he stooped in mid career, Till plume and mane were blent in one. Some Lady Blanche was near — Some Queen of Beauty and of Love ; and as he darted on, In all that gay and glittering throng he thought of her alone ; And love for her, his other self, hath couched his lance aright — The Lady Blanche, she nerved his arm — 't was she that won the fight. Again the herald shout is heard — the trumpet blast is blown ; Champion and steed, careering, rush, o'erthrowing and o'erthrown, IQ THE TOURNAMENT. And spears lie splinter'd on the ground, and crests are beaten in, And maule, and lance, and sword are there, the doubtful strife to win. And many a fair white hand is wav'd, and cheeks grow pale above. And gaudiest silks are wildly flung, and mystic signs of love ; And batter'd forms, and frantic steeds, and tumults swell below — Saint George for merry England ! — was ever such a show ? 17 OLD MAIDS " To be the mistress of some honest man's house, and the means of making neighbours happy, the poor easy, and relieving strangers' Is the most creditable lot a young woman can look to, and I heartily wish it to ail here." Pirate. " Mrs. Seton, Emily Dayton is engaged to Wil- liam Moreland !" " To William Moreland. Well, why should she not be engaged to William Moreland ?" " Why should she rather 1" " I know not Emily Dayton's ' why,' but ladies' reasons for marrying are as ' thick as blackberries.' A common motive with girls under twenty is the eclat of an engagement — the pleasure of being the heroine of bridal festivities — of receiving presents — of being called by that name so enchanting to the ima2:ination of a miss in her teens — ' the bride." " But Emily Dayton, you know, is past twenty." " There is one circumstance that takes place of all reason — perhaps she is in love." " In love with William Moreland ! No, no, Mrs. B 13 OLD MAIDS. Seton — there are no 'merry wanderers of the night' in these times to do Cupid's errands, and make us dote on that which we should hate." " Perhaps then, as she is at a rational age, three or four and twenty, she may be satisfied to get a kind sensible protector." " Kind and sensible, truly ! He is the most testy, frumpish, stupid man you can imagine." "Does she not marry for an establishment?" " Oh no ! She is perfectly independent, mistress of every thing at her father's. No, I believe her only motive is that which actuates half the girls — the fear of being an old maid. This may be her last chance. Despair, they say, makes men mad — and I believe it does women too. "It is a fearful fate." " An old maid's ? Yes, most horrible." " Pardon me, Anne, I did not mean that ; but such a fate as you anticipate for Emily Moreland — to be yoked in the most intimate relation of life, and for life, to a person to whom you have clung to save you from an abyss, but whom you would not select to pass an evening with. To such a misery there can be no ' end, measure, limit, bound.' " " But, my dear Mrs. Seton, what are we to do ? — all women cannot be so fortunate as you are." OLD MAIDS. 29 " Perhaps not. But so kind is the system of com- pensation in this life — such the thirst for happiness, and so great the power of adaptation in the human mind, that the conjugal state is far more tolerable than we should expect when we see the mismated parties cross its threshold. Still there can be no doubt that its possible happiness is often missed, and such is my respect for my sex, and so high my estimate of the capabilities of married life, that I cannot endure to see a woman, from the fear of being an old maid, driven into it, thereby forfeiting its highest blessings." " You must nevertheless confess, Mrs. Seton, that there are terrors in the name." "Yes, I know there are; and women are daily scared by them into unequal and wretched connec- tions. They have believed they could not retain their identity after five and twenty. That unless their individual existence Avas merged in that of the superior animal, every gift and grace with which God has endowed them would exhale and leave a ' spec- tral appearance' — a sort of slough of woman — an Aunt Grizzle, or Miss Lucretia McTab. I have lived, my dear Anne, to see many of the mists of old superstitions melting away in the light of a better day. Ghost is no longer a word to conjure with— 20 OLD MAIDS. witches have settled down into harmless and un- harmed old women ; and I do not despair of living to see the time when it shall be said of no woman breathing, as I have heard it said of such and such a lady, who escaped from the wreck at the eleventh hour, that she ' married to die a Mrs.'' " " I hate, too, to hear such things said^ but tell me honestly, Mrs. Seton, now when no male ears are within hearing, whether you do not, in your secret soul, think there is something particularly unlovely, repelling and frightful, in the name of an old maid." " In the name, certainly ; but it is because it does not designate a condition but a species. It calls up the idea of a faded, bony, wrinkled, skinny, jaun- diced personage, whose mind has dwindled to a point — who has outlived her natural affections — survived every love but love of self, and self-guarded by that Cerberus suspicion — in whom the follies of youth are fresh when all its charms are gone — who has retained, in all their force, the silliest passions of the silliest women — love of dress, of pleasure, of admiration ; who, in short, is in the condition of the spirits in the ancients' Tartarus, an impalpable es- sence tormented with the desires of humanity. Now turn, my dear Anne, from this hideous picture to OLD MAIDS. 21 some of our acquaintance who certainly have missed the happiest destiny of woman, but who dwell in light, the emanation of their own goodness. I shall refer you to actual living examples — no fictions." " No fictions, indeed, for then you must return to the McTabs and Grizzles. Whatever your philan- thropy may hope for that most neglected portion of our sex, no author has ventured so far from nature as to portray an attractive old maid. Even Macken- zie, with a spirit as gentle as my Uncle Toby's, and as tender as that of his own ' Man of Feeling,' has written an essay in ridicule of ' old maids.' " " And you are not perhaps aware, Anne, that he has written a poem called the ' Recantation,' and dedicated it to his single daughter, a most lovely woman, who was the staff and blessing of his old age. In your wide range of reading cannot you think of a single exception to the McTabs and Grizzles ?" " Miss Farrer's ' Becca du Guid,' but she is scarcely above contempt, trampled on by the chil- dren, and the tool of their selfish and lazy mammas." " There is one author, Anne, the most beloved, and the most lamented of all authors, who has not ventured to depart from nature, but has escaped pre- judice, and prejudice in some of its most prevailing 22 OLD MAIDS. forms. He has dared to exhibit the Paynim Saladin as superior to the Christian crusader. He has dis- pelled the thick clouds that enveloped the 'poor Israelite,' the most inveterate of all prejudices, transmitted from age to age, and authorised by the fancied sanctions of religion. I said the clouds were dispelled, but do they not rather hang around the glo- rious Rebecca, the unsullied image of her Maker, as the clouds that have broken away from the full moon encircled her, and are converted by her radiance to a bright halo ?" " Mrs. Seton ! Mrs. Seton ! you are, or I am, get- ting lost in all this mist and fog. What have Pay- nims and Jews to do with old maids? I do not remember an old maid in all Sir Walter's novels, excepting, indeed, Alison — Martha Trapbois — Meg Dods — one of Monkbarns' womankind, and Miss Yellowley, a true, all-saving, fidgetting, pestering old maid, and the rest of them are entertaining but certainly not very exalting members of any sister- hood." " But these are not my examples, Anne. I confess that they are fair examples of follies and virtues that, if not originated, are exaggerated and made conspi- cuous by single life. I confess too that for such foibles matrimony is often a kind and safe shelter. OLD MAIDS. 23 But to my examples. Sir Walter— and who is more poetically just than Sir Walter ?— has abandoned to the desolate, tragic, and most abhorred fate of old maids, his three first female characters— first in all respects, in beauty, in mind, in goodness, first in our hearts. The accomplished Flora M'lvor— the peerless Rebecca, and the tender, beautiful Minna." " Bless me ! I never thought of this." " No, nor has one in a thousand of the young la- dies who have admired these heroines laid the moral of their story to heart. Perhaps not one of the fair young creatures who has dropped a tear over the beautiful sentence that closes the history of Minna,* has been conscious that she was offering involuntary homage to the angelic virtues of an old maid. The very term would have wrought a disenchanting spell" " I confess, Mrs. Seton, I am in what is vulgarly called a ' blue maze.' My perceptions are as imper- fect as the man's in scripture v/ho was suddenly cured of blindness. Besides I was never particu- * '! Thus passed her life, enjoying', from all who approached her, an affection enhanced by reverence, insomuch that when her friends sorrowed for her death, which arrived at a late period of her exist- ence^ they were comforted by the fond reflection, that the humanity which she then laid down, was the only circumstance which had placed her, in the words of scripture, ' A little lower than the angels.' " 24 OLD MAIDS. larly skilful at puzzling out a moral ; will you have the goodness to extract it for me 1" " Certainly, Anne, as I am the lecturer, this is my duty. First, I would have young ladies believe that all beautiful and loveable young women do not of course get married — that charms and virtues may exist, and find employment in single life — that a single woman, an old maid, (I will not eschew the name,) may love and be loved if she has not a hus- band, and children of her own, I would have her learn that if, like Flora M'lvor, she has been sur- rounded by circumstances that have caused her thoughts and affections to flow in some other channel than love, she need not wed a chance Waverly to escape single life ; that if, like Rebecca, she is sepa- rated by an impassable gulf from him she loves, she need not wed one whom she does not love, but like the high souled Jewess she may transmute ' young Cupid's fiery shafts,' to chains that shall link her to all her species ; and if, like poor Minna, she has thrown away her affections on a worthless object, she may live on singly and so well, that she will be deemed but ' little lower than the angels.' " After all it is not such high natures as these that need to be fortified by argument, or example. They are born equal to either fortune. But I would en- OLD MAIDS. 25 treat all my sex— those even who have the fewest and smallest gifts— to reverence themselves, to re- member that it is not so much the mode of their brief and precarious existence that is important, as the careful use of those faculties that make exist- ence a blessing here, and above all hereafter, where there is certainly ' no marrying, nor giving in mar- riage.' " But I am growing serious, and of course, I fear, tiresome to young ears." " Oh, no, no, Mrs. Seton. These are subjects on which girls are never tired of talking nor listening ; besides, you know you promised me some examples —such as Miss Hamilton and Miss Edgeworth, I suppose." " No, Anne, these belong to the great exceptions I have mentioned, ' equal to either fortune,' who, in any condition, would have made their ' owne re- nowne, and happie days.' " I could adduce a few in our own country, known to both of us, who are the ornament of the high circles in which they move ; but for obvious reasons I select humble persons — those who, like some little rivulet unknown to fame, bless obscure and sequester- ed places. There is Violet Flint — I always wonder- ed how she came by so appropriate a name. That little 25 OLD MAIDS. flower is a fit emblem for her — smiling in earliest spring, and in latest fall — requiring no culture, and yet rewarding it — neglected and forgotten when the gay tribes of summer are caressed, and yet always looking from its humble station with the same cheer- ful face— bright and constant through the sudden reverses of autumn, and the adversity of the rough- est winter. Such is the flower, and such is Violet Flint. But as I am now in realities, I must call her by the old maidenish appellation that, spoiling her pretty name, they have given to her, ' Miss Vily.' She lives, and has for the last twenty years liv^ed, with her brother Sam. He married young, a poor invalid, who, according to Napoleon's scale of merit, is a great woman, having given to the common- wealth nine or ten — more or less — goodly sons and daughters. After the children were born, all care of them, and of their suffering mother, devolved on Violet. Without the instincts, the claims, the rights, or the honours of a mother, she has not only done all the duties of a mother, but done them on the sure and broad basis of love. She has toiled and saved, and made others comfortable and enjoying, while she performed the usually thankless task of ordering the economy of a very frugal household. She has made the happy happier, tended the sick, OLD MAIDS. 27 and solaced the miserable. She sheltered the weak, and if one of the children strayed she was the apologist and intercessor. With all this energy of goodness the cause is lost in the blessed effects — she never appears to claim applause or notice. She is not only second best ; but when indulgence or pleasure is to be distributed, her share is last and least — that is, according to the usual selfish reckon- ing. But according to a truer and nobler scale, her amount is greatest, for she has her share in what- ever happiness she sees in any living thing. " How many married dames are there who repeat every fifteen minutes, my husband, my children, my house, and glorify themselves in all these little personalities, who might lay down their crowns at the feet of Violet Flint '.—Miss Vily, the old maid. " The second example that occurs to me, is Sarah Lee. Sarah has not, like Violet, escaped all the peculiarities that are supposed to characterise the ' Singlesides.' With the chartered rights of a mar- ried lady to fret, to be particidar, and to have a way of her own, her temper would pass without observation ; but being an old maid, she is called, and I must confess is, rather touchy. But what are these sparks, when the same fire that throws 23 OLD MAIDg. them off keeps warm an overflowing stream of benevolence ? — look into her room." " Oh, Mrs. Seton ! I have seen it, and you must confess it is a true ' Singleside' repository." " Yes, I do confess it — nor will I shrink from the confession, for I wish to select for my examples, not any bright particular star, but persons of ordinary gifts, in the common walks of life. Had Sarah been mar- ried she would have been a thrifty wife, and pains- taking mother, but she wore away her youth in devotion to the sick and old — and now her kindness, like the miraculous cruise, always imparting and never diminishing, is enjoyed by all within her little sphere. Experience has made her one of the best physicians I know. She keeps a variety of labelled medicines for the sick, plasters and salves of her own compounding, and materials with which she concocts food and beverages of every description, nutritious and diluent; in short, she has some remedy or solace for every ill that flesh is heir to. She has a marvellous knack of gathering up frag- ments, of most ingeniously turning to account what would be wasted in another's hands. She not only has comfortables for shivering old women, and well patched clothes for neglected children, but she has always some pretty favour for a bride — some kind OLD MAIDS. 29 token for a new-born baby. And then what a refuge is her apartment for the slip-shod members of the family who are in distress for scissors, penknife, thimble, needle, hook and eye, buttons, a needle-full of silk or worsted of any particular colour. How many broken hearts she has restored with her inex- haustible glue-pot — mending tops, doll's broken legs, and all the luckless furniture of the baby-house — to say nothing of a similar ministry to the ' minds dis- eased' of the mammas. Sarah Lee's labours are not always in so humble a sphere — ' He who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before,' says a political economist, ' is a benefactor to his race.' If so, Sarah Lee takes high rank. " Two blades of grass ! Her strawberry beds produce treble the quantity of any other in the vil- lage. Her potatoes are the ' greatest yield' — her corn the earliest — her peas the richest — her squashes the sweetest — her celery the tenderest — her raspber- ries and currants the greatest bearers in the country. There is not a thimble-full of unoccupied earth in her garden. There are flowers of all hues, seasons, and climes. None die — none languish in her hands. " My dear Anne, I will not ask you if an exist- ence so happy to herself, so profitable to others, 30 OLD MAIDS. should be dreaded by herself, neglected or derided by others. Yet Sarah Lee. is an old maidy '• You are, I confess, very happy in your instances, Mrs. Seton, but remember the old proverb, ' one svi^allow does not make a summer.' " " I have not done yet — and you must remember that in our country, where the means of supporting a family are so easily attained, and when there are no entails to be kept up at the expense of half a dozen single sisters, the class of old maid is a very small one. Many enter the ranks, but they drop off in the natural way of matrimony. Few maintain the ' perseverance of saints.' Among those few is one, who, when she resigns the slight covering that invests her spirit, will lay down ' all she has of humanity' — our excellent friend, Lucy Ray. " She is now gently drawing to the close of a long life, which I believe she will offer up without spot or blemish. She began life with the most fra- gile constitution. She has had to contend wiih that nervous susceptibility of temperament that so natu- rally engenders selfishness and irascibility, and all the miseries and weaknesses of invalidism. Not gifted with any personal beauty, or grace, she was liable to envy her more fortunate contemporaries. Without genius, talents, or accomplishments to at- OLD MAIDS. 31 tract or delight, she has often been slighted — and what is far worse, must have been always liable to the suspicion of slights. But suspicion, that creator and purveyor of misery, never darkened her serene mind. She has lived in others and for others with such an entire forgetfulness of self, that even the wants and weakness of her mortal part seem scarce- ly to have intruded on her thoughts. She has resid- ed about in the families of her friends — a mode of life which certainly has a tendency to nourish jea- lousy, servility, and gossipping. But for what could Lucy Ray be jealous or servile? She craved no- thing—she asked nothing, but, like an unseen, un- marked Providence, to do good ; and as to gossiping, she had no turn for the ridiculous, no belief of evil against any human being — and as to speaking evil, ' on her lips was the law of kindness.' You would hardly think, Anne, that a feeble, shrinking creature, such as I have described, and truly, Lucy Ray, could have been desired, as an inmate with gay young people, and noisy, turbulent children. She was always welcome, for, like her Divine Master, she came to minister — not to be ministered unto. " Lucy, like the Man of Ross, is deemed passing rich by the children, and an unfailing resource to the poor in their exigencies, though her income 22 OLD MAIDS. amounts to rather less than one hundred dol- lars. "We sometimes admire the art of the Creator more in the exquisite mechanism of an insect than in the formation of a planet, and I have been more struck with the power of religion in the effect and exaltation it gave to the humble endowments of this meek woman, than by its splendid results in such a life as Howard's. Lucy Ray, by a faithful imitation of her master, by always aiding and never obstruct- ing the principle of growth in her soul, has, through every discouragement and disability, reached a height but ' little lower than the angels ;' and when her now flickering light disappears, she will be la- mented almost as tenderly (alas ! for that almost) as if she were a mother; and yet, Anne, Lucy Ray is an old maid.'''' "You half persuade me to be one too, Mrs. Seton." " No, Anne, I would by no means persuade you or any woman to prefer single life. It is not the ' primrose path.' Nothing less than a spirit of meek- ness, of self renunciation, and of benevolence, can make a woman who has once been first, happy in a subordinate and second best position. And this under ordinary circumstances is the highest place OLD MAIDS. 33 of a single woman. Depend upon it, my dear young friend, it is safer for most of us to secure all the helps to our virtues that attend a favourable position ; besides, married life is the destiny Heaven has allot- ted to us, and therefore best fitted to awaken all our powers, to exercise all our virtues, and call forth all our sympathies. I would persuade you that you may give dignity and interest to single life, that you may be the cause of happiness to others, and of course happy yourself — for when was the foun- tain dry while the stream continued to flow? If single life, according to the worst view of it, is a moral desert, the faithful, in their passage through it, are refreshed with bread from Heaven, and water from the rock. I shall conclude with a true story. The parties are not known to you. The incidents occurred long ago, and I shall take the liberty to assume names ; for I would not, even at this late day, betray a secret once confided to me, though time may long since have outlawed it. INIy mother had a school- mate and friend whom I shall call Agnes Grey. Her father was a country clergyman with a small salary, and the blessing that usually attends it — a large family of children. Agnes was the eldest, and after her followed a line of boys, as long as Ban- c 34 OLD MAIDS. quo's. At last, some ten years after Agnes, long waited and prayed for, appeared a girl, who cost her mother her life. " The entire care of the helpless little creature devolved on Agnes. She had craved the happi- ness of possessing a sister, and now, to a sister's love, she added the tenderness of a mother. Agnes' character was formed by the discipline of circum- stances — the surest of all discipline. A host of turbulent boys, thoughtless and impetuous, but kind- hearted, bright, and loving, had called forth her exertions and affections, and no one can doubt, either as lures or goads, had helped her on the road to heaven. Nature had, happily, endowed her with a robust constitution, and its usual accompaniment, a sweet temper ; so that what were mountains to others, were mole hills to Agnes. ' The baby,' of course, was the pet lamb of the fold. She was named, for her mother, Elizabeth; but, instead of that queenly appellation, she was always addressed by the endearing diminutive of Lizzy. Lizzy Gray was not only the pet of father, brothers, and sister at home — but the plaything of the village. " The old women knit their brightest yarn into tippets and stockings for ' the minister's motherless little one' (oh, what an eloquent appeal was in OLD MAIDS. 35 those words !) the old men saved the ' red cheeked' apples for her — the boys drew her, hour after hour, in her little wagon, and the girls made her rag babies. Still she was not in any disagreeable sense an enfant gaUe. She was like those flowers that thrive best in warm and continued sunshine. Her soft hazle eye, with its dark sentimental lashes, the clear brunette tint of her complexion, and her grace- ful flexible lips, truly expressed her tender, loving, and gentle spirit. She seemed formed to be shelter- ed and cherished — to love and be loved ; and this destiny appeared to be secured to her by her devoted sister, who never counted any exertion or sacrifice that procured an advantage or pleasure for Lizzy. When Lizzy was about fourteen, a relative of the family, who kept a first rate boarding school in the city, offered to take her for two years, and give her all the advantages of her school, for the small con- sideration of fifty dollars per annum. Small as it was, it amounted to a tithe of the parson's income. It is well known, that, in certain parts of our coun- try, every thing (not always discreetly) is sacrificed to the hobby — education. Still the prudent father, who had already two sons at college, hesitated — did not consent till Agnes ascertained that by keep- ing a little school in the village she might obtain 36 OLD MAIDS. half the required sum. Her father, brothers, and friends all remonstrated. The toils of a school, in addition to the care and labour of her father's family, was, they urged, too much for her — but she laughed at them. ' What was labour to her if she could benefit Lizzy — dear Lizzy!' All ended, as might be expect- ed, in Lizzy going to the grand boarding school. The parting was a great and trying event in the family. It was soon followed by a sadder. The father sud- denly sickened and died — and nothing was left for his family but his house and well kept little garden. What now was to be done ? — College and schools to be given up ? — No such thing. In our country, if a youth is rich he ought to be educated ; if he is poor, he must be. The education is the capital whereby they are to live hereafter. It is obtained in that mysterious but unfailing way — ' by hook and by crook.' " The elder Grays remained in college — Agnes enlarged her school — learned lessons in mathematics and Latin one day, and taught them the next, took a poor, accomplished young lady from some broken down family in town into partnership, and received a few young misses as boarders into her family. Thus, she not only was able to pay ' dear Lizzy's' bills regularly, but to aid her younger brothers. Her OLD MAIDS. 37 energy and success set all her other attractions in a strong light, and she was admired and talked about, and became quite the queen of the village. " I think it was about a year after her father's death, that a Mr. Henry Orne, a native of the vil- lage, who was engaged in a profitable business at the south, returned to pass some months at his early home. His frequent visits to the parsonage, and his attentions, on all occasions, to Agnes, soon became matter of very agreeable speculation to the gossips of the village. ' What a fine match he would be for Agnes ! — such an engaging, well-informed young man, and so well off!' Agnes' heart was not steel ; but though it had been exposed to many a flame she had kindled, it had never yet melted." " Pardon me, Mrs. Seton, for interrupting you — was Agnes pretty ?" " Pretty ? The word did not exactly suit her. At the time of which I am now speaking, she was at the mature age of five and twenty ; which is called the perfection of womanhood. Prettiness is rather appropriate to the bud than the ripened fruit. Agnes, I have been told, had a fine person — symme- trical features, and so charming an expression that she was not far from beautiful, in the eyes of stran- gers, and quite a beauty to her friends and lovers. 38 OLD MAIDS. Whether it were beauty, manners, mind, or heart, I know not — one and all probably — but Henry Orne soon became her assiduous and professed admirer. Till now Agnes had lived satisfied and happy with subordinate affections. She had never seen any one that she thought it possible she could love as well as she loved those to whom nature had allied her. But now the sun arose, and other lights became dim — not ' that she loved Caesar less, but she loved Rome more.' Their mutual faith was plighted, and both believed, as all real lovers do, that the world never contained so happy, so blessed a pair, as they were. " Lizzy's second year at school was nearly ended, and one month after her return the marriage was to be solemnised. In the mean time Agnes was full of the cares of this world. The usual preparations for the greatest occasion in a woman's life are quite enough for any single pair of hands, but Agnes had to complete her school term, and the possibility of swerving from an engagement never occurred to her. " Lizzy arrived, as lovely a creature as she had appeared in the dreams of her fond sister. In the freshness and untouched beauty of her young exist- ence, just freed from the trammels of school, her OLD MAIDg. 39 round cheek glowing with health, and her heart overflowing with happiness. ' Here is my own dear Lizzy,' said Agnes, as she presented her to Henry Orne, ' and if you do not love me for any thing else, you must for giving you such a sister.' " Henry Orne looked at Lizzy and thought, and said, ' the duty would be a very easy one.' ' For the next month,' continued Agnes, ' I shall be in- cessantly occupied, and you must entertain one an- other. Henry has bought a nice little pony for me, Lizzy, and he shall teach you to ride, and you shall go over all his scrambling walks with him — to Sky- cliff, Rose-glen, and Beech-cove — the place he says nature made for lovers ; but my poor lover has had to accommodate himself to my working day life, and woo me in beaten paths.' " The next month was the most joyous of Lizzy's life, every day was a festival. To the perfection of animal existence in the country, in the month of June, was added the keen sense of all that physical nature conveys to the susceptible mind. " Wherever she was, her sweet voice was heard ringing in laughter, or swelling in music that seem- ed the voice of irrepressible joy — the spontaneous breathing of her soul. To the lover approaching his marriage day Time is apt to drag along with 40 OLD MAIDS. leaden foot, but to Henry Orne he seemed rather to fly with Mercury wings at his heels ; and when Agnes found herself compelled by the accumulation of her affairs, to defer her wedding for another month, he submitted with a better grace than could have been expected. Not many days of this second term had elapsed, when Agnes, amidst all her cares, as watch- ful of Lizzy as a mother of an only child, observed a change stealing over her. Her stock of spirits seemed suddenly expended, her colour faded — her motions were languid, and each successive day she became more and more dejected. ' She wants rest,' said Agnes to Henry Orne ; ' she has been unnaturally ex- cited, and there is now a reaction. She must remain quietly at home for a time, on the sofa, in a darken- ed room, and you, Henry, I am sure, will, for my sake, give up your riding and walking for a few days, and stay within doors, and play on your flute, and read to her.' Agnes' suggestions were promptly obeyed, but without the happy effect she anticipated. Lizzy, who had never before had a cloud on her brow, seemed to have passed under a total eclipse. She became each day more sad and nervous. A tender word from Agnes — sometimes a look, would make her burst into tears. " ' I am miserable, Henry,' said Agnes, ' at this OLD MAIDS. 41 unaccountable change in Lizzy — the doctor says she is perfectly free from disease — perhaps we have made too sudden a transition from excessive exer- cise to none at all. The evening is dry and fine, I wish you would induce her to take a little walk with you. She is distressed at my anxiety, and I cannot propose any thing that does not move her to tears.' " ' It is very much the same with me,' replied Henry, sighing deeply, ' but if you wish it I will ask her.' He accordingly did so — she consented, and they went out together. " Agnes retired to her own apartment, and there, throwing herself upon her knees, she entreated her Heavenly Father to withdraw this sudden infusion of bitterness from her brimming cup of happiness. ' Try me in any other way,' she cried, in the inten- sity of her feeling, and, for the first time in her life, forgetting that every petition should be in the spirit of ' Thy will be done,' ' try me in any other way, but show me the means of restoring my sister — my child to health and happiness !' " She returned again to her little parlour. Lizzy had not come in, and she sat down on the sofa near an open window, and resigned herself to musings, the occupation, if occupation it may be called, of the idle, but rarely, and never of late, Agnes ! 