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 ALL SEASONS 
 
 xx,x.rrsTH.AT3ea3. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & COMPAKY, 
 
 PUBLISHERS. 
 
 c I ^S3 ^ 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In issuing a Gift Book of the character of the 
 present volume, something in the form of a preface is 
 expected ; but, as the editor of the Casket is of an 
 opinion that prefatory remarks, to a work of this kind, 
 are entirely useless, she will venture the present volume 
 on the sea of public opinion, without the usual intro- 
 duction, trusting it will be found to compare favorably 
 with its many competitors, both in regard to its en- 
 gravings and typography, and that the same will be 
 found a pleasing and interesting volume, as well as an 
 agreeable one for the purpose for which it is intended. 
 August, 1853. 
 
 n/-^ 
 
 160986 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Quiet Eye, 
 
 When Life hath Sorrow found, 
 
 Lucy Hinchhff, Thomas Campion 
 
 A Village Sketch, Mrs. Bartholomew 
 
 Woman and Domestics, . . C. Barmby, . . 
 Song, sent with a rose, . . John Cunningham 
 The School-Fellows, . . . -A. Weaver, . . . 
 
 The Recruit, Mrs. C. B. Wilson 
 
 The Secret, Camilla Toulmin, 
 
 Sonnet, Joseph Fearn, . . 
 
 Kate of Kildare, M. L. Gillies, . 
 
 Friendship, S.Johnson,. . . 
 
 Uncle Benjie's Ring, . . . G. C. P., . . . • 
 The Ivy ajid the Oak, . . . Mary H. Acton, 
 The Heroine of the Huon, . M. Leman Gillies 
 
 Hymn of Nature, Mrs. Hemans, . . 
 
 The Sacrifice, . . . 
 
 The Exile's Farewell, . . 
 
 Life behind the Counter 
 
 A Farewell to the Lyre, , 
 
 Blighted Homes, .... 
 
 The Poor Man's May, 
 
 The Well of St. Keyne, 
 
 Recollections of the Gifted, . Elizabeth Youatt 
 
 To a Profile, B. Barton, . . . 
 
 Lucy and her Lovers, . . . C. Toulmin, . . . 
 Fireside Affections, .... Mary L. Gillies, 
 
 . Anonymous, . . . 
 . Jane Sparrow, . 
 . Camilla Toulmin, 
 . E.L.Montagu, . 
 . M. L. Gillies, . 
 . J. Saunders, . . 
 . Anna Savage, . . 
 
 Page 
 . 9 
 
 . 11 
 . 12 
 . 26 
 . 29 
 . 35 
 . 36 
 . 48 
 . 50 
 . 73 
 . 74 
 . 92 
 . 94 
 .105 
 . 108 
 .117 
 . 119 
 .131 
 . 132 
 .164 
 .166 
 . 185 
 . 187 
 .191 
 .212 
 .214 
 .226 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Old Haunts, M. F. Tupfer 233 
 
 The Blue Eyes, Camilla Toulmin, . . . 234 
 
 The Warm Young Heart, . Martin F. Tupfer, . . 249 
 
 Th€ Happy Family, . . . Anonymous, 250 
 
 The Law of Opinion, . . .G. C.Munro, 251 
 
 Stanzas, Anonymous, 296 
 
 Autumn Flowers, Miss E. A. Starr, . . .298 
 
 Plighted Troth, Mrs. Abdy, 300 
 
 Young: Thoughts make 
 Young Hearts, C. Campbell, 321 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Subjects. Engravers. Page 
 
 Presentation Plate, Sharp. 
 
 Illuminated Title Page, . . . Sharp. 
 
 The Look Out, 0. Pelton, 50 
 
 The Quiet Bay, 0. Pelton, 117 
 
 Well of St. Ke/ne, 0. Pelton, 187 
 
 Happy Family, 0. Pelton, 250 
 
THE 
 
 CASKET 
 
 THE QUIET EYE. 
 
 The orb I like is not the one 
 
 That dazzles with its lightning gleam, 
 That dares to look upon the sun 
 
 As though it challenged brighter beam. 
 That orb may sparkle, flash and roll ; 
 
 Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly ; 
 But not for me : I prize the soul 
 
 That slumbers in a quiet eye. 
 
 There's something in its placid shade 
 
 That tells of calm unworldly thought ; 
 Hope may be crowned, or joy delayed, 
 
 No dimness steals, no ray is caught ; 
 Its pensive language seems to say, 
 
 I know that I must close and die ; 
 And death itself, come when it may, 
 
 Can hardly change the quiet eye. 
 
10 THE QUIET HOME. 
 
 There 's meaning in its steady glance, 
 
 Of gentle blame or praising love, 
 That makes me tremble to advance 
 
 A word that meaning might reprove. 
 The haughty threat, the fiery look, 
 
 My spirit proudly can defy ; 
 But never yet could meet and brook 
 
 The upbraiding of a quiet eye. 
 
 There's firmness in its even light, 
 
 That augurs of a breast sincere ; 
 And oh ! take watch how ye excite 
 
 That firmness till it yield a tear. 
 Some bosoms give an easy sigh, 
 
 Some drops of grief will freely start ; 
 But that which sears the quiet eye, 
 
 Hath its deep fountain in the heart. 
 
"WHEN LIFE HATH SORROW POUND." 
 
 " When life hath sorrow found, 
 
 Fond words may faker ; 
 But hearts that love hath bound 
 
 Time cannot alter. 
 No, though in grief we part, 
 
 Meet in dejection, 
 Tears but expand the heart, 
 
 Ripen affection. 
 When life hath sorrow found, 
 
 Fond words may falter ; 
 But hearts that love hath bound 
 
 Time cannot alter. 
 
 " When o'er a distant sea. 
 
 When griefs are nearest, 
 Still will I think of thee. 
 
 Still love thee, dearest. 
 Tired hope may, like the rose, 
 
 Fade 'neath time's fleetness. 
 Yet yield each blast that blows 
 
 Half its own sweetness. 
 When life hath sorrow found, 
 
 Fond words may falter ; ^ 
 But hearts that love hath bound 
 
 Time cannot alter." 
 
12 
 
 LUCY HINCHLIFF, 
 
 THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPION. 
 
 The lark went up to heaven, seeming- to beat 
 his breast against the ancient sky ; yet tiny speck 
 as he was — scarcely discernible to the keenest 
 vision — his song was audible to Lucy Hinch- 
 liff in her mother's little garden. Lucy was a 
 daily governess, and was in the act of plucking 
 a rose to adorn her bosom, before she set out to 
 enter upon the day's routine. She cast her eyes 
 around the modest garden — it was a very mod- 
 est, very little garden — looked up at the lark 
 once more, received the last note of its song into 
 her soul, smiled at the grey-headed mother in 
 the pinched widow's cap, who was standing at 
 the window, waved her adieux, and closed the 
 small gate after her. 
 
 There was not in all the suburb in which we 
 lived, a better girl, a prettier girl, a more loving, 
 more dutiful daughter, than Lucy Hinchliff. She 
 first attracted our attention when we went, with 
 satchel on our back, willingly enough to school. 
 She was younger by two years than ourselves — 
 a little, timid thing, as we remember her. She 
 
LUCY HINCHLIFF. 13 
 
 had a father at that time, but we could see that 
 the old gentleman was poor ; and once we were 
 prompted to offer her some of our victuals which 
 we bore in our bag, (for we dined at school,) 
 fearing that she had not enough to eat at home. 
 It was only a boy's thought, and now we are 
 more happy that we did not commit ourselves 
 by the insult, than if we had realized our early 
 dreams, those bubbles bred in a child's active 
 brain. 
 
 Her father died, and they became poorer. A 
 rich relation took Lucy away to bestow upon her 
 a superior education. It was all he could do for 
 her, he said; though he kept his carriage, and 
 his servants, and cast bread to dogs. She re- 
 turned to her mother after three years, to aid 
 their mutual support by teaching. 
 
 Who knows, besides themselves, the lives that 
 daily governesses lead? who has tasted, besides 
 themselves, the bitterness of the bread they eat? 
 The fine mistress may not frown too severely 
 upon her cook or footman. They would resent 
 it, and would seek another place. But the poor 
 governess ! That she will resign her engage- 
 ment is not apprehended. And are there not 
 dozens — scores, who would be glad to succeed 
 her, if she gave herself airs ? There are trage- 
 dies in real life more sad to witness than any of 
 the histrionic art, and the life of the daily gov- 
 2 
 
14 LUCY Hi:S'CHLIFF, 
 
 erness, in meagre circumstances, is one whole 
 tragedy. 
 
 Lucy HinchlifF closed the garden gate, and 
 passed from her mother's sight. It Vvas a fine 
 morning, and she was early. She had, there- 
 fore, no occasion to hurry, as she was sometimes 
 obliged to do. She felt very glad that the morn- 
 ing was fine, for to tell a homely truth, her shoes 
 — well nigh worn out — were far from being 
 water-proof. She had sat all day with wet feet 
 once before, from the same cause, and much need 
 she had to be careful of her health for her moth- 
 er's sake. She had few acquaintances on the 
 road she traversed — though she was familiar as 
 their own children's faces to all the small trades- 
 men — they saw her pass so regularly morning 
 and evening. The green-grocer would fre- 
 quently tell his wife that it was time to get the 
 breakfast, for the young lady with the music- 
 paper was abroad. The toll-gate keeper was 
 Lucy's only speaking acquaintance of the male 
 sex. He had always a kind word for her. Nor 
 did Lucy fail to ask him after the child that was 
 scalded — a frightful accident that — or whether 
 his eldest girl was at service yet, and other little 
 queries. " There she goes," the man would say, 
 when she had turned from him. " Her's is a 
 hard life, poor thing!" 
 
 " Not hard at all, Mister Marten," retorted 
 
THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 1& 
 
 Dame Wringlmen on one occasion. "Hard, 
 indeed ! I think she 's got a very easy berth o't. 
 Put her over a washing tub, and give her three 
 or four counterpanes for a morning's work, and 
 see what she 'd make o't." 
 
 "Ah, you. don't know all!" said the toll- 
 keeper, significantly. And he was right. 
 
 The lady at whose house Lucy commenced 
 the instructions of the day, was a very nervous 
 lady indeed ; and like your nervous people, she 
 was extremely irascible. Lucy's knock offended 
 her. She hated single knocks. Why had they 
 a bell, if it was not to exempt the house from the 
 vulgarity of single knocks? Once, in a fit of 
 forgetfulness, the governess gave a palpitating 
 double knock, and then Mrs. Robert Smith was 
 astonished at her presumption. " Miss — Miss 
 — I forget your name — " Mrs. Robert Smith 
 often contrived to forget a name which was the 
 property of a humble dependant, and was so 
 much better than her own. 
 
 "Hinchliff, ma'am," prompted Lucy on the 
 occasion referred to. 
 
 " Ah, Hinchliff. Well, Miss Hinchliff, if, for 
 the future, you would remember not to give a 
 double knock, you would oblige me. I really 
 thought it was visitors, and, as I am in my desha- 
 bille,°it set me all in a flutter — you should con- 
 sider my nerves, Miss Hinchliff." 
 
16 LUCY HINCHLIFF, 
 
 Poor Lucy ! If she could have afforded to ba 
 so much m fashion as to own to the possession 
 of nerves, the lady's nervousness would have 
 infected her. 
 
 " Now, Miss Hinchliff," said Mrs. Robert 
 Smith, when the governess had taken off her 
 bonnet and shawl on the miorning we make her 
 acquaintance ; " are you up in those new qua- 
 drilles 3^et ? " 
 
 " I am very sorry, ma'am, but I have been so 
 much engaged — I only took them home the day 
 before yesterday, and so little of my time is my 
 own." 
 
 " Well, Miss Hinchliff, of course, if you have 
 too many engagements, and my dear children 
 are to be neglected on that account, it will be Mr. 
 Robert Smith's duty to seek another responsible 
 person, whose engagements are not so numer- 
 ous ; you cannot object to that, I am sure." 
 
 "Oh, ma'am," w^as Lucy's faltering reply; 
 "I am too happy to be employed by you. I will 
 be sure to get the quadrilles ready by to-morrow." 
 
 God pity her. She spoke the truth. She w^as 
 too happy to be employed by Mrs. Robert Smith. 
 
 " I will excuse you this time. Miss Hinchliff,' 
 said the lady, conciliated by Lucy's answer, "but 
 I shall certainly expect the quadrilles to-morrow. 
 I think you said when we first engaged you, that 
 you taught Italian ? Priscilla is to learn it." 
 
THE DAILY GOVEKXESS. 17 
 
 " I shall be most happy, ma'am," replied Lucy, 
 brightening up. 
 
 " Mr. Robert Smith says that he has read — 
 he is a great reader, as you know — that there 
 are some very pretty poems in Italian, though he 
 called one by a very shocking name — a kind of 
 playhouse thing." 
 
 " Which was that, ma'am ? " inquired Lucy, 
 mentally reverting to Goldoni and Metastasio. 
 
 " You ought to tell me'' replied the lady. 
 " You know, of course — the pretty Italian poem 
 with the playhouse name." 
 
 " Do 3^ou mean Dante's Divine Comedy^ 
 ma'am ? " 
 
 " Yes, that is it — a very pretty poem — is it 
 not?" 
 
 " It is considered a very fine poem, ma'am." 
 
 " Yes, pretty or fine — that 's what Mr. Robert 
 Smith called it ; though I think, if 'tis a comedy, 
 it shouldn't be called Divi?ie.'" 
 
 Lucy assured the lady that the Divina Corn- 
 media was not a play in five acts, with stage 
 directions, but rather a religious poem. 
 
 " I understand your meaning," said her em- 
 ployer; "something like Milton, I suppose. I 
 have heard Mr. Robert Smith remxark — his 
 remarks are so to the purpose — that Milton was 
 a tragedy, quite. You will understand that you 
 are to leach Priscilla Italian. And about the 
 2^ 
 
18 LUCY HINCHLIFF, 
 
 terms, Mr. Eobert Smith says you are not to 
 increase them, as he really can't afford it." 
 
 " Ma'am," said Lucy, astonished. 
 
 " If you object, of course, we must find another 
 responsible person, who will include Italian for 
 the amount of your present salary." 
 
 Lucy's mother was in failing health. Need 
 we say that she was " too happy " to teach 
 Italian without remuneration, under the circum- 
 stances. On the same morning Mrs. Robert 
 Smith dismissed her cook, Avho blundered at a 
 yate de foie gras, and hired another at greatly 
 enlarged wages. 
 
 The widow Hinchliff was not only in failing 
 health, but she was nearer death than Lucy had 
 any idea of. When the poor girl returned home 
 that evening — she went to six houses first, and 
 walked a distance of seventeen miles — she found 
 that her parent had been obliged to retire to bed. 
 The servant, alarmed by her mistress' condition, 
 had called in a neighbor, who only waited for 
 Lucy's return to urge the propriety of sending 
 for a doctor. Lucy not only assented, but ran 
 herself to fetch one. " I can give you no hope," 
 he said ; and she felt that a blight had indeed 
 passed over her young life. When one that we 
 dearly love is stricken down to die, we look out 
 upon the world as if we had no longer hope, or 
 part, or any lot therein. 
 
THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 19 
 
 She had to practise the quadrilles that night, 
 on her hired piano, in fulfilment of the promise 
 made to Mrs. Robert Smith. Her mother had 
 fallen into one of those dozing, restless slumbers, 
 peculiar to a state of sickness, and the thought 
 of waking the notes of gay quadrille music in the 
 house, on whose threshold, even at that moment. 
 Death, the destroyer, stood, shocked Lucy's feel- 
 ings. No, she could not do that, let Mrs. Robert 
 Smith say what she pleased. 
 
 She sat through the longest night she had 
 ever known — for the heart measures the hours, 
 not the clock — a w^atcher by her mother's bed. 
 When the glad sunlight came gushing in at the 
 casement, and lark after lark poured forth his 
 jubilant thanksgiving for his sleep in the dewy 
 grass, she undressed herself, and went to her 
 own chamber, leaving the servant to supply her 
 place. There was no visible alteration in her 
 parent when, with many fears and with one of 
 the saddest hearts that ever beat in human 
 bosom, she left the cottage upon her constant, 
 diurnal mission. She was late, and had to walk 
 hurriedly. It rained too, and the water soaked 
 through the leaky shoes. She had no smile for 
 the toll-gate keeper. He saw that she was sad, 
 and contented himself with a touch of his hat, by 
 way of recognition. He was sad too, for the 
 scalded child had died during the night. " Best 
 
20 LUCY HIXCHLIFF, 
 
 not to tell her now," he thought ; " she has her 
 own trouble this morning." God help her. She 
 had indeed. 
 
 "You are full ten minutes behind your time 
 Miss Hinchliff. I never find you staying ten 
 minutes over your time," was Mrs. Robert 
 Smith's salutation. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Ma'am ; but I left my 
 mother at home very ill — dying, ma'am, the 
 doctor says," replied Lucy, bursting into tears. 
 
 " Dying ! dear me. Of course you feel very 
 much put out ; but punctuality, Mr. Robert Smith 
 says, is the soul of an engagement- — and you 
 have a character to keep up — but as you are 
 come, you can set Priscilla's mind at ease : she 
 is dying to play the quadrilles, and to begin her 
 Italian." 
 
 "I — I was unable to run them through last 
 night, ma'am," stammered Lucy, " my mother 
 was so ill." 
 
 " Then you are not ready with those qua- 
 drilles again. Miss Hinchliff !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Robert Smith ; " really, at j'our age, a young 
 woman should know the value of her promise." 
 
 " I could not disturb my mother," said Lucy, 
 appealingly. 
 
 " Of course, I take all that into consideration," 
 replied her employer. " But you, as a responsi- 
 ble person, should know the value of a promise. 
 
THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 21 
 
 However, I will excuse you since your mother is 
 dying ; only don't let it happen again. You will 
 commence Priscilla's Italian this morning, of 
 course ? " 
 
 " I have been so unfortunate as to forget my 
 own grammar, but if Priscilla is provided with 
 one " 
 
 " Her father says that he cannot afford any 
 Italian books, her French ones came so expen- 
 sive. He thought you could have no objection 
 to lend her yours." 
 
 What could Lucy say, but that her books were 
 at Priscilla's service ? 
 