42 OLD MAIDS. " In a few moments Lizzy and Henry returned, and came into the porch, adjoining the parlour. They perceived the candles were not lighted, and concluding Agnes was not there, they sat down in the porch.' " ' Oh, I am too wretched I' said Lizzy. Her voice was low and broken, and she was evidently weeping. ' Is it possible,' thought Agnes, ' that she will express her feelings more freely to Henry than to me ? I will listen. If she knows any cause for her dejection, I am sure I can remove it.' " ' Why, my beloved Lizzy,' replied Orne, in a scarcely audible voice, ' will you be so wretched- why will you make me so, and for ever, when there is a remedy ?' " ' Henry Orne !' she exclaimed, and there was resolution and indignation in her voice. ' If you name that to me again, I will never, so help me God, permit you to come into my presence without witnesses. No, there is no remedy, but in death. Would that it had come before you told me you loved me — before my lips confessed my sinful love for you — no, no — the secret shall be buried in my grave.' " ' Oh, Lizzy, you are mad — Agnes does not, can- not love as we do. Why sacrifice two to one ? Let OLD MAIDS. 43 me, before it is too late, tell her the whole, and cast myself on her generosity.' " ' Never, never — I now wish, when I am in her presence, that the earth at her feet would swallow me up ; and how can you, for a moment, think I will ask to be made happy— that I could be made happy, at her expense ? No, I am willing to expiate with my life, my baseness to her — that I shall soon do so is my only comfort — and you will soon forget me — men caia. forget, they say — ' " ' Never — on my knees, I swear never !' — " ' Stop, for mercy's sake, stop. You must not speak another such word to me— I will not hear it.' She rose to enter the house. Agnes slipped through a private passage to her own apartment. " She heard Lizzy ascending the stairs. She heard Henry call after her, ' One word, Lizzy— for mercy's sake, one last word.' But Lizzy did not turn. Agnes heard her feebly drag herself into the little dressing-room adjoining their apartment, and after, there was no sound but the poor girl's suppressed, but still audible sobs. " None but He who created the elements that com- pose the human heart, and Avho can penetrate its mysterious depths, can know which of the sisters was most wretched at that moment. To Agnes who 44 OLD MAIDS. had loved deeply, confidingly, without a shadow of fear or distrust, the reverse was total. To Lizzy who had enjoyed for a moment the bewildering fer- vours of a young love, only to feel its misery, that misery was embittered by a sense of wrong done to her sister. And yet it had not been a willing, but an involuntary and resisted, and most heartily re- pented wrong. She had recklessly rushed down a steep to a fearful precipice, and now felt that all access and passage to return was shut against her. Agnes without having had one dim fear — without any preparation, saw an abyss yawning at their feet — an abyss only to be closed by her self-immolation. " She remained alone for many hours — she re- solved — her spirit faltered — she re-resolved. She thought of all Lizzy had been to her, and of all she had been to Lizzy, and she wept as if her heart would break. She remembered the prayer that her impatient spirit had sent forth that evening. She prayed again, and a holy calm, never again to be disturbed, took possession of her soul. " There is a power in goodness, pure self-renounc- ing goodness, that cannot be ' overcome, but over- cometh all things.' " Lizzy waited till all was quiet in her sister's room. She heard her get into bed, and then stole OLD MAIDS. 45 softly to her. Agnes, as she had done from Lizzy's infancy, opened her arms to receive her, and Lizzy pillowed her aching head on Agnes' bosom, softly breathing,—' My sister— mother !' " ' My own Lizzy — my child,^ answered Agnes. There was no tell-tale faltering of the voice. She felt a tear trickle from Lizzy's cold cheek on to her bosom, and not very long after both sisters were in a sleep that mortals might envy, and angels smile on. " The rest you will anticipate, my dear Anne. The disclosure to the lovers of her discovery, was made by Agnes in the right way, and at the right time. Every thing was done as it should be by this most admirable woman. She seemed, indeed, to feel as a guardian angel might, who, by some remission of his vigilance, had suffered the frail mortal in his care to be beguiled into evil. She never, by word, or even look, reproached Lizzy ! She shielded her, as far as possible, from self-reproach, nor do I be- lieve she ever felt more unmixed tenderness and love for her, than when, at the end of a few months, she saw her married to Henry Orne. " My story has yet a sad supplement. Madame Cotin, I believe it is, advises a story teller to close the tale when he comes to a happy day, for, she says, it is not probable another will succeed it. 46 OLD MAIDS. Poor Lizzy had experience of this sad mutability of human life. Hers was checquered with many sor- rows. " Lapses from virtue at eight and twenty, and at sixteen, afford very different indications of the cha- racter ; and I think you cannot expect much from a man, who, at eight and twenty, acted the part of Henry Orne. He was unfaithful in engagements with persons less merciful than Agnes Gray. He became inconstant in his pursuits — self-indulgent, and idle, and finally intemperate, in his habits. His wife — as wives will — loved him to the end. " Agnes retained her school, which had become in her hands a profitable establishment. There she laboured, year after year, with a courageous heart, and serene countenance, and devoted the fruit of all her toils to Lizzy, and to the education of her chil- dren. " I am telling no fiction, and I see you believe me, for the tears are trembling in your eyes — do not repress them, but permit them to embalm the me- mory of an old maid.'''' J 3 » 5 3 3 : t c c t c c c c c c*^ t c c c c c c ..^V<¥" SHIS iF > » iTV ijv ^»xXmxi\. S31ia IBl£.S5S)l^g ®5F "^^^TESTSCSSl o 87 THE BRIDES OF VENICE. " At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, Rising and rolling on, announced their coming ; And never from the first was to be seen Such splendour or such beauty. Two and two (The richest tapestry unrolled before them), First came the brides in all their loveliness ; Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids foUow'd, Only less lovely, who behind her bore The precious caskets that within contain'd The dowry and the presents. On she moved, Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers. Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone. Ruby, or diamond, or dark amethyst ; A jewell'd chain, in many a winding wreath. Wreathing her gold brocade." Rogers' Italy. 88 THE SUNSET HOUR. Oh ! come to me at the sunset hour, When the dew just bathes the early flower — When the tired day shall have sunk to rest, Like a weary child in the glowing west. And see, as its fading tints depart, What a calmness steals o'er the fervent heart — As the softer light which its shadows leave, But lengthens the bright and the star-eyed eve. Oh ! come to me at the sunset hour, When the dew-drops fall like a summer shower — When the whispering winds are as soft and free As the air that blows o'er the tranquil sea. There 's a toneless voice in the evening breeze, As it gently sighs through the waving trees : 'Tis a sacred sound, and its murmurs deep As the spirit breathes in a troubled sleep. Oil I come to me at the sunset hour. Oh I come, ere the moon shall assert her power ; Then come, oh come, in the light and shade. Which the mingled eve and the daylight 's made. Kate. 89 STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OFSIR WALTER SCOTT BY C. W. THOMSON. The harp of Scotia lies in dust, — For he who woke its magic strings Has now resigned his noble trust, To slumber 'mid departed things. Death has usurped the wizard's chair, And broke the wand, whose potent spell, With art at once serene and rare. Has witched the world so long and well. O who, alas ! shall lead us forth. Wild Fancy's fairy regions o'er, Since he, the wonder of the North, The great Enchanter, is no more ? While nature's charms delight bestow, Or feeling has a pulse to beat. Thy worth shall future ages know. And coming days thy praise repeat. 90 STA^'ZAS. When Time his errant course has sped, Far, far into that unknown sea, Whose waves roll onward, dark and dread. To swell a vast eternity, Haply some lover still shall sigh At Ravenswood's lamented fate. And turn to gaze with kindling eye On Kenilworth's imperial state — Or some fair maid shall fondly weep The loveliest of Scotia's queens, And steal the night from banished sleep, To trace the worth of Jeanie Deans. The flush of manhood's sunburnt cheek, In gentle eyes the smile or tear, Long of thy magic charm shall speak. And bless thee still through many a year. Peace to thy ashes ! — though thy name May bow to words of loftier pride, I 'd rather own thy honest fame. Than over conquered worlds to stride. 91 LOOK ON THAT MOUNTAIN! But he, ******** Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. Byron , Look on that mountain ! See its graceful sweep Around the sweet south west ! Toward that mount My thoughts have often sped, as pilgrims haste To seek the prophet's shrine. Whene'er mine eye Was pain'd with reading long the book of care, Or when hope's magic fount, no longer gush'd, To lave my fev'rish brain, then, then, I 've turned To thee, fair mount, mine eye. Oft, when the spring Had breath'd upon thee, I have v/atch'd thy trees, Their leaves unfold, now slow, as if they fear'd To trust the air, which woo'd their fond embrace ; And then, as 't were by magic, each appear'd, Robed in a verdant mantle, while the breeze. Which woke among their tops the song of joy. Stole through my casement, laden with the breath Of fragant birch and maple. To thee I 've looked. 92 LOOK ON THAT MOUNTAIN. When on the grassy slopes, to which thou seem'st An high tower of defence, the summer's sun Darted his burning rays. Then, fancy heard Among tliy sylvan bow'rs, the cooling gush Of fountains, sparkling midst thy stones, o'ergrown With emerald moss, or trickling down thy rocks, With clinging vines enwreath'd. In autumn too. When near man's dwelling, many trees bow'd low, As 't were to do him homage, while they brought Their ripen'd off'ring, I have look'd to thine. Standing erect, and proudly, deigning not To bow like slaves to man. Yes, in the hour E'en of decay, their brilliant robes defied Man's boasted skill, while glorious they appear 'd, As spirits robed in light, ere yet they leave This earth, for realms above. Nor is this all ! I 've seen thy form in winter, when the sun In glory sunk behind thee, while against The glowing sky, thy highest trees were seen Resting with outline perfect, as tiiey were Pillars of ebony, inwove with gold : And helping to sustain the curtain broad Spread over land and sea. E'en such to me, Thou 'st been, fair mount! but such to me no more I For now, alas I — alas ! — LOOK ON THAT MOUNTAIN. 93 Thy beauty is fled ! And thy glory is o'er, For thy trees are all dead, And we see them no more ! Thy robe is now faded ; Thy rocks are all bare. No longer they 're shaded, No longer thou 'rt fair. No more doth each bird Find its favourite tree. And no longer is heard Their sweet song of glee. Thy flowers are all wither'd, Thy fountains are dry — Hath a hurricane shiver'd Those trees once so high ? No ! man hath dcspoil'd thee I He came in his power ! Of thy crown he bereft thee — He hath taken thy dower : And now thou remainest. Rough, barren, and lone. To the winds thou complainest, And makest thv moan. 94 TO MY FATflER IN HEAVEN. Wliere, where shall mine eye, When weary, now turn ? Like that star from the sky. Which may never return. One light is now faded Which gladden'd my way — And my pathway is shaded, Without its bright ray. A. D. W. Stockbridge, Mass. May, 1833. TO MY FATHER, IN HEAVEN. And dost thou, blessed shade, behold thy child, From yon high heaven with looks of placid love ? Dost thou behold in her, a being, fit To meet thee in those peaceful realms above ? Oh I let thy mild example teach my heart. That I the paths of error still may shun. And let my spirit wander with thine own. In yon bright dwelling of the " Three in One." Oh ! may pure faith illume my darken'd path, That when this earthly pilgrimage is o'er. My spirit hails thee at that heavenly goal, Where all is peace, and we shall sin no more. Kate 95 THE WHIRLWIND. BY H. F. GOULD. " Whirlwind ! whirlwind ! whither art thou hieing, Snapping off the flowers young and fair, Setting all the chaff and the withered leaves to flying, Tossing up the dust in the air ?" " I," said the whirlwind, " cannot stop for talking I Give me up your cap, my little man. And the polished stick that you will not need for walking, When you run to catch them — if you can ! " Yonder pretty maiden — none has time to tell her That I 'm coming, ere I shall be there I I shall twirl her zephyr, snatch her light umbrella, Seize her hat, and brush her glossy hair !" On went the whirlwind, having many capers One would hardly deem it meet to tell — Pufiing priest and lawyer, flirting gown and papers, Discomposing matron, beau, and belle. 96 THE WHIRLWIND. Whisk ! from behind, come the long and sweeping feather. Round the head of old chanticleer ! Plumed and plumeless bipeds felt the blast together, In a way they would n't like to hear. Snug in an arbour sat a scholar musing Calmly o'er the philosophic page ; " Flap !" went the leaves of the volume he was using, Cutting short the lecture of the sage. " Hey !" said the book-worm, " this, I think, is taking Rather too much liberty with me ! But I '11 not resent, it ; for I 'm bent on making Use of every thing I hear and see. " Many, I know, will not their anger stifle, When as little cause as this, they find, To let it kindle up ; but minding every trifle, Is profitless as quarrels with the wind. " Forth to his business, when the whirlwind sallies. He is all alive to get it done — He on his pathway never lags or dallies, But is always up and on the run. " Though ever whirling, never growing dizzy. Motion gives him buoyancy and power : THE WHIRLWIND. 97 AH who have known him, own that he is busy, Doing much in half a fleeting hour. " Oh ! there is nothing, when our work 's before us. Like despatch I for, while our time is brief. Some sweeping blast may suddenly come o'er us. Lose our place and turn another leaf. " Whirlwind ! whirlwind .' though you 're but a flurry. And so odd the business you pursue — Though you have come and are off" in such a hurry, I have caught a hint ! and so, adieu I" LOVE OF COUNTRY. The Swiss boasts of his lakes and high mountains ; the Cambrian of his vales and his valleys ; while the Scot mentally beholds with admiration and affection, even at the most distant region of the Antipodes, the environs of Perth, the w^aterfalls of the Clyde, and the windings of the Forth ; the ruins of lona, the crags of the Hebrides, the romantic scenes of Loch Lomond, and the heaths and glens of the Grampians. G 98 THE SYBIL'S CAVE. [A rude and gloomy cavern. In the centre an altar of stone, on which burns an iron lamp. The Sybil stands beside the altar. Seve- ral figures appear at the entrance of the cave. The Sybil signs to the females to approach ; the cavaliers remain at the entrance.] SYBIL. What would ye with the Sybil ? Is not youth Elastic in your limbs ? — does not health bloom On the rich crimson of your delicate cheeks, And beauty's signet stamp each ivory brow ? Health, Youth, and Loveliness. Come nearer, maidens — Yes — in those gentle eyes smiles Innocence. Guilt sends no spectre from the shadowy past. And Hope, twin-born of Youth, paints fairer futures, Than sad Experience, with her pencil dipt In her own tears, dare sketch. Go, maidens, go — Home to your couches — in your vesper prayers Adore the mercy that unveils to view The passing hour alone. MARGUERITE. Sybil, we cannot — We seek thy cave to hear thy oracle. And will not shrink, although its voice be thunder. THE SYBIL'S CAVE. 99 SYBIL. Aye, maiden — art so fearless ? — Let me gaze On thy blue eyes one moment — Not from me, Oh ! not from me canst thou life's lesson read. Go to thy father's hall — the stately mirror Portraits thee faithfully — thy slender form, Thy snowy hand, and fairy foot, look on them. The sunlike braids that gleam above thy brow, The Parian neck, the cheek, whose roses blush Bright as the flowrets of a poet's dream — Ha ! maiden, is that crimson but the glow Of modesty at its own praise confounded ? How are thy charms bestow'd ? — Ask thy own heart, And let its answers be thy oracle. How are thy young charms bestow'd ? Lov'st to thorn a rival's road ? Are thy witching beauties worn First to win and then to scorn ? Is thy life a meteor's flight, ■ Aimless, useless, as 'tis bright? Then the doom decreed to thee, Like that meteor's flight shall be. Even in brightness deathward tending. Brief career, and gloom-rapt ending. But, despising Fashion's toys, Lov'st thou calm domestic joys ? 100 THE SYBIL'S CAVE. When thou tastest Pleasure's draught, Is the cup in temperance quaff 'd ? Canst thou own a rival's merit ? Praise receive with humble spirit ? Seek'st to soothe a father's care ? Seek'st a mother's toils to share ? Like the hopes of spring shall be All the hopes that smile on thee. Fair to flowers their buds shall blow, Rich to fruit their blossoms grow. Now the magic flame burns low. Thy fate is spoken — Maiden, go. GENEURA. Sybil, upon thy altar do I throw These gems of price — SYBIL. Take back thy offering. What are earth's gems to me ? The Power I serve Needs not, and I disdain them. Fated girl I Yon path leads to thy home — Be wise in time. And hasten hence unanswered. GENEURA. Sybil, no. Thy fearful words but quicken my desire. What is my doom ? — I can both hear and bear it. THE SYBIL'S CAVE. 101 SYBIL. From past to future, lo ! the clouds roll back, Much hast thou borne, and much hast thou to bear. I see the snow-flakes strewn by Sorrow's hand On the rich darkness of thy raven locks. Oh ! heavy cares will bend that queenly form, Soul-wasting tears those radiant eyes must shed ; And sighs, the Siroc of the heart, must wither The ripeness of thy lip. Alas, for thee I False friend, harsh obloquy, and shattered fortune, Thou 'st borne, and bravely — but the poison'd shaft That gives thy peace its never-healing wound. Is aimed by Love. GENEURa. Stern Prophetess, the pride Of woman's heart is potent as its fondness. SYBIL. Girl, when the Spartan boy conceal'd the fangs That tore his breast, think'st thou he felt them less ? GENEURA. He perish'd uncomplaining — so can I. SYBIL. Maid of the lofty heart ! if human will Could govern destinies, tliine would be bright. f ,t r '^ ^ ( ^ ( ( ( 102 THE SYBIL'S CAVE. GENEURA. I. take that augury — let meaner souls Submit to Fate, I '11 be her conqueress. [Geneura and' Marguerite retire. The Sybil beckons the cavaliers to come forward, and addresses Diego.] Why cam'st thou here, fond dreamer ? To my cave Found'st thou an easy path ? — DIEGO. The steep ascent Eye, foot, and hand, all task'd, and hardly too. SYBIL. Think'st thou Fame's summit without labour won ? Thy limbs were wearied on these lofty rocks. But he who climbs to her bright throne, must feel The SpiriVs weariness, and if he gain The glittering heights, he gains them, but to find That all is barren there. Go to thy cot — Cherish the hearts that love thee, and believe The truly Great are but the truly Good. [Diego retires — the Sybil addresses Juan.] What stake is thine in life's eventful game ? THE SYBIL'S CAVE. 103 JUAN. Little, good Prophetess, but my true sword. My stainless honour, and a name, that if I found not great, I am resolv'd to leave so. SYBIL. Be what thou canst be — keep that high resolve, And the bright meed is won. Lo I the dark sea Is tossing fearfully — wild raves the wind. And wilder sounds are mingled with its voice. The shout, the shriek, — was that a thunder-peal ? Was that a storm-cloud ? — aye — the storm of war, The cloud of human passions. Crimson stains Are darkening the blue flood ; a starry flag Gleams through swart smoke — bright weapons flash and ring, One hero form leads on to victory, One Hero Form — Young stranger, it is thine I Lo ! the green forest, and that form is there. Genius has twin'd the war-crown on his brow With fadeless Amaranth, and Love, oh I Love Will wreathe a myrtle for the Hero Bard. SEBASTIAN. Sweet accents these, and golden-hued predictions, Sybil, unroll thy magic page once more. And read Sebastian's fate. 104 THE SYBIL S CAVE. SYBIL. Thy fate, dark man I Thou bloody and relentless I as thy thoughts, So shall thy fate be. Guilt shall dig the pit. And Treachery conduct the victim there. Who wrapt Velasco in a bloody shroud ? Who heard the lost Elena's dying shriek? No more ! no more ! fierce spectres glare around me, And hissing blood-drops quench the sacred fiame. The powers of evil that have wrought thy will Claim with wild rage their slave. No more — Begone 1 Anna B . Pensacola, Florida, Sept. 6th, 1832. ^I:l.v.i^;- ■K-. r 4A 105 THE ALPS. BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. Proud monuments of God ! sublime ye stand Among the wonders of his mighty hand : With summits soaring in the upper sky, Where the broad day looks down with burning eye ; Where gorgeous clouds in solemn pomp repose, Flinging rich shadows on eternal snows: Piles of triumphant dust, ye stand alone. And hold, in kingly state, a peerless throne ! Like olden conquerors, on Iiigh ye rear The regal ensign, and the glittering spear : Round icy spires the mists, in wreaths unroll'd, Float ever near, in purple or in gold : And voiceful torrents, sternly rolling there, Fill with wild music the unpillar'd air : What garden, or what hall on earth beneath. Thrills to such tones, as o'er the mountains breathe ? There, through long ages past, those summits shone When morning radiance on their state was thrown ; 106 THE ALPS. There, when the summer day's career was done, Play'd the last glory of the sinking sun ; There, sprinkling lustre o'er the cataract's shade, The chastened moon her glittering rainbow made ; And blent with pictured stars, her lustre lay. Where to still vales tlie free streams leap'd away. Where are the thronging hosts of other days. Whose banners floated o'er the Alpine ways ? Who, through their high defiles, to battle, wound, While deadly ordnance stirred the heights around ? Gone — like the dream that melts at early morn, When the lark's anthem through the sky is borne : Gone — like the wrecks that sink in ocean's spray, — And chill Oblivion murmurs — Where are they ? Yet " Alps on Alps" still rise ; — the lofty home Of storms and eagles, where their pinions roam : Still round their peaks the magic colours lie, Of morn and eve, imprinted on the sky ; And still, while kings and thrones shall fade and fall, And empty crowns lie dim upon the pall ; Still shall their glaciers flash — their torrents roar — 'Til kingdoms fail, and nations rise no more. Philadelphia. 107 THE PROMISE. A GERMAN TALE OF THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR. ToAvards the end of the Seven Years' war, on a stormy winter evening, a loud knocking was heard at the gate of the parsonage of a lonely village. " For God's sake," whispered the scared wife to her husband — " for God's sake! let us extinguish the candles and keep ourselves quiet, that the marauders may think the house deserted, and begone." "Or" — hastily interrupted her husband — " because they are of that opinion, knock in the doors and windows, and, finding us here, repay us the lie with murder and pillage. Fie, Susan ! how can fear thus blind thy understanding — No!" added he, "honesty is the best of policy ! We are men, and they who are without, are men likewise ; thus we are both under the guardianship of Him, without whose will not a single hair shall fall from our heads. I'm coming !" cried he, as he unbolted the door, in answer to those who now more and more vociferously demanded admittance. 208 '^HE PROMISE. ." Where has the tempest carried the old parson?" exclaimed, with a deep and menacing voice, a tall man of wild aspect, on horseback, who was follow- ed by two attendants. " On the contrary," smilingly rejoined the collect- ed minister, " the weather seems to have kept me at home, on purpose that I might bid you welcome." The officer, for such he was, appeared to smile at this answer. Preparations were made to help him down. He was wounded, and carried his left ami in a sling. In the meantime, Susan had composed her mind a little, placed the arm-chair by the fire side, and sent her maid servant into the kitchen and cellar. Drip- ping with snow and rain, and his teeth chattering from cold and fever, the soldier at length entered. " Your rank and name, sir," enquired the cler- gyman, " that I may send for the surgeon of the nearest regiment". " It is unnecessary," replied the officer roughly, " my servants will take care of that. As to myself, my rank is Colonel, and my name is De Hallenburg." With these words, throwing himself into the chair, he had himself divested of his cartouch-box and sword, and directed the sleeve to be cut off from the bleeding arm. THE PROMISE. 109 One of his servants, examining the wound, pro- nounced it his opinion that the arm was broken, inasmuch as he could feel the fragments. " Curse on it," cried the officer ; " I shall again be laid up for some time. Meanwhile, Joseph, you may dress my arm, and to-morrow bring me the executioner of the nearest battalion." This being done, the colonel wrapped himself, as well as he could, in the parson's fur robe, and without even once replying to any of the kind offers of Susan or her husband, drank one or two cups of the tea which he had brought with him. He then asked for his Turkey-pipe, and sternly and steadily gazing at the blaze, he at one time enveloped himself in clouds of bluish smoke ; while, lost in thought, at another he appeared willing to let the pipe go out. The attempts of the clergyman to entertain his sullen guest were unavailing ; and upon asking permission to light a pipe also, a simple nod of the head was the only reply. Contented to be silent, he seated himself opposite the colonel, and watched him closely, which he could do the more undisturbed, as the former did not, in the least, seem conscious of his presence. He was a tall and handsome man, with noble features, which might have been called pleasing, had it not been 110 THE PR03IISE. for the air of melancholy upon his forehead, and the bitter sarcastic expression of his mouth. The clergyman took him for a man of about thirty-six, or forty at farthest. On the ring-finger of his finely turned but nervous hand, there shone a ring, garnished with superb stones. Strange thoughts, it would seem, crossed his mind ; for, at one moment, he would sigh deeply, at another smile sarcastically ; at intervals he seemed to utter an oath, and again he appeared engaged in conversation with himself. Upon a sudden, however, he started up — " Talk, parson ! I want to be entertained." " Alas !" sighed he — " with what shall I enter- tain you, sir ? The times in which we live are by no means entertaining." " Then you have undergone a good deal, I sup- pose ?" " Indescribable ! for situated as we are, close upon the frontier, to-day we have to submit to this party, and to-morrow to the other. Yet we could get along tolerably well with the regulars ; but the volunteer corps, and particularly the dread- ful Croatians, are the real children of Satan ! Murder, pillage, and sacking are their daily work. Incessantly harassing the enemy, they disregard THE PROMISE. Ill death, and methodically, as it were, pursue their bloody trade." " Ha ! ha ! ha !" — savagely laughed the colonel — " I recognise my gallant band I" " What, for heaven's sake ! — pardon me, sir, I beseech you !" " Don't be uneasy, parson. Your speeches are lost in the storm, nor do they stop a single drop of blood, drawn by our keen-edged swords ; and be- sides, the complaining part may well be allowed you. Yes, sir, I am the commander of a Croatian regiment, and rejoice to learn that we are dreaded. In times of war the soldier is, like a thunder storm, not made for sport. Go on with your story, for, as I've already observed, I like to hear it. Which were your hottest days?" " About three months ago," resumed the minis- ter, " the firing and fighting had ceased ; the Prus- sians, as well as the Austrians, had been alternately victorious. Ultimately, however, the latter carried the day, but left the village, in order to occupy a stronger position. They were followed, on the same evening, by a body of red coats. It was ab- solutely impossible to furnish Avhat, under the most dreadful threats, they insisted upon being produced, within the short space of two hours. Our suppli- 112 THE PROMISE. cations — nay ! our very despair — these fiend-like men seemed to be delighted with. While the one half were engaged in plundering the village, the other hastened to the castle ; and soon enough were our ears struck with the lamentations of the servants, and the reports of guns, after which we perceived a thousand firebrands illuminating the night. " I happened to have in my house some of the wounded of both armies, which induced the angels of death to pass by my cottage, without molesting it in any way ; but the corpses of the slain peasantry had sufficiently marked their footsteps. It was rumoured, that the owner of the castle, suspected of a treasonable correspondence with the enemy, had been carried to head-quarters. In vain did his servants offer their lives for the liberty of their noble lord " " Well," exclaimed the colonel, with considera- ble warmth, " if he was capable of that, he is a villain, deserving to be hanged on the nearest tree, which I presume " " Hush," said the minister, with folded hands, while, at the same time, he threw a significant side-glance upon a little girl, who, in some domes- tic avocation, was at that moment crossing the THE PROMISE. |23 room. •' That is his daus^hler whom he entrusted to our care, while he was absent, employed in the cause of suffering humanity. She is an angel of benevolence !" " To be sure," grinned the colonel, maliciously — " an angel, as they all are, resembling the deril to a hair ; and what is the name of this angel ?" " Isidora de Friburg !" " Thunder and lightning !" — interrupted the colo- nel ; and rushed with one leap towards the corner, where his sword was suspended, which he hastily unsheathed, crying ferociously: " Where am I? — What is the name of that cursed dras^on's nest upon the hill ?" -' Castle Friburg, the seat of glorious and merito- rious- " Hush with your panegyric, which your stu- pidity has awarded to villany ! — Friburgh ? — ha I ha ! now I begin to understand the reason why I must lose myself in the woods, cut through the enemy's patrols, and have my arm shattered, in order that I might fall in with the daughter of yon- der smooth tongued and faithless villain. O fate ! how dost thou rekindle the half extinguished fire ! Bring the girl here !" " Oh, sir," entreated the minister, '• show mercy !" H 214 THE PR031ISE. " Bring her here — or upon my oath, my sword shall cut through your scull, as if it were a wither- ed turnip ; the girl I shall direct my Croatians to put to death, and your wife shall be roasted by the fire of your own hut ! Here with the girl !" With these words he made a motion towards the door. " I '11 bring her," cried the parson — and recom- mended her to the protection of the Almighty. " Isidora, dearest child, come to me !" Isidora threw herself into the arms of her foster father, down whose deadly pale cheeks flowed the silent tears of anguish. " Pray for thy life," whispered the clergyman, '' an enemy of thy father is determined to avenge himself on thee." " O God !" exclaimed Isidora, upon her knees — ■' have mercy upon me, a poor child ! gracious Lord, have mercy !" The enraged colonel held the glittering sword high over Isidora, Avho, pale-faced and mute, her hands folded — her eyes lifted upwards, seemed rather to address herself to heaven than to the colonel. The minister looked forward to the most awful moment of his life. " No !" cried the colonel, — " live, miserable crea- ture ! there is a yet sweeter revenge than thy death!" THE PROMISE. 115 With a contemptuous look he then thrust the sword into its scabbard, and threw himself into the arm-chair again, resting his head upon his hand. " May I live ?" asked Isidora. " Thou may est — nay ! thou shalt live for my most exquisite vengeance !" And drawing her close to himself, he steadfastly looked into her dark and inspired eyes. " Yes" — he broke silence at length — " these were her looks ! but, alas ! treachery dwelt in those angelic features— frivolity and coquetry in those dove-like eyes !" He appeared to struggle against some inward emotion, and, after a few mo- ments, inquired in a calmer tone : " Understandest thou music ?" " I sing a little to the lute." " Well then bring the instrument." She soon returned and took a seat opposite the colonel. The blaze of the fire was strangely reflected upon her beauteous countenance. With the reviving hope of life, the rosy tint of youth and innocence had returned to her velvet cheeks. She held the instrument with indescribable grace, and after hav- ing tuned first its silver chords, that she might the better be enabled to call forth its deepest and most melancholy harmonies, she began, and to its pre- 116 THE PROMISE, lude, with the voice of an angel, accompanied her- self to the hymn, " Father, to thee my soul I lift, &c." It was a scene well deserving to be drawn by the pencil of a master, yet hardly susceptible of being realised on canvass, as rage and revenge gradually fell back before the invisible powers of innocence and music. " King Saul," said the parson to himself, " the harp of David will yet subdue thy evil spirit." Isidora's singing began, indeed, to exercise a sedative influence over the colonel, whose eyes sparkled less ferociously, and whose voice was less boisterous, when Isidora was in the room. Yet the discord of his soul was still raging within ; and if she inadvertently happened to allude to her father, his rage was immediately kindled to such a degree, that Susan conjured the young lady to suppress her filial tenderness for a little while. Several days elapsed, after this scene, during which the colonel had alternately received and dis- patched orderlies, one of whom brought him a let- ter, which seemed again to agitate him greatly. He vehemently paced the apartment, and appeared so deeply afl'ected that nobody ventured to approach him. Susan trembled like an aspen leaf at every THE PROMISE. 117 word he uttered, and Isidora, catching the alarm, walked softly through the room. Night came on, and the colonel, who that day had suffered more than usual from the pain of his wounds, was lying on his bed, when a loud knocking suddenly disturbed his re- pose. In vain did Susan remonstrate with the bold intruders, who had already advanced into the entry, in vain did she give them to understand that a wounded staff-officer occupied the house already : she was just going to call him to her assistance, when Isidora accidentally made her appearance. The sight of the beautiful girl rendered the marau- ders, for this was their real character, even bolder than before. The most impudent of them stepped forward, seized and carried her into the yard. At tliis critical moment, the colonel, with a pistol in his hand, came out of his room, and scarcely had he perceived the gang, scarcely heard Isidora's screams of anguish, when he pulled the trigger, and the robber fell weltering in his blood. The alarm being given, the colonel's people hur- ried to the spot, but there was no longer any oc- casion for it ; for, no sooner did the marauders recognise the colonel, and witness the fall of their comrade, than they betook themselves to flight. Isidora lay trembling on his breast. He tenderly 118 THE PROMISE. kissed her, and exclaimed : " From to-day thou art doubly mine. The letter I received yesterday, and the accident which to-day made me thy deliverer, establish my sacred claims to thee !" From this hour, Isidexa became his favourite. Yet the reasons of this change in the colonel's con- duct, or the contents of the letter, he did not choose to reveal. Almost the whole day she was obliged to keep him company, sing for him, read the newspa- pers to him, and chat with him. The compassionate child was glad to have thus an opportunity of afford- ing the wounded man some relief. She performed this her daily work with the more satisfaction, since his deportment, now so entirely changed, be- spoke a heart full of mildness and benevolence. It never entered into her head to search out the causie of this mysterious change. She was satisfied that it was so. The minister, who at one time adminis- tered the consolations of religion to the suffering and dying at the neighbouring hospital, and at an- other assisted his impoverished parishioners with the always ready and well supplied purse of his sruest, confirmed her in this view of the matter. " To me also," he would frequently say, when seat- ed amongst his family in the adjoining chamber — " to me also is the man and his relation to Isidora THE PROI\IISE. 119 and her father a mystery, but from the manner in which he acts and speaks at present, he is the har- binger of peace and justice. Let that suffice us. Do we not oftentimes enjoy the smooth surface of a calm sea, without wishing to know what horrors it may conceal in its gloomy depths? I tremble only for my hospital and village, when this gene- rous-minded man shall leave us." " O. dearest Isidora," would then the timid Susan continue — " how shall I thank God sufficiently that you are with us, and that the stranger colonel is so much pleased with you! Surely, that protects us from a great deal of mischief." And she would often entreat the young lady, by all means to exert herself to please the colonel, who, according to the accounts of his servants, was a great and wealthy man in his own country. The lovely child readily performed what was so easy for her kind heart to do ; she studied his plea- sure ; she redoubled her care by the most endearing attentions ; and he must have been more than a Croatian, or Barbarian, he must have been a very monster, if he could still have resisted the sweet disposition of Isidora. Indeed, he yielded to it so completely, that it seemed he could not live with- X20 THE PROMISE. out her ; whom, with emphatic fondness, he accus- tomed himself to call " his little betrothed." He did not, however, confine himself to the mere manifestation of his friendly feelings for the young lady, but insisted, as the prospect of peace gradual- ly brightened, that the minister should resume his discontinued instruction ; and although he would thus be deprived of Isidora's company for several hours during the day, yet he would not permit her, merely on his account, to neglect the improvement of her mind. With this solicitude for her mental culture, he connected besides a strict enquiry into the condition of her property. And when the im- proving condition of his arm allowed him to visit his regiment, which was stationed in the vicinity, and he found the grounds of the estate almost gone to ruin, he not only directed the peasantry, but, in- deed, a portion of his own soldiers, to put them again in better order. At length, the hopes of peace be- coming more settled, he bestowed the same care upon the repairs of the Castle of Friburgh itself. In fact, only the roof and a few apartments had been destroyed by fire. The wind blowing off the burning mansion, the main building had remained entire ; and even of that THE PROMISE. 121 portion of the edifice Avhich had been assailed, the immense walls had made a successful resistance to the flames. The steward of the estate restored the concealed furniture and household utensils, made an inventory" of stock, and procured the mechanics necessary to carry on the building, which, under the colonel's superintendence, advanced quickly. Generous and just to every one — how could the name of the colonel fail to be blessed by the vas- sals and peasantry of the estates of Friburgh ! In like manner also the inexperienced heart of Isidora swelled with the most tender emotions, when the ^guardian of her honour, the preserver of her fortune, the protector of her foster-parents, was mentioned. One day, when the minister happened to be ab- sent, the colonel entered the apartment Avhere Isidora was at work. He had on his riding dress, and his cap and sword under his arm. Isidora met him with her accustomed friendliness. " Where are you going, dear colonel ?" asked she affectionately. " I 'm going away, my dear child," was his so- lemn reply—" perhaps for a long time. Peace is concluded, and my regiment will march to-mor- row !" 122 THE PROMISE. Isidora dissolved in tears, Vv^ithout even making an effort to disguise her feelings. " But," continued the colonel, " if my little be- trothed were disposed to give me a last proof of her friendly regard, she now has an opportunity so to do." " With all my heart," cried she exuhingly, dry- ing up the tears upon her countenance, " what Avould I not do for you ? — Let me hear what you would have me do." " Sign your name under this paper, and repeat before your foster-parents that thou art and wilt re- main my sweet little betrothed !" " Nothing else ?" hastily cried Isidora, seizing and signing the proffered paper. The colonel tak- ing her hand, led her into the next room, where Susan and her servant Martha were engaged in some domestic employment. And Avith a cheerful countenance he said : " Well, my good woman, I must leave you to-morrow — preserve me my Isidora until I return. Is it not so, Isy, thou art and wilt remain my dear little betrothed ?" " With all my heart, dear colonel !" " Now look," said he, Avhile exchanging the ring of diamonds on his finger for the plain gold ring which she wore, — " as I present thee with this THE PROMISE. 123 ring, I do it in token of our betrothing ourselves, to which Susan and Martha are witnesses. But," continued he, " I had almost forgotten that I have also for each of you a little remembrance. Here, good woman, and there, Martha ; think of me when you use it, and remember that you are my wit- nesses that I am betrothed to Isidora." '" Yes, to be sure," exclaimed both, highly de- lighted with the colonel's sprightly humour, " we are witnesses, and wish you a pleasant journey, and an early and safe return." The whole business was so hastily transacted, and. owing to the colonel's gaiety, carried on with such a sportive and natural air, that it did not oc- cur to any of the actors to find any thing singular in it. After a while, during which they had, with great satisfaction, examined the rich presents they had received, Susan inquired where the colonel was going, and when he would be back? Isidora only recollected to have heard him say, that peace having been concluded, his regiment must march, and that he might be obliged to stay away a very considerable time. " But, then," said Martha, " is it not rather sin- gular that he should have regularly engaged him- self to the young lady, put such a beautiful ring 124 THE PKOMISE. on her finger, and taken us as witnesses to the ceremony ?" " O ! that was nothing but mere pleasantry," an- swered Susan ; " was he not used to call Isy his little betrothed ?" " Well, to be sure ! but Lady Isidora is now fourteen years old, and with great propriety might marry within four years. Now suppose she took a fancy to some man, and consented to give him her hand, and the colonel should come and say — ' Stop ! lobject to it !' — what then?" " Fiddle faddle," replied Mistress Susan, rather alarmed, " he would not be disposed to turn sport into earnest. And, besides, is he not old enough to be Isy's father ?" Martha doubtingly shook her head ; Mistress Susan looked disconcerted, and Isidora remain- ed quiet and thoughtful. At this moment the minister entered, when all rose from their seats to greet him. " I have good tidings for you," he said, joyfully ; " peace is concluded, and all the foreign troops will leave us in a few days. Where is the colonel ?" " Gone," sighed Isidora. " Yes," added Martha ; " gone, and all his peo- ple with him !" THE PROMISE. 125 The minister was surprised. He took Isidora's hand, in order to compose her mind, when his eyes were struck with the diamonds on her finger. " Mercy !" cried he, " where did you get this pre- cious gem ? — but — where is the plain gold ring of your deceased mother?" Isidora's face was suffused with blushes, Susan cast a look of anxiety upon her spouse, and Martha made her a sign to speak. Full of amazement, the minister looked in turn upon the women. At length Susan spoke. " She must admit," she said, " that something had occurred, which, at first, seem- ed to be a jest, concerning which, after more mature consideration, she began to have her doubts." And then glad of the opportunity to relieve her mind, she stated how all came to pass, and how the colonel's cheerful spirits had entirely prevent- ed her from perceiving any thing serious in the whole transaction. Isidora added, what was un- known to Susan and Martha, that by a written in- strument, she had engaged herself to the colonel. After they had, at the minister's especial request, repeated every circumstance to him, he said with a grave shake of his head ; " Women, women ! I must acknowledge that this time you have done a most foolish action ! True, we know the colonel 126 THE PRO.MISE. as an upright and noble minded man ; still, I can- not be pleased with this conduct! May God send us the father of Isidora home ! But if that should not happen, she is as good as engaged ; for, as she is fourteen years old, and without parents or guar- dians to take care of her in these times of war, she has the right to make a promise of marriage. Now she is scarcely more than a child, and unacquainted with the world, should her heart decide for another man, she is irretrievably tied down. At least she will not without difficulty be released by a man who from his age might be her father. But, at all events, you have played a most hazardous game !" After these general remarks, he spoke to the young lady in private, to obtain a more detailed ex- planation, as to what could have induced her, so thoughtlessly and without his knowledge, to make a promise, the importance of which could not have been unknown to her. " Oh, my friend!" exclaimed Isidora, deeply affect- ed, " I neither recollect how it happened, nor do I repent that it has happened. The Only thing I blame myself for, is, not to have thought of my beloved father; but then you know yourself that his very name was sufficient to throw the colonel in a fit of passion. I was glad of an opportunity to do a kind THE PROMISE. 127 office to the man to whom Ave are all so largely in- debted. While the emotions of gratitude lasted, I could have promised I know not what. I thought, indeed — silly enough — that he merely wished to have a written^ assurance of my friendship, which he most -certainly possesses in the highest degree To be sure, I do not as yet know what it is to love, but if to be in love is to have a desire to sacrifice every thing in the world, to render one man happy, why then — then I love the colonel. How my ring came off and how his came on my finger — I do not know ! he has got it, and if that gives him a claim upon me, I think I never will dispute it with him !" The minister repeated all his doubts : " The colonel," he said, " is forty years old, of a violent temper, morose, and guilty, perhaps, of some evil action; an inexplicable hatred has rendered him the enemy of your father; and his clandestine engage- ment with you revives the suspicions which his arrival at first excited, and which only his subse- quent mildness had lulled to sleep." " That is all very true," returned Isidora ; " and I have nothing to reply, but — that it is now too late ; and nothing remains for us but to wait pa- tiently for the end." There was no appeal from the last argument. 128 THE PROMISE. The minister was sensible of it, and thoughtfully repaired to his study. The secret and artful trait in the character of a man Avhom he really loved, grieved and disconcerted him. He recalled to his mind the deportment of the colonel, on the first evening after his arrival at the manse, and only sighed more deeply. While under the influence of these reflections, he perceived a letter lying on his desk. " From the colonel to me ! Thank God ! that will solve every difficulty." Hastily he opened the paper. It contained very briefly the notification of the conclusion of peace, in consequence of which the colonel and his regi- ment had been ordered to Hungary. He should return as soon as circumstances would permit. Isidora's father, according to trust-worthy witnesses, had, during his flight from the castle, encountered a foraging party, and been shot. The letter, more- over, imposed upon the minister the duty to provide for the further education of the young lady, corres- ponding with her rank and fortune, as he could noAV no longer watch over it himself. As for the rest, he requested that the explanation of the re- maining dark passages in his character might be patiently deferred until a future day. Whilst this THE PROMISE. 129 letter contained new difficulties, it also pointed out to the minister the course to be pursued, with re- spect to Isidora. He consulted experienced men forthwith, and his first measure was to advertise in the public prints, the death of the Baron de Fri- burgh, and the legal appointment of a guardian to Lady Isidora. Thus, while the daughter, with sen- timents of genuine grief, lamented the loss of her beloved father, the honest clergyman was anxious to place her in a situation where her education could be attended to, with due regard to the station which she might afterwards be destined to fill, Amonsrst the letters with which the Baron de Fri- burgh had intrusted the minister, for safe keeping in the vaults of the church, there was a correspondence with the widow of the Baron de Wertheim, an aged relation, who in every respect appeared to be a most estimable woman. The clergyman wrote to her; and having stated the situation of Isidora, observed that not even the admittance into the first boarding-school of the capital, could ever equal the advantages to be de- rived from a residence with a relation, and, finally, entreated her to take charge of the orphan child. Great was his delight, when, after some time, he received an affirmative answer, together with the -^3Q THE PROMISE. request to accompany the young lady to the capital, early in the winter. The separation of Isidora from such kind-hearted people, with whom she had pass- ed an eventful year, was affecting to all. Although the minister thought that he had his feelings suffi- ciently under control, yet when, after giving her up to Lady Wertheim, he was to return alone, his for- titude and composure were almost entirely shaken down. With her residence in tovv^n Isidora likewise com- menced an entirely new period of life, which, in point of splendour and pleasure, far excelled that she had hitherto led. Lady Wertheim was a woman of the most dis- tinguished qualifications, both of heart and mind. The few social ties which she had kept up, during her widowhood, she was now the more anxious to extend and cultivate, as her advanced age would not permit her to accompany Isidora every where herself, while the carefully improved and highly gifted mind of the latter required nothing but that splendid drapery of fashion, which refined society alone is capable of conferring. The first year was spent by Isidora in mourning for her departed father. as well as in the study to please her aunt Wertheim. In this she succeeded admirably, and her aunt THE PROMISE. 232 looked forward with pleasure to the conquests which were in store for the charming girl. This expectation, indeed, was realised, and Lady Isidora soon became one of the most dazzling orbs in that brilliant constellation of fashion and refine- ment. Under these circumstances it was to be antici- pated that Isidora would not be long without ad- mirers. In order that she might have opportunities to see men of different dispositions — and thus gra- dually become enabled, at a later period to make a judicious selection, Lady Wertheim encouraged Isidora, who was always busy during the morning hours, to pass her evenings in large and gay com- pany. Admired by the multitude, and adored in the smaller circle of her friends, Isidora spent several years most happily, and but seldom did a gloomy thought insinuate itself into her bosom. The colonel had never been heard of since his departure from Friburgh, but she remembered him long with lively and tender interest, which, how- ever, grew fainter and calmer as she hurried through the mazes of fashionable dissipation. And, after- wards, when the almost faded image of the senior friend could stand a comparison no longer with the host of young and elegant men, by whom she 132 THE PROMISE. daily found herself surrounded, she pushed it in- tentionally, as it were, in the background of her her heart ; in order that that which was once so dear should not suffer too much by the compa- rison. After an interval of six years, immersed in a restless tide of gaiety and dissipation, and surround- ed, on account both of her beauty and fortune, by a circle of the finest and most amiable young men, she no longer retained even a faint recollection of the features of the friend of her childhood. Her memory soon preserved nothing beyond his name, the recollection of the promise, given half in jest and half in earnest, and the ring of diamonds on her finger, which, in this respect, unlike the dia- mond ring of the fable, scarcely had poAver enough to draw the eyes of its owner upon it. Isidora's eyes had become accustomed to behold such intel- ligent, cheerful, and pleasing faces, that she must have been destitute of feeling, if she had conti- nued to prefer to them the gloomy countenance of the colonel. Among those who, attracted either by the mag- net of money, or by the allurements of beauty, were seen pressing around her, was Count Hohen- linden, the aide of the reigning prince. He seemed THE PROMISE. ^33 to submit to the fashion of paying his court to Lady Isidora de Friburgh. But, at the same time, his manner was so different from the rest, that it could not but attract the lady's attention. Endowed with the most agreeable powers of conversation, yet without flattering her, he would at times express his opinion of the shallowness of the attentions of men in general, and at others criticise the conduct of Isidora towards these gentlemen, as it came under his notice. He did this with frankness, but at the same time with so much wit, and in a manner so impercepti- bly flattering and insinuating, that her feelings at first became excited, then interested, and at last she considered herself under obligations to the man, who, without betraying the least selfish motive, employed his talents and amiable disposition solely to apprise her of the little incongruities which oc- casionally might escape her. Now and then, iu the portrait of man as he should be. which the count frequently drew with great warmth, she could not help recognising his own likeness. It may be supposed that he did not fare the worse for chis dis- covery. But, Isidora was resolved to be on the safe side. Secretly she made enquiries about him ; and there was nobody, who, to the beautiful and 134 'Jf'HE PROMISE. rich heiress, would have spoken any thing to the disadvantage of the Count Hohenlinden; who, moreover, was a great favourite with the prince. Not without the most pleasing sensations Isidora heard of the excellent qualities of this handsome man, and pronounced the woman happy whom he should think worthy of himself. Gladly she would have asked Lady Wertheim's opinion, but her diffi- dence checked her from betraying to her aunt an interest for a man, who, so far, had confined him- self to mere protestations of friendship. How deeply her feelings had become interested, she discovered with dismay, by the agitation which a report of the count's engagement produced in her. Great was her astonishment, delightful her sur- prise, when at one of the subsequent large parties, where the croAvded apartments diverted the atten- tion of others from herself, the count, during a con- versation in which he had exhibited himself to the greatest advantage, suddenly changed the quiet tone of the friend into the passionate ardour of the lover. He had selected the day and hour well. Isidora, taken by surprise, like an inexperienced general — was attacked at a time and place, when and where THE PROMISE. 135 she least expected it, and soon the momentous word fell from her treacherous lips. Matters having gone thus far, it was now rather late to disclose them to her aunt. The worthy- matron was surprised ; yet, before expressing an opinion, she asked whether Isidora had given the count encouragement to hope. The lady replied that she had already pledged her faith. " Then, there is nothing left," answered the pru- dent aunt, " but to congratulate you. I am not authorised to demand a precise account of your sentiments ; besides, you are now twenty years of age, and wise enough to be your own counsellor. I have no reason whatsoever to doubt any of the fine things which are said of the count ; and if I had, in your present state of mind you would not acknowledge them, and to expect from youth the experienced and observing eye of maturer age, Avould be unreasonable. Besides, you have time enough, during the period of courtship, to observe the count with the quieter feelings of a self-pos- sessed mind." " Scarcely," returned Isidora, timidly, " inas- much as the count is obliged, within eight days, to join his regiment at , the command of which has lately been conferred upon him. He has no J 36 THE PROMISE. time to lose, as he says he must put the regiment, by next spring, in a condition to be reviewed by the prince." Her aunt was not pleased at the count's hurry. She said that the period of courtship had charms peculiar to itself, and that the count should remain to enjoy them. " This is all very true," interrupted Isidora, rather peevishly, " but the circumstances cannot now " " Be altered, at least not by words. You remind me just in time to stop : I, too, see well enough that it is quite superfluous to talk any longer about it. Well, then, accept my Avarmest congratula- tions, and permit me to provide for your welfare. I will send immediately for your agent." The two ladies embraced each other and separated, for Isi- dora expected the count. With an uneasy heart she went to her apartment. She felt that there was something like censure in the manner of her aunt. It could not be a well- founded objection — Lady Wertheim was too candid not to mention it. Isidora, then, felt the more hurt by such a cold consent. After many reflections of this kind, in which love, of course, presided, she fancied she had dis- THE PROMISE. I37 covered the reason in the non-observance of certain old fashioned usages, and was soon agreed that this was nothing but a mere caprice, to which she readi- ly should have yielded, if the count had insisted less upon the speedy fulfilment of their engagement. Lady Werlheim, on her part, with the penetra- tion and experience of age, thought she perceived in the count's character, less of sincerity than of a certain affectation of virtue. Regretting that Isidora should not have made her sooner her confidant, she also lamented the loss to her niece of the state of courtship the more, as du- ring that time the true character of Hohenlinden must needs have come better to light. The hurry with which he, who besides his pay had no foriune of his own, endeavoured to secure the rich heiress, was alarming to a degree. For the present, how- ever, there was nothing to be done but to await quietly the result of her gloomy apprehensions. During the negotiations which took place be- tween the count and Isidora's guardian, differences arose, the knowledge of which gave Lady Wertheim a great deal of concern. The guardian was desir- ous not only to have the lady independent of her husband's generosity, but would have a suitable sum settled upon her for personal expenses. Ho- ;j^38 THE PROMISE. henliaden, however, would, under no consideration, listen to a proposition which, as he said, by an un- friendly distrust, would set limits to his unbounded affection. He even was so indelicate as to speak to Isidora about it ; who, completely entering into his views, not only deemed it far more delightful to depend in every respect upon the affection of her husband, but, with equally unaffected enthusiasm, declared that no sooner should she have become the wife of Count Hohenlinden, than she would make over to him her entire property. The more her guardian and aunt advised her not to be in a hurry, on this account, were it only for the purpose of reserving a little longer the anticipa- tion of such a munificent gift, the more obstinately did she insist upon the execution of her intention. Under these circumstances they let her do as she pleased. The opposition she had met during this transac- tion, had wound up the mind of Isidora, intoxicated as she already was with the transports of a love-sick imagination, to an unnatural pitch of excitement. The opposite extreme, a desponding languor, did not fail also to take possession of her. Dissatisfied with herself for having been unkind to persons who had nothing but her welfare in view, — displeased THE PROMISE. I39 not to see others look upon the favourite of her heart with the same feelings of unqualified admira- tion, Isidora one evening was seated by the window, expecting Hohenlinden, who was to restore peace to her soul, instead of the discord which internally preyed upon her happiness. With mingled feelings of anxiety and desire she heard the approaching footsteps of a man. The door opened, and a lofty figure, wrapped in a cloak, silently entered. It is the count, to be sure — how can Isidora doubt it ? She rises to meet him, when the stranger throws back his cloak — and a splended uniform and a pair of black mustaches become visible. Having seized Isidora's hands, the stranger led her speechless towards the moon-lit window, pressed her hands gently, and, in a grave but friendly tone, said, " Dost thou not know me, my little betrothed ?" — It was the colonel. All the terrors of surprise, as well as of a certain consciousness of wrong, all the pleasures of memory burst, at once, upon Isidora. But the happiness of seeing again the friend of her youth, soon had to give way to a new sensation. Did he not come, on purpose to charge her with her breach of faith ? Was there not some reproach in his man- ner, and in the question he put to her ? Must he not X40 THE PROMISE. continually hate his successful rival? And therefore, was it not highly probable that he would make common cause with her aunt and guardian to sepa- rate her from Hohenlinden? All these reflections flashed upon the mind of the disheartened girl. Abruptly endeavouring to free herself from his grasp, she exclaimed with much bitterness : " Let me go, sir, — I belong to another, whose rights your fancied pretensions, formed in the years of child- hood, are incapable of invalidating !" " Fancied pretensions ! incapable of invalidating ! Humph ! that remains yet to be proved, but " " Spare yourself all further trouble and words, which you, sir, together with my aunt and guar- dian, may have artfully agreed upon." " Girl, art thou mad ?— But, stop ! to the point ; Hohenlinden is a wretch !" " Colonel ! but one word. Hohenlinden possesses my affections, my heart, my pledged faith, and, in a few days more, my hand also. I love him more than my life ; and all the criminations which you may be disposed to heap upon him, only will im- press me with the conviction that he is innocent, and that his slanderers " " Death and destruction!" — the colonel started up furiousl}'^ — " Slanderer ! that is too much. Well, THE PROMISE. 141 you shall have the proof j but, beware how you deny your own signature." With these words he rushed down stairs, leaving Isidora pleased at the result of the first attack upon her beloved, which she had so stoutly resisted. With what anxiety did she not count the moments when she should be able to give him an account of the efforts of her heroic love ! The count did not come. His non-appearance caused her an uneasy night. Not more agreeable were the events of the next morning. Her guardian brought her the news that the colonel had entered a protest with the clergyman who was to perform the marriage ceremony, and pro- duced a written promise of marriage, signed by herself. Isidora shed tears, the aunt was frightened, and the guardian, shrugging his shoulders, solemnly declared that, for the present, she must not think of the consummation of her union with Count Hohen- linden. During this conversation, the count made his appearance himself. In a fit of the most ungovernable passion he cried : " Where is the villain who has dared to protest against my mar- riasre with Isidora ?" He darted a furious look at the guardian. But, with the utmost composure, the latter begged him to be convinced that neither he nor Lady Wertheim were at all desirous to 142 THE PROMISE. deprive Lady Isidora the happiness of a union with him. Isidora, perceiving by the manner of the guardian what little effect the deportment of Hohenlinden produced upon him, lavished in vain her entreaties and persuasions to appease her lover. " The name !" he shrieked ; " ihe name — the house of that madman, I want to know, that, with this sword, I may cut him to pieces !" " You shall learn both, count," returned the guardian ; " his name is Colonel de Hallenburg, and he stays at the hotel close by. You will find him at home, sir, for I have left him just now." " De Hallenburg?" exclaimed Hohenlinden, and grew pale ; " Colonel de Hallenburg !" " Colonel de Hallenburg, sir, of the imperial ser- vice of Austria, and during the late war the com- mander of a Croatian regiment, he is covered with scars and orders. Stop ! perhaps I may accompany you to him." The count did not seem to hear the bitter sarcasm, conveyed in the words of the guardian. His rage having subsided, he was lost in thought. Ultimate- ly he drew nearer to Isidora, and after whispering something to her, he quitted the apartment precipi- tately. " He was going to call upon the colonel," she THE PROMISE. 