 Her mother was worse that evening, and had 
 been, as the neighbor said, delirious during her 
 absence. Lucy asked herself whether she should 
 practise the quadrilles. She was not long in 
 deciding. Though they should go without 
 bread, she would not forget her duty as a daugh- 
 ter. Her place was at her mother's bedside. 
 
 That day Mr. Robert Smith paid a visit to a 
 friend whose governess not only taught Italian 
 for the same salary that was paid to Lucy Hinch- 
 liff, but also professed to include Spanish. When 
 Lucy was admitted the next morning, the lady 
 placed a small sum of money in her hand, and 
 informed her that "domestic arrangements" 
 would render her attendance in future unneces- 
 sary. The poor girl was not at all cast down by 
 
22 LUCY HIXCHLIFF, 
 
 this circumstance. Was not her mother ill — 
 dying at home ? She would not be obliged to 
 leave her so early in the morning. 
 
 Her mother died three days afterwards. A 
 letter sent by Lucy to the rich relation brought 
 a cool answer back, in which the writer recom- 
 mended her to be industrious, and to " keep her 
 character." 
 
 And now Lucy was alone in the world, in 
 which are so many faces, and so many hearts 
 beating with warm life. Even the toll-gate 
 keeper had disappeared. His place was supplied 
 by a stranger, a man of coarse, repulsive aspect. 
 Lucy felt the loss even of that acquaintance. 
 
 Within a month after her mother's death, she 
 was compelled to resign another of her engage- 
 ments ; her employer, a widower, having made 
 dishonorable proposals to her. She advertised 
 in the papers, but could not meet with an ap- 
 pointment. She had removed into lodgings now. 
 
 One night — it was a cold, rainy November 
 night — Lucy Hinchliffsat in her little room by 
 her fire, much pondering over many things, but 
 chiefest what it was fitting for a young girl like 
 her to do, who being so unprotected, was exposed 
 to so many insults. She gazed at her mother's 
 portrait which hung over the mantle-shelf, and 
 seemed to ask advice of the dead. But the dead 
 
THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 23 
 
 replied not. Only the bleak wind whistled. 
 Only the rain beat against the windows-panes. 
 
 There was a stir below, as of feet coming up 
 stairs. Lucy heard it without heed. The feet 
 came higher and higher, how^ever, and halted at 
 her door ; upon the panels of which a rap 
 sounded as from determined, sturdy knuckles. 
 The governess started, and cried, " Come in," 
 and a man came in. 
 
 It was her old acquaintance, the toll-keeper. 
 
 But not dressed as he was formerly. No. He 
 wore a bran new suit of superfine Saxony cloth, 
 and a gold watch-guard communicated with his 
 vest pocket. As far as equipment went, he was 
 in all respects the gentleman. And in the heart 
 besides — in the heart besides. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Miss, for intruding upon 
 you," he said, bashfully. " I am come to speak 
 to you about educating my children." 
 
 Lucy bowed. She thought she had misunder- 
 stood him. 
 
 " I am come into a large fortune lately. Miss 
 — a very large fortune — a matter of a thousand 
 a year. I knew no more of it, three months ago, 
 bless you, than the man in the moon; and I 
 think, and my wife thinks, that our girls ought 
 to be educated." 
 
 " Certainly," said Lucy, vacantly. She thought 
 she was dreaming. 
 
24 LUCY HINCHLIFF, 
 
 " And so we agreed that if you would come 
 and live with us — we lives in a fine house now 
 — and be one of ourselves, and teach the chil- 
 dren, we thought that we should take it very 
 kind of you." 
 
 " Yes," assented Lucy, mechanically, for she 
 was not a whit the nearer waking. 
 
 " And if you would think two hundred pounds 
 a year, and a room of your own, enough, it is 
 yours to-morrow; and that's all about it." 
 
 The speaker, in the excitement of having ac- 
 complished his errand, clapped his hat on his 
 head, and breathed freely. But he recollected 
 himself, and took his hat off again. 
 
 " You wish me to be governess to your chil- 
 dren. Do I understand you aright?" said Lucy, 
 only half conscious that the scene was real. 
 
 " Yes, Miss, if you please ; and if two hun- 
 dred a year would satisfy you, why — whv it's 
 done, and that 's just where it is." 
 
 "I thank God!" cried Lucy, bursting into 
 tears. She was wide awake, and understood all 
 now. 
 
 It was all true — that was the best of it. The 
 man had really inherited a large fortune, left him 
 by some relative, hitherto unheard of. And was 
 not his early thought about the poor governess, 
 who gave him a good word every morning, and 
 inquired after Billv, who was scalded? Yes 
 
THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 25 
 
 for he had heard of her mother's death, and the 
 proud consciousness of being able to confer a 
 benefit on an orphan girl, elated his heart as 
 much as the possession of a thousand pounds per 
 annum. Lucy, of course, would not consent to 
 receive the salary he had named. How it was 
 finally settled, this chronicler knows not; but 
 Lucy dwells with the quondam toll-keeper, and 
 looks happy — very happy. 
 
 A small white stone has been erected at her 
 mother's grave. You may see it, if you will 
 walk for the purpose, to x\bney Park Cemetery, 
 Stoke-Newington. 
 3 
 
26 
 
 A VILLAGE SKETCH. 
 
 BY MRS. BARTHOLOMEW. 
 
 THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 
 
 The heat of day is passed, and summer's eve 
 With zeph}T wing has fanned the glowing earth ; 
 The perfumed air is filled with song of birds, 
 And music of the streams, the hum of bees, 
 The shepherd's pipe, and lowing of the kine : 
 So let us leave the dull and dusty town, 
 And bend our steps across the cowslip field. 
 Where at the bottom runs a little brook, 
 Watering the garden of our childhood's school. 
 
 ^ ^ -^ -^t* -5ij- -ai* 
 
 'TV' 'TV' "TV* 'TV' •Tf' *7«* 
 
 And now we stand upon the wooden bridge — 
 The same old plank which, long, long years ago, 
 Creaked even then beneath our tiny feet, 
 As, pausing to take breath, we reached the gate 
 Just as the church-clock struck the hour of nine. 
 There is the house ! — the casement opened wide ; 
 And peeping through the honeysuckle leaves 
 Are tearful eyes, — a truant child with book 
 In hand — but not in heart — she cannot learn 
 The task, for weeping o'er . her faults, which 
 caused disOTace. 
 
A. VILLAGE SKETCH. 27 
 
 Come, let us seek her pardon now, 
 For sorrow should not stain the youthful cheek, 
 But may give place where penitence is seen ! 
 There is the mistress, worn, and stern, and gray ; 
 How beautiful she was when we were young ! 
 Dost thou remember, when our work was o'er, 
 How on that rustic seat, half hidden now 
 By moss and ivy which we planted there, 
 She sang us ancient ballads of our land, — 
 Or told with gentle voice sweet fairy tales 
 To wondering listeners, who in after years 
 Look back upon those recreations pure — 
 The one green spot amid the world's drear waste. 
 And she, the empress of that magic realm. 
 Is powerless now, her sunless stream of life 
 Flows on with no bright flowers on its breast ; 
 From morn till night she bears the withering fate 
 Of toiling for herself; know ye what 'tis 
 To aid a parent as she feebler grows ? 
 If so, ye can define her depth of woe 
 When first she gazed upon the unpressed couch, 
 The vacant chair, — the breakfast-table spread, 
 And no beloved or cherished one to share 
 The simple hard-earned meal. 
 
 Peace to the dead ! 
 The mother sleeps beneath the churchyard turf, 
 And he who wooed and won her daughter's heart 
 Has gained a richer bride — a common tale, 
 But not less true, and not less anguish-fraught. 
 
2S A VILLAGE SKETCH. 
 
 Hush ! she observes us, and her pale lips wear 
 The smile of happier times ; her trembling hand 
 Clasps mine, and as of old she welcomes me, — 
 I feel as if I were once more a child. 
 
29 
 
 WOMAN AND DOMESTICS. 
 
 BY CATHERINE BARM BY. 
 
 That there is a vast amount of evil and suffer- 
 ing throughout the ramifications of society, is the 
 general admission. It should also be evident that 
 a great mass of the misery endured is caused 
 by the imperfect forms which constitute our pres- 
 ent social condition. Appeals are made to the 
 legislature, and petitions are forwarded to the 
 government, with the expectation that relief will 
 be obtained : while, at the same time, it may 
 clearly be seen that neither the legislature nor 
 the government can fully effect the remedy, and 
 that we are neglecting our own duty, and disobey- 
 ing the dictates of our common sense, in asking 
 others to do that which we can best do ourselves. 
 
 To reorganize society, to render it more blessed 
 and happier, its domestic condition has to be im- 
 proved. Now domestics form a sphere which 
 belongs essentially to woman. It is her absolute 
 province; in it she reigns queen, and man can- 
 not, if he would, deprive her of her sovereignty, 
 because it has been allotted to her by that wis- 
 dom whose decrees human power or will is not 
 able to withstand. Think of it as we may, the 
 3^ 
 
80 WOMAN AND DOMESTICS. 
 
 laws and order of society are, in their origin, 
 divine — hence the woe that follows our trans- 
 gressions. If we sow the storm, we reap the 
 whirlwind. So fares it in all parts of God's 
 earth. And thus, it is not so much contradic- 
 tory change, as further development, that is 
 needed. 
 
 Customs and habits, private and public man- 
 ners, dress, and the whole circle of home duties, 
 are included in domestics. It is surely as im- 
 portant then as politics, and as difficult to regu- 
 late. Yet it is not the Houses of Representatives 
 that can legislate for it; for the reason that 
 women do not deliberate, and cannot pass their 
 judgment, in them. 
 
 The workings of society in its state of civiliza- 
 tion have revealed, partially, the true order of 
 nature in the division of duties for the sexes. 
 To the woman, the interior or household eco- 
 nomics ; to the man, the exterior or politics. Both 
 are valuable, and have elements in common 
 together. Man should not be entirely ignorant 
 of home management, nor should woman be left 
 unacquainted with laws and governmental policy. 
 Their own and their children's welfare are con- 
 nected with both ; and therefore, to the mother 
 and the father, they stand each as a great sub- 
 ject. Civilization, hitherto, it is not to be lost 
 sight of, has influenced woman only materially 
 
wo:max and domestics. 31 
 
 in the discharge of her home duties. It has 
 taught her to barter, to buy the cap and gown 
 cheap, careless of the ruin she may bring downi 
 upon the seller. Competition, in its lowest 
 grades, has received the greatest enconragement 
 from woman. The sufferings of fellow-creatures 
 have not been thought of, when shillings and six- 
 pences were to be saved. Dress and furniture, 
 company and so-called amusement, the rivalry, 
 jealousy, and wretchedness they have engen- 
 dered, render them in their very enumeration 
 terrifying, and make us hurry to get away from 
 their reviewal. 
 
 Civilization has not finished her work. She, 
 like an educating parent, will perfect in her 
 adult what she could only commence with her 
 infant children. She will now teach woman 
 spiritually the devotion of her home duties I — 
 to become a priestess, even at her hearth-side ! 
 Elevated and strengthened, her footsteps on the 
 earth rendered steady and secure, how rejoic- 
 ingly will she live in the land where she now 
 mourns and dwells a stranger ! 
 
 The instruction of woman in her higher, more 
 spiritual, home duties, is one of the greatest 
 wants of the age. It is becoming more and more 
 apparent, and, if not speedily attended to, will be 
 a most serious drawback to the progress now 
 souirht to be made. 
 
32 WOMAN AND DOMESTICS. 
 
 The delicate machinery of domestic life is ever 
 at work, producing countless shades of joy and 
 gloom. It is from the flame of the domestic 
 hearth that the warmth and lustre of some of 
 life's most refined relations are derived. Would 
 that this flame shone more brightly now^ ! beamed 
 forth more divinely, holily ! That the abodes of 
 our people Avere more cheered by its rays ! That 
 the dwellers at our hearths were more conscious 
 of its presence. How general is poverty ! how 
 wide-spread is misery ! Fearful is the unright- 
 eousness of society ! frightful are its responsibili- 
 ties ! 
 
 Why goes forth that man this Saturday even- 
 ing from the roof under which his children live ? 
 Why turns he from their engaging little attempts 
 to detain him, and roughly moves them away, 
 while he loves them dearly ? Why sits another 
 by his fire, sullen, discontented, unwilling to 
 speak the kindly word, while his heart is yearn- 
 ing for converse and enjoyment ? Why flies the 
 cruel speech to her for whom the bosom's strong- 
 est affection is nourished ? And why, search- 
 ing into deeper depths, why does man become so 
 often a tyrant, so often a criminal, in his home ? 
 Truth has to be told ; but, oh ! listen to it kindly, 
 for it is hard to tell. 
 
 It is because woman does not truly appreciate 
 her mission in domestic life. Under the present 
 
WOMAN AND DOMESTICS. 33 
 
 conditions of existence, she has become weighed 
 down by cares. As a wife she is different from 
 what she was as a maiden. She is ever em- 
 ployed in drudgery for her children and her 
 household. She neglects her dress ; she forgets 
 her manners. Her husband sees the change, 
 and does not perhaps find sufficient excuse for it 
 from the conditions she labors under. He flies 
 to the tavern and billiard table. And she m- 
 creases in sourness and asperity as she increases 
 in years. That much of this is owing to the 
 present circumstances of social life, is true ; but 
 that much of it is chargeable to a sad submission 
 to those circumstances, is also but too true. It 
 is more or less in the power of women to make 
 their domestic life more attractive to their hus- 
 bands, and more holy in its disciplines and ends, 
 than they now do. A greater regularity m time 
 — a greater simplicity in dress — a more deter- 
 mined adherence to that xvhich is right in one's 
 own eyes, rather than that which is well thought 
 of in the eyes of others — an orderly apportion- 
 ing of various periods for different occupations — 
 would make evenings at home pass away very 
 differently to what, in the great majority of cases, 
 they now are doing. 
 
 If the wife will begin to wish her husband to 
 read the last new periodical, while she is mend- 
 ing his stockings ; if, even while at work herself, 
 
34 WOMAN AND DOMESTICS. 
 
 she will now and then talk to her children of that 
 which is good and pleasant, as a priestess should 
 talk — and every mother has a priestly office — 
 she will hallow and lighten her own labor, and 
 for her household a blessed reform will, in do- 
 mestics, have commenced. 
 
 Oh, for a power to hasten this period! Oh, 
 that one might abide the dawning of that bright 
 day when domestic love and family enjoyment 
 crown the great social destiny of humanity! 
 Then might one depart in peace, and the beams 
 of the good time come be over us, and death be 
 hallowed by the sanctification of life. Follow 
 out God's laws, work in his holy order, do all 
 things in season, leaving nought undone that 
 should be done, and full surely this divine, this 
 perfecting labor of human existence, will be con- 
 summated. 
 
35 
 
 A SONG, SENT WITH A ROSE, 
 
 BY JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Yes, every flower that blows 
 
 I passed unheeded by, 
 Till this enchanting rose 
 
 Had fixed my wandering eye ; 
 It scented every breeze, 
 
 That wantoned o'er the stream, 
 Or trembled through the trees, 
 
 To meet the morning beam. 
 
 To deck that beauteous maid, 
 
 Its fragrance can't excel. 
 From some celestial shade 
 
 The damask charmer fell ; 
 And as her balmy sweets 
 
 On Chloe's breast she pours. 
 The queen of Beauty greets 
 
 The gentle queen of Flowers. 
 
36 
 
 THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 
 
 BYARNHELDT WEAVER. 
 
 It was a wild night. The wind went grum- 
 bling through wide streets, and played the very 
 maniac in courts and alleys — shrieking — howl- 
 ing — shaking the insecure doors of the crazy 
 tenements — in many instances bursting them 
 open, and taking forcible possession of the houses, 
 which it did not quit till it had penetrated every 
 hole and corner, — ransacked every recess, — 
 turned all movable articles topsy-turvy, and filled 
 the wretched apartments with suffocating, blind- 
 ing smoke, sending children into paroxysms of 
 coughing and squalling, and making mothers as 
 frantic as itself. This did the wind. 
 
 But the snow led the van that night. People 
 could have borne with the wind, but the snow 
 was too much for them. It was a fine sight to 
 witness in its driving, headlong career, — in its 
 infuriate, headstrong rage ; but God help the 
 wretch who, on such a night, can look on nothing 
 else. The streets, of course, were deserted by 
 everybody but the houseless and the police. 
 
 The clock of St. Martin's church struck the 
 three-quarters past eleven, as a man of middle 
 
THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 37 
 
 age — if years be reckoned, but judging from his 
 appearance, a man turned of sixty — issued sud- 
 denly from a dark archway in the Strand, one 
 of those obscure passages that lead down to the 
 river, and followed closely in the steps of one of 
 his own sex, who had just passed hurriedly in 
 the direction of Charing Cross. The cabs were 
 withdrawn from most of the stands, the weather 
 being too severe even for a cabman's defiance, 
 and along the streets which the person thus fol- 
 lowed had traversed not a vehicle had appeared 
 within hail, save a solitary omnibus which was 
 going in an opposite direction. Thus he was 
 compelled to walk, or was more properly driven 
 along by the wind. 
 
 The man who issued from the low-browed 
 archway had fought with the weather from his 
 youth upward, and exposure to the elements in 
 this our English climate makes a man prema- 
 turely old. He had been hungry too, lean and 
 hungry, from his boyish days ; and constant 
 hunger is a great promoter of senile appearance. 
 For many previous years he had slept in metro- 
 politan and suburban churchyards, — an animate 
 corpse, uncofhned amongst tombs. He stole 
 when he could ; but not being an expert thief, he 
 ate but seldom, and the wolf gnawed his vitals at 
 all hours and upon all days. 
 
 He followed the individual we have alluded to, 
 4 
 
3S THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 
 
 and overtook him in Parliament street. For 
 some minutes they walked abreast, the almost 
 nude beside the well-clad and warmly-Avrapped 
 man. Suddenly the former, falling two steps 
 backward, aimed a savage blow, and a senseless 
 body was stretched upon the snow that covered 
 the pavement to the depth of several inches. 
 The hungry man, having scanned the street with 
 an eye quick to detect the advance of a passen- 
 ger, knelt over the body and commenced to rifle 
 it. He quickly possessed himself of a purse tol- 
 erably well-filled, a gold watch and a pocket- 
 book ; then secreting his booty as well as he was 
 able about his person, he fled : almost equalling 
 the wind in his speed. Some five or six minutes 
 afterwards, the plundered man, recovering him- 
 self, got up and started off towards Westminster, 
 crying " Thieves ! thieves ! " But the thief had 
 gone in a contrary direction. Encountering only 
 a policeman emerging from a tavern, and smell- 
 ing powerfully of rum, who proposed to run and 
 inquire at the station-house, and hearing no foot- 
 steps ahead, he gave up the supposed chase, and 
 resigned himself to bear his loss. 
 