143 said, " in order to try what could be done by way of negotiation." She then requested her aunt to direct one of her servants to escort her to the clergy- man's house, whose powerful eloquence she had heard so highly spoken of, and whom she intended also to send to De Hallenburg with a message from herself. Away she went. After a couple of hours the servant returned alone with the direction to call again for her towards evening. The evening pass- ed without Isidora's return. The aunt sent to the clergyman, but she had not been there. On the following morning Lady Wertheim wrote to Hohen- linden — but his lodgings were shut. At noon, how- ever, the guardian arrived with the news, which might have been left intentionally by the count himself, that he and Isidora had gone over the borders, in order to get married, and, therefore, that on their account they should not trouble themselves any more. " I withdraw my protest," said the colonel to the guar- dian, in great agitation, when he heard it — " my intention was good. But I did not think that the infatuation of love could have gone so far ; and now I must leave the lady to her fate." Several weeks afterwards, in a letter to her aunt, written from the count's present place of residence in a country town, Isidora endeavoured to apologise 144 THE PROiMISE. for her conduct, pronounced herself the happiest wife, and stated that she had already surprised her husband Avith the legally draAvn up conveyance of her whole property. Her former guardian shook his head, her aunt siffhed — both, however, united in the wish that she might never repent. The great distance, as well as the declining health of Lady Wertheim, who was now considerably advanced in years, soon put a stop to their correspondence. Meanwhile, rumours went abroad, concerning the count, which — Isidora having forfeited the charitable feelings of the gossiping public, — soon reached the ears of her aunt, and which seemed likely to realise her former apprehensions. It had become known that the removal of Count Hohen- linden to a province so distant from the capital, was a sort of exile. It was discovered that, in order to indulge his passion for gaming, Hohenlinden had been guilty of repeated peculations in the coffers of the prince, with which he was intrusted. The discovery that his favourite was a man of incurable indiscretion, and withal an artful defrauder, grieved the prince, even more than it exasperated him. A twelvemonth had nearly elapsed after THE PROMISE. I45 these transactions, when the old clergyman, Isido- ra's foster-father, arrived at the capital, with the neAvs that the large and beautiful domain of Friburgh had been sold by Hohenlinden to a stranger. But, what in particular brought the good old man to the city, was an anxious concern for his former, but still beloved, foster-child. An old servant of the count, upon being discharged from his service, had return- ed to Friburgh, his native place, and gave a painful account of the situation of his mistress. This old domestic, who was a faithful and de- voted adherent to the noble house of Friburgh, awakened every where the keenest solicitude for the fate of Isidora. According to his statement, the count played high, and with little success, so that the very large income derived from Isidora's estate had been squandered in a few evenings. It was also well known that Friburgh had been sold for a very low price ; but the servant said that the money for it had not as yet been received by the count, which circumstance induced him to believe that he, in all probability, contemplated secretly to make his escape. A journey was ultimately determined upon for the purpose of investigating the truth of the matter. K l^Q THE PROMISE. The clergyman's official duties, however, would not permit him to perform it; and the health of Lady Wertheim was too feeble for the fatigues of such an undertaking. Under these circumstances the former guardian was called upon ; and he in- stantly declared his readiness to perform the re- quired act of kindness. But, just as he was on the eve of departure, Isidora arrived, unexpectedly, at her aunt's, rather meanly dressed, and attended only by one maid. Imprinted upon her .expressive countenance were the marks of deep-seated sorrow. With scalding tears in her eyes, she threw herself into the arms of the worthy matron, who, suppressing reproach, expressed nothing but the most lively interest and warmest compassion for her. The countess con- fessed that, a few months after the Avedding, and as soon as the count had the conveyance of her pro- perty, he grew every day more and more indifferent towards her, and his presence became more and more scarce. Upon her remonstrances, he gave her plainly to understand that he had married her merely on account of her fortune, of Avhich being the absolute master, he did not feel disposed to condescend to the grimaces of a lover. Isidora was silent with amazement at this decla- THE PROMISE. 147 ration, which was uttered in the most unfeeling manner. But this was not all. Having sufficient cause to complain of his want of affection, she, moreover, was destined to experience the privation of a decent support, nay, even of the necessaries of life. She ascertained that her husband was a not less passionate than unlucky gamester; and she could not control him, since she had made over to him her entire property. Inexperienced, ashamed, and obliged to lay all the blame to her own rashness, she had not suffi- cient courage to disclose her heart to any one, and therefore was compelled to endure silently the miseries of her unhappy union. A scene, at length, occasioned by the sale of the seat of her ancestors, determined her to leave her unworthy husband. He, however, anticipated her. After some days, during which she had not seen him, a host of his creditors surprised her with the intelligence that Hohenlinden, whose intention had been to decamp with the entire proceeds of the sale of the estates of Friburgh, had absconded with a small portion, which, in great haste, he had contrived to raise. And, although there was a good deal of delicacy displayed towards her, during the proceedings in- stituted against the count, they were nevertheless J 48 THE PROMISE. under the necessity of informing her that the funds yet remaining in the hands of the banker were altogether inadequate to pay his debts, in conse- quence of which they should be compelled to seize upon his moveables and furniture. Isidora would object to nothing, but begged to have the measure deferred until after her departure. After this account,' which had been frequently interrupted by a flood of tears, the unhappy Isidora begged her aunt to permit her to return to the cler- gyman at Friburgh. There she intended to live in obscurity, and lead a quiet, though cheerlass life. Lady Wertheim was not anxious to dissuade her, as she saw how mortifying it would be to her to exhibit herself, in her present condition, to her former acquaintances. But Heaven had decreed otherwise. While the two ladies were engaged in drawing up Isidora's future plan of life, her for- mer guardian entered the room, with eyes beaming with joy, and holding in his hands a scroll of paper. Isidora begged him to save her the trouble of guess- ing, as she had no further claims upon the world and its happiness. The guardian, unrolling the paper, read as follows : " The present proprietor of the estates of Fri- burgh, having ascertained the distressing circum- THE PROMISE. 149 Stances which separate the Countess Hohenlinden from her husband, deems it his duty to offer her her patrimonial estate, at the price he himself paid for it, and begs leave to propose the subjoined in- stalments for its payment. Her ladyship may, if she choose, take her abode at the castle of Friburgh immediately, where every thing is prepared for her reception. " The Colonel de Hallenburg." A schedule was enclosed showing the precise in- come from the estate, and. annexed to it were the terms of payment, proposed in such a manner, as distinctly characterised the noble friend of Isidora's childhood. Her bosom heaved alternately with a thousand sad and blissful sensations. Gratitude to- wards God, the pleasing conviction of having at least met with one noble minded being during her life-time, and the satisfaction of possessing still the friendship of so excellent a man, at length over- powered her heart. " Let me pray," said she, with tears trembling in her beautiful eyes, and with folded hands she knelt down and addressed herself to the dispenser of every good and every perfect gift, in the language of an overflowing and penitent heart. The others followed her example — moments 150 THE PROHSE. ensued, too holy to be described — moments of the purest devotion. After having in some measure recovered from her surprise, Isidora immediately signed the con- tract proposed to her by the colonel, and a few days later left town for the place of her nativity. Her anxious desire, however, to express to her benefactor the sentiments of her gratitude, either verbally or in writing, remained unaccomplished, as the colonel, according to the statement of his agent, had set out on a journey to England, without having fixed any place to which his letters should be forwarded. TIiIl, was another proof of his delicacy, and as such duly appreciated by Isidora. Deeply affected, she entered the beautifully furnished rooms of her father's man- sion, where she had spent the years of her childhood, and repaired to the mausoleum which the colonel also had caused to be erected over the remains of her father, in a style equally chaste, elegant, and becoming the memory of the deceased. In this delightful solitude, relieved also by di- vorce from her matrimonial connection, Isidora's mind gradually recovered, her health and spirits improved, and in her heart, which she would fain have believed dead to any of the softer feelings, veneration and gratitude for the colonel again took THE PROMISE. I5] root. Often in the circle of the old inmates of the parsonage she would repeat the story of that event- ful evening, fervently wishing to see once more, at least, the excellent man whom she had once pos- sessed, but whom she had voluntarily resigned. She could not control her feelings any longer, and wrote a letter in which she stated that she never could enjoy the undeserved happiness of which he was the author, unless he should give her an oppor- tunity of expressing to him personally the grateful sentiments with which her heart was full. This letter the minister was requested to forward to the agent of the colonel. Some time afterwards a messenger on horseback announced the arrival in the neighbouring town of the colonel himself. Imagine the feelings of Isidora ! However, she endeavoured and succeeded to compose her mind for the humiliation which she had prepared for her- self. " I have trespassed, and must atone for it." V/ith these words she went into the garden, when she Vv^as informed of the colonel's arrival. One of the servants ushered him into her presence. Silent- ly and without witnesses they stood opposite each other. A pause of the most intense anxiety ensued. At last the colonel was about to speak ; but Isidora, interrupting him, desired him to listen to her for a 152 THE PROMISE. few moments, during which she poured out her heart as she had intended to do. She finished her confession with these words : " Thus, most generous man, you will find me a debtor in every respect. Yet it is a satisfaction to have an opportunity of confessing it to you ; and with feelings of the deep- est sorrow I acknowledge that I have nothing, no- thing in the world wherewith I could redeem my obligations to you, and shed a milder lustre upon your own cheerless life." * " It is still in your power, dearest countess," replied the colonel; "but would you consent to repay me in the manner which I should name, and not consider it ridiculous ?" " How ? I do not understand you, my noble friend." " There," cried the colonel, unfolding a sheet of paper which had been concealed in his bosom — " there, let this sheet be the interpreter of my heart." He handed it to the countess for perusal— it was her promise of marriage. " Is it possible ? Do not my eyes deceive me ? And you still esteem me sufficiently to insist upon an engagement which it is in my power to fulfil, and which, I frankly acknowledge, was my most secret and most fervent wish ? Accept, then, from THE PROMISE. ;[53 Isidora, what she promised when fourteen years old — the assurance to be yours with an undivided heart, and with the sincerest respect and affection !" De Hallenburg enclosed her within his arms ; and Isidora, overcome by her sensations, fainted on his breast. " But I must make haste, my little betrothed," resumed the colonel, after she had recovered, " for I am on the wrong side of forty — therefore, when dost thou consent to be mine ?" " Whenever it may please you," returned Isidora, without affectation ; " in this respect do our wishes meet." Accordingly, a few days afterwards, our venera- ble friend, the minister, pronounced the blessings of the church over this union, after which the colo- nel thought proper to give the following account of himself: — "Isidora's mother was the object of my earliest affection. My father, who was a man of a stern and unbending disposition, would on no account hear of a union with the penny less maiden. When he discovered that I still continued to visit her, he threatened me with confinement. I left his roof clandestinely, and, after having entrusted my friend, the Baron de Friburgh, with the care of my loved 154 THE PROMSE. one, I entered into the Austrian service. Upon his solemn oath he promised to inform me of every thing that should happen, and, moreover, to assist her if she should be urged by her relations to choose a husband. Several years elapsed, when my father died. On the wings of love I returned to the object of my undiminished affection — and learned that, upwards of a twelvemonth since, she had become the wife of the Baron de Friburgh, and was with him at present on a tour to France and Italy. This treachery threw me on the bed of sickness, from which I but slowly recovered. Tired of life, and full of the bitterest hatred against mankind, their distress only seemed to afford me satisfaction ; and, after having sworn vengeance against Friburgh, I plunged again into the war. " His good fortune, however, never let me fall in with him, although I was engaged in numerous wars and in different countries. I soon became dis- tinguished ; because I courted death, he avoided me. A successful captain is always welcome ; and when the seven years' war broke out, I enlisted once more under the imperial banner of Austria. Having ascertained that Friburgh's wife had died soon after his return, my vindictive feelings subsided. An accident at length brought me to the manse of the THE PROxMISE. 5^55 village of Friburgh, where the sight of Isidora, who inherits all her mother's loveliness, rekindled my dormant passion. He was still alive, and his only- child in my power — what an opportunity of taking the sweetest revenge ! Let me pass over the atro- cities which the demon of evil suggested to my heated imagination. The archangel of beauty and innocence, as he dwelt in Isidora's features, sub- dued my revengeful heart. Soon after, I learned the death of Friburgh himself, which event finally determined me in my yet Avavering resolution to convert vengeance into charity, and take charge of the orphan child. The promise of marriage which I prevailed upon her to give me was a mere precau- tion to guard her against any rash or imprudent engagem.ent. " The duties of the military service, which I could not throw off, recalled me ; but still I was satisfied as long as I knew that she was under the care of the clergyman of Friburgh. So long, then, as my agent did not inform me of Isidora's having made choice of a man for her husband, my presence was of no use. Besides, I had better opportunities abroad to improve my fortune, Avhich it was my intention to leave her. But, upon the wings of the tempest, as it were, I hastened to the spot, when I 156 THE PEOMISE. heard of her engagement with Hohenlinden, whose life I had saved during the war, Avhen under sen- tence of death for an act of insubordination, and whom I had afterwards learned to despise as an incorrigible voluptuary. " In consideration of Isidora's infatuated love for a man so unworthy of herself, whom, to be sure, she did not know sufficiently, I was under the necessity of devising ways and means to prevent their union, and collect the required proofs against Hohenlinden's character. Hence my protest. How- ever, they contrived to elude my vigilance by their precipitate flight ; and the rest, my friends, you all know." 3 J J 157 THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. BY MRS. HUGHS. In early times I kne\v a good old dame Of gentle manners, tender, kind, and mild — Who the respect and love full well might claim Of every well dispos'd ambitious child. For various points of learning she display'd — She could both read and count, and write and spell, Could samplers work with matchless light and shade, And stockings knit, and shape them wond'rous vrell. One only weakness the good dame disclos'd, Nor even that, when all was fresh and cool, But oft at sultry noon her senses dos'd. And slie but dreamt that she was keeping school. The feeling mind, to sympathy alive. This momentary lapse could well excuse — And to pursue its duty still would strive. Nor seek its lawless fancies to amuse. 158 THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. But witless child knows not the arduous toil Of her who brings "the young ideas" forth, Who labours daily in a weedy soil, Striving in vain to give fair learning birth. And therefore, when the drowsy god approacli'd, And the good matron's heavy eye-lids clos'd, Each wayward urchin eagerly encroach'd On tliose fair rules, which waking she impos'd. Then would the idler frolic through the school. And play her antic tiicks with mischief rife — Then would disorder, strife, and wild misrule. Show they exist e'en in the morn of life. That early morn that ought to ope so fair, Pure and unshaded by dark folly's clouds — For youth those angry passions ne'er should share, Which life deform and mix in busy crowds. For where can love and purity be found. If the young female bosom know it not I Oh ! how can virtue in the world abound. If that fair mansion prove a barren spot ! If pity for the weakness of her sex, Love to forgive, and kindness to conceal, THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. 159 A wish to shun all that can teaze or vex — To aid in all another's joy or weal. If these I say, in the young female mind Find not nutritious soil, a favouring- breeze. Ah I where can Vv'e e'er hope those sweets to find, To soothe each v/oe, and make existence please ? And yet we often see those beauteous forms Fill'd with foul passions and deforming thought — Hear the wild burst of anger's rudest storms, From those who should alone by love be fraught. Well I remember, in a luckless hour, When sultry suns composed to drowsy sleep — O'er the good matron's eyes its dead'ning power Stole, e'en while yet she seem'd her watch to keep. Methinks e'en now her little realm I see, Where she maintain'd her firm but gentle sway — Where spirits full of childhood's buoyancy. Were taught the first great lesson, to obey. I see her seated in her oaken chair, Her glasses fi:om her drowsy eyes remov'd — Yet overlooking all with watchful care. Marking who should, or should not be reprov'd. 160 THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. On table by her side her work box placed, Fill'd with the tools for many a useful art — The wall above her head a sampler grac'd, And the clock spoke its " moral to the heart." But slow its tardy fingers seem'd to move, And far, still far, was yet the wish'd for hour, When the light foot of frolic sport might rove O'er the wide lawn, and crush the springing flower. Far, yet the hour, when work and study done, The little wand'rers might to sport repair. And yielding all to laughter, sport, and fun. Might roam at large to taste the evening air. One idler, yawning at the dreary thought. Ere they were free how many ticks must sound, Just at the moment, a sly glance had caught Of the good matron, lock'd in sleep profound. At once slie started in a wild uproar, And sciz'd lier nearest neighbour by the ear — With knitting needle tried her ears to bore, Then left her screaming less from pain than fear. Another then she forthwith 'gan attack. Who took more calmly the abrupt assault — THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. 151 Yet wincing still beneath the needless rack, Secm'd half to laugh, and half to blame the fault. Another slyly 'neath the table crept, The matron's work to draw from off her lap — Fearful, that touching it, e'en whilst she slept, Might duty wake, and interrupt her nap. One, fond of dress, unto the mirror hied, (Her friend still urging 'gainst the vain essay), And round her head her 'kerchief gaily tied. With peacock's feather placed in front so gay. One frolic nymph who knew how well 't would fit, Plac'd the fool's cap upon her neighbour's head : Another, scorning idly to sit. Rifled the work box of its tapes and thread. Here a young urchin, anxious to display Her dancing powers, stepp'd forth with mimic grace ; And others fearful to await the fray, Sought 'hind the door to hide the laughing face. • All was in uproar, when some louder sound Struck in an instant the poor matron's ears — Waked her at once from her long sleep profound, And roused the culprits to a thousand fears. L 152 THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. But who can paint the sad, the deep dismay, When the good matron oped her wond'ring eyes, And saw around the wild, the strange dismay, As each offender to her duties flies. Yes ! there 's an art that can at once present The living picture to the gazer's eye, That god-like art to painters only lent — Form'd of conception, taste, and symmetry. And since the artist this wild scene has touch'd. Small is the need of aid from poets' lays — The whole at once before the eye has rushed, And full of life it speaks the painter's praise. Threads, buttons, tapes, were to the box restored ; The 'kerchief doff 'd that late the head had graced, The needle hid that late the ears had bored, The fools'^ap in its wonted spot replaced. But still a general terror overspread Each face so lately bright with joy and bloom ; And scarce a trembling culprit raised a head. But sat in anxious waiting for her doom. But pity dwelt within the matron's mind — She knew that she herself to err was prone. THE SCHOOL IN AN UPROAR. 153 And anxious still by love each heart to bind, She view'd their errors as she judg'd her own. " Strange is the tumult, girls, that here you keep," She said, " but stranger still, I 'm sure you '11 say, That I, when on my duty, thus could sleep ; 'Tis therefore right that I the tax should pay. " But mark ! my children, 'tis a moral good, Though none should watch you, though no eye should see, Be each temptation from the right withstood. Nor practise wrong, though sweet that wrong may be." 164 THE LEAF BY H. F. GOULD. A leaf! a leaf! it has been torn From out a volume full and fair ; 'T is to a joyful reader borne By a mild courier through the air. The author of the book has writ His shining name upon the leaf; And blessed import comes in it, Although the lines arc few and brief It says the flood retires I the heads Of the lost hills again are seen ; That on their sides the olive spreads Her fruitful branches, fresh and green ; That He who has so late revealed The awful power that arms his hand, The fountains of the deep has sealed. And swept the waters from the land 1 Thou man of God! while death has reigned Without the ark, till every soul THE LEAF. 165 Is hurried hence, thy trust retained, Thy steady faith has kept thee whole. When God stretched forth his mighty arm, In terrors clothed, to impious men. It shielded thee and thine from harm : Go forth ! the Lord has smiled again. Look up ! the heavens are clear and bright With splendour never seen before : Behold the Lord his promise write, That he will drown the world no more I For this the richest, purest dies That shine in heaven, he softly blends ; And, like himself, from out the skies His bow for man in glory bends. The humbled earth, baptized, appears. Washed by the flood from strife and sin. Beauty and joy shall follow tears. And life and praise where death has been. The leaf is one from Nature's book. Which, with a tender father's love. The holy Author wisely took To send thee by the peaceful dove. 166 TO AN INFANT ON ITS BIRTH-DAY. Flush'd with delight, from hope enjoy'd, In fancy now I see Thy mother's thoughts this day employ'd In prayers, sweet babe, for thee. And, whilst maternal hopes ascend To heaven with pious care, Let me a friendly tribute blend ; And raise a simple prayer. May health, in frolic dress array'd, Attend to bless thy youth ; Be nature's simplest child display'd In all the charms of truth. May grace and wit, with magic spell, O'er all thy steps preside ; Virtue and sense within thee dwell, Without forbidding pride. TO AN INFANT. 157 May beauty lend that witching charm That from no art can spring, With modesty that shall disarm E'en envy's rancorous sting. But why each single charm unfold, Which I for thee would crave. When in a sentence may be told All that thou need'st to have ? All that my fondest wish need be, Nor may that wish prove vain. Is — that thy friends may see in thee Thy mother o'er again. Philadelphia, 1833. 168 LES EPOUX. BY MRS. CHARLES SEDGWICK. " You are a very interesting figure, sitting there over your desk, pen in hand, pointed towards your shoulder, as if something were expected to proceed from its point sooner or later. How long will you be content to wait for the ideas to flow ? Do you suppose the feathery implement has some attraction for your brain, which sooner or later will bring down the thoughts through the channel of its quill, as Franklin's brazen point brought the lightning from heaven ?" " If my pen were as nimble as your tongue, coz, it might be a fitting type of perpetual motion ; but, ridiculous as my attitude may seem to you, I have sometimes found that there is a blessing for those who wait, pen in hand." " And, pray, for whom is the blessing you are now waiting for designed ? if I may be allowed the presumption to enquire. Is it for the editor of some LES EPOUX. 159 souvenir, a favour to the public, or a tit bit for the private entertainment of some friend? Such a waiting for inspiration seems to imply an occasion of unusual moment/' " Why, I promised my cousin Charles, you know, an account of the bridal ; and I am thinking how I shall present the lovely bride and her train in most attractive colours. It was certainly a brilliant and most interesting spectacle. I have gloried in this match, because I expect it will furnish me a com- plete triumph over Charles, who pretends to be entirely sceptical on the subject of matrimony, for the reason that the parties, as he affirms, so soon become indifferent, if not, in some degree, averse to each other. But this is one of those entirely fit- ting matches, in which nothing seems left to chance or accident. Frank Rogers is a noble hearted young man, of fine temper, and warm and generous affections, passionately fond of my friend Louisa; and she, beautiful, accomplished, and eminent for domestic virtues. O 't is a great pleasure to con- template such an union. You don't know either of them, or you could not doubt that they would be perfectly happy — enthusiastically so." "No. I can only testify that so fine a looking couple would not have disgraced the bowers of 170 LES EPOUX. Eden, as a matter of spectacle. But come, fix your pen again ; I did not mean to interrupt you." This conversation passed between two young ladies, one of whom, Grace Mowbray, was an inti- mate friend of the bride alluded to, and the other, Helen Morston, a cousin of Grace, at that time on a visit from a distant part of the country, and a guest at the bridal. Grace again fixed her attention, and began to scribble nimbly. When she had finished, Helen insisted upon hearing her description. " There are two reasons," said she, " why you should grant my request. One, that I may learn a lesson upon the fruits of patience ; and the other, that I may be fur- nished with the model of a description for a similar occasion." "As to your first reason," replied Grace, "the fruit in this instance is so imperfect, that I am afraid the moral will fail entirely ; and as to the second, I tell you, Helen, it is in vain to suppose that there will ever be two such scenes to describe, in the course of one individual's experience. However, since you will have it, here it is." She proceeded to read aloud the letter, of which we extract only a small part. " My friend Louisa stood conspicuous amidst her LES EPOUX. 171 train, as well by her majestic figure, and the sur- passing loveliness of her appearance, as by the cir- cumstance of her being, par excellence, the bride. Her attire — this cannot be omitted in a lady's description, though the technics of the toilette are probably quite unintelligible to you, a gentleman — was simple and elegant. It consisted of a robe of finest muslin, a full set of rich pearl ornaments, and a superb blond veil, which, falling from her head over her graceful neck and shoulders, almost reached her feet. It was so arranged as only to soften, not conceal, her glowing blushes ; and she appeared to my eyes a beautiful emblem of Aurora, when her rosy hues are shrouded in mist. Frank looked worthy to stand by her side, which is saying enough for him. When, in the midst of the agitation of the ceremony, she became fearful and trembling, he passed his arm around her, as if he could not withhold in that trying moment the support which he was vowing to extend to her through life — and I saw a tear in his eye — a tear which to me spoke volumes full of interest. Much as men disdain in themselves, and in one another, any exhibition of what they are pleased to term feminine weakness, of which tears are regarded as the very essence, there are occasions when I think a moistened eye is not unbecoming even in them. 272 T.ES EPOUX. " If such a departure from the established laws of manly fortitude is ever justifiable, it is where one is taking upon himself the solemn responsibility of causing a lovely young creature to exchange the downy brooding of the parental wing for his fos- tering care, who must henceforth supply the place of father, mother, brother, and sister. Under his guidance she transfers herself from home's shelter- ed nook, to the highway of life — there to take the chance of storm and sunshine ; and to share with him its trials and vicissitudes. Much as the world is disposed to magnify the honours and privileges of matrimony, and much as a young man may have to offer of the " pride, pomp, and circum- stance" of life, in addition to the jewel of his affections, — if he has a truly generous and delicate mind, and recognises, in the object of those affections, a nature congenial with his own, he must feel that, in the entire surrender of her destiny into his hands, there is a heart-touching confidence which appeals to all that is most sacred in obligation, most tender in devotion. Frank Rogers felt all this, I am sure ; and, as I have often told you before, I depend upon this match to confute your matrimonial theory." " Well," said Helen, as she completed her peru- sal of the letter, " I must say that even I, a woman, LES EPOUX. 