 The thief, once secure from pursuit, took his 
 way more leisurely towards St. Giles', where he 
 procured a supper and a bed, and awaited the 
 daylight that he might, unobserved, examine the 
 
THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 39 
 
 pocket-book more particularly, and dispose of the 
 watch to a cunning Jew living in Houndsditch. 
 
 The wind had subsided, and the snow had 
 ceased to fall, before the breaking of the dawn. 
 The man early quitted the den where human 
 creatures slept by dozens, of both sexes, in one 
 room, and hurried towards the Jew's residence. 
 But turning into an unoccupied corner on his 
 route, he paused to examine the pocket-book. It 
 contained nothing that was valuable, only a few 
 papers, and a letter or two, that revealed the 
 owner's name and address. The man read, for 
 he could read, the superscription of these letters, 
 when something that was extraordinary hap- 
 pened. The reader started, as though touched 
 by a torpedo. He read and read again. A cold 
 perspiration burst from every pore of his frame ; 
 tears stood in his eyes. He turned with falter- 
 ing steps, and set out to find the abode indicated 
 by the letters. 
 
 The felon soon reached the house of the man 
 he had stunned and plundered on the preceding 
 
 night. It was in street, Westminster. He 
 
 passed and repassed. The sun was shining in 
 the street; the fallen snow was thawing fast; 
 the air was fresh and mild ; the sky was un- 
 clouded and very blue. The upper blinds of the 
 house were drawn ; it 'was large and roomy, the 
 abode of a prosperous, world-favored man. The 
 
40 THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 
 
 outcast went towards the park hastily, with 
 clenched hands and convulsed limbs. About to 
 enter the enclosure, a beadle repelled him, tell- 
 ing him in surly tones to begone about his busi- 
 ness. A well-dressed man arriving at that mo- 
 ment, the beadle made way for him. 
 
 A second time he reached the house. On this 
 occasion he summoned courage and knocked. 
 The door was opened by a liveried footman, rubi- 
 cund, and greasy ; a smirking, cringing fellow, 
 when accosted by a wearer of good apparel, but 
 of freezing, repulsive front, when the owner of an 
 indifferent garb addressed him. He had too 
 faithfully aped the manners of the different mas- 
 ters he had served to be even civil to the like- 
 ness of God when garmented in rags. The out- 
 cast fell back from the door, repelled by the 
 haughty, insolent air of the menial who con- 
 fronted him. He could not speak the words he 
 longed to speak to such a man ; something he 
 stammered out, but the lackey's "What d'ye 
 want here"? You have mistaken the house, 
 have n't ye ? " accompanied by a wanton gesture 
 of contempt, sent the applicant back to the street. 
 
 But old associations had been that morning 
 awakened, and they were not thus roughly to be 
 trampled out. The man, wandering he cared 
 not whither, passed the 'Abbey. He saw the 
 door at Poet's Corner open. He remembered to 
 
THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 41 
 
 have been once — many years ago it was — in 
 the interior, and a wish to see again those speak- 
 ing sights which are there treasured up in chis- 
 elled stone, took possession of him. He ap- 
 proached the door ; a verger stood on the thresh- 
 old and drove him away — away from God's 
 temple. 
 
 Driven from the enclosure of the park, — 
 driven from the temple, — the poor outcast 
 directed his steps towards Westminster Bridge ; 
 there, at least, he might stay, thence he would 
 not be driven, and there he could see the sun- 
 rays descend into the river. But being weary, 
 for he had had only one night's unbroken rest in 
 the last ninety-six hours, he sat down upon a 
 door-step. He had not remained there many 
 minutes before a policeman came up to him. 
 " What do you do here ?" demanded the myrmi- 
 don of the law. 
 
 " I am tired out — I am only resting," replied 
 the outcast. 
 
 " I shall take you to the station-house then, 
 and you '11 go up before a magistrate." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " For exciting Charity." 
 
 And the policeman was as good as his word. 
 Behold them before the officiating magistrate. 
 " Do you mean to say," cried that functionary, 
 4^ 
 
42 
 
 THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 
 
 " that you have arrested this man for merely sit* 
 ting on a door-step ? " 
 
 " He was exciting- charity, your wusship." 
 
 " How do you know that ? Did you see him 
 beg?" 
 
 " No, your wusship. But I think he sat there 
 to excite compassion." 
 
 " You think ! Did you watch him ? " 
 
 " Yes, your wusship." 
 
 " Did he accost any one ? " 
 
 " I can't say as he did, your wusship." 
 
 " Then he is discharged. You have exceeded 
 your duty, policeman. Be more careful in 
 future." 
 
 In his unfortunate hurry to get out of the dock 
 the outcast dropped the pocket-book which he 
 had concealed about him, and in his attempt to 
 catch it before it reached the ground the watch 
 appeared in sight. The policeman pounced upon 
 him. 
 
 " A pocket-book and a gold watch, your wus- 
 ship, he 's got about him. I knew he was a 
 queer character. I never exceeds my duty, 
 saving your wusship's presence." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, policeman. Place the 
 man in the dock again. Now, prisoner, I sus- 
 pect you of stealing those articles. Where did 
 you get them ? " 
 
THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 4^ 
 
 The outcast replied not. The policeman 
 seemed struck by a luminous idea. 
 
 " A gentleman was knocked down and robbed 
 in Parliament street, last night, your wusship," 
 he said deferentially. *' Information was laid at 
 the station by one of our men who was on duty." 
 
 " Hand me the pocket-book and watch," said 
 the magistrate. On receiving them, he examined 
 the former, and read the owner's address. In a 
 few minutes the policeman was on his way to 
 
 street, Westminster. Other cases were 
 
 called and examined. About half an hour had 
 elapsed, when the officer of the law returned, 
 accompanied by the plundered man. How curi- 
 ous an employment were it to analyze the emo- 
 tions of the thief, as he devoured every lineament 
 in the features of this individual! Expectation 
 vividly on the rack before he entered, and 
 then, 
 
 Not a feature the same. The youth's visage 
 had disappeared. The sharp set lines indicating 
 the countenance of the man, showed too plainly 
 how deep the world had driven its ploughshare 
 into the heart that, as a boy's, was noble. Each 
 succeeding furrow, too, deeper than the last. 
 
 The magistrate exhibited the watch and 
 pocket-book, and said, — 
 
 " Is this your property, sir ? " 
 
44 THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 
 
 "It is," replied the other. '^ was knocked 
 down and robbed of it last night." 
 
 *' Do you suppose you could recognize the 
 party who attacked you ? " 
 
 The plundered man looked round and singled 
 out the thief immediately. 
 
 " There he is. He trembles, you see, sir." 
 
 The examination proceeded — the robbery of 
 the purse was stated, and the purse itself, with 
 only a trifle of its contents abstracted, was de- 
 livered up by the thief. In a brief space of time 
 his committal to Newgate was made out. But 
 what is this scene which takes place ? 
 
 The thief, forcing his passage from the dock, 
 as his prosecutor was about to quit the office, 
 threw himself at his feet, and clung to his legs, 
 impeding his further progress. 
 
 " Arthur Willis ! " he cried, " do you not know 
 me, then ? Has my name really escaped your 
 recollection ? Do you forget your old playmate ? 
 Look at me — look at me. I am he — I We 
 were great friends, you know, in our boyhood. 
 We had everything we possessed in common. 
 You remember that, do you not ? " 
 
 Thus far he had run on weeping, abject, clutch- 
 ing the other's apparel, when the man so ad- 
 dressed, speaking to the magistrate, said, 
 
 " Will you assist me, sir ? " 
 
THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 45 
 
 ' Remove him, policeman," was the mandate 
 delivered. 
 
 " What, you do not — will not recollect me, 
 
 then?" 
 
 " Remove him, policeman. 
 But the outcast saved them all further trouhle. 
 He rose from the ground. The prosecutor made 
 his exit from the office. From that time the 
 prisoner assumed a sullen aspect, and, avoiding 
 his fellows in Newgate, remained apart, sun- 
 dered from his last hope, his last affection. 
 
 He was sentenced to seven years' transporta- 
 tion ; but underwent his punishment at the hulks, 
 instead of leaving the country. Not altogether 
 destitute was he dismissed at the expiration of 
 that long period. The chaplain, — a man of 
 God in a stricter and better sense than a mere 
 professional one, — struck by his history and 
 praiseworthy behavior, made him a present of 
 five pounds. i\*ean while, his prosecutor had 
 been ruined by the failure of a speculation in 
 which he had extensively embarked, had re- 
 moved from house to house, always going down- 
 ward in the scale of respectability as applied to 
 residences, and was now occupying a small apart- 
 ment in an obscure street in Southwark. 
 
 Chance led the man released from the hulks 
 into this street, led him to take an apartment 
 therein with the intention of carrying on the 
 
4G THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 
 
 business of shoemaking, an employment he had 
 been taught on board his marine prison. One 
 day, as he sat in his little shop, he saw a man 
 issue from the opposite dwelling, and limp with 
 faltering steps along the uneven pavement. 
 Could it be ? Had possibility no limits ? 
 
 The cordwainer hammered at his shoes all that 
 day, and late into the night, and the next day, 
 and the next the same, stringing old songs to one 
 another so rapidly, that he did not cease to croon 
 and sing the whole time. But the fourth day ? 
 
 He did not work that morning. He did not 
 sing. It was beautiful summer weather. A 
 man going by his door offered flowers for sale. 
 A linnet at the adjoining house went off into an 
 intoxicating career of song. He bought some 
 flowers. He stepped into the street to look at 
 the linnet. He felt his eyes moisten, and expe- 
 rienced a choking sensation at the throat. Ee- 
 turning to his apartment, and making himself as 
 tidy as he could, he crossed the road, and knocked 
 at the door opposite to his own. 
 
 " You have a person named Willis living 
 here?" he said to the woman who appeared. 
 
 " Yes, what d'ye want with him?" 
 
 *' I wish to see him." 
 
 " He 's ill, but you can go up stairs ; you can't 
 miss the room." 
 
 And in another minute, the late felon was in 
 
THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 47 
 
 the presence of his late prosecutor, — the dear 
 companion and cherished friend of his boyhood. 
 Willis was dying ; it required no experienced eye 
 to see that. 
 
 " Ah ! you know me, Arthur Willis. I am 
 Alfred Pole ; look on me ; see me now, as in 
 my boyhood, nothing changed — but your dear 
 friend still ; true to you in your adversity, as he 
 would have been in your prosperity, — as he was 
 when we were boys together — so help him God 
 in heaven ! " 
 
 The speaker fell on his face, and his sobs 
 shook the floor of the apartment. " My first 
 offence," he continued presently, "when deprived 
 of your counsel, and seduced by evil companions, 
 was my ruin. I think, I know, that I should 
 have amended, and become useful in my limited 
 sphere to society, but society shut me out, con- 
 sidering that the boy who had robbed his em- 
 ployer, and had undergone punishment for the 
 offence, had better be cast forth to be a thief for 
 evermore. What necessity that I should trace 
 in your hearing the steps by which I descended, 
 — down — down — ever and ever down, until I 
 attacked and robbed you." 
 
 He spoke no more : the man h« addressed had 
 died while he was speaking, and a human soul 
 was absorbed in the Infinite Spirit. 
 
48 
 
 THE RECRUIT. 
 
 BY MRS. C. BARON WILSON. 
 
 Take, take these flaunting streamers hence 
 They mock my pale and saddened brow ; 
 Remorse, too late, and 'wakening sense, 
 Disclose their fearful honors now. 
 In fatal hour, when jealous pride 
 Rushed, whirlwind-like, across my brain, 
 Maddened by rage and wine, I hied 
 To join the wily sergeant's train ! 
 
 Mother, farewell ! — thy truant son 
 No more his village home may see; 
 Where lives are lost, or honors w^on. 
 My home of strife henceforth must be. 
 Farewell, the cottage in the glade, 
 That made my boyhood's earliest home ; 
 Farew^ell, still dear, though faithless maid. 
 Whose scorn thus dooms my steps to roam. 
 
 Hark ! 't is the far-resounding drum. 
 And thrillmg fife, whose martial tone 
 Proclaim the hour " to march " is come, 
 And visions of the past are, flown ! 
 
THE RECRUIT. 49 
 
 The notes of fame, and glory call — 
 They weave around my heart their spell ; 
 The banner waves ! — adieu to all ! — 
 Home, mother, faithless love — farewell ! 
 
50 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. 
 
 " Thy heart ! — I would I could command 
 Thy heart to open on my sight. 
 Yet no — I '11 trust those stars of blue." 
 
 Barry Cornwall, 
 
 PART I. THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 To the astonishment of "the world" Sir Percy 
 Borrowdale had remained for ten years a wid- 
 ower, though left such, and without children, at 
 the age of five-and-twenty. Possessed of a 
 princely fortune — tracing his descent through a 
 noble ancestry for five hundred years, and him- 
 self more than commonly handsome, there is no 
 wonder that he was looked on as an excellent 
 "match" among the fairest and noblest in the 
 country. His first and very early marriage had 
 been in compliance with his father's wishes ; but 
 though the chosen bride was young and beauti- 
 ful, and though on her death every mark of 
 respect was paid to her memory, Sir Percy never 
 affected to be inconsolable for her loss. And yet 
 for ten years he did not wed again ! Did he 
 prefer the freedom of a single life — or could he 
 not find one of woman-kind tO reach the standard 
 of his fastidious taste ? At last, when that bun- 
 
 «' 
 
^c mm 3L, ® ®m. - ®w^. 
 
 
THE SECRET. 51 
 
 die of units denominated " the world " was fairly 
 at its wits' end to account for his apathy, Sir 
 Percy astonished it yet more by unexpectedly 
 taking a wife to Castle Borrowdale ! There had 
 not been even a hint, in the Morning Post, of his 
 intention conveyed by initials and asterisks. All 
 that appeared one morning was the simple an- 
 nouncement of his nuptials with "Alice, only 
 child of the late Reverend Francis Willoughby;" 
 and the startled " world " knew not at first in 
 which direction to seek for the further informa- 
 tion of who and what she was. After a few per- 
 severing inquiries, however, people discovered 
 that Lady Borrowdale, though quite portionless, 
 belonged to an old and respectable family, and 
 indeed was once considered heiress to a large 
 property, which had been diverted into another 
 channel, in consequence of her father being un- 
 able to produce some necessary documents. 
 
 After the first shock was over, the busy world 
 began to talk of the disparity of their age, (add- 
 ing a few years to the baronet's and deducting 
 somewhat from his lady's — for Alice Willoughby 
 was really two-and-twenty when she married,) 
 and then by degrees to hint at a sacrifice made 
 for station and splendor. Sir Percy was very 
 reserved — probably morose and ill-tempered at 
 home, — so people said ; and they now remem- 
 bered, that it had been whispered his first mar- 
 
52 THE SECRET. 
 
 riage was an unhappy one : no doubt there were 
 faults on both sides ; but they dared say the first 
 Lady Borrowdale had had a great deal to put up 
 with. So much for the acidity of the grapes ; 
 and though, really, according to this account, 
 Alice was rather to be pitied than otherwise, still 
 the five hundred dear friends who laid claim to 
 a place on her visiting list, by a strange contra- 
 diction, began weighing her claims to the honor 
 of Sir Percy's hand, as carefully as if he had 
 been a modern Crichton created and perfected for 
 a pattern, and a prize unique. Humanity is made 
 up of strange opposites we know, but according 
 to " the world's " account, this must have been 
 peculiarly the case in the instance of Lady Bor- 
 rowdale ; for every good quality seemed to be 
 attended by the "jailer, hut yet,'^ ever ready to 
 "usher in some monstrous malefactor." Her 
 figure was beautiful, certainly, but — she wanted 
 another inch in height; her hand was the most 
 perfect in the world, but — .of course she knew 
 it, and wore " that emerald ring " to set it off"; 
 her complexion was very fine, but — not of the 
 kind which lasts ; she was considered handsome 
 certainly, but — it is not every one who admires 
 blue eyes and dark hair. Sweet Alice ! the wild 
 flower transplanted to the hot-bed of fashionable 
 life, — little did she dream of the narrow scrutiny 
 to which she had been subject during her first 
 
THE SECRET. 
 
 53 
 
 London season, when, towards its close. Sir 
 Percy and his lady withdrew to the comparative 
 retirement of Castle Borrowdale. 
 
 The castle was situated in one of the most 
 beautiful of our southern counties, and within 
 half a mile of the coast. The spot had been 
 chosen by an ancestor of the Borrowdales, a 
 distinguished naval officer in the reign of Eliza- 
 beth, and the building, which had belonged to 
 some other family, was altered and enlarged by 
 him in the quaint fashion of the period. It would 
 seem that a love of the glorious ocean — its 
 thronging associations and heart-stirring poetry 
 — had ever since distinguished the family. Many 
 of its members had chosen the navy as a profes- 
 sion, and the castle, whose terraces sloped down 
 to the sea, had for ages been a favorite residence. 
 What a change for the clergyman's daughter, — 
 from the country vicarage overgrown with roses 
 and honeysuckle ; to be mistress of the stately 
 castle I 
 
 The marriage of Alice Willoughby had been 
 sudden ; for though known to her by name since 
 childhood, she met Sir Percy for the first time 
 but two months before she became his bride. 
 Her love was built upon the strong foundation 
 of respect and just appreciation of her husband's 
 high qualities ; while every additional mark of 
 tenderness on his part called forth the latent 
 5# 
 
54 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 warmth of her own feelings. But it is quite true 
 that Sir Percy was a reserved man ; his attain- 
 ments, too, were of a high order ; and though 
 when first attracted to Alice he had felt, by a 
 sort of intuition, that her feminine yet enlarged 
 mind was precisely the one to receive and mirror 
 his own purest and loftiest aspirations, she was 
 not equally conscious of the depth of her own 
 character. The natural consequence of this igno- 
 rance was, that a slight feeling of awe mingled 
 with her true affection — like a serpent among 
 flowers — and many a thought which her heart 
 longed to shadow forth in words, she repelled 
 from the undefined dread that her simple fancies 
 must to him seem foolish. 
 