173 regard some of your notions as rather high-flown ; and I am much mistaken if your cousin, in his an- swer, does not make himself somewhat merry with them. I hope it will come before I go — if so you must promise to show it to me." " No ! I will not absolutely promise." " But if you don't show it, you know, I shall consider your refusal proof enough that I prophesied rightly. For my part, I do not see why the respon- sibilities assumed by people entering into the mar- ried stale, are not as great on one side as the other — or why there is not the same proof of confidence on the part of both husband and wife, in mutually sur- rendering their destiny into each other's hands." " Simply," replied Grace, " because the wife, disguise or deny it as we may, is, after all, the weaker vessel." In a few days the expected answer to her letter arrived. Helen watched her cousin's countenance during the perusal, but its expression was, on the whole, so indecisive, that it only increased her eagerness to read for herself. " Come, Grace, do make haste," said she, " I am dying Avith impatience." • " I can't help it, my dear; you must let me take my own time, for there is no satisfaction in hurry- 174 LE3 EPOUX. ing through a friend's letter." Presently, however, she besran to read aloud. " Your account of the bridal, my dear coz, was not the less interesting to me, because I could not see, in that beautiful dawn of their married life, the coming of a perfect day to our mutual friends. I, however, sympathise with you entirely in your admiration of Frank's demeanour, on the occasion. He did not feel more than a man should feel in similar circumstances. He is a capital fellow, and will devote himself heart, soul, and mind, to his wife. But she, my dear cousin, lovely and esti- mable as I admit her to be, is more familiar with the part of the idol than the worshipper, and though this may do for the daughter, the friend, or the belle, it will not answer for the wife. She must pay back, in part at least, the worship rendered by her husband, or be spoiled by it. There is always, I believe, more or less of pride associated with strong affections like Frank's. Moralists may con- demn it or not — I think some degree of it essential to a proper self-respect. Louisa, too, has a good deal of pride — therefore, not a little deference will be necessary, on the part of each towards the other. " Besides, in all matrimonial alliances, you may LES EPOUX. 175 be sure that there is some debateable ground, and it is a nice affair to adjust the limit, the precise boundary, defining the proper province of each party. If the wife encroaches, she either excites what is evil, or may be perverted into evil in her husband's nature, and directs it against herself— or she sub- dues him into tameness, equally unbecoming in him — and injurious to herself If, on the contrary, she yields too much, unless he be a man of very generous nature, she may render him imperious or unreasonable. There never has existed such a per- fect similarity of taste (I use the word in its most enlarged sense) between two human beings united in wedlock, that, in consulting each other's wishes and inclinations, mutual sacrifices were not demand- ed. There is an invisible bond uniting them, which imposes a strong necessity of sympathy and correspondence of feeling and action, in order to the comfort and happiness of each. I have known a wife, who, I believe, really loved her husband, and had great power — too much power — over his feelings and affections, after venturing upon it too far, lose it all at some critical moment ; when, upon the single hair of resistance or acquiescence, hung her destiny. Understand me, however — all that I insist upon, in regard to our friends, is — not that 176 LES EPOUX. they have not an equal chance with their fellow mortals of being happy together ; but only, that in their case, as in every other, marriage is an experi- ment of doubtful result as to the full degree, or even a good degree, of the happiness proposed to be se- cured by it. I have promised Frank that I will spend some weeks with him next winter, when they are settled in town. You, I understand, will pass the whole season at their house ; so we shall have an opportunity of comparing our notes and observations upon their conjugal felicity." " Well," exclaimed Helen, as Grace concluded, " you, and your cousin Charles, are complete ultras; both of you equally extravagant in your notions on the subject of matrimony, though differ- ing so widely. I think the surest way of testing your separate and varying opinions, would be, to try the experiment of matrimony between you. Your anxiety to triumph will make you good, and dutiful, and devoted as possible. This will secure to you all the devotion that you claim in return ; and he will be entirely reconciled to defeat, by what he gains in consequence of it." "Nonsense," replied Grace, slightly blushing; " who would venture upon such an experiment, with so sceptical a genius ?" LES EPOUX. 177 " I have known bolder hazards," archly retorted Helen, " and for a smaller stake." Grace either was, or pretended to be, too much engrossed with that part of the letter which still remained, to hear Helen's last remark; and the latter relapsed into silence, rendered very signifi- cant, however, by the tell-tale expression of her face, as Grace perceived the moment she looked up. Charles Mowbray was a young man of fine na- tural disposition, talented, and accomplished. He, and his cousin Grace, had grown up, side by side, in mutual friendship ; until he was obliged to leave home, in pursuance of his education. He was just now completing his last term at a celebrated law school, and preparing to enter upon his profession. In the interval between the close of his col- lege career, and the commencement of his profes- sional studies, he had passed a year abroad ; having accompanied his father, who went out upon some political mission. This gave him a great advan- tage, in several respects, over young men who pur- sue their course of preparation for the busy scenes of life, in comparative retirement and ignorance of the world; then, emerging at once upon its untried arena, find that they have still to acquire, M 178 LES EPOUX. by dear bought experience, the knowledge most essential to a successful performance of its duties, and participation in its conflicts. The winter season arrived, and Grace, in pursu- ance of the arrangement previously concerted with her friends, repaired to New York. Those friends had now been married some months ; — time enough for dreams and visions to be dispelled by realities. Their welcome was as cordial as even her affec- tionate nature could desire. The gay season had commenced, and they were engaged in a continual round of parties and amuse- ments. Louisa was not extravagantly addicted to pleasures of this kind ; — to Frank's taste they were quite foreign : but the first winter is, by custom, a bride's holiday ; and Frank found, in the pleasure of seeing his beautiful bride receive her full share of admiration, in all circles, a sufficient counterac- tion, for the time being, of that ennui, with which, hitherto, he had felt oppressed in similar scenes. Grace looked on with delight, when his eye fol- lowed his wife, from time to time, with riveted admiration. She was rejoiced to see that the current of their life seemed bright, smooth, and sparkling ;— and if, now and then, any little counter current set in, it LES EPOUX. 179 was soon overpowered and lost, in the onward and unobstructed flow of the stream. If Frank was sensible of any diminution of his first happiness, it arose from the unwelcome idea which would oc- casionally intrude itself, that his wife was becoming more and more engrossed with the pleasures of the gay world, and less so with himself. This idea was the more painful, because it never failed to suggest a fear which he was unwillins- to acknowledge even to himself— that the tone of that society, of whose fascinations she now felt the power, would have an unhappy influence upon her taste ; and might possibly transform her into a mere fashionable womati, in the technical sense of that phrase, a character which, of all others, he would most deprecate in a wife. Louisa, too, had occasionally her little sources of uneasiness ; as, for instance, when she some- times discovered that her husband thought her deficient in taste in dress — and wanting in discri- mination in the choice of her friends and acquaint- ance. She had also become conscious, though she hardly knew how, of his apprehensions in regard to the effect upon her character of her present asso- ciations. She had been accustomed, from her own family, 180 LES Eroux. to that homage which belongs only to perfection. Such homage the lover always renders ; — and in him it is founded upon perfect faith and love : but inasmuch as imperfection is the invariable concomi- tant of mortality, it cannot, in the nature of things, be fully retained after " love's young dream" has passed away. The consciousness of its partial loss is therefore a trial, to which, probably, almost every young wife is subjected ; and upon the manner in which this trial is borne, may depend much of her future character and influence. By one it will be resented as an injury — the deprivation of a right — and produce a fatal alienation : to another, of more passive disposition, and less self-esteem, it will oc- casion not anger, but depression and discou- ragement: — while, to a third, it will serve only as a stimulus to exertion and continual improve- ment, that in exchange for the lover's ardour and blind enthusiasm, she may secure to herself that confiding esteem, affection, and respect, which is the best tribute a husband can pay. When the winter had half expired, and Frank had become thoroughly tired of what all consider- ed, in the fashionable society of a city, as its pecu- liar and appropriate pleasures — an interesting course of lectures was instituted, which he was very de- LE3 EPOUX. 181 siroLis of attending with his wife. His own taste was literary ; and he wished her to sympathise with him in this, as in other respects. One morning he said to her, playfully — " Well, wife, I have danced attendance upon you all win- ter, as obedient to your bidding as Canute expect- ed the wave would be to his ; and now I want you to follow in my train, and attend this course of lec- tures with me. They will not interfere essentially with your usual amusements — as they will require but one evening every week." " I know it," replied his wife ; " but then that very evening might chance to be the one in all the seven that offered the most tempting pleasures." " But surely, dear," said he, " if indisposed to attend on your own account, you will cheerfully devote one evening in the week to my gratification. We used to think that every evening, devoted to each other, was not too much." " But that was when we met after a long separa- tion ; and we were lovers, too. Circumstances alter cases, you know." Frank sighed, but did not urge the matter fur- ther. When he had gone out, Grace ventured to suggest to Louisa, that it was a pity she should not comply with the first request he had ever 182 LES EPOUX. made of her — involving a sacrifice of her wishes to his. " O, I don't think he cares much about it," said Louisa. "If I commence these lectures, he will wish me to attend them regularly ; and there is no telling hoAv serious an interference it may be with my pleasures. The bride's reign is not quite over yet ; pray let her retain her sway, during its allot- ted period." Grace could not repress a rising fear, that in this instance it might expire unseasonably ; but ventur- ed no farther remonstrance. When Frank came home to dinner, his counte- nance wore not its accustomed smile. He seemed dejected, and said hardly a word. Grace observed the change, and Louisa rallied him upon it. He sat much less time than usual after dinner ; and, contrary to custom, returned to his counting. re om. " Well, I had no idea," said Louisa, after he had gone, " that Frank had such a faculty at making himself unhappy. It never will do to encourage him in it ; is would spoil him entirely. It must be this trifling matter of the lectures, that annoys him so much. I am sure he is quite welcome to attend them without me." Grace longed to advise her friend — but knowing LES EPOUX. 183 that she had a high spirit, and valued herself par- ticularly upon her independence, she feared to of- fend her. " I wonder," thought she, " it does not occur to Louisa, that Frank's trouble arises not from the idea of giving up the lectures, but from disappointment at finding her less disposed to gra- tify him, than formerly — much less than he had been to gratify her. For some days, in spite of Louisa's efforts to the contrary, the whole party laboured under a degree of restraint and depression ; to which, hitherto, they had been entirely unaccustomed in their intercourse with each other. In the midst of this state of things, to Grace's utter discomfiture, Charles Mow- bray arrived. " Well, Frank," said he, after the first saluta- tions were over, and he was fairly seated ; " I sup- pose, by this time, you have got to be what is termed an old married man — suited to your condi- tion — and no longer feel like an actor, upon his first appearance." " No ! not like an actor upon his first appearance ; but quite as little, perhaps, like one quite familiar with all the parts in which he may have to ap- pear." " Ah ! then you don't consider your conjugal 234 LES Epoux. character and reputation entirely established. I hope he promises well, Mrs. Rogers." " Admirably — in all his studied, practised parts." " And you would advise me, I suppose," said Frank, " to confine myself to those — and further- more, to avoid all asides and impromptus." " I do not say that," replied Louisa, throwing a slight emphasis upon the affirmative word of her sentence. Grace trembled lest the conversation should take a turn leading to unpleasant discoveries on the part of Charles. Frank sighed audibly, though uncon- sciously. " You perceive," said Louisa, addressing herself to Charles, " that the lover is not entirely merged in the husband yet. Frank retains at least one of the lover's attributes." Grace thought that her friend exhibited a striking want of her usual tact in this last observation, and knew Charles would think the attribute alluded to not appropriate to the husband. Hoping, however, to give the conversation another turn, she said, " Well, as long as any portion of the lover remains, a lady will not be so particular as to the perfecting of the husband ; so, dear Louisa, be not in haste to have Frank study all his parts." LES EPOUX. 185 " No ; he has a sufficient variety already," replied Louisa. " Not unless one constitutes a variety," retorted Frank. " A gallant speech for a husband of six months !" observed Charles ; " since he of course means the part of follower and admirer." Neither Frank nor Louisa made any reply ; and Grace again exerted herself to change the subject. " Well, Charles," said she, " I suppose you are aware that you will be obliged to come out in a new character here — that of beau; which I don't think you have ever sported much yet." " I shall certainly be in an admirable school to acquire it now. I suppose you are all in the full whirl of pleasure's giddy round. Have you not become by this time a little dizzy and fatigued?" " I have, for one," said Frank, " and now that I need not bide the battle alone, I think I shall take a stand against it. You will join me, I am sure." " Shocking !" exclaimed Louisa. " Appeal to a young man just come to town for such pleasures as town only affords, instead of enjoying them, to sit down in a corner with you, and condole over the miseries of a citizen ! Mr. MoAvbray, never marry until you can make up your mind to dance attend- 186 LES EPOUX. ance upon your wife for at least one season without dying of ennui. The world, if not herself, will expect this of you." " Or, if you cannot make up your mind to that," rejoined Frank, " be sure you are not mistaken in supposing that your wife will be content to give you an occasional breathing spell, and take her turn as follower." Louisa pulled his ear. This she had sometimes done before in mock resentment at some jesting speech ; but, to tell the truth, Frank never relished it, and the present moment was remarkably ill chosen for such a freedom. He coloured — his eye flushed — and very soon after he withdrew. Meanwhile Grace endeavoured to divert her cousin's mind by talking of sight-seeing, &c. &c. Before Frank again joined the circle, he had recovered his tranquillity ; and a few days passed away pleasantly enough. He enjoyed the society of his friend, and when with him was animated and happy. Still Louisa felt conscious that his heart was not light as formerly, and that she was the cause of its heaviness, — a conviction which gave her more uneasiness than she was willing to acknowledge, even to herself. Had she foreseen all the conse- LES EPOUX. 137 quences of her refusal to gratify him in the only instance in which he had ever asked her to make a sacrifice, she would not have withheld her compli- ance. But now, although aware that the former happy state of things could not be restored without some concession on one side or the other, she thought it quite too late for her to yield the point, since her doing so could no longer have the merit of a voluntary act. Charles Mowbray admired his cousin Grace more and more, as he saw the developement of her cha- racter in new scenes, and subject to new influences. Without being fascinated with the pleasures of gay society, she partook of them with the enthusiasm of a youthful spirit whose freshness is yet unim- paired by the artificial, sickly atmosphere of fash- ionable life. The French have a very characteris- tic phrase, which, as contrasted with that which we use to express the same thing, is strikingly illustrative of the different spirit of French and English or American society. We speak of attend- ing- a party— f^ey of assisting at a party ; and it might be said of Grace, " elle assistait d une'partie^'' by her mirth, liveliness and agreeable conversation. She had, too, just that degree of nonchalance about her which made her appear to advantage, as being IQQ LES EPOUX. not at all occupied with herself — not desirous of display, nor eager for admiration. "Do not you get tired of this mode of life?" said Charles to her one morning as they met in the breakfast parlour, before their friends ap- peared. " I should not be sorry to relinquish it," she replied ; " but every situation has its advantages ; and such as they are here, it is best to make the most of them. When I return to the country, I shall find the change very grateful, and easily relapse into my primitive habits." " It appears to me," said Charles, " that although literature is hardly made use of here as even an embellishment of life, it might have some value as a variety." " The literature of the fashionable world," replied Grace, " is only used to embellish a centre table, and is chiefly contained within the splendid covers of elegant souvenirs. As for lectures, they are a mere spectacle." "By the by," said Charles, "I perceive that a course of lectures upon interesting subjects is advertised to be delivered by a foreigner of great eminence. Why, had n't we all best attend them ?■ ' " I should like it of all things." LES EPOUX. Igg " Then, if our friends accede to the plan, I will procure the tickets immediately." Just then Frank and Louisa entered, and Charles told them what he had been proposing. Frank looked towards Louisa, eager to see how she would receive the proposal. She appeared somewhat disconcerted. She would gladly have embraced such an opportunity for reversing her pre- vious decision ; but having refused the favour to her husband, she feared to offend him still farther by apparently granting it to Mr. Mowbray. After a little hesitation, she replied, that though she must decline going herself, she should insist upon not preventing Grace's attendance. "You will join us, Frank?" said Mowbray. "Whenever my wife can dispense with my attendance elsewhere," he replied. " That will of course be whenever the lecture occurs," said Louisa, " as your being with me can signify nothing when all your thoughts and wishes are turned in a different direction." Frank looked hurt, but made no reply. Charles's eye met Grace's ; but hers was instantly with- drawn; and she felt vexed with herself that she could not prevent the colour that was mantling her cheeks." 190 LES EPOUX. " On ihe whole," resumed Louisa, " I think I will go." Frank's countenance brightened, which observ- ing, she suffered the perversity and chagrin of the moment to prevail over her better reason, and added — " if only to sav^e myself the awkwardness of being left moping and alone at home, or of dragging a knight of sorrowful countenance into a gay party." When the day arrived on which the course of lectures was to commence, Frank said to his wife that he had no idea of attending them without her, nor could he consent to take her there against her will ; he should therefore be at her service as usual. She replied, somewhat peevishly, that she chose to go to the lectures, for she might as well make up her mind to have no will of her own, first as last. " My dear Louisa," said he, tenderly, " Avhy can- not your will be my will, and my will your will 7 I am sure I trus-t we love each other too well, to have any conflicting interests or inclinations. It was not the lectures that I cared about, so much as to have you give me some proof that you had not lost all your devotion to me — that you could still take a pleasure in gratifying me." This was the moment for complete reconcilia- tion ; and Louisa was half inclined to embrace it — but, alas ! pride prevailed over strong affection ; and LE3 EPOUX. 191 she replied — " Devotion must be mutual to be worth any thing on either side — it must be voluntary, too. Since yours has ceased, and mine, in this instance, at least, cannot now be voluntary, it would be una- vailing." She spoke with some bitterness, and her eyes filled with tears. " Oh Louisa !" said her husband, " why will you so wilfully misunderstand me ?" She made no reply, but left the room. Frank went off to his counting room, and, de- tained by unexpected business, did not return until late in the evening. At any other time he would have sent a messenger to inform his wife that he was necessarily delayed ; but now, possessed with the idea that whether he were present or absent was no longer a matter of any consequence to her, he omitted the attention. Meanwhile Louisa, wondering at his absence, accompanied her friends to the lecture. When Frank returned late at night, without waiting to ask or hear his vindication, she reproached him, the moment they were alone together, with his hypo- crisy in affecting so strong a desire to attend the lectures, which, since he had staid away at last, she must suppose was assumed merely to try her dutiful submission. 192 LES EPOUX. " And is it come to this," exclaimed he, in bitter- ness of spirit — " that my wife distrusts and re- proaches me ? Then there is no use in attempting a vindication : you would not listen to it, or, if you listened, would not believe it." During all this interval of unhappy days, Charles and Grace had been fully aware that matters were not as they should be between their friends ; yet, feeling that it was a painful and delicate subject, Charles for some time forbore to speak of it ; and when he did introduce it at last, the deep interest he took in their happiness of course prevented his making it a cause of triumph over Grace. They talked together long and seriously. " Oh," said Grace, " it all comes from Louisa's false notions of independence — or from her false pride, perhaps, I should say. Yet she has so much sense, and so sincere an attachment to her husband, that I am sure she will turn back to him, and, if necessary, fall at his feet, rather than leap the precipice which, it appears to me, is yawning before her." " Grace," exclaimed Charles, eagerly seizing her hand, " with all my infidelity upon this same sub- ject of matrimony, and with this glaring proof of its reasonableness before my eyes, you have made me your convert — your devotee — nay, your worship- LES EPOUX. . 193 per. Can you require stronger proof of your power over me ? Consent to unite your fate with mine, and I defy all risk — still more I deny that there is the possibility of risk. Speak, have you a similar faith 1" " How can I dare," said Grace, " venture with you upon an experiment which, a month since, you would have thought so perilous — so full of hazard ? I shrink from such a responsibility." " I cake it all upon myself, then," said he, kin- dling with a. lover's ardour. " Say only that the faith which you have so long professed does not fail you in this particular instance, and that it bears some proportion to mine, so newly embraced !" " If I have indeed made you my convert, hence- forth that faith is founded upon a rock," replied Grace, with an expression of delicacy and feeling, as beautiful as it was touching and true. " Bless you for that precious confession," rejoined Charles ; and a long conversation ensued which it does not become us to rehearse. The next morning, at breakfast, Grace received a letter containing an unexpected summons home. She had expected to remain with her friends a month longer, at the end of which time they had promised to return with her. Charles was now, of course, to be. her attendant. N 194 LES EPOUX. Louisa was distressed at the thought of parting with Grace. It would have been painful to her at any moment, but especially now that an estrange- ment had taken place between herself and husband. Altogether, she felt very unhappy, and conceived a sudden resolution of accompanying her friend, although she knew that her husband's business must prevent his following her before the expiration of a month. She announced her purpose to him the moment she had an opportunity, alleging as the reason of it, that she longed to throw herself once more into the arms of those friends who had che- rished her ever since she was born, and with whom there was no danger of misunderstandings and estrangements. Frank looked not only surprised, but grieved and distressed. " My dear Louisa," said he, " this proposal shocks me beyond expression ; but if you deem it essential to your happiness to leave me, I will not remon- strate. God knows that your happiness, not mine, is my first object." Louisa felt her heart softened almost to melting by this speech ; but, resisting the tenderness which was overpowering her, she forbore to reply, and proceeded with her preparations. LES EPOUX. 195 At dinner the whole party were very grave ; for the cloud which hung over their friends obscured even the sunshine of the lovers. The travellers were to take the steamboat at six o'clock that evening. As the hour of parting ap- proached, Louisa's heart relented. She followed Grace to her room. " Oh Grace !" she exclaimed, " my heart fails me about going at last. It seems too bad to leave poor Frank alone a whole month." " Since your appeal entitles me to advise you," said Grace, "pray, don't go, dear Louisa. Wait one month longer. I am sure you will not be sorry." Louisa instantly returned to her room, where she had left her husband locking and labelling her trunks. She threw her arms around his neck, and burst into tears, at first without saying a word. At length she exclaimed, " Frank, I cannot leave you." He pressed her to his bosom, and they remained silent some moments. Then he said, "My dear Louisa, this reconciles me to your departure ; with these sweet recollections, I can bear it, and rejoice that you are happy." "No, Frank," she replied, " I cannot go. I could not be happy now without you. I must stay and make some amends for the pain I have so foolishly IQQ LES EPOUX. given you. Let me go and announce my determi- nation to Grace." Grace expressed her delight by warmly embrac- ing her friend. " Now, my dear," said she, " I con- sider your happiness secure ; but had you taken the step you proposed, I should have trembled for it ; for there is a point beyond which the endurance of the fondest and most induls-ent husband will not reach." She then proceeded to communicate her oAvn recent engagement. "Only think," she added, "after all Charles's distrust, that I should under- take its practical cure !" " If there is a person in the world," observed Louisa, " who did not need the lesson which my experience has afforded, it is you ; but perhaps even you may take warning from it." Meanwhile Charles had been making a similar communication to Frank; but it may be doubted whether the lovers, in receiving the warm congra- tulations of their friends, were happier at that moment than the friends themselves. J ^% ■^^. sms iFiEiL®'is.iisn. 195 THE PILGRIM. Shrine ! — beneath whose hallow'd shade, Thus, my pilgrim vow is paid — All the perils of my path, Lm-king- foe, and tempest's wrath, Failing scrip, and burning sky, Fade away from Memory's eye; While wearied here my staff I rest, And feel within my raptur'd breast, High devotion's tranced glow Banish every trace of woe. Land ! — whose consecrated breast My Redeemer's footsteps prest — From Avhose mountains bleak and bare, Rose his lonely midnight prayer — Where his homeless life he led, Where the mournful tear he shed — Drank the cup of bitter scorn. Bore the taunt, the scourge, the thorn, — Land of the cross, — the tomb, the shrine — I bless thee, holy Palestine. L. H. S. Hartford^ Ct, 198 TO THE WIND. Where hast thou wander'd, wind ? Hast stopp'd upon thy course to wake The ripples of the gentle lake, Or 'mid tlie rose embower'd brake Thy form entwin'd ? Or out upon the deep, Hast caused the billows crested form To ride exulting through the storm — Hushing the seaman's wild alarm In endless sleep ? Or soft upon the chord Of some lone lyre, thy breath has swept, Breaking the silence fondly kept In memory of the lov'd, the wept, 'Neath earth's green sward ? Or from the towering hills First by the early daylight kiss'd. Enveloped in their veils of mist, Where the air wanderers love to list The murmuring rills ? TO THE WIND. ^99 Answer me, wind — Tell me the caves wherein you dwell, Tell me why every lengthening swell Echo prolongs, as 'twere a spell With magic twin'd. Why speak 'st thou not ? — Is there but that sad sound alone, Mysterious wind, that is thine own ? Can'st thou not tell from whence thou 'st flown, Cavern, or grot ? No, thou art dumb : — But we can feel that every breeze, Wafting its music through the trees. From some fair bower, or far off seas, Has gently come ? Oh ! thy soft tone Speaks of a spirit unconfin'd. That, which no fetters e'er could bind. The free, the ever wandering wind. Alone, alone. Kate. 200 E M E L I N E . A TALE. Emeline Lorraine was endowed by nature with all the o-races of form and mind ; and united to these pleasing qualities, that which is still more sure to attract, a good heart. She had been brought up by her grandmother, whose partiality led her to ima- gine, that her darling was almost too perfect ; but of this there was little danger, for, unfortunately, Emeline had a fault, but for which she would have been a subject of universal envy ; but Avhich, with its darkening influence, overshadowed all her amia- ble and prepossessing qualities. This fault was indolence ; and from it all her actions were irregu- lar and uncertain. She would put off from day to day the duties which pressed for immediate atten- tion ; always deferring until to-morrow that which ought to be done to-day ; and thus her lime passed over, without leaving any trace of either pleasure or utility. Unaccustomed to note the hours as they passed, she never was dressed at a seasonable time ; EMELINE. 20] and was, therefore, never seen at the beginning of a meal, or the commencement of an entertainment ; and, on finding herself too late, she was often led to make excuses ; which, however, seldom served to ma^ie her fault less conspicuous. If she had hap- pened to commit any act of rudeness or inattention, and felt that a note or a visit were necessary to repair it, she generally put it off so long, that it became unseasonable, and only served to aggravate the offence. As this was often ascribed to imperti- nence, she made a thousand enemies ; who were the more ready to dwell upon her faults, for the sake of putting them in opposition to her many na- tural advantages ; and she, to revenge herself upon them for this severity, would listen to their remon- strances with a cold and studied indifference. Among the old friends of her family who judged Emeline with severity for this defect in her dispo- sition, Mr. Montague, an industrious merchant of large fortune, in the acquisition of which punc- tuality had been one of his first virtues, distin- guished himself by his serious reproaches. If he happened to dine with her grandmother, and Eme- line made her appearance, as she generally did in the middle of the repast, he would draw out. his watch, which was the signal for a long enumera- 202 EMELINE. tion of the advantages of scrupulous punctuality, and call upon her to calculate how much she was beyond the dinner hour. Emeline restrained her- self at first, and laughing, would say, with a mild- ness that was sufficient to disarm her antagonist ; " It is true that I am too late, but is that a crime not to be repaired?" " Certainly not," her grandmother would often add ; for she was always anxious to excuse her dar- ling. " In truth there is too much importance placed upon a fault of so trifling a nature. My granddaugh- ter, Mr. Montague, was not born for the paltry ex- actness of a counting house." " It is true," replied the merchant ; " the indo- lence of a parlour suits her better." And thus the one by flattering, the other by ofi'ending, Emeline's self pride, only increased this failing in her dispo- sition; and by that means influenced her future destiny more than could at that time have been imagined. Emeline received a yearly allowance, proportionate to the extent of her fortune ; and though it was a considerable sum, we must do her the justice to say, that she was never led into that fondness for fashion, that excessive desire for eclips- ing others, which becomes an endless abyss for so many young women. On this account prudent ExMELINE. 203 mothers pointed her out to their daughters, as a specimen of moderation and economy ; little ima- gining that though she was free from these faults, she was guilty of others that were more than equiva- lent. Never having taken any pains to make her- self acquainted with the proper price of the articles she wished to purchase, she only tried to get them with as little trouble as possible ; and on that ac- count would rather buy them of a pedlar coming to the door, than endure the fatigue of going a shop- ping ; and as to mending, that was out of the ques- tion. It was much easier to buy new clothes, and throw the old ones away ; so of course this plan Avas always adopted, without considering the swell- ing of her bills ; though year after year she had found that they had accumulated far beyond her ability to defray them. Bewildered by the debt which at length began to press heavily upon her, she intrusted her embarrassment to an old nurse, who, having a small sum of money in her posses- sion, lent her all she could spare. The two follow- ing years she applied the same remedy ; but, alas ! on the third, her nurse's daughter was to be married, and the money was wanted ; and Emeline well knew that it must be paid. Nay, she not only felt that this must be done, but she also conceived it her duty 204 EMELINE. to add a handsome present for the young bride. But how to get the money for the execution of this pro- ject was the question. She thought of begging her grandmother to advance her some ; but the good lady was not free from avarice, and one of the things which she gave her granddaughter so much credit was that she made so few demands upon her. Emeline troubled and perplexed her mind about how she should contrive to pay her debts, till her head began to ache, and then, finding that she was no better for all her consideration, she determined to give up the subject, and let the matter take its chance. Her nurse, however, thought for her, and came to propose to her a means of getting out of her difficulties, by procuring the sum she wanted of a money lender ; who would, to be sure, require an exorbitant interest, but then she would soon have it in her power to pay it all off; since she would undoubtedly be married soon, and then her whole fortune would be in her own power. The nurse had a relative who was willing to lend the money on the terms mentioned, and Emeline, kissing her for thus releasing her from her troubles, requested her to bring the money lender immediately, that she might sign a note, payable a week after her marriage, and at once relieve herself from her difficulties. EMELINE. 205 The event thus confidentially anticipated was not far distant. Edward Monroe, nephew to Mr. Montague, with little fortune but great expectations from his uncle, chanced to meet Emeline at a ball, where her modest manners, noble figure, simple dress, and beautiful features, made a strong impres- sion on his heart. He was too prudent, however, to decide from appearances only, and therefore made enquiries of her friends, to ascertain whether the qualities of her mind corresponded with those of her external appearance ; and finding that they did, he immediately announced to his uncle his in- tention of offering her his hand. " She has every desirable quality," cried he : " she has not one fault. Not one." " Unless you choose to call getting up late a fault," replied his uncle ; " or making dinner wait ; or being an hour after the right time on all occa- sions." " I know you will call them so," said Edward, laughing. " Very well, laugh away !" returned Mr. Mon- tague, with bluntness ; "you will not always laugh at it." As the uncle, however, had no very serious objection to this marriage, he made no further diffi- culties, and matters were very soon adjusted. 206 EMELINE. Mr. Montague made Emeline a present, which, however, was more remarkable for its costliness than for the grace with which it was presented; and having done so he declared it would be impos- sible for him to witness their marriage, as his pre- sence was necessary in on a certain day, which was near at hand. But Monroe prevailed upon him to wait till after the ceremony, which, for his accommodation, was fixed to take place at eight o'clock in the morning of Mr. Montague's departure. It was difficult for Emeline to get ready at so early an hour, and the uncle's patience was entirely exhausted before she made her appearance. But her toilet was at length completed, and having been kissed by her grandmother, and received her affectionate blessing, Monroe took her by the hand, and presented her to the company. She was beau- tiful, and her air of modesty was so much in her favour, that every one looked on her with admira- tion, and Monroe anticipated nothing but happiness. A few days after their marriage the young couple were settled in a house, elegant, yet simple, and suitable to their fortune, which was far from being considerable. Much economy was necessary for the management of the family, and Monroe recom- mended it to his wife as one of her first duties. EMELINE. 207 She acknowledged it to be so, and promised to ob- serve it, only begging, with great sweetness, per- mission to commit a first and last folly, in a present which she wished to make him, and which she would pay for with her own money. Monroe, touched by this attention, declared that he wished for nothing but her likeness in miniature ; and one morning, when the young couple were at breakfast, a servant brought a small packet into the room, saying, that a man was waiting for an answer. The address was to Mrs. Monroe, or, if she was from home, to Mr. Monroe. Both were convinced that it was her picture which she had just done sit- ting for, and they playfully contended for some time about which of them should have the pleasure of breaking the seal. " I long to see what is in this paper," said the husband, with tenderness, " it is so sweet to me to have any thing from your hand." As he said this, he snatched the paper from her, and tore it open ; but instead of the expected picture, he found the copy of a note payable with interest a week after Emeline's marriage, and a letter from the man who had advanced the money, urging immediate pay- ment. Blushes covered Emeline's face, and she felt humiliated before him whom she had taken so 208 EMELINE. much pains to convince that his affections had been well placed. Tears accompanied the avowal of her imprudence, and the promise that she would never again commit a similar fault. Monroe did not reproach her, but simply gave her the money necessary to discharge her debt. An hour after the miniature arrived, but it was given with embarrass- ment, and was not received with eagerness ; and though Monroe repeated to his acquaintances— " It is a present from my wife," the recollection of the extravagant and unprincipled conduct of which that wife had been guilty arose at the same time to his mind, and checked the pleasing emotions that would otherAvise have thrilled through his heart. Before long, however, this and every other unplea- sant idea was chased from the fond husband's mind by the prospect of Emeline's becoming a mo- ther ; and when that happy event look place, she became dearer to him than ever, and he could see nothing but perfection in the mother of his boy. As a compliment to Mr. Montague, the child was named Henry, and he was so healthy, and grew so rapidly, that the delighted father frequently declared he knew nothing on earth so beautiful as his wife, unless it was his little boy. Several months passed away, and nothing hap- EMELLVE. 209 pened except some small losses of fortune, and Emeline Avas very happy. Henry grew both in strength and beauty. His mother, to whom he gave no trouble, (for she did not nurse him herself,) loved him extremely. She smiled with compla- cency when they told her that her son had taken her fine black eyes. But it is not in this world that we are to find certain repose and unmingled happiness ; and Mon- roe soon found himself called upon to leave these beloved objects. Letters from Martinique, where he had property, convinced him of the necessity of his going there to execute business of great import- ance to the future fortunes of his child. He did not determine upon undertaking this long voyage without taking all the precautions that tenderness could suggest for the good of those he left behind. To prove his confidence in her, he trusted his wife Avith a considerable sum of money, conjuring her at the same time for his sake to conquer her habits of carelessness and indolence ; but when he began to speak of her attention to the little Henry, his voice failed him. He pressed him to his heart, placed him in his mother's lap, and simply pronounced — " Think of his father, and never leave him." Emeline, bathed in tears, promised solemnly 210 EjMELINE. never to lose sight of him, and to redouble all her care and attention. She gave every assurance that could satisfy the anxious father ; and we must do her the justice to say that, at the time, she had the fullest intentions of performing her promise ; but her husband was no sooner gone than she sank into a state of total apathy, neither attending to her child, nor seeking the society of those friends whose kindness Monroe had charged her to cherish ; and though she gave her grief as the cause, the real one was that it would cause her to leave her bed, and put off her morning gown, exertions which to her were intolerable. The consequence of this system of stagnation was that Henry, who had become strong and turbulent, was left entirely to his nurse ; and, under the pretext that the air would be good for him, she had him almost constantly out of the house ; and when taken to places, as he too often was, that were improper for him, he was sometimes bribed, and at others threatened into silence. Not long after her husband's departure, Emeline lost her grandmother; and the legacy left by her was disputed by a relation as skilful and active in business as Emeline was defective. He commenced a lawsuit, which she was totally unable to manage ; for the mere word lawsuit was enou2:h to throw EMELIXE. 211 her into convulsions ; and to escape the fatigue of it, or rather to avoid the weariness of hearing it talked about, she chose this moment to pay a visit to her husband's uncle, whom we have already introduced to our readers by the name of Mr. Mon- tague. As soon as Monroe left home, she had received the most pressing solicitations from the old gentle- man to come and live with him. He wanted com- pany ; he was tired of a bachelor's life ; and, as he was prompt in all his actions, he calculated the day of her departure, that of her arrival, and the very hour when he could embrace her. Emeline, who was not quite so expeditious, was setting off twenty times ; but either the carriage was not ready, the trunks were not packed, or something or other always prevented her ; till, at last, after her uncle was tired of waiting for her, and had ceased to think of her, she left home to surprise him with a visit. She was at first inclined to take her son with her ; but Nanette, his nurse, found good reasons to convince her that, as he was already sick, the jour- ney would kill him ; but if she would allow him to go home with her, where he would breathe the pure country air, she would find him, on her return, so fat that she would not know him a2:ain. With 2X2 EMELINE. respect to the care that she would take of him, she would not say any thing, as her mistress ought to know that she would sooner take the bread out of her own mouth to give it to the dear child, than let him want for any thing. Emeline yielded, and left him under the care oi this woman, not without some scruples of con- science with regard to the promise she had made her husband ; but it was for Henry's good, and would save her an immense deal of trouble ; besides, Monroe, to whom she often wrote that his boy was well, would never know that she had thus forsaken him. At length, after taking twice the time, and spend- ing three times the money that was necessary, she arrived at her uncle's house, which, to her surprise, she found to be a very elegant one. The illumi- nated windows and sound of music announced some great entertainment ; and servants, dressed in handsome new liveries, conducted her into a room filled with company, where Mr. Montague, in full dress, was just going to open the ball with a pretty young woman, to whom he had that morning given his name. Surprised and mortified at his niece's arrival, he began to explain to her that he was married ; but, finding himself embarrassed, he cried EMELIXE. 213 out impatiently, "Why the devil did you come so late ? You might have prevented me from doing a foolish thing. Not that I mean to say that I have done one ; but, in relation to Monroe, it is a bad affair; and it was in your power to have prevented it." At this singular discourse the two young women discovered equal embarrassment ; but as they were neither of them deficient either in talents or ad- dress, they concealed their mutual discontent by the politeness of their manners. Mrs. Montague was, however, happy to find that Emeline had not brought his little godson to see the old uncle, who was so delighted at his being called after him, that it was probable in the warmth of his feelings he might have bestowed a considerable portion of his fortune upon him. It was not long, however, before she ceased to have any fear of Emeline herself; for she soon became sensible of the listlessness of her disposition, which she well knew would ill ac- cord with the activity of her husband's mind. She therefore loaded her with kindness ; and Emeline, afraid of being thought covetous, (•onr.ealed the cha- grin occasioned by her disappointed expectations, and the uncertainty of her child's future prospects, and yielded to their entreaties to prolong her stay 2X4 EMELINE. with them. At the end of a fortnight, however, she began to talk of returning ; but it is difficult to say how long it might have been before she put her intentions into execution, had not Nanette, who had at first written to say that Henry was well, though thin in consequence of growing so fast, at length, being alarmed at the responsibility of her situation, confessed in a second letter that the child had had a slight fever for several days. Notwith- standing her incontrollable indolence, Emeline had a good heart. This time her preparations were despatched with speed, and she was at home in as short a time as it was possible for her to go there. She wished to proceed immediately to where Na- nette and the child were ; but she arrived too late that night to do so, and the following morning found her so exhausted with fatigue occasioned by exertion to which she had been so little accus- tomed, that it seemed utterly impossible for her to proceed ; and she had no other alternative than that of sending word to Nanette to bring the child to her. Whilst she is waiting let us return to Monroe, whom we left at Martinique; anxiously counting the days and weeks that he was still to be separated from all that was dear to him on earth. A gentle- EMELIXE. 215 man, with whom he had been long in treaty for the sale of his estate, died suddenly, and left children under age, and a succession so embarrassed, that Monroe preferred putting the business into the hands of a notary ; and no longer able to live away from objects so dear to him, he embarked in the first vessel that sailed for his native country. He had sustained considerable losses in his fortune, but he hoped his uncle would still be his friend ; and then he was going home — he Avas going to see his Eme- line, his dear Emeline — so worthy of all his tender- ness, and their dear little Henry. These thoughts made his hearf beat ; and when he perceived the well known coasts of his country rise to his view, regret for his losses, and uneasiness for the future, all disappeared. Hardly did he know himself to be on land, before he set out for his beloved home ; and travelling night and day, he could only antici- pate the transports of his wife, whom he was going to surprise. He had already arrived at the last stage of his journey, when, on remounting his horse, he threw down a child, which curiosity and imprudence had drawn too near him. His huma- nity was awakened by its cries, and he returned to lift it up; and satisfied that it was not seriously 216 EMELINE. hurt, he gave the little boy some money, and asked him where his mother Avas. " I had a mother once," replied the child, raising his large black eyes to the face of Monroe ; " but she is lost." " AVhy do you say so ?" said a neighbour, who had by this time taken the child on her lap ; " you know that your mother is travelling, and that she has left you under the care of a nurse." Monroe, almost unknoAvn to himself, breathed an imprecation against a mother that could be guilty of such negligence; and after having reassured himself that the boy was not much injured ; and having, with an inexpressible emotion, gazed once more on his fine black eyes, and emaciated form, he remounted his horse and rode off, his thoughts still frequently recurring, as he went along, to the poor suffering and neglected child. But what painful sensations will not vanish as we approach our home, or at sight of the house which is inhabited by those we love ? Monroe, unable to restrain his impatience, presented himself suddenly before his wife, who, turning pale and red alternately, at length sank in a fainting fit into his arms. But was it pleasure at seeing her husband that caused this EMELINE. 217 emotion? No ! other feelings overpowered all her happiness. What would she not have given to have Henry with her at that moment ? As she re- covered her consciousness, she began to speak of her joy, then of her misfortunes. She told him of his uncle's marriage, which he was, undoubtedly, sorry for, but sadness could not at that moment ap- proach his heart. " But Henry !" said he at last, " where is Henry V Emeline was then obliged to confess that he was in the country, and had been a little sick, but she had sent for him. Before Monroe had time to ex- press his disapprobation of her conduct, the mes- senger returned, and brought word that the child was not in a state to be removed, on account of an injury it had received, by being rode over by a gen- tleman that morning. On hearing this Monroe ab- solutely screamed with agony. " How ! this morn- ing — my son ! — myself! Unfortunate Emeline, I might have trod the blood of my own child under my feet !" He could say no more. The fatigue of the journey, and the excess of his emotion, over- came him entirely, and threw him into a temporary fit of delirium ; and Emeline, in despair, was afraid to go near him, from the fear of being driven away 218 EMELINE. again with violence. When he became more com- posed; a carriage was ordered, and they hastened to their child, Monroe speechless with grief, and his guilty wife unable to do any thing but groan. When they arrived at Henry's bed-side, they found him labouring under a high fever. Bad nourish- ment and want of attention had long made him a prey to disease, which the accident of the morning had greatly increased. The child knew his mother, and said, " Since you have been lost, mama, I have been very sick; but Nanette said she would beat me if I told you." Monroe heaped imprecations on Nanette's head, and Emeline overwhelmed her with reproaches ; to which she had the impertinence to reply: " I have taken as much care of him as you have, and you are his mother." In an agony of grief Emeline passed her time, day and night, by the bed-side of her child, trying, when too late, to prove her tender- ness, and supplying to him, in his last moments, the cares which had been withheld from him during his short life. After his death an insurmountable barrier exist- ed between the husband and wife. Monroe re- strained his grief, and avoided reproaching her ExMELINE. 219 whose breast was already torn with anguish. As an indulgent husband he might have pardoned the crimes for which she was so severely punished, but as the father of Henry he never could forget them. A coldness and distance took place of that confi- dence by which they ought to have been united. Duty, but not tenderness, was the bond of their union, and a dreadful remembrance haunted the minds of both. 220 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER MARRIAGE. My heart is with thee now, my friend, when lov'd ones round thee stand, And at thy side one dearer far, who claims thy yielded hand. Oh ! would that I could see thy face, thy varying cheek and brow — The transcript of the love and joy that fill thy soul e'en now ! My thoughts are with thee now, my friend, when lov'd ones give thee joy. And hope thy future will be bright, thy bliss without alloy. Oh I would that I could join that group, and say I 'm all thine own, Or hear from thee one word of love, one gently murmur'd tone. My love is with thee now, my friend, when dear ones thee embrace. And fondly clasp thy hand, and ask still in thy heart a place. LINES TO A YOUNG LADY. 221 Oh I would that I could join that group, and press my lip to thine, As I have often done in days of happiness lang syne. My prayer is with thee now, my friend, when lov'd ones ask for thee Life here and in a better world from care and sorrow free. My heart, my thoughts, my love, my prayer, to thee I give them all : Oh I would that I could hear thee say they not unheeded fall I A. D. W. 222 WOMAN'S LOVE. Days and weeks glide by, And yet his letter comes not — not one line To tell that I am loved, and still remembered. Am I forgotten ? The thought is withering ! Did he then win my love to throw it by As lightly as he would an unprized gift ? Peace, peace, my troubled heart, for thou shalt break Ere I complain. I will not think of him. He too shall be forgotten ! Woman's pride Shall nerve my soul, and I will proudly deem That he is all unworthy of my love. Henceforth my books shall be my dearest friends. On them my thoughts shall rest. Fair nature's charms Alone shall warm my heart ; for her alone I 'II breathe my wild untutored lays ; her praise Shall be the theme on which I'll love to dwell ; And my affection now sliall roam no more, But fold her wearied wing, and calmly rest In my own quiet home. The dove will seek Her ark again ; but, ah I my olive branch. WOMAN'S LOVE. 223 Will it not ^vitllered be ? Can peace be mine ? When I am musing o'er the gifted page, Will it not wake the thought of one afar, Whose converse made the gems of poesy A brighter lustre wear ? Will I not dream Of him who oft has pointed out its beauties ? When I am gazing on the wild wood flowers. Will I not think of one who loves them too ? And can I look upon the evening star, And not remember him who said to me, — " When we are parted, let that beaming star Remind thee oft of him who is away ?" Whene'er I gaze upon the moonlight scene. Its softened beauties, mingled light and shade, — Will it not bring to memory again The moonlight walk — affection's whisper'd vows ? Did he not say the thought of me was twin'd Around his very heart, and had become A part of his existence — that no power Could tear it thence, or blight its changeless green. Till death had laid him low ? He did say this. How could I doubt his truth, or e'er have thought I was forgotten ? I know he loves me still. He never would deceive a trusting heart; He would not break the troth that he has plighted. How could I say that pride could make me feel He was unworthy of my love ? — for he is all That woman's heart can wish to prize or own. 224 VVOMAX'S LOVE. But does he love, as fondly, truly love. As he did once ? If absence had not chilled Affection's warmth, could he so long remain In silence? . It may be chilled; but vainly Have I said that he should be forgotten. The idol in the altar of my heart Can ne'er be rent from thence, but will remain Until the shrine is crumbled into dust. He may forget me. Fame's volcanic light May win his eye, and cause him to forget Her whom he said should be his guiding star ; Yet will I hope that he may never find Its glare has led him to a ruined heap — A dark and blackened crater. If that star Has set in his horizon, and his glance Is turned upon another, whose bright beams He fain would make his ruling destiny, — Oh, may it shed upon his path of life A calm, unclouded light, and lead his steps Unto a " home of quiet happiness." The silent breathing of my daily prayer Shall still arise for his prosperity. Though I may share it not. I '11 love him still With all the calmness of a sister's love ; And if I can but hear that he is blest. Sure that will be enough for happiness. Baltimore, 1833. >3 3 > J -) 7 5 d 225 DEATH OF RAPHAEL. Raphael Sanzio, whose death the artist has here so feelingly portrayed, was bOrn at Urbino, on Good Friday 1482. His father Giovanni Sanzio, himself a painter, discovered the genius, it is said, of his son in a picture of the holy family, which the youth executed on the garden wall. This pic- ture was afterwards separated from the wall, and placed in the parlour of the house where it is still to be seen ; and it is now visited, examined, and copied, as the first work of the Homer of painters. Giovanni placed his son with Perugino, a painter of great fame in his day, and the founder of the Roman school of art, though now chiefly remembered as the teacher of Raphael. Here the young artist made astonishing progress, and very soon surpassed all the students, and even his master, of whose style he had acquired such a knowledge, and could imitate it so surprisingly, that it was impos- sible to tell his work from that of his master. Before Raphael was eighteen, he had executed a p 226 DEATH OF RAPHAEL. great number of pictures, some of which are re- garded now as works of great merit, particularly a crucified SaAdour between two Angels, the Crown- ing of Mary, and a Holy Family. But as yet he had not displayed that extraordinary genius which afterwards astonished and dazzled the world, and which will continue to be admired as long as his works shall last. Hearing that the cartoons of Michael Angelo and of Leonardo da Vinci, were exhibiting at Flo- rence, Raphael abandoned an interesting work in which he was engaged, and hastened to that city, to see and examine these favourite works of the greatest living artists. Florence, at this time the depository of all that was rare and beautiful in art, the residence of the learned, the wise and the polish- ed, was just the spot calculated to fan the latent ge- nius of Raphael into flame. His admiration of the great works he saw here knew no bounds ; and his improvement was astonishingly rapid. He like- wise became acquainted with the most distinguish- ed persons in Florence ; particularly painters, whose friendship he cultivated with earnestness and suc- cess, and which continued to give him pleasure to the end of his life. From this period is dated a great improvement in his style, which had hitherto DEATH OF RAPHAEL. 227 partaken of the hard manner of the school of Peru- gino. It became more free, natm-al, and animated, though still retaining some characteristics of his master. He again visited Florence to study the choice works of the older masters ; and with the exception of some portraits, and the cartoons for his picture of the Entombing of Christ, he executed no original work, but gave up his whole time to study. The Entombing of Christ showed the improve- ment he had made. In composition, dignity, and expression, it far surpassed all his former works, and proved that Raphael had penetrated into the deepest recesses of his art, and had acquired those principles Avhich, combined with his vivid imagina- tion and facility of execution, could not fail to elevate him to the first rank in his profession. Not yet satisfied with his acquirements, after a short stay at Perugina, he again returned to Florence, where he studied, with amazing diligence, the works most likely to establish his taste. From this time his genius took a more daring flight than that of any preceding artist ; and the works that he now executed are distinguished by a loftiness of style, graceful arrangement, and digni- fied expression, which had not been reached at any 228 DEATH OF RAPHAEL. former period of the art. Great by the bounty of nature, great by study and intense application, Ra- phael sprang forth like Mars from the brain of Jove, armed cap-a-pie, and like him all conquering. His fame spread rapidly over all Italy ; and Pope Julius II. invited him to Rome, to assist in orna- menting the Vatican, and in planning, in conjunc- tion with Bramante, St. Peter's church. Thither Raphael repaired, and entered on that career of glory which is so well known to the civilised world. No conqueror, ancient or modern, Greek, Roman, or Gaul, acquired half the renown, or is encircled by half the glory, that irradiates the name of Ra- phael. The number of works which he executed with his own hands is almost incredible, making the larsrest allowance for the assistance he received from his numerous pupils. The catalogue of them is a volume. Nor did he confine himself to paint- ing alone ; — in architecture and in sculpture, he like- wise excelled. He never acquired great skill in the working of marble ; but in modelling, which is the foundation of the sculptor's art, his genius, talents, and skill, were evident ; and such was his reputation for architecture, that his services w6re demanded in all parts of Italy. He superintended the building of St. Peter's, and furnished plans for DEATH OF RAPHAEL. 229 the erection of a vast number of churches and palaces in different parts of the peninsula. The last painting of Raphael is the Transfiguration, and though unfinished is perhaps the greatest work of art in the world. In this picture the epic, or sub- lime, style is displayed in the highest degree ; — all is grand, noble and dignified, and though there are two subjects in the picture, yet, perhaps, never was the unity of design better maintained. In the composition, colouring and expression of the heads there reign a truth and nature, awfully impres- sive. The grandeur of the subject almost over- powers the imagination and defies execution, yet has Raphael in this seized all the difficulties of the subject, conquered them, and pictured the melting of the man into the God, the human into the divine, with the greatest felicity. Raphael died at the age of thirty-seven. His body was laid out in state in his study, before the Trans- figuration, where it remained for several days, all Rome going to see the remains of the man whose works had given a new interest to the eternal city, and which to this day share the attention of the traveller with the Colli seum and other triumphs of ancient art and power. It is this scene which the modern artist has, 230 DEATH OF RAPHAEL. with a kindred spirit, portrayed. Here we see the body of the painter on the bier, surrounded by weeping friends and admirers. In the back ground is seen the Transfiguration, his last and greatest work. Who can look upon the engraving without feeling a sweet yet mournful sentiment rise in his mind connected with the immortal mind of the painter ? Seldom has the death-bed of genius been so sweetly depicted by the pencil as in this instance. The great moral painter, Shakspeare, has, indeed, drawn in characters of fire the last moments of the wise, the good, the gentle, as well as of the de- praved ; and stamped their impression on all memo- ries, as indelibly as on the book of fate. The dig- nified Katherine, the sweet Juliet, the romantic and desperate Romeo, dying, live in immortal verse ; and the last agonies of Richard, Macbeth, and Winchester, still inspire us with real terror. The poet's art no doubt surpasses that of the painter in durability ; and there is no period put to the fame of Shakspeare but the duration of the world. He will be wept and laughed over after the lapse of ten thousand ages, when our Oregon territory will be more densely peopled than China or Holland • and the inhabitants of new continents, if such should arise, will write essays on the characters of DEATH OF RAPHAEL. 