 Yet very rapidly was this barrier — icy though 
 trifling — melting away; and even a few days 
 of retirement at the castle after their London 
 gayety did wonders towards effecting a change. 
 Lady Borrowdale was gratified — at first almost 
 astonished — that in their long rides and ram- 
 bles Sir Percy would listen to her observations 
 on the scenes they visited with interest and atten- 
 tion : thus emboldened she often grew eloquent, 
 till she blushed as she recognized the joy and 
 admiration which sparkled in her husband's 
 countenan.ce, Graver subjects too were some- 
 times discussed; and though Sir, Percy smiled 
 to discover how often the simple acuteness of her 
 
THE SECRET. 55 
 
 own mind arrived at the conclusions of philoso- 
 phers, it was not the fool's smile at woman's 
 wit, but one of pure rejoicing that he had indeed 
 found " a help m.eet for him." Yes, the shadowy 
 barrier was quickly melting, and they were 
 already the happiest of the happy. 
 
 Lady Borrowdale was passionately fond of art, 
 and indeed somewhat skilled in using the pencil 
 herself; no w^onder, then, that a favorite haunt of 
 hers was the picture gallery of the castle. One 
 morning she was sauntering there while Sir 
 Percy read his letters, preparatory to their pro- 
 posed stroll on the beach, when he surprised her 
 in a deep reverie before the portrait of his first 
 wife. The painting was by Lawrence, and suf- 
 ficiently beautiful to have arrested the gaze of 
 one less enthusiastic than Alice; but so entranced 
 was she that she did not hear Sir Percy's ap- 
 proaching footsteps, and was only aroused by his 
 passing an arm round her waist, and saying, as 
 he drew her aflfectionately towards him, " Why 
 is my Alice so absorbed ? " 
 
 She looked into his face with a smile full of 
 truth and" confidence, as she replied, " I was 
 wondering if she ever were as dear — or dearer 
 to you than I ! " 
 
 " Alice, you will not be jealous of the dead, if 
 I own to you that I once loved her — deeply — 
 passionately; but it was reserved for you, dear* 
 
56 THE SECRET. 
 
 est, to realize my dreams, and make me su- 
 premely happy." 
 
 " Was she unamiable ? " murmured Alice. 
 
 " No. The secret of our wretchedness was, 
 that she could not love me." 
 
 "Not love you!" 
 
 " Even so. Her heart was wholly another's ; 
 she had consented to marry me, at the earnest 
 entreaty of her parents, and in consequence of 
 false representations of her lover's unworthiness. 
 But within a month of our bridal, accident dis- 
 covered to her the cruel deception which had 
 been practised, and her agony was such that 
 further concealment, even if she attempted it, 
 proved vain. Thenceforth we were twain, for 
 though more than once during the last four 
 years of her life I tried to play the wooer, I 
 found she had no heart to give. Latterly, 
 indeed, I suspect her reason gave way, though 
 well she knew if half my fortune could have pur- 
 chased a release for her, it should have been 
 gained. We were both too proud to take the 
 busy world into our confidence ; but 3'ou cannot 
 wonder that I long hesitated in making a second 
 choice. Do you know, dearest, that 1 satisfied 
 myself from your aunt, who had been your com- 
 panion from childhood, that you had never loved, 
 before I suffered myself to think of taking the 
 little Wild Rose to ray heart?" 
 
THE SECRET. 57 
 
 " Wild Rose " was one of the many pet names 
 Sir Percy had bestowed on his bride ; yet some- 
 how or other Alice did not at that moment ex- 
 actly like the application of it. In connection 
 with the story she had just heard, it seemed 
 painfully to remind her of his probable reasons 
 for taking a wife from a country parsonage, 
 instead of seeking for one in the haunts of fash- 
 ion. Feelings, too, which will by-and-by be 
 developed, flashed across her mind, and a tear 
 fell upon Sir Percy's hand as she raised it to her 
 lips, and said, in faltering accents, "You know I 
 love you." 
 
 He did not see her face, for bonnet and veil 
 were on in readiness for the promised walk ; but 
 he felt the tear, and chiding himself for the cause, 
 he exclaimed, " No more of such dismal stories : 
 I must tell you the letters I have received — 
 there are several enclosures for ' your ladyship ;' 
 and I doubt not our invitations are accepted. 
 We shall have the castle full of visitors next 
 week; but let me whisper — it is too inhospita- 
 ble a thought for louder expression — I almost 
 wish these visits over, that we may again be 
 alone. But come, you are ready for our walk.' 
 
 PART II. THE SCANDAL. 
 
 " I wonder what our young hostess can find 
 so attractive in that miserable hut down by the 
 
58 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 shingles," was the exclamation of Lady Maria 
 Skipton, a spinster of about thirty, and one of 
 the party at Castle Borrowdale. 
 
 " Does she find it very attractive ?" replied an 
 " Honorable Captain," for whom Lady Maria 
 was at that moment netting a purse. 
 
 " I suppose so, for to my certain knowledge 
 this is the third morning she has spent the best 
 part of an hour there." 
 
 " The fisherman, Grant, and his wife are in 
 some sort proteges of Lady Borrowdale," said 
 Mrs. Damer, the most sensible as she was the 
 most elegant woman of the party ; " the wife 
 being no other than ' nurse Margery,' of whom I 
 think you have more than once heard our sweet 
 hostess speak." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Lady Maria, sotto voce, 
 though her inquiring mind was not altogether 
 satisfied on the subject. 
 
 In one of the drawing-room windows at Castle 
 Borrowdale was fixed a very fine telescope ; and 
 excusing herself on some slight pretence from 
 joining the rest of the party, who were bent on 
 riding and boating, there did Lady Maria Skip- 
 ton station herself the following morning. The 
 castle stood on so great an acclivity that the glass 
 swept the coast for miles ; but though her lady- 
 ship paid a few minutes' attention to the party 
 in the boat, she found nothing satisfactory in 
 
THE SECRET. 59 
 
 witnessing their quietness, and so pointed the 
 glass at once in the direction of the fisherman's 
 cottage. Exemplary was her patience — pity it 
 was not tested on a more praiseworthy occasion ! 
 Once or twice she resumed her netting ; but after 
 a few stitches always rose to continue her watch. 
 It would seem that her expectations, whatever 
 they might be, were at last verified, for suddenly 
 she exclaimed to herself, " I knew there was a 
 mystery!" Then shifting the telescope very 
 slightly, she again peered through it with appar- 
 ently increased interest. 
 
 It was evening. The glorious autumn moon 
 shone forth in all its splendor, bathing the noble 
 castle and its princely domains in a flood of light. 
 The day had been sultry, and after dinner some 
 of the ladies walked out on a beautiful terrace, 
 on to which Lady Borrowdale's boudoir opened. 
 Distinctly might be heard the waves breaking on 
 the shingles, while ocean lay gazing " with its 
 great round eye" to heaven before them. It 
 was an exquisite scene — one that, where there 
 is a heart to be touched, must awake its best 
 sensibilities. But thus spoke Lady Maria : 
 "Now my dear Mrs. Damer, don't be poetical, 
 for I have something most matter-of-fact to tell 
 you. Indeed, I have been watching all day for 
 an opportunity of speaking to you, and now that 
 Lady Borrowdale and your sister have gone 
 
60 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 down to the lawn, we can avoid meeting them 
 for a few minutes with ease." 
 
 " I am not at all in a matter-of-fact humor," 
 said Mrs. Damer, with a smile, " listening to the 
 sea's rich music beneath this glorious sky." 
 
 *' Well ! but listen to me. Did you notice 
 how confused Lady Borrowdale was at dinner 
 to-day, when I pretended to think it was Captain 
 Howard with whom she was walking on the 
 beach this morning? He, wuth all a sailor's 
 bluntness, denied having had that honor, of 
 which I was quite aware before 1 spoke." 
 
 " Now you mention it," returned Mrs. Damer, 
 " I think she did color slightly ; but what of 
 that?" 
 
 " J could tell you a great deal of it," continued 
 the spinster, " and I think I ought to do so, since, 
 though I dare say no older than myself," (Mrs. 
 Damer was five years her junior,) " you are the 
 only married lady here." 
 
 "Good heavens! Lady -Maria, what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 " Listen ! I saw Lady Borrowdale walking 
 with a stranger in the garden behind the fisher- 
 man's cottage, and I am certain, from the man- 
 ner in which she raised her handkerchief to her 
 face, that she was in tears; there was an infant, 
 too, brought out by the fisherman's wife, which 
 she took in her arms and fondled." 
 
THE SECRET. 61 
 
 " Most probably it was the child of her old 
 servant," replied Mrs. Damer ; " I see nothing 
 wonderful in that." 
 
 '' No such thing ; Margery Grant has no chil- 
 dren of her own." 
 
 " At all events, it does not concern us," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Damer, apparently quite relieved at 
 finding that the communication was nothing more 
 dreadful. 
 
 " But I think it does," returned the pertina- 
 cious lady — "I have a great regard for Sir 
 Percy," (rumor said Lady Maria had a few 
 years before set her cap very desperately at the 
 baronet,) " in my opinion he has made a very 
 imprudent marriage, and I should not be a bit 
 surprised if his parvenue wife, chit as she is, 
 proves no better than she should be ! " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " said Mrs. Damer, " I cannot 
 listen to such slander. Lady Borrowdale is our 
 hostess — a gentlewoman in everythmg ; and, 1 
 would stake my own character, pure in heart 
 and conduct. Lady Maria, no more of this, we 
 had better return to the drawing-room." 
 
 A wonderful interest Lady Maria Skipton 
 must have taken in all the outward-bound ves- 
 sels, for she really spent a large portion of her 
 mornings at the telescope — watching the ship- 
 ping, we suppose. How learnedly she talked, too, 
 of — schooners, — brigs, — barks, — and three- 
 6 
 
 fe^ ': . 
 
62 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 deckers, — according to the various classifications 
 of the genus "ship." Whether she received it 
 or not, she certainly might have earned the com- 
 pliment we heard paid to a dear friend of ours 
 by a rough old sailor on his witnessing her nau- 
 tical acumen and enthusiasm, " Bless your bright 
 eyes, you deserve to be an admiral's lady !" — a 
 dignity, which was, no doubt, in his estimation, 
 the most enviable which could fall to the lot of 
 womankind. Yet thrice, when all the rest of 
 the party were absent. Lady Maria suddenly 
 required Sir Percy's aid in the arrangement of 
 the glass — the last time, however, was fatal to 
 her future pleasure, for after using it for some 
 time with a sort of painful interest, he took the 
 telescope to pieces without a previous word of 
 his intention, and actually put a lens in his pocket 
 on the plea that there was a flaw in it ! 
 
 But let us take a peep at the fisherman's cot- 
 tage, and listen to a conversation of which Lady 
 Maria with all her diligence was unable to gather 
 the purport. Seated on a rustic bench was Lady 
 Borrowdale, evidently in tears, while near her, 
 in deep mourning, stood a handsome gentleman- 
 like man of about thirty : he had been speaking 
 with some earnestness, when Lady Borrowdale 
 replied, " The struggle of the last week has been 
 almost beyond my strength, both of mind and 
 body. Oh ! George, why did I not at first make 
 
THE SECRET. 
 
 63 
 
 my kind, generous husband your friend, instead 
 of meeting you thus by stealth, teaching these 
 poor people a lesson of deception, and forfeiting 
 my own self-esteem ? " 
 
 " Because, Alice, my sister ! you had not cour- 
 age to spurn the outcast and prodigal, when in 
 the depth of his affliction he threw himself be- 
 fore you. The old leaven is in me," he con- 
 tinued, stamping with violence : " I will not show 
 myself as a beggar to your haughty husband. 
 And I am worse than a beggar, the imputation 
 of dishonor clings to me till I can prove my inno- 
 cence." 
 
 " You forget," said Alice tenderly, and laying 
 her hand on his arm, " that it is only your gen- 
 erosity to me which prevents your character 
 being cleared immediately. Oh, those foolish — 
 foolilh letters!— yet, George, you know it was 
 a silly, girlish fancy, and that I never loved him, 
 nay that I was the one to break off our childish 
 engagement." 
 
 " Fool that I was, after recovering them, to 
 keep them ! " cried the stranger ; " yet greater 
 was the folly in placing them in the iron chest. 
 I dare not return to open it myself— and for 
 your sake, Alice, I will not send another. Say, 
 would you rather delay for years, perhaps fail 
 ahogether, in the recovery of your father's rights, 
 than suffer your husband to know — since his 
 
64 THE SECRET. 
 
 prejudices are so strong — of your former en- 
 gagement to ? " 
 
 " Oh ! much rather." 
 
 Without another word, George Rushbrook 
 walked a few steps to the beach, and flung a key 
 into the ocean ; then murmuring, " You will not 
 let my little Alice want," he moved away. 
 
 PART III. THE KEY. 
 
 "Very sudden Lady Borrowdale's illness!" 
 exclaimed Lady Maria Skipton, a few hours 
 after the events of the last chapter. 
 
 " I do not think so," said Mrs. Darner, " for 
 she has been looking wretchedly ill the last four 
 or five days." 
 
 " Do you think we ought to continue our 
 visit ? " returned Lady Maria. 
 
 "Sir Percy seems anxiously to wish it; for 
 though distracted at Lady Borrowdale's illness, 
 he told me he had urgent reasons for desiring 
 that the party should not be broken up." 
 
 It was quite true that Lady Borrowdale's 
 frame had sunk beneath the strong mental ex- 
 citement she had undergone. One fainting fit 
 followed another — medical attendants were 
 called in, and Sir Percy hung over his idolized 
 Alice, in a state of mind bordering on distrac- 
 tion ; for many were the wild and crowding fears 
 which increased his agony. Towards evening 
 
THE SECRET. 65 
 
 she grew more composed, and fell into a light 
 slumber, Sir Percy alone keeping watch beside 
 her. Many broken exclamations of affection 
 escaped her ; and when he took her hand in his, 
 though still without disturbing her, she grasped 
 it warmly. When she did awake she looked up 
 fondly as she said, 
 
 "Have I been talking, Percy — and what 
 about ? " 
 
 " Nothing, dearest, but that which made me 
 happy to hear." 
 
 " Oh, but I have a secret — I must tell you — 
 even though you should not forgive me — and 
 yet it is not my fault — I did not deceive you. 
 Yes, I can tell you now that we are again alone 
 — now those people are gone." 
 
 " No one is gone, Alice." 
 
 " No ! then I dreamed they were ; but I will 
 tell you — now at once — give me your hand, 
 feel how my heart beats." 
 
 " You must have rest and quiet, you must not 
 speak, dearest. Your husband has faith hi yo7i, 
 and believes that you have nothing to tell him 
 which he can blush to hear." 
 
 " Bless you for your faith !" and she turned 
 on her pillow and was silent — though now she 
 was relieved by tears. 
 
 It was the following morning. The invalid 
 had been removed to her boudoir, and reclined 
 6=^ 
 
66 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 on a couch ; Sir Percy was seated by her side, 
 his hand again in hers. 
 
 " You remember my telling you of my half- 
 brother," said Lady Borrowdale, " and relating 
 to you that I had not seen him for three years ; 
 although I had heard of his marriage with one 
 far beneath him in station ? " 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " His was always a complicated character, wild 
 and impetuous in action, constant but in one 
 thing, — his affection to me. He was brought 
 up to the law, and long ago became convinced 
 that the certificates requisite to establish my 
 
 father's claim to the estate of S were to be 
 
 obtained. He devoted, I know, much time to the 
 investigation of our claims, but only within this 
 week have I heard hew successful he has been." 
 " Then it was your brother with whom I saw 
 you yesterday ? " interrupted Sir Percy. 
 " You saw me ! and did not scorn me ! " 
 " Alice, I had faith — though, that you should 
 have a secret pained me." 
 
 " But George, from a choice of unworthy asso- 
 ciates, has become charged with a share in a 
 nefarious money transaction now occupying the 
 
 attention of the public, though he assures me 
 
 and oh ! I know that whatever his faults, he is 
 not dishonorable — that documents in which he 
 repudiates his partner's intentions are in the 
 
THE SECRET. 67 
 
 same iron chest which contains the certificates. 
 But he dares not show himself in London till 
 proofs are established ; and he was on his way 
 to France, intending thence to send a confiden- 
 tial agent with his keys, when the accident of 
 the nurse who attended his motherless child 
 refusing to accompany him further, brought to 
 mind the fact that our old servant Margery was 
 settled in the neighborhood. He placed his infant 
 in her hands with confidence, intrusting a mes- 
 sage to me, for he was too proud to present him- 
 self at the castle in poverty and disgrace. It was 
 by accident we met at the cottage, and — and — 
 if it had been a fortnight ago, when we were 
 alone — or before you told me the story of the 
 first Lady Borrowdale — indeed, Percy, I could 
 never have kept the secret ; but — oh ! I have 
 more, much more !" 
 
 At that moment there was a tap at the door. 
 A servant entered : " My Lady — dame Margery 
 Grant begs to be admitted — having something, 
 she desires me to say, very urgent to communi- 
 cate." 
 
 " Admit her," said Lady Borrowdale, casting 
 an appealing look to her husband. " What hap- 
 piness," she added, " that whether good or evil, 
 her tidings may be delivered in your presence ! " 
 
 Margery's handsome face sparkled with joyful 
 astonishment, as Lady Borrowdale bade her say 
 
68 THE SECRET. 
 
 everything she had to say in the presence of Sir 
 Percy. 
 
 " Dear Miss Alice — I mean ' my lady,'" said 
 the affectionate creature, " it does my heart good 
 to find the secret 's out, whatever it was about. 
 Of course, as I said to my good man, it was our 
 bounden duty to keep it safe — and being two of 
 us, you see, to talk about it together, it was n't 
 so difficult — as it was your ladyship's wish, and 
 poor Mr. George — though he was before my 
 service in the family — was in trouble of some 
 kind or another — and the dear baby took to me 
 so from the first — " 
 
 But the anxious Alice interrupted Margery by 
 exclaiming, " My brother ! — has he heard of my 
 illness — did he send you?" 
 
 " Alas ! Miss — my lady, we have not seen 
 him this morning. He must have left the cot- 
 tage at a very early hour, nor somehow, from 
 what he said last night, do I think he w^ill return. 
 My good man fancies he must have been taken 
 up by one of the foreign steamers which he made 
 out with his glass. But what I made bold to 
 come up to the castle about was the key — I am 
 sure it is the identical one he threw into the 
 water yesterday, and behold, by the wisdom of 
 Providence, the tide last night left it within five 
 yards of the cottage ! I was sure, my lady, you 
 valued the key — so here it is." 
 
THE SECRET. 69 
 
 " And now, dearest, what are we to do with 
 this mysterious key," said Sir Percy, when once 
 more they were alone ; " shall it be sealed up 
 until you hear some account of your brother ? " 
 
 "No!" said Lady Borrowdale, half rising 
 from her couch, as if with her firm resolution 
 she had recovered health and strength. " No, 
 you alone have the right to open that chest, for 
 there are papers in it which concern me. All I 
 ask— and I would sue for your compliance on 
 my knees — is that I may be by your side. It 
 must be immediately, for I can know no peace 
 till it is over — why not to-night — by rail-road 
 
 — for the chest is imbedded in the wall — a 
 secret panel — and we must go to it ! " 
 
 " Good heavens, Alice ! " exclaimed Sir Percy, 
 trembling and turning pale with emotion, " there 
 must be some dreadful mystery — do I guess the 
 fearful riddle? — my fatal doom! — you have 
 loved before — and there are letters ! " — 
 
 u]N^o — no — not loved — believe me, never! 
 
 — never," cried Alice, sinking on her knees, and 
 twining her arms round her husband. " I was 
 engaged to one who was unworthy — but I awoke 
 from the delusion — I was the one to break off 
 our intercourse — your wife was not cast off by 
 another ! — Hear me ! — look at me ! or I shall 
 lose my reason," continued Lady Borrowdale, 
 while she succeeded in removing Sir Percy's 
 
70 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 hands from the death-like countenance which he 
 had buried in them. " Hear me, even at this 
 moment of agony, offer up thanksgiving that I 
 am your wife — that I dare and can tell, and 
 prove to you, liow wholly I am yours. Had you 
 questioned me before our marriage, I should 
 have told you the truth ; but I could not have 
 urged it passionately as I do now. I should 
 have lost you I Percy ! — Percy, hear me — 
 answer me, one word of love — of the faith you 
 had in me yesterday ! " 
 
 And it was spoken from the heart at last! 
 But who shall tell how fierce that momentary 
 struggle had been between love and reason on 
 one side as they encountered an opinion, hard- 
 ened by fifteen years of prejudice into a master 
 sentiment ! 
 
 " At least you will read the letter in which I 
 broke off the engagement," murmured Alice, as 
 her head leaned on Sir Percy's shoulder. 
 
 " Nay, nay, dearest, let them all be burnt and 
 forgotten." 
 
 " But if I ask it — if I wish it — it was for this 
 I desired to be with you — that you might read 
 that first. But think, if your little Alice comes 
 into five thousand a-year, though dearly has it 
 been purchased — what shall you do with it?" 
 
 " Settle your wild brother, who seems hitherto 
 to have been the foot-ball of fortune And 
 
THE SECRET. 71 
 
 whether or not we must take care of your little 
 namesake ! " 
 
 " And our visitors," returned Lady Borrow- 
 dale, — " surely some of them were to have left 
 us to-day ?" 
 
 " I besought Lady Maria to remain till the end 
 of the week. I would not have had her leave 
 while we were twain" 
 
 " But we are one now and forever ! " 
 
 A year passed away, working its mighty 
 changes ! Once again Lady Maria Skipton was 
 a guest at Castle Borrowdale, and with one or 
 two additions the party w^as the same as before. 
 
 " I think Lady Borrowdale has grown very 
 haughty," said Lady Maria, " since she came 
 into her own fortune." 
 
 " I do not fancy that has had anything to do 
 with the change," replied Mrs. Damer. 
 
 "No! what then?" 
 
 " I think she is a little more dignified, from 
 being more conscious of her own just position in 
 society." 
 
 " Yet Sir Percy is much less reserved, 1 
 think." 
 
 " Just as it ought to be," returned Mrs. Damer; 
 " she has ascended — he has descended a step or 
 two ; so now they stand upon a level." 
 
72 THE SECRET. 
 
 " A gentleman-like person her brother !" 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Fortunate in obtaining so fine a situation 
 under government." ' 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " \Vhat a romantic affair that was last year, 
 about Lady Borrowdale meeting him and arrang- 
 ing all about the recovery of her property before 
 Sir Percy knew a word of the affair." 
 
 " Was that the case ? " said Mrs. Darner. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! my maid heard it from one, whose 
 cousin's wife's sister was a fellow-servant for 
 three years with Margery Grant." 
 
 Fortunate it is, that the Lady Marias of the 
 world sometimes beat out a grain of truth to a 
 good instead of an evil purpose ! 
 
73 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BY JOSEPH FEARN. 
 
 Lead me — oh I lead me to those sparkling groves 
 Where every sight is beauty — every sound 
 Is love — where sunbeams tip the trees around 
 With gold — or starlight through their foliage 
 
 roves, 
 And I will muse on pleasure — as a dream 
 Of lands where marble palaces do shine, 
 And radiant forms on verdant banks recline, 
 Till all the senses of my frame shall seem 
 To pass into a rich Elysium bright ! 
 As though a spirit from some mountain height 
 Had plucked undying roses for a wreath 
 To bind fair brows withal who sleep beneath ; 
 Then lead ! oh, lead me to those sparkling groves 
 Where sunlight wanders, and where starlight 
 
 roves. 
 
 7 
 
74 
 
 KATE OF KILDARE: 
 
 A WIFE'S TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS. 
 
 BY MARY LEMAN GILLIES. 
 
 In a sequestered spot near Kildare rose a ram- 
 bling pile of buildings, which had in times past 
 possessed some importance as the abode of a 
 wealthy squire ; but falling, like the family, into 
 decay, it had been successively consigned to 
 humbler and humbler tenants, till eventually 
 George Dighton opened it as an inn. Hither 
 he brought his wife and little girl, Kate, their 
 only surviving child. Severe trials, acting on 
 constitutional delicacy, had shaken the mother's 
 health, but through years of decline the placid 
 energies of a thoughtful pious mind sustained 
 her, till just as Kate had attained her tenth year 
 the struggle closed amid duties unremittingly 
 fulfilled, and Mrs. Dighton was committed to the 
 grave with regret from all, and grief to her hus- 
 band and child of no common bitterness. Her 
 peculiar character had breathed upon their exis- 
 tence a charm, of which, while loving her devo- 
 tedly, they had nevertheless been little conscious, 
 till they felt the blank desolation to which be- 
 reavement left them. They had lived in the 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 75 
 
 perpetual presence of her serene cheerfulness 
 and provident care for their comfort, as do the 
 dwellers in fine air, who, full of light spirits and 
 placidity of mind, neither know nor inquire their 
 source, till transferred to a heavy atmosphere and 
 dim horizon, their oppressed nature pleads against 
 the change, and they learn what they have lost. 
 The care and tenderness of her father cher- 
 ished and developed the fine nature Kate inher- 
 ited from her mother. Education at ihe period 
 of which we write was of small account, espe- 
 cially in the class and country in which she was 
 placed ; but Kate was taught to read and write, 
 was well skilled with her needle, and the neatest 
 dancer that ever stepped. She had ripened into 
 a beautiful creature, and reached her sixteenth 
 year, when her father formed a second marriage. 
 Her step-mother brought with her a son, a fine, 
 dark, athletic youth, who had just completed his 
 majority. Robert Horrey achieved what many 
 had essayed in vain — he won the heart of Kate 
 Dighton ; the parental sanction was not with- 
 held, and all seemed to promise that " the course 
 of true love " would, in their case, " run smooth." 
 Suddenly, however, a quarrel occurred between 
 the mother and son, in which Mr. Dighton took 
 part with his wife ; thus the domestic peace, of 
 late so perfect, was broken, and the hopes that 
 grew out of it marred. 
 
76 KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 Late in the evening of that stormy day, a 
 young- creature of agile movement might have 
 been seen gliding about the outbuildings, looking 
 forth into the deepening twilight, now from this 
 door, now from that. The moon seemed toiling 
 through masses of heavy vapor, but at intervals 
 gleamed forth upon the fair anxious face of Kate, 
 for she was the watcher ; at length she descried 
 an approaching form, heard a well-known step, 
 and then a low-toned voice, which said — "Be 
 not afraid, 'tis I." The speaker drew her arm 
 within his, and they passed into an adjoining 
 coppice. 
 
 Each had sought the interview confident of 
 power. Kate of the power to soothe and recon- 
 cile ; her lover to win her and bear her away. 
 The gentle girl was no match for the self-willed, 
 impetuous being resolved on her possession. In 
 vain she covmselled submission to his own parent, 
 and forbearance regarding hers. The liliul duty 
 with which her breast was filled found no place 
 in his. 
 
 " Kate," he exclaimed, " my mind is made up. 
 I go hence to-night ; hoio I go depends on yoiiy 
 
 "Oh, Robert, dear, what is it you mean?" 
 
 "What is it 1 mean?" he repeated with fer- 
 vor; "why, that you must go with me. If I 
 leave you here, surrounded as you are, I lose 
 you — if I lose you I care not what becomes of 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 77 
 
 me. Hear me — trust to me — I have planned 
 and prepared all. I have friends to aid — a 
 priest to unite us ; the car waits to carry us to 
 him, and thence to Dublin, whence in the morn- 
 ing we may embark for England or America." 
 
 Pale, motionless, almost breathless as a statue, 
 she stood and listened to him ; at length she ex- 
 claimed — " Robert, Robert, what madness is 
 this ? Do you think I can so leave my father — 
 leave him in his old age ? " 
 
 uj ggg — I see," he impatiently exclaimed, 
 moving proudly aside, " I have deceived myself. 
 You care not what becomes of me. You can at 
 such a time as this coldly abandon me ! Your 
 father — he is not alone and abused — / am. 
 Your father — he has friends, a wife, a home — 
 I have none of these. / am deserted, insulted, 
 forsaken." 
 
 His tones searched her heart. She sprung to 
 him, and caught his arm with convulsive energy ; 
 she could not speak, but her silence was eloquent 
 of tenderness. 
 
 " At least," he said, returning to the gentle- 
 ness of entreaty — " at least, consent to be mine 
 — give me, ere I go, the certainty that no other 
 shall possess you." 
 
 His persuasive impetuosity prevailed. A little 
 while, and Kate was seated by his side on a car, 
 followed by three or four of his friends on horse- 
 7# 
 
78 KATE OF KILDAKE. 
 
 back, for if a rescue Avere attempted he was 
 resolved upon a desperate resistance. Before 
 midnight they alighted at the obscure dwelling 
 of the priest, situated in a lonely glen, and there, 
 surrounded by strangers, the pale and trembling 
 girl became the bride of Robert Horrey. 
 
 ♦' Now," she whispered, as soon as the cere- 
 mony was over, and she bowed her head upon 
 her husband's bosom, " let us away — restore me 
 to my father's roof before morning — let us not 
 lose a moment." 
 
 Kobtrt made no reply. Nothing was further 
 from his purpose than to part Avith her again. 
 He wrapped her mantle round her, held a cup to 
 her lips of which he made her drink, lifted her 
 into the car, and resuming his place by her side, 
 they drove rnpidly away, she knew not whither. 
 To be brief, the morning found them in Dublin, 
 and Kate convinced that every other tie was sev- 
 ered, and her fate forever linked with Robert's. 
 She wrote to her father, not to criminate her 
 husband and excuse herself, but to ask forgive- 
 ness for both. This was the first step on the 
 path of sacrifice on which she had entered. Her 
 fiither's reply reached her just as she was em- 
 barking for Holyhead. His letter breathed par- 
 don, prayer, and blessing, and wetted with her 
 tears she refolded it, and placed it in her bosom 
 
 i^ 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 79 
 
 with a sweet superstition that it held a charm 
 against every ill. 
 
 It is not in a sketch like this that the eventful 
 life of Kate can be followed out in detail. Her 
 constituent characteristics were energy of mind, 
 and tenderness and firmness of affection. She 
 loved her husband with perfect devotion, and 
 notwithstanding many dark shades in his char- 
 acter, he had some fine qualities to attach her. 
 Unfortunately one of those clever fellows who 
 might be anything, he was really nothing, or, 
 what is equivalent, " Everything by turns and 
 nothing long." His great passion had been for 
 horses, and he inherited a few hundred pounds ; 
 this money had been the source of his quarrel 
 with his mother, who desired its appropriation, 
 in part at least, to the liquidation of debts for 
 which she had in some measure become respon- 
 sible. But he was more disposed to go forward 
 on the path of apparent advantage than to tarry 
 or turn back to acknowledge or repay past bene- 
 fits. Perhaps he appeased his conscience by 
 deeming this only a postponement, and promised 
 himself that a time should arrive, when, fortune 
 being realized, he should become just, and even 
 grateful ; but that till then, under the pressure of 
 his peculiar circumstances, he might give up 
 principle for expediency, and grasp at everything 
 that promised self-advantage. We shall see the 
 
so KATE OF KILDAKE. 
 
 wisdom of his philosophy. His means of living 
 gradually settled into that of an agent for the 
 sale and purchase of horses, and the employ- 
 ments which are contingent upon and incident to 
 such a path. But circumstances rose out of it 
 of a dangerous tendency to a mind so lax, and a 
 temper so impetuous — it introduced him to 
 society above his grade of fortune, and as defi- 
 cient in moral principle : the seductive influence 
 of c"ambling was at work ; betting transactions, 
 now fortunate, flattered him with unexpected 
 success — now the reverse, plunged him into 
 embarrassment. The ready refuge of the unre- 
 flecting, or those who dare not reflect, vvas at 
 hand, and the glass, which a genial nature might 
 have taught him to lift as a stimulus to friendly 
 communion merely, was often snatched to drown 
 the gnawing consciousness of past error or ap- 
 proaching ruin. 
 
 During all this tim.e Kate had a large share of 
 aflliction. Her husband, of a jealous temper, 
 and surrounded by promiscuous and questionable 
 associates, anxiously secluded her in a remote 
 suburban residence: with all his faults he loved 
 her ardently, and respect-d in her the virtues he 
 failed to act up to himself; ill, therefore, could 
 he bear to expose her to the temptation and dete- 
 rioration which were rife around him. But 
 amid the storms of the life he led, she vvas often 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 81 
 
 forgotten, left to endure solitude, sometimes pri- 
 vation. The irregular and extravagant man's 
 home is in general the first sacrifice ; legitimate 
 claims are postponed in favor of the illicit de- 
 mands which laill be heard, and for which the 
 criminal claimants know so well how to force 
 attention from the hopes and fears of the weak 
 and wicked defaulter. Periods of deep sorrow 
 had, nevertheless, ever brought Robert to his 
 wife ; the death of her father, the successive loss 
 of three children in their infancy, and the occa- 
 sional illness of their first-born, who, though 
 inheriting that fatal malady, consumption, had 
 survived — had always found him a ready and 
 tender sympathizer. Still, except in great emer- 
 gencies, Kate was alone. What floods of thought 
 and feeling swept through her soul as she sat 
 beside the bed or chair of her drooping girl, 
 reviewing the sudden wrench by which she had 
 herself been torn from every prop her childhood 
 and youth had known, to be surrounded by cir- 
 cumstances of struggle and difficulty. It had 
 been like taking the swan from the sequestered 
 lake and giving to it the course of the sea-bird. 
 Hov/ will it bear the alternation of sunshine and 
 storm, and preserve its pristine beauty in both — 
 how adapt its wing to its devious way ? Kate 
 yielded eminent proof of the wonderful elasticity 
 seated in a spirit of large capacity and strong 
 
82 KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 affection. Well was it for her that she was one 
 of those whom the severe atmosphere of adver- 
 sity braced with strength, for how did the ter- 
 mination of the twelfth year of her wedded life 
 find her? Alone — in destitution — and worse 
 than widowed ! Her misguided husband had 
 fallen into the toils ; tried and convicted of horse- 
 stealing, he was transported for life to Van Die- 
 man's Land. 
 
 We will not pause to dilate on Kate's sutiering 
 and heroism : how she stifled the agonies of her 
 own spirit, and endeavored to call up hope in his 
 heart, while it died in her own. When all was 
 over — when she had seen him for the last time 
 — she returned home, and casting herself upon 
 her knees, she poured forth her spirit, but in no 
 selfish supplications. She prayed for him who 
 was soon to be upon the wild waters, to pass, a 
 branded outcast, to an allotment, the stringency 
 of which she could not know, but which her 
 imagination clothed in the darkest colors : she 
 prayed for the innocent sufferer lying before her 
 in feverish and fitful sleep — and for herself, 
 what did she ask ? For strength to do her duties. 
 Life for her child, reunion with her husband — 
 these were the boons she implored ; and that 
 power might be given her to assist the healing 
 of the one, and to work out the redemption of 
 the other. She rose full of pious confidence and 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 83 
 
 patient courage. Her first care now was to gain 
 some employment that would afford them bread ; 
 by her needle and laundry work she effected 
 this, but only in a partial and uncertain way, 
 intervals of compelled inaction at times con- 
 signed her to the severest want. 
 
 She had struggled through twelve months, and 
 no word of tidings or consolation had reached 
 her from the wretched exile. One day she was 
 kneeling beside her child, urging upon her the 
 necessity of taking some nourishment, for her 
 failing appetite began to refuse all food. What, 
 under these circumstances, were the mother's 
 means? Will wealth, will luxury, believe it? 
 Three halfpence. Ere the poor invalid had 
 gained power to reply, the sharp rap of the post- 
 man startled them. Kate ran to the door ; she 
 saw a letter in his hnnd — she knew the writing 
 of the superscription — it was her husband's. 
 (Some one had brought the letter to England, 
 and posted it in London.) She trembled — she 
 changed color — she held forth the little sum she 
 had in her hand — 
 
 " This is all I have in the world, but let me 
 
 have the letter — it is from" utterance 
 
 failed her, and she burst into tears. The post- 
 man took the halfpence, put the letter in her 
 hand, and departed ; but in an instant he rapped 
 again. 
 
84 KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 " And is this indeed all that you are worth 
 this day?" 
 
 " All," she replied. 
 
 " Then Heaven forbid that I should take it 
 from you ;" and thrusting it back into her hand 
 he hurried away. 
 
 Robert's letter was read and re-read by both 
 mother and child amid convulsions of feeling. 
 Its tone was contrite and tender. Kate saw in 
 it evidences of improved character, and her soul 
 yearned to be beside him, to strengthen his bet- 
 ter purposes. Gradually the emotions so fondly 
 indulged subsided, and she thought of the kindly 
 being who had brought her a letter so precious, 
 so consolatory. Having obtained the means to 
 meet the little debt, she watched for him the next 
 day, and many following days, but in vain. 
 Humble life is a quarry full of facts, (the details 
 of the present story are strictly such,) and these 
 facts are pregnant with evidence of the high 
 qualities of human nature. Fastidious refine- 
 ment, revolted by repelling circumstances, refuses 
 to look into it : the habitual denizens of the scene 
 behold self-denial and self-sacrifice as matters of 
 common occurrence, and know not the moral 
 value they bear. But who that can compare and 
 reflect, but must pause at the spectacle thus pre- 
 sented. How does starvation every day go forth 
 in this great city, amid all the temptations which 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 8t) 
 
 trade can devise to allure luxury and invite ex- 
 penditure, and urged to no outrage, return to its 
 squalid covert to eat its unpalatable crust in pa- 
 tience, or in like manner bear its utter privation ! 
 How will honest independence and the domestic 
 affections reject the wretched and degrading 
 refuge which is all that society will extend to 
 the reproachless poor, to die in the pangs of des- 
 titution, but with the feelings of the heart and 
 home yet round them ! 
 
 At last Kate and Howard, the postman, (he 
 was worthy of the name he bore,) met again, and 
 an acquaintance grew up. He soon appreciated 
 her character, and sympathized with her suffer- 
 ings, and these, in a nature like his, induced 
 exertion in her behalf. He gained her the notice 
 of a charitable society, through the means of 
 which the closing weeks of her child's life were 
 furnished with some comforts, and when death 
 had set the seal on her sufferings, afforded the 
 mourning mother requisites for the last sad 
 duties. 
 
 Kate was now indeed desolate. The being 
 who had filled so large a space in her heart, 
 given motive for so much exertion, was gone! 
 All her desire, all her hope now, was to make 
 her way to Hobart Town; but how to accomplish 
 that? The humble philanthropist, Howard, Hs- 
 tened to her wishes, and pondered with almost 
 8 
 
86 
 
 KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 parental kindliness the means to realize them. 
 One evening he appeared with a cheerful smile, 
 and a newspaper in his hand. He pointed out 
 to Kate an advertisement — it was for a young 
 woman to go out as nurse and attendant to an 
 invalid lady returning to the colony. 
 
 •' Go," said Howard, "tell your story in your 
 own simple way. I know something of Mr. 
 Beaumont, the party advertising — the lady 
 mentioned is his wife. His father was an old 
 master of mine, and got me the place I hold in 
 the post-office." 
 
 Kate felt a prescience that her path was plain 
 before her. She was not mistaken. Her truth- 
 ful earnestness, her ingenuous aspect, had their 
 effect : her humble friend had not overrated his 
 power or her own — Kate was engaged for the 
 voyage. An application to her step-mother 
 gained her the means of an humble outfit ; and 
 once more hopes akin to happiness dawned upon 
 her. The elements seemed resolved to spare 
 one who had met so many moral storms : " a fair 
 wind and a flowing sail " bore her on through a 
 prosperous voyage ; and a fine autumn day in 
 the beautiful month of March saw the good ship 
 come to anchor in Sullivan's Cove. 
 
 Few who had known Kate in her brilliant, 
 joyous youth, would have recognized her in the 
 placid, self-possessed woman, who landed that 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 87 
 
 day in Hobart Town; still fewer would have 
 guessed how powerful were the feelings silently 
 at work in her breast as the time grew near for 
 meeting the lover of her youth, the husband of 
 her heart, for whom she had sorrowed and suf- 
 fered so intensely. 
 
 Mr. Beaumont made it his first business to in- 
 quire about Robert, for the sake of one, who, in 
 the short period of five months, had established 
 herself in the esteem, and entitled herself to the 
 gratitude, of those she served. He was pleased 
 to find him among the men employed by his own 
 firm : the pleasure was, however, damped by the 
 mixed report he gained. Horrey was described 
 as a man not without his merits, but as one not 
 to be depended upon. With a charitable trust in 
 the force of improved circumstances, and renewed 
 association with his reproachless wife, Mr. Beau- 
 mont brought them together. Unhappily, Rob- 
 ert Horrey was already involved in fatal associa- 
 tions, which began to develop themselves soon 
 after his reunion with Kate. Investigation was 
 at work, and detection, though slow in following 
 upon his delinquency, was only too sure. The 
 joy, the hope, that visited her heart was of short 
 duration. A second time she beheld her hus- 
 band arraigned as a criminal : his trial was a 
 searching one, and his sentence was deemed 
 severe. But, as a superior man among the pris- 
 
8S KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 oners, he had met encouragement and indul- 
 gence ; the abuse of these advantages had deep- 
 ened the die of his offences, had denied justice 
 any ground for mercy, and sentence of death 
 was pronounced upon him. 
 
 This blow appeared to crush the wretched cul- 
 prit ; he was conveyed back to prison as if par- 
 alyzed. Kate succumbed but as it were for a 
 moment ; there was a regenerating power seated 
 in her high purposes, and infinite trust in divine 
 support, which pierced even the dense darkness 
 round her. It is remembered how she immedi- 
 ately sought the governor, and when denied 
 access to him, passed the night on the steps of 
 the door of Government-house, and in the morn- 
 ing won her way to his wife. There another 
 triumph was reserved for Kate ; her indomitable 
 perseverance, her peculiar character, and irre- 
 proachable conduct, prevailed over every obstacle 
 — the governor's heart yielded to the pleadings 
 of his own wife and the wife of the criminal, and 
 the sentence of death was commuted to banish- 
 ment to Norfolk Island — an island lying on the 
 east coast of New Holland, and reserved as a 
 place ot punishment for the worst class of male 
 convicts. 
 
 The Beaumonts, wiih the commiseration and 
 respect for Kate which her circumstances and 
 character commanded, ofTered her an asylum in 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 their service, but she declared she could enter 
 into no engagement that might interfere with 
 what was now her great object — to join her 
 husband in his last wretched exile. In vain she 
 was assured that it was a scheme impossible of 
 realization — that no woman had ever been ad- 
 mitted to the place, and that existence for her 
 there would be unendurable. She proved that 
 every obstacle was destined to fall before her 
 untiring energies — she memorialized the author- 
 ities, she assailed every avenue by which pity 
 could make approach to power, and at length 
 was allowed to proceed to Norfolk Island. A 
 residence of five years there made her the mother 
 of two children ; now it was that she found her- 
 self compelled to choose between conflicting 
 duties. The moral life of her offspring depended 
 on removing them from a scene so unfitted for 
 their opening perceptions. It was enough for 
 Kate to arrive at a conviction of what she aught 
 to do ; this was the fulcrum of the resolute will 
 by which she accomplished so much. She came 
 back to Hobart Town, and by employment as a 
 laundress obtained support for her children : but 
 amid her maternal duties and daily toils, he who 
 filled the first place in her heart was never for- 
 gotten, and in an interview with Mr. Beaumont 
 she avowed, that to see Robert once again at 
 home and happy, was still the vision and the 
 8=^ 
 
90 KATE OF KILDARE. 
 
 hope, the purpose and plan, of her life. The un- 
 conquerable character of her attachment, and the 
 triumphs it had achieved, checked the incredulity 
 with which, in any other case, Mr. Beaumont 
 would have received such an idea; but he had 
 learned to look upon the humble woman before 
 him, so meekly ignorant of her own magna- 
 nimity, as chartered by her virtues to hope 
 where all others should despair, and unexpect- 
 edly he found himself in a position again to give 
 her aid. 
 
 Mr. Beaumont was appointed to a commission 
 of inquiry into the state of Norfolk Island. On 
 his arrival there, it was among his first objects 
 to inquire out Robert Horrey; he heard he was 
 an altered man — he soon saw he was a dying 
 one. Representations, backed by certificates 
 from the medical man, and sustained by power- 
 ful and universal advocacy drawn from senti- 
 ments of admiration and regard for Kate, were 
 successful — when Mr. Beaumont returned to 
 Hobart Town, he brought Robert Horrey with 
 him, and with what he had left of life and 
 strength, the wretched man found refuge with 
 his devoted wife. 
 
 For a time he rallied — to behold himself once 
 more in the secure shelter of his home, beside 
 that creature who, through " bad report and good 
 report," had unchangeably clung to his destiny; 
 
KATE OF KILDARE. 91 
 
 and to see his little children at his knees, to feel 
 the babe which Kate had borne to him since they 
 last parted, on his bosom, created a powerful re- 
 action. The springs of his better nature gushed 
 forth, as if to refresh and purify the heart, the 
 pulses of which were now numbered — to regen- 
 erate the spirit which was soon to pass from time 
 and trial forever. One month after their re- 
 union, Kate received his last sigh. There was 
 no violence in her grief; her sorrow was as 
 serene as the hopes that soothed it. " Now," 
 she said, " there is but one more journey for me. 
 He cannot come to me, but I shall go to him. 
 When Robert and I meet again, we shall part no 
 more." 
 
92 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 BY 3. JOHNSON. 
 
 Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven, 
 The noble mind's delight and pride, 
 
 To men and angels only given, 
 To all the lower world denied. 
 
 While Love, unknown among the blessed, 
 Parent of thousand wild desires, 
 
 The savage and the human breast 
 Torment alike with raging fires : 
 
 With bright, but oft destructive gleam. 
 Alike o'er all his lightnings fly, — 
 
 Thy lambent glories only beam 
 Around the favorites of the sky. 
 
 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys 
 On fools and villains ne'er descend ; 
 
 In vain for thee the tyrant sighs. 
 And hugs a flatterer for a friend. 
 
 Directress of the brave and just, 
 
 O, guide us through life's darksome way! 
 And let the tortures of mistrust 
 
 On selfish bosoms only prey. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 93 
 
 Nor shall thine ardors cease to glow, 
 When souls to peaceful climes remove : 
 
 What raised our virtue here below 
 Shall aid our happiness above. 
 
94 
 
 UNCLE BENJIE'S RING. 
 
 BY G . C . P. 
 
 Mi\NY a long summer day have I dreamed 
 away in the pleasant bowers and under the 
 stately oaks that adorned the old manor-house of 
 
 F , and in the cool old rooms, too, unspoiled by 
 
 modern windows, dim and shady, even in blazing 
 July. True, these windows had their disadvan- 
 tages — they were somewhat too high, and rather 
 overgrown outside by honeysuckles and moss- 
 roses ; but there were stained glass doors, open- 
 ing to the garden in various directions, which led 
 you through bowers of fragrant limes to terraced 
 parterres. In this paradise, as, indeed, it ap- 
 peared to me after my dusty chambers in Lon- 
 don, I used to spend as much time as I could 
 snatch from my professional avocations. The 
 family partook, as much as the house, of former 
 times. Squire Eatcliffe was the best specimen 
 I ever saw of a genuine English country gentle- 
 man, and his daughters were warm-hearted, un- 
 sophisticated girls, radiant in health and good 
 humor. The children of the eldest son, who had 
 been left a widower, were added to the family 
 
UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 95 
 
 group ; and a happier or a merrier one it would 
 have been difficult to find. 
 
 Since my last visit, however, an addition had 
 been made to it, which, judging from the letters 
 I received, did not appear to have contributed to 
 their mirth. This was the squire's younger 
 brother — (though younger, he looked years his 
 senior) — a dyspeptic, yellow-looking invalid, 
 not long returned from India — who had sought 
 the home of his childhood in the vain hope that 
 its soothing influence would renovate the health 
 he had lost, and, still worse, the mind he had 
 soured and irritated, under the burning sun of the 
 
 East. He was warmly welcomed at F : the 
 
 squire really loved his brother, and, perhaps, as 
 he was wealthy and childless, some slight touch 
 of self-interest mingled with the wish to keep 
 him amongst them, as it soon became apparent 
 he would be anything but a pleasant addition to 
 the family. Many and loud were the complaints 
 of the younger branches against Uncle Benjie, 
 (for so they chose to abbreviate Benjamin ;) and 
 even the squire himself, notwithstanding his 
 equanimity, was sometimes annoyed by his 
 peevishness and ill-humor. But with regard to 
 the children, I really sympathized with him, for 
 they were a most undisciplined set; and often 
 had I suffered myself from their inroads into my 
 apartment, which were generally followed by the 
 
96 
 
 UNCLE BENJIE S RING. 
 
 loss of some perhaps indispensable article of my 
 toilet. Their noise, too, was terrific, and it was 
 vain to remonstrate — the squire loved it; the 
 eldest girl, Caroline, who ought to have taken 
 her mother's place, and kept something like 
 order, was wholly occupied in assisting the cu- 
 rate of the parish in visiting and instructing the 
 poor, and the younger ones only assisted to 
 increase the noise. They positively hated their 
 unfortunate uncle; they even disliked the Indian- 
 like atmosphere of sandal-wood, by which he was 
 always surrounded ; and one curly-headed rogue 
 actually bestowed a bottle of choice perfume upon 
 the rough crest and velvet ears of an old deer- 
 hound who shared their gambols, much to the 
 disgust of the dog. The unfortunate nabob, as 
 may be supposed, did not become more amiable 
 under all these provocations ; he grew daily 
 more irritable and dyspeptic ; he could not sleep, 
 and all the sedatives of the family apothecary 
 failed of any beneficial efl^ect. If he d'ld sleep, 
 he was tormented with unquiet dreams, and often 
 spent the night in contending with imaginary 
 robbers for his dearly acquired treasure. He was 
 of a suspicious nature, and often thought that 
 the trifles he missed, which were, in reality, ab- 
 stracted by the children, was part of a conspiracy 
 to rob him amongst the servants; and circum- 
 stances seemed really at last to justify his suspi- 
 
UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 97 
 
 cions, for one after another various valuable 
 articles disappeared in a most mysterious man- 
 ner. The children declared he hid them himself, 
 on purpose to torment people ; and the servants, 
 who were apparently honest and faithful, did 
 their utmost to discover the culprit, but in vain. 
 At length a purse, containing some valuable 
 coins, and, worse than all, a ring of still greater 
 value, disappeared — they certainly were curious 
 things to steal, bat they were gone — and Uncle 
 Benjie was distracted. He valued the ring more 
 than anything he possessed : it was of massive 
 Indian gold, engraved with eastern characters, 
 and was the admiration of the children as it 
 dangled on his skinny finger. It was always 
 deposited at night in a sandal-Vv'ood box, that 
 stood upon his dressing-table — box and rin^^ had 
 vanished ! 
 
 Nothing could exceed the consternation of the 
 whole house, which was increased by vague 
 rumors of a figure in white seen to glide along 
 the garden-walks by moonlight. This story 
 was, naturally enough, treated by the younger 
 Mr. Ratcliffe as an invention of the guilty 
 parties ; and the poor squire, in a paroxysm of 
 despair, wrote to me, requesting, if I loved him, 
 
 I would instantly repair to F , and bring all 
 
 my legal knowledge to bear upon this painful 
 subject. I obeyed the summons, delighted, on 
 9 
 
98 UNCLE benjie's ring. 
 
 any pretext, to escape into the country, and an- 
 ticipating some amusement from the cause of my 
 visit. I found, however, on my arrival, thai it 
 was no laughing matter; my old friend looked 
 perplexed and unhappy, the nabob forgot his 
 physical infirmities, and raged like a Bengal 
 tiger; the excitement had evidently so quick 
 ened the action of his liver that he appeared a 
 new man. He allowed me one day for my inves- 
 tigation, at the end of which time, if I could 
 make out nothing satisfactory, he protested he 
 would put the affair into the hands of the magis- 
 trates. The servants were anxious for the fullest 
 investigation ; but the most remarkable change 
 was in the children, who crept about the house 
 in comparative silence, and avoided Uncle Ben- 
 jie's door as if they expected the ghost in white, 
 hinted at before, to issue forth. The only per- 
 son who appeared unconcerned on the subject 
 was Miss Caroline, and I was rather displeased 
 that she continued her walks with the curate, 
 without appearing to care for the discomfort 
 which prevailed at home. 
 
 Upon retiring for the night, I summoned to my 
 dressing-room the old lady who, having otliciated 
 for nearly half a century as nurse and house- 
 keeper in the family, had presided over the estab- 
 lishment since Mr>. Ratcliffe's death. A flood 
 of tears was her first reply to my questions, but 
 
UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 99 
 
 when these subsided I could learn nothing that 
 could in the least tend to elucidate the mys^tery; 
 on the contrary, what she told me rather in- 
 creased it, as it appeared the valuables missing 
 disappeared without the slightest trace of their 
 exit. I touched upon the subject of the ghost, 
 and, after looking around the room as if she half 
 expected it would appear, she assured me that 
 the keeper had seen it more than once, gliding 
 about the walks below the grotto. With this 
 information she retired, leaving me to my own 
 meditations, which, it must be owned, were 
 rather of a perplexing nature. 
 
 What to do — what steps to take, T knew not. 
 I pared the room till, between my perplexities 
 and the heat of the night, I was in a perfect 
 fever. It was vain to attempt to sleep, so, throw- 
 inir myself into a chair by the open window, I 
 tried to calm my mind with gazing on the fair 
 scene without. Gradually the softness of the 
 hour beguiled me; I sunk into a dreamy reverie 
 
 — almost, I suppose, into sleep — when the large 
 stable clock struck one." I started up, as the dull, 
 heavy sound fell upon my ear. I looked again 
 from the window: surely — I rubbed my eyes 
 
 — but there, surely, by that bed of geraniums I 
 knew so well, stood a tall, white figure ; it moved 
 suddenly forwards, and threw down a flower-pot 
 
 — 1 sav/ it fall distinctly. To rush down stairs 
 
100 UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 
 
 through one of the glass doors, (I believe they 
 were never fastened,) and out into the garden, 
 was the work of a moment, — but nothing could 
 [ see but the flowers, looking almost as brilliant 
 as in the day in the flood of light which so pic- 
 turesquely softened the grotesque statues which 
 our ancestors supposed ornamented their terraced 
 gardens. In no mood, however, to pause over the 
 beauties of the scene, I rushed on to the spot 
 where the vision had appeared ; there lay the 
 broken flower-pot, proving to me it was no trick 
 of the imagination. I paused, breathless, for 
 some indication of the path it had taken, and, 
 seeing a small gate open which led to the grotto, 
 I rushed down the steep and rough path with so 
 little caution, that, catching my foot in the moss- 
 covered root of a tree, I fell on my face in the 
 bushes. And here, gentle reader, 1 must remain 
 a few minutes, while I indulge in a short de- 
 scription of one of the sweetest spots in the 
 universe. About half way down the above men- 
 tioned path, a little to the right, stands a grotto, 
 from whence, between the trees, which have been 
 suffered to grow a little too wildly, you catch 
 glimpses of the opposite river. Descending still 
 lower, you find yourself in a tangled bower, im- 
 pervious to either sun or shower, luxuriously 
 cool and fresh in the hottest day. On one side 
 of this romantic little glen, the ground rises so 
 
UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 101 
 
 precipitously, and the trees grow into such gro- 
 tesque entanglements, as to bar all entrance ; but 
 on another is a winding path I have often fol- 
 lowed, and just in the very spot you would wish, 
 lies a fallen tree, where, with some pleasant book, 
 or in commune with your own heart, you might 
 forget time and space. On one side, too, is a 
 natural cavern, of no great depth, and generally 
 full of dead leaves, which always seemed to me 
 admirably adapted for an ice-house. I have 
 heard Mr. Ratcliffe say, that, excepting that the 
 trees grow every year wilder and more entangled, 
 the spot remams the same as when, in the boy- 
 hood of his brother and himself, it was their 
 favorite place to play at hide-and-seek. But 
 descriptions are proverbially tiresome, so I re- 
 turn to my tale. Extricating myself with some 
 trouble from the thick bower of fragrant seringa 
 into which I had fallen, and shaking off the 
 snowy blossoms, I proceeded more slowly and 
 carefully until 1 reached the turning to the grotto. 
 And here I paused a little to reflect on my situa- 
 tion. I v.as aldtie, unarm.ed — even without a 
 stick — and beyond the reach of aid, unless the 
 keeper or his assistants chanced to be within 
 call ; the thief, if thief it was, was, doubtless, 
 prepared for resistance. This, then, was the 
 pretended ghost ; the very word, in idea only, 
 produced an unpleasant feeling. Pshaw ! do 
 9* 
 
102 UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 
 
 ghosts open gates, and throw down flower-pots ? 
 I advanced to the grotto; a bat, apparently more 
 frightened than myself, flew out in my face ; I 
 persevered, however, and looked in — it was 
 empty. I sat down a few moments to consider 
 what I should do next : a rustling- sound caui^ht 
 my ear — the night was perfectly still. I ad- 
 vanced to the brow of the hill, and distinctly 
 heard a footstep among the last year's leaves, 
 that lay deep in some parts of the dell below. I 
 crept lower down, and endeavored to peep be- 
 tween the trees, but the foliage was so thick I 
 could see nothing. I then began, with a beating 
 heart, to descend the hill, still hearing at inter- 
 vals the leaves cracking under the tread of the 
 foot below, when, just before I reached the fallen 
 tree I mentioned before, I came suddenly upon 
 the object of my search. About twenty or thirty 
 yards before me was a tall figure, robed in white, 
 or some very light color ; the back was turned 
 towards me, and it was advancing with hasty 
 step to the rocky cavern at the extremity of the 
 glen. An involuntary exclamation escaped me, 
 but it heeded not. I followed, but it did not 
 appear to hear my steps, though I sunk almost 
 ankle deep in dry leaves. Swiftly and steadily 
 it advanced to the cavern, then stooped as if 
 about to enter. With the strength and energy 
 of despair, I sprang forward, grappled, and rolled 
 
UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 103 
 
 over with — Uncle Be ijie ! Could I believe my 
 senses ? — Was I awake ? I assisted him to rise, 
 placed him on the fallen tree, and myself beside 
 him. It was Uncle Benjie, clad in a long white 
 dressing-gown, flowered with gold pagodas. He 
 stared at me vacantly, and spoke in such an in- 
 coherent way 1 thought he must be mad. Sud- 
 denly a thought struck me, — he had been walking 
 in his sleep. I spoke gently and quietly to him, 
 and with some trouble half led, half carried him 
 into the house, and, calling up his brother, we 
 succeeded in rousing him from his lethargic 
 stupor, when I related to him the events of the 
 night. Instead, however, of following our ad- 
 vice, which was to take one of Squib's composing 
 mixtures and go quietly to bed, he swore at the 
 doctor, and throwing on some of his clothes in 
 great haste, rushed out of the house. We fol- 
 lowed, and arrived together at the cavern in the 
 glen, where, diving under the leaves, he brought 
 out first the purse and the ring, box and all, and, 
 by degrees, all the lost treasures that had caused 
 such vexation and perplexities. After staring at 
 one another a little, we burst into a hearty laugh, 
 in which Uncle Benjie cordially joined, and we 
 had some trouble to persuade him to go to bed 
 after all his nocturnal rambles. He rose an 
 altered m.an. In a conversation we had together 
 afterwards, he told me that, fancying he was 
 
104 UNCLE BENJIE's RING. 
 
 robbed in his brother's ho' se,the dread of losing 
 his valuable effects haunted him day and night; 
 and to this, actini^ upon a disordered body, he 
 attributed the extraordinary feats of somnambu- 
 lism he perpetrated. He had been a sleep- 
 walker, too, he told me, when a boy. The rocky 
 dell, he said, had been the favorite haunt of his 
 childhood, which accounted for his choosing it as 
 the spot for depositing his treasures. His grati- 
 tude to me was unbounded, but the only proof 
 of it I w^ould consent to receive was, that the 
 ring he valued so much, and whi^h was really 
 curious, should be left to me at his death. Uncle 
 Benjie is now as much beloved by the children 
 as he was formerly disliked; they are even re- 
 conciled to his Indian perfume, which they used 
 to declare so suffocating. My next visit to the 
 manor-house is to be on the occasion of ]\Jiss 
 Caroline's marriage to the before mentioned 
 curate, who hopes soon to become rector through 
 the kindness of Uncle Benjie. 
 
105 
 
 THE IVY AND THE OAK. 
 
 BY MARY HARRIET ACTON. 
 
 There stood an oak, a gallant oak, 
 
 Within a forest proud ; 
 And high above the woodman's stroke 
 
 Its leafy branches bowed, 
 The lord amid the woodland scene 
 
 Of all that flourished near ; 
 And round its trunk the ivy green 
 
 Had twined for many a year. 
 
 Oh ! fondly did the ivy cling 
 
 Around that stately tree, 
 And lovely in the budding spring 
 
 Its leaves were wont to be ; 
 No storm its clasping stem could move 
 
 As round each branch it grew, 
 And oft the oak had said its love 
 
 Was with the ivy true. 
 
 But one sad day a nightingale, 
 From the sweet scented glade, 
 
 And the roses of the sunny vale. 
 To the forest's shelter strayed ; 
 
106 THE IVY AND THE OAK. 
 
 And chose the kingly oak so high 
 
 Its resting place to make, 
 And the tree forgot the ivy nigh 
 
 For the gifted stranger's sake ! 
 
 Oh ! the ivy wept both day and night, 
 
 Such altered love to know, 
 And scarcely seemed the sunbeams bright 
 
 To its heart so choked with woe ; 
 But the faithless oak still prized the bird, 
 
 With its silvery notes so rare, 
 And its melody tiie forest heard 
 
 Through the balmy summer air. 
 
 The steps of winter silently 
 
 Came stealing o'er the earth, 
 And the flowers bent them down to die, 
 
 And the leaves forgot their mirth ; 
 And the nightingale, without a look 
 
 Of gratitude or pain. 
 The high and stately oak forsook 
 
 For its woodbine home again. 
 
 Then the tree's proud heart with shame was torn 
 
 So lightly prized to be, 
 And the woods around beheld with scorn 
 
 Its slighted majesty : 
 The glowwornis in their leafy bower 
 
 Laughed gleefully below, 
 And shook with mirth each forest flower, 
 
 its lowered pride to know. 
 
THE IVY AND THE OAK. 107 
 
 But thouirh SO long thrown coldly by, 
 
 Tlie ivy nearer drew, 
 And o'er the drooping branches nigh 
 
 Its brightest leaves it threw; 
 And never when the dewy spring 
 
 Came forth in beauty free, 
 Did the ivy e'er so firmly cling, 
 
 As round that humbled tree. 
 
 And dearly for such trusting care 
 
 Did the oak its duty prove. 
 Nor turned again for aught more fair 
 
 From its fond and ancient love ; 
 But proudly in the forest shade 
 
 Stood long unchanged and true, 
 And when the stately oak decayed 
 
 The iv}' withered too ! 
 
108 
 
 THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 
 
 BT MARY LEMAN GILLIES. 
 
 It was a bright spring morning when the sig- 
 nal at Mount Nelson announced a ship in sight, 
 and immediately the yellow flag was hoisted at 
 Mulgrave battery, and proclaimed the welcome 
 news to the inhabitants of Hobart Town. Those 
 of London, that emporium in which culminate 
 all the great interests of existence, could but 
 poorly imagine the emotions excited by the 
 event. Expectation was on tiptoe ; the vessel 
 might be from Sydney, from India, above all, it 
 might be from England. At the period of my 
 story all were exiles. Natives, save the dark 
 race which is fast disappearing before the white 
 man, there were none. All, I repeat, were 
 exiles, but all were not penal exiles. The exiles 
 to whom I allude were those settlers whom step- 
 dame fortune had driven from their father-land, 
 or whom the hope of winning her favor had 
 allured from it. All these had left their loves 
 and dearest interests behind them, and all their 
 dreams and wishes were directed to the fair fields 
 and bright firesides of their childhood. It is now 
 far otherwise. Van Diemen's Land, like other 
 
THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 109 
 
 lands, has grown national, with the usual exclu- 
 sive prejudices and partialities. Beautiful girls 
 and gallant youths, born in its sweet valleys, 
 have ripened into womanhood, have become sur- 
 rounded by a young progeny, and they love the 
 land of their own and their children's birth in a 
 manner impossible to their fathers, to whom it 
 was but the land of adoption. 
 
 If the approaching bark was anticipated by 
 many a beating heart in Hobart Town and its 
 vicinity, what were the feelings of those on board 
 the Dart, the gallant ship that had now been 
 nearly five months from England ? It carried a 
 miscellaneous assemblage of passengers, and had 
 touched at Cojrk to take in some women and chil- 
 dren who were going to join their husbands and 
 fathers in the colony. In all this freight of hu- 
 manity there were two women singularly remark- 
 able : the one, Dora Callan, for beauty ; the other, 
 Bridget Ryan, for an extreme ugliness, which 
 would have been repulsive, had it not been re- 
 deemed by honesty, simplicity, and good nature. 
 She had an infant of a few weeks old, to which 
 she was a tender, watchful mother ; but it did 
 not engross her genial heart. She had a kind 
 word for every one, and a helping hand for all 
 who needed her aid : the sick found her ready 
 to forego her rest to soothe his sufferings, and 
 the sorrowing never called upon her sympathy 
 10 
 
110 THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 
 
 in vain ; and it was scon the feeling of all on 
 board to seek Bridget Ryan under any emer- 
 gency of annoyance or distress. But, above all, 
 she became to Dora Callan the very stay and 
 prop of her existence : the young creature had 
 come on board in bad health, and with the pros- 
 pect of becoming a mother, a prospect realized 
 before they were many weeks at sea. In her hour 
 of trial who was beside her? Bridget Ryan. 
 When the new-born made its feeble appeal to its 
 feeble mother, who took it to a cherishing breast ? 
 Bridget Ryan. Amid all her own and her in- 
 fant's wants, she found the means to minister to 
 the wants of the young mother and her nursling ; 
 amid all the claims upon her time and toil, she 
 found hours to devote to them. 
 
 " Bridget Ryan," said Dora, " I shall never see 
 the far land we are seeking, and one is waiting 
 me there to whom it will be a sore sorrow. Here 
 is his last letter, which I have read every night 
 after my prayers, and every morning as soon as 
 it was light. He will be on the watch for our 
 ship, and among the first on board." 
 
 " Heaven speed him, my woman !" exclaimed 
 the cheerful Bridget, " and won't he be proud of 
 the gift you have for him ?" she added, looking at 
 the sleeping child ; " oh, sure and it is I must be 
 at the merry meeting." 
 
THE IIEROIXE OF THE HUON. Ill 
 
 " Who has such right, Bridget ? But it ^^'ill 
 never be." 
 
 " Tush, woman dear, tush ! Don't talk such 
 non'sense, child. It is the icakeness that has 
 come over you. Wait a while, and a blithe chris- 
 tening we '11 have when we are once on shore." 
 
 The young mother bowed her beautiful face 
 upon her pillow, and the heaving of her breast 
 revealed the emotion that convulsed her. After 
 an effort at composure, she raised herself in the 
 bed and flung her arms around the neck of her 
 friend. 
 
 " Oh, on this wide, wide sea, where I thought 
 to find only danger and sorrow, I have found a 
 friend like unto the mother I have left. You 
 will have her blessing, Bridget, and his. Oh, 
 that I might live to tell him all I owe you!" 
 
 " Now, Dora, dear, if you go on after this man- 
 ner," said Bridget, struggling with emotion, and 
 gently trying to disengage herself, " what will I 
 do ! Sure I shall be fit for nothing this blessed 
 day — and the babes, too — why we are chang- 
 ing places with them, and crying, as if they could 
 not do it much better than we. Take heart, 
 woman dear, the boy will need all your care." 
 
 " All yours, Bridget, all yours. Oh ! tell me 
 you will never forsake him. I know it, I feel it, 
 he will soon be alone with you — have only you. 
 Oh, let him creep to your heart w^hen the salt 
 
112 THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 
 
 sea covers his mother. Nay, Bridget, you shall 
 not unclasp my hands till I have your promise ; 
 say that in danger, in distress, in sickness, he 
 shall be to you as your own." 
 
 "Mother of God, be my witness!" fervently 
 ejaculated Bridget. " He shall have half my 
 heart, half my strength. When I forego my 
 hold of him, sorrow be my portion. But you 
 will live, Dora Callan, and my child may call 
 you mother by manes of this boy of ours ; for 
 now he is mine, you see, and I mane to dispose 
 of him." 
 
 A faint smile played upon the lips of the sink- 
 ing girl in answer to this sportive sally, and then 
 closing her eyes, she folded her hands upon her 
 breast in silent prayer. The prophetic spirit in 
 which the young creature had spoken was soon 
 apparent. A rapid change passed over the fair 
 face : the power of utterance suddenly failed ; 
 bat while life lingered her grateful and beseech- 
 ing eyes were raised to the face of Bridget, at 
 whose breast the creature so soon to be orphaned 
 nestled in comfort. 
 
 The next night a white hammock was lowered 
 into the sea beneath the solemn starlight. The 
 passengers and crew stood round whilst the cap- 
 tain read the funeral service; his voice often 
 faltered, and at intervals a deep sob was heard ; 
 it burst from the bosom of Bridget Ryan, who, 
 
THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 113 
 
 with both children clasped in her arms, kneeled 
 upon the deck. When the solemn ceremony- 
 was over, and the fair form of Dora had sunk 
 many fathoms to its deep and silent grave, a low 
 wail of excessive anguish broke from the lips of 
 Bridget. 
 
 " Dora Callan ! Dora Callan ! " she at length 
 uttered, with a deep fervency of tone which was 
 in itself eloquence; " why have you gone from 
 me — from me whose heart loved y^ou like its 
 life ? But who may keep what the Great Maker 
 wants ? Bright be your place among the angels 
 — welcome be your fair face where all is beauti- 
 ful ! Och ! shall I ever forget how sweet you 
 were, how kind, how loving ! When you wake 
 from your great winding-sheet, Dora mine, may 
 we, who mourn you now, meet you rejoicing." 
 
 Then her voice sunk till its murmurs became 
 inaudible ; Vv'hile rocking herself to and fro on 
 the deck, she covered over the children and 
 bathed them with her tears. Impressed by the 
 scene, all stood in deep silence, watching the 
 subsiding struggles of her grief. , Almost un- 
 marked a change of weather had gradually come 
 on, and a more than common activity on board 
 declared that some exigency was approaching. 
 Low winds seemed from afar gathering the 
 clouds that soon overspread the sky, till the 
 hollow dismal wailings became long howls, and 
 10^ 
 
114 THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 
 
 hoarse shrieks, and the darkness grew into black- 
 est nig-ht. Oh, for the pen of Cooper to portray 
 the storm which broke above the devoted ship, 
 while it reeled and staggered amid the rage of 
 contending winds and boiling seas ! The captain 
 and the crew did their duty firmly. Perhaps 
 there is no energy, no courage, equal to that of 
 the English sailor ; no sense of duty so high, so 
 perfectly, so nobly fulfilled. Vain were all their 
 efforts ; the sea surged above the yards, sweep- 
 ing down on the doomed bark, which would 
 bravely rise again and again above the briny 
 deluge. Desperately she ploughed her wild 
 way, till at midnight she became a total wreck 
 on one of the small islands in D'Entrecastreaux's 
 channel. 
 
 The morning broke at length, but it came 
 rather to reveal than to relieve their distress. 
 When the vessel struck, a shriek, compounded 
 of many wild voices, pierced the thick darkness ; 
 the masts went by the board, a rushing sea swept 
 the deck, carrying many despairing wretches 
 into the engulfing waters; but with the grey 
 drear light of morning came a lull. The cap- 
 tain, who still survived, with some few of the 
 passengers and crew, felt deep anxiety for the 
 fate of Bridget, and was seeking her, inquiring 
 for her, when she crept forth with the two chil- 
 dren in her arms. " The bravest heart on board, 
 
THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 115 
 
 by heavens ! " he exclaimed, as he beheld her. 
 " Hope on," he continued, springing forward, 
 " we are descried ; there are boats making 
 towards us ! " At these words Bridget started 
 to her feet, just as a tremendous wave struck the 
 ship, and, sweeping the deck, carried her and 
 the children overboard. Much is said of human 
 selfishness in the emergencies of great danger, 
 and much is of course exhibited, but so power- 
 fully had Bridget's example and beauty of char- 
 acter impressed her fellow-sufferers, that the most 
 vital interest was felt in her fate, and, at this 
 catastrophe, many cried aloud, " Save her ! Save 
 her ! " while at the moment hopeless of saving 
 themselves. The boats, which had put off from 
 Brune Island, redoubled their efforts. Bridget 
 succeeded in grasping a fragment of timber, and 
 thus kept herself afloat; the heavy rain, which 
 had been some time falling, increasing, refreshed 
 her, and the sea subsided, as if calmed by the 
 tears of heaven ; the cheering voices of the ap- 
 proaching men kept alive the pulses of her heart, 
 and at last Bridget and the children were res- 
 cued, the little helpless creatures, wonderful to 
 relate, alive. This, however, she scarcely Avas 
 herself; yet amid what were apparently the 
 pangs of death, her sense of duty was still para- 
 mount. Carried on shore, soothing voices and 
 succoring hands were soon around her, but she 
 
116 THE HEROINE OF THE HUON. 
 
 made a feeble effort to retain the children, while 
 she exclaimed, with what strength remained to 
 her, "Michael Callan." The name was re- 
 peated aloud by those who marked her anxiety, 
 and immediately a young man, who had helped 
 to man the boat that saved her, pressed eagerly 
 forward. " Here I am," he cried; " what would 
 you with Michael Callan ? " He was directed to 
 the dying woman ; he knelt down beside her. 
 Bridget opened her eyes, which a moment be- 
 fore had been closing in the last extreme of ex- 
 haustion and faintness, "Are you he?" she 
 asked. " I am, Michael Callan." " Now the 
 Father of mercy and all his saints be praised ! " 
 she faintly ejaculated. " Michael Callan, here 
 is your child — Dora's Child!" and with these 
 words her long sustained energies forsook her, 
 and she sunk insensible into the arms of the 
 people near her. 
 
 The story soon spread through the colony, and 
 by the time Bridget was restored to health and 
 strength, she found herself possessed of a little 
 fortune. All who like herself had survived the 
 wreck, bore testimony to her Christian charity 
 and heroism, and from ever}^ quarter of the island 
 subscriptions in her behalf poured in. Her home 
 was on the banks of the Huon ; thither every 
 year Michael Callan and his boy make a pil- 
 grimage to the fond friend of Dora, and the faith- 
 ful preserver of her child. 
 
MJm&^.-:::^^.^;:ji^^m^^i:^^M 
 
&mn^^ 
 
117 
 
 HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 . BY FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 O ! BLEST art thou whose steps may rove 
 Through the green paths of vale and grove, 
 Or, leaving all their charms below. 
 Climb the wild mountain's airy brow ! 
 And gaze afar o'er cultured plains, 
 And cities with their stately fanes, 
 And forests that beneath thee lie, 
 And ocean mingling with the sky. 
 
 For man can show thee nought so fair 
 As Nature's varied marvels there ; 
 And if thy pure and artless breast 
 Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 
 For thee the stream in beauty flows, 
 For thee the gale of summer blows ; 
 And, in deep glen and wood-walk free. 
 Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 
 
 But happier far, if there thy soul 
 
 Can soar to Him who made the whole ; 
 
 If to thine eye the simplest flower 
 
 Portray His bounty and His power ; 
 
 If, in whate'er is bright or grand. 
 
 Thy mind can trace His viewless hand ; 
 
118 HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 If Nature's music bid thee raise 
 Thy song of gratitude and praise. 
 
 If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught, 
 Lead to His throne thy raptured thought ; 
 If there thou lovest His love to read, 
 Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed! 
 
 J 
 
119 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 A STORY OF THE LAST WHITE ROSE. 
 
 " Red roses are the fashion now-a-days, fair 
 lady," was the exclamation of a knightly-Jooking 
 personage, as, forcing himself without much 
 trouble through a break in the hedge, he stood 
 by the side of the Lady Somerton : - Red roses 
 are the fashion, yet I perceive you gather only 
 the white ones ; now if you will accept my aid 
 in the assortment of your posy, I shall enliven it 
 with the blushing flower. See, too, how much 
 hardier these are than those pale, sickly buds." 
 
 Lady Somerton was startled by the first words 
 which fell upon her ear, and the pale roses trem- 
 bled in her grasp; but ere Sir Pierre Brandon's 
 speech was concluded, she recovered, by an eflbrt 
 of the will, at least the semblance of composure. 
 She could not but return the courteous greeting 
 of Sir Pierre, for though unknown to him by 
 any formal introduction, she had received, three 
 days previously, a signal service at his hands. 
 Whether in search of white roses or wild flow- 
 ers, we cannot tell, but she had been tempted on 
 that occasion to wander beyond the precincts of 
 the park, and, unconscious till too late that the 
 
120 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 country was being scoured by the king's troops, 
 had been rudely accosted by a party of soldiers. 
 Utterly ignorant at that time of the meaning of 
 their questions, she was yet painfully alarmed by 
 their rude and imperious behavior ; when Sir 
 Pierre, riding up, dispersed them by a word, and 
 then, with the chivalry of a soldier and a gentle- 
 man, escorted Edith and her old attendant to the 
 gates of Somerton Park. To her deliverer she 
 therefore felt truly grateful, and though she could 
 have wished that he had caught her in some 
 other act than that of gathering white roses, she 
 accepted his offer in as playful a manner as she 
 could command, and added the Lancastrian bou- 
 quet with which he supplied her to those York- 
 ist buds she had already gathered. 
 
 " Now have you a most loyal offering," ex- 
 claimed Sir Pierre, striving to meet with his own 
 searching glance the soft eyes of Edith Somer- 
 ton, — "meet even for the wise Tudor himself, 
 since you retain just enough fair blossoms — 
 poor things that they are — to remind him of the 
 wife he has raised to share his throne." 
 
 She did not look up, though she felt her cheek 
 grow pallid for a moment, and then the rebel 
 blood return with added vigor to dye it crimson. 
 How many a warm rejoinder hovered on her lip, 
 which prudence warned her to restrain ! But 
 she only murmured, 
 
THE SACRIFICE. 121 
 
 " Alas ! that a sweet flower should ever have 
 been chosen as the type of civil discord ! Flow- 
 ers, fit emblems only of peace and joy; — flow- 
 ers, a remnant of paradise; — flowers, which in 
 their fragrant breaths, and beauteous forms, bear 
 a message from heaven, that earth was not made 
 only for sin and woe. Flowers ! what have ye 
 to do with violence and death, with orphans 
 tears, and widows' wailing?" 
 
 " To deck the conqueror's brow, fair lady." 
 
 " Unmeet — unmeet." 
 
 By this time they had approached the house, 
 and though for many reasons Edith little desired 
 to introduce a stranger guest, and that guest a 
 Lancastrian knight, she felt that to ofler a 
 marked slight to Sir Pierre would be the most 
 dangerous policy she could pursue. Yet her 
 voice trembled as she said, " Sir Hugh Somerton 
 desires to thank you for the service you rendered 
 his wife ; and though at this moment he is not at 
 home, and I therefore will not ask you to enter, 
 he would blame me, if I did not urge you to 
 favor him with a visit ere you quit our neigh- 
 borhood." 
 
 " Then, lady, I must pay it before sunset; so, 
 by your leave, I will wait on him in an hour." 
 
 Lady Somerton hurried to her chamber, where, 
 casting one rapid glance around, to be certain 
 that she was alone, she gave vent to her feelings 
 11 
 
122 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 in a flood of tears. Bat this was no hour for the 
 indulgence of such feminine weakness ; and soon 
 removing all outward signs of her emotion, she 
 separated the two bouquets, although terrified in 
 the midst of the task by the sound of a bell which 
 proclaimed the quick flight of time. Then de- 
 scending from her chamber, she entered her 
 husband's favorite room, in which an air of lux- 
 ury and refinement prevailed, unusual at that 
 period. But Sir Hugh's father had been a mer- 
 chant-knight in the days of the merchant-mon- 
 arch Edward the Fourth, and this circumstance 
 might account for the costly carpet, and sumptu- 
 ous hangings, which decorated the apartment. 
 Till the lady entered it was untenanted, which 
 quickly perceiving, she approached a seemingly 
 ponderous cabinet of ebony ; scarcely, however, 
 had she touched a spring, when, revolving on 
 hinges, it swung forward by its own weight, 
 revealing a secret door in the wall. The next 
 moment Edith stood within a rude and narrow 
 chamber, but as she advanced towards the occu- 
 pant of this retreat, she would have kneeled to 
 offer a subject's homage, had he not caught her 
 hands and prevented the obeisance. She was in 
 the presence of one, whom history scarcely knows 
 how to designate. For, as each cycle passes by, 
 rescuing stern truths from the disguises heaped 
 upon them by ignorance, or power, or prejudice, 
 
THE SACRIFICE. 123 
 
 the more inclined are we to recognize Richard 
 Plantagenet in him who has so long been re- 
 garded as the impostor, Perkin Warbeck ! 
 
 " I come, your highness," said Lady Somer- 
 ton, " at my husband's bidding, to ask if there be 
 any service I can render in his absence to break 
 the tedium of the day. He is himself riding 
 towards Exeter, to put the despatch intended for 
 the Lady Katherine into the hands of the trusty 
 serving man who is deputed as the messenger. 
 And, my liege, an hour after sunset — " 
 
 " A horse will be ready to convey me to the 
 sole refuge my hard destiny yields me." 
 
 " 'T is but for a brief interval your faithful 
 friends advise their prince to secure his safety in 
 the Holy Sanctuary of Beaulieu. Only while 
 they gather his scattered troops to rally round 
 his banner." 
 
 " While I must rest in idleness ! By Heaven ! 
 my heart and mind will rot away the body, even 
 as the sword's rust eats into the scabbard I " 
 
 " My king ! " 
 
 " Forgive me, lady. Rather let us speak of 
 the time — for surely it will come — when a 
 grateful monarch shall prove his obligations to 
 his tried friends." 
 
 Not till that moment did Edith perceive that 
 in her agitation she had provided herself with 
 the red roses instead of the fair Yorkist blossoms, 
 
124 
 
 THE SACKIFICE. 
 
 which she had intended to present to her guest! 
 He divined the cause of her emotion, for as tears 
 again flowed, she exclaimed, " Oh ! how evil an 
 omen ! " 
 
 " By defying, I will overrule the omen. Give 
 them me, lady ; and though they wither on my 
 heart, I will keep them for my coronation — it 
 will be useful in prosperity to be reminded of an 
 hour, like this." 
 
 " Rather would I sacrifice the best blood of my 
 house!" exclaimed Lady Somerton, trampling 
 the flowers beneath her feet. 
 
 " Hush ! " said her guest ; " tempt not fate by 
 the ofler of a sacrifice. Unhappy Richard ! " and 
 he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Edith endeavored to soothe and comfort her 
 guest, and though anxious to be the first to en- 
 counter Sir Hugh on his return, lingered in 
 cheering conversation for another half-hour : and 
 when she quitted the chamber, or closet, as it 
 might more properly be called, she did so by a 
 different outlet to that by which she had entered. 
 The secret recess, alas ! so often necessary in 
 the troublous times of which we write, commu- 
 nicated also with the chapel, where beneath their 
 sculptured tombs reposed many of Sir Hugh's 
 ancestors. The walls were hung with martial 
 trophies, and implements of war, as even to this 
 day we find — so strong is old custom — religious 
 
THE SACRIFICE. 125 
 
 fanes, polluted by mementos of strife and blood- 
 shed. Here, to her astonishment, she found two 
 stranger monks in company with Ralph AVil- 
 loughby, the busy idler — the wild madcap, but 
 faithful servant — the jester of the family. He 
 was in the entire confidence of his master, as 
 indeed his presence there testified, for none other 
 could have obtained access to the chapel. Hur- 
 riedly he related that the holy men belonged to 
 the fraternity of Beaulieu ; that they had come 
 hither provided with a cowl and gown in which 
 to disguise the fugitive, the more safely to con- 
 duct him to their sanctuary. 
 
 "Is Sir Hugh returned?" exclaimed Lady 
 Somerton, with anxiety; "knows he of your 
 plans?" 
 
 " Lady, we come at his suggestion," replied 
 the elder of the two, " ostensibly to perform mass 
 for the soul of his brother ; the anniversary of 
 whose death this chances to be, Heaven forgive 
 the deception!" and the monk crossed himself 
 devoutly as he added, " we will perform seven 
 masses as an atonement." 
 
 "Will your masses," chimed in Ralph, the 
 jester, who could be earnest enough when occa- 
 sion called, — " will your masses, holy fathers, 
 spirit away the foul fiend who I think now holds 
 Sir Hugh prisoner in the east-chamber, in the 
 
126 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 shape of that Tudor knight, Sir Pierre Bran- 
 don?" 
 
 Lady Somerton started and turned pale with 
 fear — for the east-chamber was that from which 
 she had entered the fugitive's retreat ; and but 
 too truly did she dread that Sir Pierre was even 
 now on some secret service of the king to arrest 
 his steps. Much was there in their converse 
 that morning which led to this belief, and quickly 
 did she communicate her fears to the party in the 
 chapel. For a few moments there was silence, 
 which Ralph was the first to break. 
 
 " It is not possible," said he, " to warn Sir 
 Hugh of our fears or our plans ; but if you will 
 take the fool's advice, it is this. Quickly let him 
 don the garments you have brought, and thus 
 our prince may escape at once, instead of wait- 
 ing till sunset, the time proposed. I will take 
 his place, and if they try the cabinet door, will 
 hold out as stoutly as if the right man were 
 there, and thus give time for him to escape." 
 
 The plan seemed so judicious and feasible, 
 that it was instantly agreed on, and quickly put 
 into execution; and the half-hour thus gained, 
 it might be, protracted for a few months the lib- 
 erty of hhn whom we yet scarcely know how to 
 name, or reserved his life for a sadder ending 
 than the sword's point would have proved. But 
 
THE SACRIFICE. 127 
 
 not without a sacrifice could such a respite be 
 purchased ! 
 
 Prophetic were the fears of Lady Somerton. 
 The faithful Ralph immured himself in the secret 
 chamber, and she remained in trembling prayer 
 within the chapel. The reverend fathers joined 
 in her devotions, for so far did they adhere to 
 their original plan, that they determined on join- 
 ing the hapless Perkin at a spot where they had 
 appointed to meet after sunset. But for a while 
 we must follow Sir Hugh to the east-chamber. 
 
 On his return home he had hastened to that 
 favorite apartment, and his hand was actually 
 on the spring which would have opened the way 
 to the secret retreat, when Sir Pierre Brandon 
 was announced. Ostensibly he came to pay a 
 visit of civility, but the mask was quickly thrown 
 off, when, raising a whistle to his lips, one shrill 
 note filled the room with soldiers, who, in the 
 king's name, had orders to search the mansion 
 for the traitor! Ere, however, a sword was 
 drawn, he offered a free pardon to Sir Hugh, for 
 all past connivance, on condition that he gave up 
 the offender. With the chivalry of his age and 
 character, he would probably have refused under 
 any circumstances to surrender the defenceless 
 to the strong arm of constituted authority ; how 
 then could he betray him, whom he devoutly 
 considered his lawful sovereign ? Calling loudly 
 
12S 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 on the few retainers who were within hearinor 
 
 o 
 
 he placed his back, as if by accident, against the 
 ebony cabinet, determined to defend that en- 
 trance to the last. Soon was that gorgeous 
 chamber the scene of death and bloodshed, for 
 soldiers and retainers both fell in the strife. It 
 was clear, however, that Sir Pierre had obtained 
 some clue to the secret entrance, for to the cabi- 
 net were the soldiers' efforts directed, and but 
 a moment before it was forced, did Sir Hugh re- 
 ceive his mortal wound ! 
 
 The whistle — the cry — the clash of swords 
 — had aroused the prayerful trio in the chapel 
 from their devotions ; and now that she felt the 
 realization of her fear, all the woman was awa- 
 kened in her bosom, and though loyalty and faith 
 towards the wanderer slumbered not for an in- 
 stant. Lady Somerton began to understand the 
 price which might be paid for them. The short- 
 est way to the east-chamber was through the 
 secret closet ; but, alas ! there was a strong 
 reason that the entrance by the cabinet should 
 be guarded to the last moment. Swift, there- 
 fore, as the thought which dictated her action, 
 she fled from the chapel and crossed a court-yard 
 which separated it from the main building. 
 There were none to impede her, and no one did 
 she meet but a frightened waiting- woman. Even 
 as she rushed into the chamber, still the scene 
 
THE SACRIFICE. 129 
 
 of mortal contention, the rude soldiers instinc- 
 tively made way for the wife to pass, — and 
 almost at the moment that Sir Hugh received 
 his death- wound, and the secret door yielded, 
 his beloved Edith sank upon his bosom, and, un- 
 conscious of his state, whispered, in accents only 
 intelligible to him, the flight of Perkin. 
 
 When the door opened, honest Ralph, with 
 arms a-kimbo, presented himself to the intru- 
 ders ; but the jest and the jeer, which, as a privi- 
 leged person, hovered on his lips, were driven 
 back by the sight he beheld. And while the 
 soldiers, no longer impeded, ransacked the secret 
 passages of the house, Ralph, the jester, and two 
 or three of the faithful servants who had re- 
 mained unharmed through the conflict, conveyed 
 their master, at his urgent request, through the 
 chamber so lately tenanted by " The White 
 Rose" (as his followers proudly called him,) to 
 the old chapel we have mentioned already. It 
 was the age of romance in love, and superstition 
 in religion, and even at that moment, when the 
 brave Sir Hugh felt assured that his life-blood 
 was ebbing away, he asked that his soul might 
 quit its prison of clay in a consecrated place, and 
 the parting gaze of his beloved Edith might meet 
 his own on the spot where their marriage vows 
 were solemnized. Scarcely an hour did he sur- 
 vive, but the reverend fathers who had come at 
 
130 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 his bidding- for so different a purpose, had time 
 to offer him the last consolations of religion ; and 
 on his father's tomb, supported by the arm of the 
 fiiithful Ralph, and solaced — as love can solace, 
 oven such an hour — by the presence of Edith — 
 the