231 Macbeth and Malvolio, and dispute about the be- haviour of Hamlet to his mother. That kind of immortality Raphael cannot expect. He impressed the emanations of his gorgeous genius upon perish- able materials, which every moment are wasting, and in no very long time will be wholly destroyed, and disappear. So that at length the name of the artist would wholly be lost, were it not for the poet's and historian's pen. But there is, notwithstanding, as real a spirit of poetry in the touches of the painter as in the verses of the poet ; the principle is the same, the means of perpetuation only being differ- ent ; and perhaps the brain of Shakspeare did not teem with a more abundant harvest of real, living poetry, than that of Raphael. Look again on the print of the death of Raphael, and allow the spirit of the work to penetrate into your heart, and say, does it not breathe of the spirit of poetry ? Raphael is described as being very handsome in person, of engaging manners, and amiable disposi- tion; and he was the delight of every society in which he mixed. He was never married, except to the arts, to whom he lived faithful. His body was buried in All Saints Church, formerly the Pantheon; his. skull was, however, deposited in the academy of St. Luke. 232 FAIRIES. Tiny sprites of old renown, Whose exploits are handed down From the grandame, grey and mild, To the fair, attentive child, Flinging back its glossy hair, That no somid escape its ear. With its glancing, dark blue eye, Raised in silent ecstasy. And its coral lips apart, List'ning with its very heart, — Tell me, where do ye abide ? — On the sminy hillock's side, In the wood's cool, dim retreat, By the fountain, murm'ring sweet, In the grotto's gem-lit cell, Or within the blue hare-bell ? Sleep ye in the cowslip's cup, When the silvery moon is up, And the stars are glist'ning bright O'er the ebon veil of night ? Or is 't then ye hold your court. With your wild and elfin sport. FAIRIES. 233 Dancing- round your fairy queen, On the turf of emerald green? Fain would I know where ye dwell, For, sweet sprites, I love ye well, And in sleep ye visit me With gay scenes of revelry, While soft music floats around. Sweeter than the wind-harp's sound. Ride ye on a beam of light. Swifter than the lightning bright ? Gliding o'er the streamlet's swell, Through the wild and rocky dell? Or do nut-shells, broke in twain. E'er convey your elfin train, Carved more exquisitely fair Than the richest emp'ror's chair? From the lily of the vale (Its handle green, and goblet pale,) Drink ye of the morning dew ? Or from azure cups that grew On the moss's slender stem, From whose leaves ye pluck the gem. While the winds are all at rest, To deck your light and waving vest ? Is it ye who paint the flowers Wreathing o'er the garden bowers. With their tints of rainbow hue. Crimson, purple, yellow, blue ; 234 FAIRIES. And the sweet perfumes impai't, From their dewy cups that start ? Is it ye who train the vine, And teach its tendrils how to twine Round the oak with graceful bend, And embrace it as a friend ? Fairies bright, of wood and vale, Grot and fountain, you I hail ! But these fancies only seem Like the mem'ry of a dream, Sweet and pleasant in its hue, But which no one feels is true — Visions such as we retrace In a calm, retired place. On a glowing summer's day, Where the rippling water's play. When no human being 's near — Yet the forest seems not drear — When the soul can hold for hours Converse with the trees and flowers. And may e'en a lesson learn From the lowly, modest fern. He who scoop'd old ocean's bed, Raised the towering mountain's head. Piled the rocks on cliffs sublime, From eternity call'd time. FAIRIES. 235 Hung the glorious sun on high, Gave the rainbow's brightest dye, Is the same, most great, most good, Who has filled the dewy wood With the flowers nestling there, And has flung, with lavish care. O'er the whole expanse of earth, Flowers of mortal rise and birth, Yet whose hues of varied dye With the evening clouds can vie. He whose goodness, power, and might Holds the veil 'twixt day and night. Watches o'er his meanest creature. Knows each want, and ev'n each feature. He it is who teaches all. Even the insect how to craw^l, The butterfly to wave its wing, The feather'd tribes their notes to sing. The worm to twine the silken thread That canopies a monarch's bed, The vine its tendrils where to fling, And then its cluster'd fruit to bring. His goodness all his works proclaim. Blessed for ever be his name ! E. S. R. 236 THE DAHLIA AND THE MIGNONETTE. A FABLE. A magnificent crimson dahlia expanded into full bloom on a warm summer day, and gazed round her with mingled surprise and admiration on the assemblage of rich and glowing colours, with which her sisters of the parterre were adorned. A large marble basin, filled with pure water, lay at her feet, and as she cast a glance upon its tranquil surface, she saw her own splendid form reflected in it. For a long time, she gazed on her brilliant co- lours, her stately figure, the velvet softness of her petals and the delicate moulding of her leaves, till, filled with the pride of conscious beauty, she threw back her head and gazed once more around her, but with a prouder air than at first. After roving over carnations, jessamines, tube- roses and other high-born plants, her view, at length, rested on a bank of mignonette, close beside A FABLE. 237 her, which scattered a delicious perfume through the garden, from its delicate little blossoms. " How is this ?" exclaimed the dahlia, " am I with all my beauty and splendour, to be placed by the side of a miserable weed ! Pray, Mrs. Upstart, how long have you forced your company upon the high-born inhabitants of this parterre 1 It would be much more becoming and agreeable to you, in my opinion, to associate with your proper compan- ions, the weeds of the road-side and meadow, for," continued she, drawing herself up with an air of dignity, "you need expect no countenance from our family or connections." " Stranger," replied the modest little flower, " I certainly have not forced my company upon any one, I was planted amidst these beautiful flowers by the gardener, and under his skilful care I have attained my present flourishing condition. " You, with your brilliant colours and majestic beauty, will be admired, yet you will be left to bloom on, with the tribute of admiration alone, till you fold up your petals and boAv to the universal sentence of death ; but I shall probably rest on the bosom of the fair lady, who so often visits this garden ; she will not choose me for my external 238 ^ FABLE. beauty, for it is but trifling, I acknowledge, but for the exquisite fragrance of my tiny blossoms. " Oh ! how greatly is my lot to be preferred to yours ! How much sweeter to be loved, than to be admired ! I envy not your magnificence, since such is to be my fate, nor would I, if I could, at this moment change places with you." The proud dahlia only replied by a contemptu- ous glance, but the words of the mignonette were verified. The lady entered here at the usual time and gazed with great admiration at the dahlia, but she left it on its stem, and passed on to the mignonette, from whose humble bed she plucked a few sprigs to mingle with the rose, jessamine and myrtle, of which she was forming a bouquet. Anna. 239 AN ADDRESS TO MY HEART Cease, cease, little flutterer, nor longer in vain Thus struggle and pant to be free I No effort of yours e'er can sever the chain Which long must your high-soaring spirit retain. And keep you in bondage with me. Ah ! whither, poor, vain, foolish, fluttering thing, Would you fly from your native retreat ? Know you not that the breast into which you would spring Would with apathy turn from your impotent sting. Nor return one reciprocal beat ? And what do you think poor disconsolate I Could do, if from me you were flown ? When seeking in vain for your loss a supply, How oft I must draw out the long, hngering sigh, When left in despondence alone ! No, no I in this mansion, not daring to teaze. You must learn to be good and content. 240 ADDRESS TO MY HEART. And to do all I can your proud spirit to ease, I will tell you what happy occasions to seize, . To dance in your own little tent. Should the voice of a long absent friend strike the ear, And the tones of affection resound. Oh then, to convince him that still he is dear, That friendship's pure flame is all glowing and clear, With ecstasy you may rebound. If a brother you 've served in an hour of distress, — For a brother in all you must own, — If you 've haply been able a sigh to repress. And heard him your kindness in gratitude bless. Then rejoice, but rejoice when alone ! Should fortune's rich gifts on your neighbour attend. And pleasures' fair offerings invite. E'en though sorrow and care as your portion should blend. Still may you rejoice in the joys of your friend. And learn for his sake to beat light. If from those who first caused your life's current to flow, You can ward off a care or a pain ; Should you cause with fond pride their lov'd bosoms to glow, A purer enjoyment you never can know ; Then seek not that joy to restrain. ADDRESS TO MY HEART. 241 Should a foe to your virtue lie hid in the breast, And peek your best hopes to destroy, If, of fortitude, courage, and firmness possess'd, You should drive far away the insidious guest. Then, my heart, you ma}' flutter with joy. Then, sure, with so much your proud spirit to ease, You may even in prison be gay ; Then by me be advised, nor the present destroy In seeking for pleasures you ne'er can enjoy, Nor be to regret still a prey. For, remember, poor prisoner, wherever you go, That your mansion will still lag behind ; And surely you 've learned, by experience, to know. That for such a poor hovel, so void of all show, You ne'er a new tenant could find. But, mean though it is, as 't is air-tight and warm. You may live very snug, I am sure, If to brighten the windows content lends a charm, If within active industry puts forth her arm. And innocence sits at the door. Philadelphia, July, 1S33. a 242 THE INTERVIEW BY ROBERT MORRIS. From her father's hall she has wandered far, With a panting heart, over moor and heatli, To catch once more a love-fraught glance From one who goes, perchance, to death. Her hand is pledged for weal or woe ; Her young affections all are his ; No dreams of joy her bosom knows. She may not sheire with him in bliss. He came when, a young and artless girl. She bounded wild o'er lea and dell ; And he pointed out the shadowy paths. Where the clear brook ran with murmuring swell. Her earliest joys were shared with him ; With him she gazed on sea and sky. And marvelled at their beauty rare. Their depth and their sublimity. Kng'' i Pr,-.lK,i bv Snitain. fAr«*; < ' 1 t t t c c c c c c c c c c i; c c c c THE INTERVIEW. 24^3 " They grew in beauty, side by side," Their pleasures and their cares the same ; And nursed, for many a happy year, A secret and increasing flame. And now they part. At lionour's voice, Corrado leaves the peaceful hall. And hastes, with many a gallant heart. To strike for country, home, and all. The night comes on — the wild wind sweeps Along the drear and shadowy dell; One wild embrace — one heart-warm kiss — A shriek of anguish — and farewell ! 244 THE LEARNED MAN. A TALE FROM THE GERMAN. There was more noise than usual in the house behind the church, and in the rooms of the lower story a running to and fro was distinctly observed. Preparations for an excursion in the country were making there, which were equally interesting both to parents and children. The eldest daughter, Antoinette, a fair beauty, was most busily engaged, and scolded the chambermaid and the servants, because she was dissatisfied with every. part of her dress. A ball was to be given at the country place, to which many young officers from the neighbour- hood had been invited. Her mother approved of every thing that was done by her, and increased this excitement by stirring and sending about; and contrived, by improving and amending here and ihere, to put at last every thing into confusion. This tumult had attained its highest pitch, Avhen THE LEARNED MAN. 245 suddenly the elegant carriage appeared. Now the second daughter, Jenny, rose rather angrily, and complaining that she was too much neglected on account of her elder sister, she approached some- what rudely a slender and delicate girl, who, until that moment, had assisted silently, with meekness and humility. " Indeed, Helen is too tardy," she now exclaimed with violence ; " to prepare every thing for the most excellent Antoinette, I am ne- glected entirely." "You neglected !" answered Antoinette. "Has not Helen been at work for you through the whole night ? My lace collar, I am sure, has been most heedlessly done up." "No, no!" querulously answered the sister; "for the eldest dear little pet e.very thing must be pre- pared and arranged in the best possible manner. Helen can hardly find an hour's time for me, be- cause the princess is always in want of her assist- ance !" The councillor, in full dress, entered the room. " The carriage is wailing," he exclaimed, " and here you are, not ready yet." "I am filled with apprehension," answered the mother ; " we are all flying off, and our house Avill be quite deserted until night, and perhaps until to- 246 THE LEARNED MAN. morrow-morning. Our tenant, the professor, has also gone ; and both girl and cook will run off, no doubt as soon as we have turned our backs." " Indeed," said Antoinette, " that provoking fool up stairs might have staid at home. For ten years, I believe, it has not entered his mind to put his foot out of the gate ; and now, all at once, and just at this time, he takes a journey of eight days !" "He is shedding his coat," answered Jenny; "they have written for him from the capital, I be- lieve, because a menagerie is exhibiting there, and by his presence only, the collection will become complete." "Hush, hush," said the councillor, laughing; "you are a witty little vixen; but we ought never to speak so disrespectfully of rich people. Suppose he were to make proposals for you, and finally be- come your husband !" "Humph! that would alter the case," replied Jenny ; but Antoinette asserted positively that she never could marry him. " There Helen is standing again," cried the mo- ther, " and listens to the conversation with perfect tranquillity,, instead of pinning up your hats. We might have thought, at least, of inviting our aunt from the suburbs to come here and guard our house." THE LEARNED MAN. 247 The quiet and kind girl who had assisted them all with so much patience and humility, and in whom no stranger could have recognised the young- est sister of the house, said now, with a beautiful silver voice ; " I should be very glad to stay at home, and have already prepared myself for it." . " You are a good child," said her mother at once, in an altered tone ; " you stand always by us in the time of need. For this reason, then, Helen has not changed her simple dress. You are a rational creature ; for surely you have not so many company dresses as your sisters, because you do not like such things." NoAv all was ready. They got into the carriage, full of mirth ; for, in long perspective, they beheld a fine dinner, the beautiful country scenery, a warm and clear summer day, in the evening a ball, danc- ing through the night, and charming young gentle- men, who either were in love, or at least flattered them by pretending to be so. The poor and ne- glected Helen staid behind, perhaps the happiest of them, since she was fond of quiet and solitude, and was little aware that she excited the pity of all her departing friends, nay, even that of the elegant coachman, who looked down with disdain from his 248 THE LEARNED MAN. high seat, since he also, conscious of his amiable- ness, was dreaming of future victories. When the carriage had disappeared, Helen per- mitted her female servants to go out until evening, locked with her own hands the outer door, and put the key in her room. She then went to her book- case, and felt intense joy and delight, since, at least for once, she was able to indulge her inclina- tion, and suffer her spirit to roam in the regions of poetry which a great and good author had displayed before her. She felt so grateful for this pure enjoy- ment which Heaven had granted her, that, when the bell in the opposite church rung oiit for divine service, with an overflowing heart she poured forth her thanksgiving to God. She then went into the kitchen to look after her little dinner, and when all was ready, partook of it with the relish of a glad heart and a buoyant spirit. It also heightened her joy that she was permitted to return thanks, which was never done at the table of her parents, who endeavoured to be fash- ionable in every respect. She read again after dinner, put then the book aside, reflected on what she had read, and thought of her whole life, and asked herself how and why she felt so happy. She did not know that all her neighbours and THE LEARNED MAN. 249 acquaintances commiserated her fate, because she was slighted and neglected so obviously by her parents and sisters. She, however, pitied her sis- ters, because they were incapable of enjoying good books, because they were always in need of gay dresses and diversions, and because they considered quiet and solitude, to her the highest happiness of life, as their most dreaded enemies, or as the great- est misfortune. She felt grateful to her mother, that she did not compel her to lead a fashionable life ; and often endeavoured to keep at a distance from the circle of society which frequently assembled at the house of her parents. But now, after dinner, Helen was to experience the greatest pleasure, and one which for years she had waited for in vain : she was to view, quite lei- surely, the rooms, and the whole arrangement of their tenant, the rich professor up stairs ; she was to examine his library, and perhaps be happy enough to lay her hands upon one of his manuscripts. As he was never absent from the house except the few hours which he spent in the gymnasium, the direc- tor of which he was, and as during those hours she could not leave her household affairs, it was only the rare occurrence of his departure which rendered it possible for her to satisfy her curiosity to-day. 250 THE LEARNED MAN. The professor had lived in their house .for fifteen years, and perhaps more, for she had known him from her earliest childhood ; he had never before travelled; he was to return in a few days; and, notwithstanding this occurrence, little less than miraculous, her long cherished wish would still have been ungratified, but for this unexpected fete and ball, and the yet more unexpected invitation which the family had received. Therefore she sat willingly for some nights, and worked for her mo- ther and sisters ; and they had no occasion to feel grateful to her, for it would have been like a pun- ishment to her, if she had been compelled to accompany them. And as others anticipate joyfully through half of their lives, a journey to Switzer- land, or to Italy, — as young travellers usually are filled with intense emotions when theystep from the threshold into the carriage,— thus, impressed with the same feelings, she now ascended the stair- case which led to the habitation of the professor, and which she never before had touched. One of the peculiarities of the strange man was, that although he lived solitary with an old servant and a housekeeper, he yet occupied all the rooms of the upper story, and that he also held the garret above at a considerable rent, in order to be perfectly THE LEARNED MAN. 251 quiet and undisturbed; for it had been distinctly- agreed on to leave the staircase, which, indeed, was to be considered as a medium of communication for his visiters only, to his entire disposal, and to .re- spect it as much as one of his rooms. The coun- cillor, with his family, therefore, was compelled to be satisfied with the lower story, where, no doubt, he had sufficient elbow-room, yet sometimes, not- withstanding, felt the want of the garret, of which the professor made no use at all ; but as he was the most peaceful tenant, never made demands, never occasioned the most trifling expense, was very prompt, and sometimes indeed paid the rent in ad- vance, they all indulged him, and felt towards him a reverential awe ; for he never spoke to any one, and was never seen, unless by chance they met him at the door, and then the youthful and gay daughters of the councillor looked upon him with feelings which supernatural beings only are gene- rally thought to inspire. Now Helen, filled with pious awe, really ascend- ed the brown-coloured stair-case, brightly shining with the touch of wax, which she had so rarely approached. She rung the bell, and the sound was strangely re-echoed in the large and lonely dwelling. The humming of the fly was heard with 252 THE LEARNED MAN. distinctness, and gently now the steps of the housekeeper approached. Timidly and softly she half opened the door ; and, however slowly Helen approached, she was received with a " still ! st ! st !" as if her master were sleeping within, and niight be disturbed ; and, more cautiously than the lover to his love, Helen glided Avith a beating heart into the empty and spacious ante-room. They had not yet arrived in the sanctuary ; and with far greater cau- tion was the large brown door unlocked, by the aged, yet still fair Gertrude, which admitted them into the library. This was arranged in the largest room, and the three adjoining apartments, passing through which, they came at length to the study, the constant abode of the learned man. All the windows were double, in order to exclude as much as possible the noise from the street ; heavy silk curtains, which could be thrown back, oversha- dowed it still more ; in the other rooms, which con- tained no books, the w^alls w^ere adorned with fine Dutch and Flemish pictures ; and his bed-room joined the yard, that there might be still less dan- ger for his rest at night-time. All this put Helen in raptures. The life of a learned man in a convent-like quiet and solitude, among so many books, engaged in writing books THE LEARNED MAN. 253 himself, and in having them printed, speaking to no one, disturbed by no one, always engaged with intellectual and elevated subjects, — this she consi- dered the most exalted calling to which a mortal ever could attain, " O, how happy must the profes- sor be here !" she whispered to Gertrude, — " as if in Paradise !" '■ Paradise !" repeated the other, smiling. " That was an extensive blooming garden." "Every one may apply this term to his notions of perfect bliss. But where are the books, dear Gertrude, which he himself has published ?" " Here, Helen," said Gertrude, " this whole roAV ; they are editions of ancient authors, or classics, as he calls them." The young lady took one of the Latin books from the shelves, and turned over its leaves. " How one must feel," she again began, "who is able to read these ancient languages with perfect fluency, who himself is able to write Latin, and publishes such a book ! More than once I have heard foreign tra- vellers say, in our house, that he is an uncommonly learned man." " That he must be," answered Gertrude, " for he does nothing else but read and write, from early in the morning until late at night. I only fear 254 THE LEARNED MAN. that his mind is too much occupied with these books." "Why so?" "Because he is always so pale, I mean, and always so thoughtful, and sometimes quite sad, — melancholy, as it were. Who knows what he may get into his head by all that heathen stuff? — for such a classic, my dear child, is'indeed nothing else but a heathen." Helen viewed every thing with great care ; she went with the loquacious old lady into the other rooms. " What a crowd of books !" she exclaimed enraptured. " But the professor is also a very good man, as you said before ; is he not?" " Surely," said Gertrude, " he is indulgent in every respect, if no noise, no disturbance, be made. No one is permitted to open or shut the door with violence, to stumble, or to run ; every thing must be intact^ as he expresses it. When I, or old Wer- ner, have something to say, we must approach softly and slowly, make our communication quiet- ly, and in short, be heard as little as possible. But he is so mild and charitable towards the poor, that it hardly can be described. He has confidence in us, and consequently our intercession is never made in vain; no, he gives more bountifully than is THE LEARNED MAN. 255 ever expected. Many families receive monthly, and quarterly, considerable sums of him ; and for himself, if the books are not reckoned, he wants but little. Therefore to have no disturbance in his house, he causes the meals to be brought every day for him, and for us." They had now come to the study, which Helen considered, more than the other rooms, as a sanc- tuary. " We go by the name of Q,uakers or Moravians," said Gertrude, in placing herself near her young friend, "because we are so still and quiet. But take care not to disturb any thing, not a leaf, nor the open book, that he may find every thing, as he has left it." " 1 do not touch any thing," said Helen. " This, ihen, is his hand-writing? How clear and pure, how round and fluent. What does this basket con- tain ?" " Old letters, directions, useless papers and ma- nuscripts, which he wants no longer after he has copied them." Helen rummaged among these useless papers, until she discovered a leaf, which had the hand- writing of the professor on it. This, she said, I will preserve as a token of this delightful day. 256 "^^E LEARNED MAN. She put it into her bosom. Has he never — even in his younger days been inclined to marry ? '• No ;" said the old lady. " He is generally shy, but of the female sex he is particularly afraid. The restlessness of most of them, the loud joy of which they are so fond, their inconstancy, the quarrels with their servants — it would make him altogether miserable. And besides he is now too old. Nobody would take him." " You speak of the worthless part of our sex," answered Helen, " His mind, his noble grace, his great learning, his beautiful pale face with the expression of meek sorrow and mild joy, his bene- volence and love to the poor, his generosity, his virtuous habits — " " Child," said the housekeeper astonished, "where can you have observed all this?" " When he returns from the gymnasium," said Helen, very abruptly. They looked afterwards at the pictures in the other rooms, admired the car- pets, the neat bureaus, the stock of fine linen, the table furniture, and every thing, which in the largest household might have been useful and or- namental, and which this far advanced bachelor suffered to lie there unused and unnoticed. When it grew dark, Helen, somewhat giddy and THE LEARNED MAN. 357 fatigued by these various enjoyments, returned to her room. She read again by the light of the lamp, but instead of the murmuring rivulets and the rustling groves, instead of the clear view over river and mountain, which the poet desired to dis- play before her, she beheld over again the still and shadowy rooms, the glittering bureaus, the thou- sands of learned books ; and every object she endeavoured to contemplate gave way to these pictures. She looked at the paper, which she had taken clandestinely. Surrounded with strange fan- cies and half conscious wishes floating around her, she fell asleep after midnight, and, by the return- ing carriage with her sisters, was roused from a very interesting conversation, which she had just commenced with the learned professor. After some days the professor also returned. The doctor, a friend of his youth, and his only con- fidant, the only one with whom he often met, had gone along with him, and now accompanied him to his room.- When the old servant had taken down the bag- gage, and perfect order had been restored again, the professor who until that moment had walked up and down, and silently examined his room, now R 258 THE LEARxNED MAN. threw himself into his arm chair and said : " Now, at length, I again feel well. No, doctor, what you think most effective for the restoration of my health, is the least so of all things ; for nothing can make me feel more unhappy than a journey. I then feel like one, who has lost himself in a voluminous pro- duction, without being able to find the passage that is wanted. Now at least I am again in the right place, and my thoughts, which for some days have been in uiter confusion, resume their proper order." " I am sorry," answered the friend, " that what I thought would be salutary, has proved so ineffec- tual." " These rooms, this quiet and seclusion," con- tinued the savant, " exert a beneficial effect upon me. On the contrary, the indefinite view over the country, the far extending air, the disturbed state of nature, fill me with anxiety, and divest me of all my courage. I do not understand my fellow men, particularly the learned. It is said of Les- sing, that he looked upon nature with indifference ; and that beautiful but common scenery made the same impression upon him, as the grandest and sublimest views ; but with me the case is quite different. These rocks, the water, the wide pros- THE LEARNED MAN. 259 pect over river and forest, produce upon me a most unpleasant effect; I am abashed and oppressed before these gigantic objects, the language of which I do not understand. All that I am and desire to be, all my plans and wishes seem then so vain and useless, that I feel almost like a little child, whose nurse has hid herself in the crowd of a public street ; and if I do not feel quite so much inclined to cry, as such a weak and unprotected being, I lose at least all courage; and in the whole world I only see one large mad-house, and the forms of living men move before me like ghosts and sha- dows." " That you more and more indulge in your disposition to hypochondriacism," answered his friend, "I have long known, and also expressed my conviction with frankness ; but what can be done ? To him, who will not be advised, every assistance must be unavailing." '• And what am I to do, doctor ?" asked the learned man. "Use more exercise and less application," an- swered the other; "give up this constant con- finement to your room ; try earnestly to enjoy the beauties of nature, the free air — " " Do not come to me," exclaimed the professor, 260 THE LEARNED MAN. in great agitation, " with your stories of free air, which has, indeed, become a popular tale. By this fresh air, of which our forefathers knew nothing, all learned men of modern times are dying. They suffer for years by severe colds, and finally are taken off by them, after having exposed themselves every day, for two or three hours in all kinds of weather, as madmen are led about in lunatic asy- lums, or as in the royal schools of old the august pupils were conducted on their walks by the mi- nute. Even in thinking of it, I am struck with horror." " Go into society, then," answered the physician, now also out of humour, "hear music, visit the theatre, as often as you are in town, cheer yourself up by a social glass at evening parties, revive the generous art of dancing — " The savant rose and placed himself before his friend in an almost threatening posture, stared at him for a long time with wide-opened eyes, and did not pronounce a single word, for he was unable to find a turn of expression, which might have adequately expressed his utter contempt. The phy- sician, who was well aware of his peculiarities, stopped short, and with a smile extended his hand towards him. The savant then turned himself THE LEARNED MAN. 261 quickly round, and replaced himself at his writing- table, varying the order of the carefully arranged papers, and apparently occupied in earnestly seek- ing for something lost. As he was not able to find it, he paced the room for a short time, and as if suddenly enlightened, he took hold of the basket, turned it upside down, and sought again, but in vain, among the useless papers. The leaf he sought for was not to be found. He rung the bell with violence ; his hand trembled. The housekeeper stepped in with a terrified countenance, because this was quite an unusual hour of meeting him. " Have you taken a leaf from here," exclaimed the professor, " octavo, one page only written on, and at the top near the margin, three words crossed ?" Gertrude was frightened, and her pale counte- nance coloured. " No, my dear sir," she answered somewhat embarrassed, " you know well that I never touch a leaf, since I am well aware how important the most trifling one is to you." " And has no one else, in my absence, been here in the room ?" As if struck with horror, the housekeeper step- ped back. " How," she exclaimed almost crying, " can you think me capable of so dreadful a deed ?" 262 THE LEARNED MAN. " Very well," said he, still provoked — " neither in the basket, — no where — " " That," said Gertrude, " I probably have emp- tied — and — " The professor gave a sign to her, and the old lady vanished, much rejoiced that she had got off so cheaply. " Is that leaf of so great importance to you ?" began his friend : " can you not remember at all its contents ?" " It is not this," answered the learned gentleman in a very bad humour, " I feel only vexed, that either my arrangements are not respected, or that I begin to be absent. It is nothing but an emend- ation of a passage in Q,uintilian, and additional remarks by myself, in order to justify my con- jecture. I remember the remark, word for word, and even on the road I have reflected much on my arguments." He took his seat, in order to rewrite this notice. "Now every thing is again in the old order," he said, rising and apparently more lively, "but of course — " " What you have told me of young Mr. Adrian," interrupted the doctor, "may yet cause you some trouble. It is difficult to get rid of such people." THE LEARNED MAN. 263 " Never mind," answered his friend as if absent, " that should not disturb my peace of mind, if I had not lost on my tour, an old and tried friend, whom at least I can now esteem no longer ; and what is friendship without esteem ?" " Whom do you mean ?" asked the physician very attentively ; since he observed that the coun- tenance of his learned friend was again darkening in a most uncommon degree. The savant rose and paced the room indignantly to and fro. " The professor there in the residence, the celebrated philologist," he exclaimed, " you also know him well, and are his admirer : he has inflicted upon me so heavy a blow, that I shall be unable for a long time to recover from its effects." " You once agreed," replied the physician with great moderation, " in almost all your views." " That is past now !" exclaimed the professor. " I agree with him ! As easily with every smatterer and bungler, who in science is not able to discern A from B. On the evening before my departure I was with him, in his family, as they always call it. The children were also present, and so bustled about with their mother and some of the neigh- bouring gossips, that not one reasonable word could be exchanged. At the table we had been in 264 "^"^ LEARNED MAN. tolerably good spirits, and he had found an oppor- tunity of communicating to me some new ideas on Martial. But now the wild tumult began, and the old scholar was not ashamed to play with his little children before all the world. There were noise and loud laughter heard ; the boys were swinging and riding on him, the girls were chasing him about, — that I — who have never seen such things, nor even thought them possible, imagined myself in danger of an apoplectic fit. The shame which ought to have abashed the whole learned fraternity burned on my cheeks. His wife came at length, and stopped the confusion. ' You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' she said, ' you make father quite unruly and childish ; he has other things to do — serious business; away, ye noisy and tumultuous urchins.' — Thus quiet was restored, and although I am usually shy and bashful, I felt much inclined to embrace the lady, so lovely did she appear to me at that moment ; I felt again as if I was among men, and my excitement had subsided. And what was now the serious business, for the sake of which all the children had been sent oflf? The coffee-mill * was brought to him by his wife, and she made him grind the beans, adding, that this was a labour of which he seldom suffered himself to be robbed." THE LEARNED MAN. 265 The professor expected that after this relation, which he had finished with every mark of horror, his friend would give an answer suitable to the importance of the subject; but the doctor only bit his lips, in order to suppress loud laughter. His friend walked by him two or three times, and not knowing exactly what he was to read in the doctor's strange contortions, he seated himself again, and after some time continued in a melancholy strain : " When great and celebrated scholars behave in this manner, what are we to say of ignorant ple- beians ? Since that moment I have considered the man deceased, and I feel more and more, how every year my joys are fading, and how my manner of thinking is at variance with the world. I am often filled with a feeling of disconsolate solitude ; and every thing below is dark and dreary." The doctor kindly took his hand and felt his pulse. "May be I am sick?" asked his friend. '' Not exactly sick," answered the physician, "but you are a hypochondriac, and you will become more so, and will finally be destroyed by this dis- order, if you do not at once and before to-morrow introduce a change into your manner of living. And why, obstinate that you are, will you not marry, as I have advised you so often ? You might 266 THE LEARNED MAN. constitute the happiness of a wife, and you might be happy with one, acquainted with your disposition, and who knows how to manage it." Weeping with a violence which astonished the doctor, his suffering friend embraced him. " You are perhaps in love," said the doctor. " By no means," answered the scholar more composedly ; "I merely rejoiced in your friendship, and that if such an arrangement should prove practicable, you would certainly settle the whole: for I never could have courage enough to address a lady, nor do I know any ; but I feel confident that you will choose for me the right one, and as a true friend will watch over and advance my happiness." The doctor felt surprised at this unexpected and ready assent. " Let us first agree however on some capital points," he exclaimed joyfully, "every thing else I will take upon myself, in order to make you more, happy, according to the best of my knowledge. First of all, your intended bride must be your counterpart in every respect ; always in good spirits that she may divert and cheer you ; volatile in the favourable admission of the term ; a countenance, that bespeaks mirth, and always gay in her inter- course with the world. And neither here in the city, nor elsewhere, do I know a lady, that answers THE LEARNED MAN. 267 SO perfectly to all these requisites, and at the same time is beautiful, healthy, amiable, and worthy in every way, as Antoinette, the eldest daughter of your landlord, the councillor ; you know her well." "No!" said the savant; "I have never seen her, I only hear that the man has three daughters j — but I deliver myself up to you entirely." The doctor was an intimate friend of the whole house, and acted with great prudence ; first hinting to the councillor, that it was possible, that his tenant might become his son in law : he had com- municated this proposal as a thought which he entertained himself, and as the father, and Antoi- nette also, did not decline listening to this topic, he made another step, and after some days of con- sulting, pondering, and discussing, it had been resolved that the secret should be no longer one. The professor was now informed of his success, and of the great change which his life was to undergo ; and in his confused state of mind he did not know exactly whether he ought to rejoice or to grieve at it ; anxiety, however, was the predomi- nant emotion, which the exertions of his friend were used in vain to soften. He now informed his two domestics, Werner and Gertrude, how soon their simple and quiet 268 THE LEARNED MAN. manner of living would end, and that in a few weeks Antoinette would become their mistress. They who long since had become habituated to the most undisturbed solitude, were hardly inclined to believe their own ears ; they looked with astonish- ment upon each other and upon the professor, without uttering a syllable expressive of their sympathy, and at length, when they became aware of the increasing embarrassment of their master, they retired, greatly embarrassed themselves, into their little chambers. "Please to feel. Miss Gertrude," said Werner, peevishly, "Avhether you cannot discriminate a fever in my pulse. Alas ! that such a thunderstorm, such a misfortune, must break in upon our house, and sink our quiet arrangements into the great deep. The trembling of heaven, nay the destruc- tion of the whole city, I should have anticipated more readily, than this calamity." " One does not know," said Gertrude, " whether there is more cause for mirth or grief, for the idea, the phenomenon, has so much in it that is dreadful, and yet at the same lime silly, that one loses all composure." " There is occasion for cursing," exclaimed Wer- ner, " a thing, which, perhaps, I have not done for THE LEARNED MAN. 269 these seventeen years, since I have been with my master, and which I have now entirely forgotten. Donnerwetter ! this is a miserable and most pitiable affair. Sacre — plague — no ! listen, ma'am — I can not do it ; for the stillness, quiet, and peace in this house have dried up my lungs entirely in that long epoch of time. The eldest wild daughter from below ! That hoyden ! Now our stair case here will soon be spoiled, though we were compelled to walk up and down almost without shoes, and on our knees, like the holy staircase in Rome ac- cording to all accounts. O what noise and riot will now enter our peaceful cells ; with trumpets and the beating of drums. O misery and distrac- tion ! when I entered his service, I was no longer permitted to play on the flute ; I have been com- pelled to give up whistling, to which I had habitu- ated myself, and in which I really was a virtuoso ; now, with my great gusto for music, I am confined to the jews-harp, by which all my fore-teeth have been spoiled entirely." " You play, however, that little instrument very well and with great taste," Gertrude said, interrupt- ing his oratorical flow. " Now then, they are going to cook, to roast and to boil here ; and I have never been permitted to touch a pan or spit : all my abili- 270 THE LEARNED MAN. ties as a cook, with which in my youth I might have made a figure any where, are now forgotten and neglected. I have hardly been permitted to cook on our own hearth the cofiee for our master and for us two." " I have little doubt," said Werner, " but the good man is moon-struck. Heaven forefend, that his studies have not turned his brains. And still more books ! Writings of Avhich I do not under- stand a single word !" " No, no," said the house-keeper greatly excited, " it is that enlightened doctor, that has brought about all this. Other patients, when the attending gentleman can no longer get along with them, are sent to bathing places, where they may quietly depart ; many deranged people are brought to mad- houses, but this freethinker has hunted our master into wedlock, though he may be ever so sure to break his neck." " Strange cure !" exclaimed Werner, "but if he was once to place his faith on it, if he would not be saved in any other way, you, dear Gertrude, were the nearest physic, that might have been ap- plied to — " " Hush, hush !" said Gertrude bashfully, "lam too old to marry. No, if he was fully resolved to THE LEARNED MAN. 271 venture upon the ice, the dear, kind Helen, in the crazy family below, would have suited much better for him, than that proud minx. She would have respected him with all his weaknesses, for as the poor neglected child feels a great deal of esteem for him, a real superstition in his learning, he might have been very happy with her." " It was not to happen," muttered Werner pee- vishly, " what reason tells us to do, is never listened to in this world. Alas ! I have a mind to howl up and down the great staircase in utter despair ! Dear Gertrude ! you will be a witness, in my des- peration I shall commit a — yes, my friend, I shall exhibit an example, that will open the eyes of our master, and fill the Avhole city with wonder and dismay, for now my patience is entirely exhausted." "For God's sake," exclaimed Gertrude, seizing his arm in anguish, " you will not raise your arm against yourself ! We will gradually become more accustomed to this change." " No !" exclaimed the irritated man, almost be- yond himself, " and you must assist me, Gertrude ! We must be revenged on him ! Do you not also feel bitterly vexed ? " " To a certain extent, indeed" — she answered — " Well then" continued Werner, " let us act ; let 272 THE LEARNED MAN. US set our teeth ! let us show, what we can do, child !" " Not to put an end to our existence," murmured Gertrude ; " almost every thing else." "Put an end to it?" exclaimed he, in great agi- tation ; " quite the contrary ! Let us be married, my dear friend, and bring a swarm of children around him which may make his ears ring with their noise." The housekeeper stepped back, and a faint colour- ing past over her fair and delicate countenance. " Respected sir," she then continued, bashfully, " if that had been the will of heaven, we might have attended to it some years before this." "Certainly," was his answer; "but until this morning the thought never struck my mind. Do you think me too old, too ugly ! disagreeable ! immoral !" " Q,uite the contrary of all this, dear sir," she replied, "Avith a bashful smile, but I — " "Be still," exclaimed Werner, "I have found you more amiable from year to year; I could never bear those young immature and wild giddy-heads. Youth is but too perishable ; but modesty, sound sense, proper conduct, meekness, amiableness, is increasing with the number of years ; and all this I have been able to discern so minutely in your THE LEARNED 3IAN, 273 own person. It is for this reason, that I think this the best time for the declaration I have made." "Ah ! kind and beloved Werner," answered Ger- trude : " if you will but always think so, I shall become yours with all my heart ; and, in constant love and faith, I shall endeavour to read your wishes in your eyes." " Do you know," said her wooer, smiling, " how you appear to me ? Out there, in the entry, hangs a little picture of a pretty Dutch girl. That pic- ture was injured by the sea, and afterwards re- touched somewhat too sharply, for as the colours are now rubbed off, the stratum with the pale white features appears distinctly. No doubt, the por- trait was originally less beautiful than it is now, for it looks so delicate and touching that I am never tired of looking at it ; — or at the picture of the sick lady in her arm-chair, in the red room, you know : by one Mr. Netcher. If you should put on silk, you would look exactly so." " Surely, you are disposed to ridicule me," said Gertrude. "I spoke true. Give me your hand, and now the first and bridal kiss." A tender embrace concluded the scene. The union was agreed upon, and when they disclosed s 274 THE LEARNED MAN. the matter to their master, he expressed a joyful assent to his honest and long-tried servants, and with the more readiness, since he did not wish to fill his household with entire strangers. Thus every thing in the whole house was in commotion, and the professor as well as the councillor, and his daughters, but particularly Antoinette and Helen, were deeply moved by the sudden and unexpected changes, whilst Werner and Gertrude with great composure made the necessary prepa- rations for their projected union, and the doctor rejoiced that his plan had succeeded so well, and that the happiness of his friend, as he flattered himself, was secured for ever. In the family of the councillor all the members had been more or less disturbed, since the favour- able reception of the formal proposals had become generally known. How many different plans pro- jected the lively Antoinette ! The first and most important point was an immediate removal to the city, in order to share the enjoyments of fashionable society, and all its fastidious pleasures. Carriages, attendants; and a large household, were considered THE LEARNED MAN. 275 as indispensable requisites. Jenny endeavoured to persuade her sister to buy a nobleman's seat in a romantic part of the country, and to shine forth as a knightly dame. The father inclined to this project, the mother more favoured the former. To the husband, to his office and occupations, to his books and habits, not a single thought was given ; for they all agreed that so simple and elderly a gentleman, who knew nothing about the world, and Avho had almost always lived so very retired, would be easily governed by a young, lively and politic Avife, and that he must give up entirely his manner of living, in order to enable his wife to live with him, for whose sake she had sacrificed herself, and her great claims and splendid pros- pects. In a different manner had Helen received the news of this important change. She felt deeply mortified, and yet reproached herself severely for this weakness. Did the professor wish to seek the happiness of his life in the enjoyment of conjugal love, then she thought herself the nearest and the only one, from whom he might justly expect it : but afterwards when she remembered that he did not know her at all, she felt ashamed of her rash- ness. The most painful circumstance was certainly 276 THE LEARNED 31 AN. this, that she now, for the first time, was struck with the conviction, that what she felt for the professor was love. How happy she would have been, had she been honoured by his choice ; and how her sister indeed would lose nothing, if a change were yet possible. These thoughts oc- cupied her mind continually. During the solitary hours of sleepless nights she wept often and bitterly, and then again blamed the worldly prudence of the doctor, who, notwithstanding his good intentions, would certainly make his noble friend unhappy. As often as the man whom she honoured was mentioned in the family with terms of mockery and derision, or as often as the gigantic plans for future splendour were discussing, she felt her strength vanishing, and could not restrain her feelings. It is very likely, she said one night to herself, that, out of the feelings which now torture me, that bitter and displeasing behaviour may arise, that rude and ungentle manner, with which so frequent- ly elderly and unmarried females are reproached. To be always misunderstood and neglected, and by persons who are not elevated above us, may justly excite our sensibilities : and consequently we feel greatly inclined to examine and observe THE LEARNED MAN. 277 human frailties in those individuals, and indeed in all mankind. Before such scrutinising glances the good traits of our fellow-men seem often entirely merged in their faults, as every object is lost to view as soon as our sight is no longer assisted by the perspective. Woe to the heart, that delights in hatred and contempt ! Such dismal food will soon disgust us with our own existence. Then it may occur that the poor prisoner strives to celebrate a triumph in disdain and haughtiness — First contemned, Now contemning-, She feeds upon her own merits, In ungratified selfishness ! O how true ! But this shall not be the case with me. Though the world may throw me off, yet I will love it. And most of all I must guard myself against sickness, for I feel a foreboding that An- toinette and the professor will yet be in want of my asistance. Yes 5 thus my active love shall be proved to them. I will be always near them, con- soling and advising, that I may preserve them from all cares, as far as it may be in my power. And why should he know what I feel for him ? 278 ^^^ LEARNED MAN. The mutual confidence of generous minds is cer- tainly a great enjoyment. Thus consoled and perfectly satisfied, according to her opinion at least, she enjoyed a sound and undisturbed repose, and rose unusually blooming and refreshed in strength on the morning of that day on which her sister and the professor were to be introduced to each other in the most solemn manner.* The professor on the other side was a prey to anxiety and severe mental struggles, because he was not able to realise the thought that he was to appear as a suitor in a family with which he was almost perfectly unacquainted. The doctor had made all the preparatory arrangements ; however, his personal appearance, the verbal expression of his wishes, was highly important and unavoidable. He sent for a goldsmith, in order to buy the mar- riage rings and a set of jewels, for his bride. " Now then you are ready with your preparations," said the doctor, and embraced him, "I shall now go home according to our arrangement, and only ap- pear at the dinner-table in the family below, that * It is customary in Germany, lljat, some time before the marriage is celebrated, tlie lady's father gives a party ; after a short address he betroths his daughter solemnly to her suitor by the exchange of rings. — Translator. THE LEARNED MAN. 279 my presence, at least, may not increase your anxiety. For years it has been customary down stairs that the daughters should preside weekly by turns over the kitchen ; in this week the eldest, your Antoinette, is the cook, and for this reason you will have an opportunity to observe immedi- ately at dinner-table, whether you have reason to be satisfied with the culinary skill of your intended. Take courage, my friend, and do not suffer your pensive head to droop so despairingly !" He left him, and the professor remained lost in thought. In the lower rooms every thing was splendidly arranged and adorned, flowers were placed on the windows and tables, and the father and mother were in constant motion. Helen alone was silent and thoughtful, and endeavoured in vain to partici- pate in the joy of her relations. " Since on this joyful day Antoinette will, of course, be dressed with more than usual care," ob- served the mother, " you had better, Helen, attend to the kitchen ; you are in your every-day dress. When the dessert is placed on the table, you might easily change your dress and appear among us." Helen left the room without reply, rejoicing that she was not required to witness the first appearance 280 THE LEARNED MAN. of the honoured man in her family, and to listen to the proposals which were to be addressed to her sister. All the other members of the family were now assembled in silent but anxious expectation, whilst the professor descended slowly and softly the long staircase, with suppressed breathing, and almost trembling limbs, leaning himself sometimes, as if exhausted, upon the railing. Not even Helen felt so much excited in going up the same staircase not loncy ao-o. He felt himself too vividly impressed with the conviction that the approaching hour would be the most important of his whole life. When he had arrived at the door of the room, and was about to knock, he withdrew his fingers again, for he was almost fainting; he staggered to the open gate, and quickly recovering in the rush of the free air, he stepped into the yard, and leaned him- self in a resting position on an old nut tree, in order to collect himself a little. The exhalations of the leaves exerted a very salutary influence upon his nerves; he now smiled at his former weakness, and, filled with courage, returned to the house. Near the kitchen door, his senses were saluted by the vapours of the preparing dishes ; and he heard the creaking of the spit, and the clattering noise of THE LEARNED MAN. 281 the kettles. It recurred to him that his unknown bride was to-day the mistress of the kitchen, and, as if inspired by some higher power, he was bold enough to open the door, in order to meet with her in her own jurisdiction, and undisturbed by the parents and relations. Helen was surprised, re- tired quickly from the fire, and, with a deep blush, came hastily towards him. The professor looked at her, and his countenance bespoke sincere plea- sure ; for, in the simple domestic dress, the neat apron, and with the impression of purity on the whole of her external appearance, she seemed to him amiable indeed. " You are the daughter of the house ?" he asked with a trembling voice, and offered his hand to her. " I am, sir," answered Helen, with a lovely cour- tesy. " Please to accept, then, beloved being, this ring, which unites us for time and for eternity." There had been no time for a reply, when Helen felt already the ring fixed on her finger ; she could not find words, but a shower of tears relieved her overflowing heart ; she was compelled to lean on her beloved friend, for she felt her strength giving way ; and, bowing down, she kissed his hands, which were moistened with her warm tears. 282 THE LEARNED MAX. " This is not right, not right," said the professor. '' Does this ring make you unhappy '?" " Unspeakably happy — blessed !" stammered she, and was still incapable of expressing her feelings more coherently. " Then," answered her lover, " not on the hand, but on the lips the bridal token !" The servant and the girl entered, but he did not observe their astonished faces. He parted with Helen, and walked joyfully through the entry into the room of the parents, but was not aware he had entered without knocking. " The family were greatly astonished to see him so little embarrassed ; the father led him to Antoi- nette, hoping that now the proposals would be made. Jenny regarded them in intense expecta- tion, the mother listened attentively^ and none of them could understand the conduct of the son-in- law, who stood firm and free, obviously filled with emotion, but apparently avoiding the topic which, at this moment, was certainly of paramount import- ance. They seated themselves at length, and the astonished father said, with some embarrass- ment : "After all the introductory arrangements have been settled with the doctor, I had reason to believe THE LEARNED MAN. 283 that I was to address you soon with a dearer name J that you would give us a declaration, of which the engagement between yourself and my daughter would be the consequence." '■' If the lovely girl were present," answered the scholar, " I should repeat my proposals ; however, we are already engaged, and I must request you to call my bride from the kitchen, that I may repeat my fondest wishes in the presence of her parents." " How is this ?" they all exclaimed, with equal astonishment. The mistake was explained by a few words. Antoinette, endeavouring in vain to show contempt, looked foolish ; the mother was beside herself; the father only embarrassed, but not out of humour. But when the mother proposed to consider the mis- take as not having occurred, and to take the ring from the finger of Helen, and place it on Antoi- nette's, the professor exclaimed with great vehe- mence : " No, my beloved mother-in-law ! not for the whole world ! Promises must be kept ; and, besides so sacred a promise, bound by my offer, and sealed with the first kiss with which I have saluted my bride, we are now united for ever ; and since it has happened thus, I do not view this occurrence as a 284 THE LEARNED MAN. mere mistake, or caused by thoughtlessness ; but as a good omen, and the express will of Heaven, which is yet often shown forth in the formation of a happy union. But I feel sorry that it has happened," he continued, in a milder tone, " and my beautiful sister-in-law will not disappoint me in the hope that she will kindly accept these jewels ; they were destined for my intended, but they will be rather more in their proper place when adorning the beautiful form which I cannot approach without admiration, than in burthening the innocent and placid face, and the neat exterior of my sweet bride, of which, however, I approve, as proper for the partner of a simple-minded professor." " After some hesitation, Antoinette was persuad- ed to accept the ear-rings and bracelets, as well as the necklace of pearls. This present, which the connoisseur Antoinette had valued immediately at the rate of some thousand dollars, perfectly restored her good humour ; and her parents also submitted quietly, and behaved exceedingly courteous ; for, although they had before entertained a profound esteem for their son-in-law, yet they had not thought him so rich as, from this present, on which he placed so little value, they had reason to judge they had underrated his wealth. In consequence THE LEARNED MAN. 285 of the urgent petition of the professor, his bride was permitted to leave the kitchen, and to join the com- pany without changing- her dress. Not in the least embarrassed, the unadorned maiden received the congratulations of her family; for her joy and emo- tion were so great, that in this state of mind she felt far elevated above little considerations ; she could hardly look at the precious jewels of Antoinette, and much less listen to the apologies which her lover endeavoured to make to her on account of their loss. The doctor found the company thus united. After many exclamations and explana- tions, he laughed heartily, and Avith the utmost astonishment regarded his friend, who did not seem in the least embarrassed, but, moving with ease and great tact, his conduct towards Helen was delicate, and yet as familiar as if he had known her for many years. At table the bridal couple were placed together, and after dinner the professor prevailed upon Helen not to change her dress, assuring her that this clean and simple dress, the little cap, the tout-ensemble of her appearance, had so enraptured him when they met in the kitchen, that during this day he would not be denied the enjoyment of this view, and the lively remembrance of those scenes. 286 THE LEARNED WAN. After dinner the whole company went into the garden behind the house, and walked into a cool grotto in order to find a shelter from the heat of the sun. The doctor had observed the betrothed atten- tively, and he was now convinced that Providence had improved greatly on his self-conceived and rash plan, for he saw that Helen hung upon the looks of her lover, and that he was sincerely attach- ed to her, and fully appreciated her simple and noble character. On the other hand, he saw that Antoinette had easily borne the loss of a husband, since it was palliated by the gift of a set of precious diamonds, and that she applauded almost sneering- ly the whisperings of Jenny, who, not aware of the acute ear of the doctor, had told her that she had been certainly a gainer in getting a set of jewels instead of a disagreeable husband. He was sitting in the grotto near the lovers, who now, indeed, deserved that term, whilst the others were walking up and down, and afterwards return- ed into the saloon. " That which poets call love, particularly the later and more modern poets, that, my Helen, I never shall claim, but kind feelings, warm friend- ship, deserved esteem, and some indulgence with my humours. You are young, beautiful, amiable, THE LEARNED MAN. 287 and lovely ; and I feel convinced that a more inti- mate intercourse will only strengthen my feelings of esteem and love. How could I ever conceive the thought that in my advanced stage of life I should carry off so great a treasure 1" He took her hand with tenderness, but Helen's humble and modest looks seemed to reproach him with what he had said. Greatly embarrassed, she turned herself away, and by this sudden movement a paper fell, unnoticed, from her bosom. " Is it possible, Helen ! How have you got in possession of my commentary on duintilian, which I found missing when I returned from my jour- ney ?" Deeply blushing with shame and joy, the happy girl was compelled to confess all : the voyage of discovery into his rooms, the examination of his books, her pleasure to be once seated in his arm- chair, and how she could not suppress the desire to take "a leaf with his handwriting" as a token with her. "You cannot imagine," concluded Helen, in her confession, " how, since that time, the name duin- tilian has become dear to me, of whom, of course, I only know the few particulars which I have read of him from time to time in other books." 288 THE LEARNED MAN. " Does the Grammaticus deserve so beautiful a couch ?" exclaimed the professor, smiling, and kiss- ed her hand for the first time, which she permitted only after some resistance — " how near have I, a blind man, been to my happiness, and how uncon- scious ! In the same manner, blind heaihens lived once in Peru, above the gold mines, without know- ing ; as I have dwelt fot so long a time near the home of my beloved Helen. What is it, my child, that you loved in me, as you have now confessed, although I did not notice you, nay, surely did not know you ?" He indulged in a silent reverie for some time ; then, extending a hand to his friend, he said : " The greatest secret in the work of creation is love, and perhaps the clue to every secret. O thou faithful, not Grecian Helen, the whole endeavour of my life shall be directed to return in some degree this unmerited love. May Heaven bless us ! Amen." THE END. f^//^^i^ /IV THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY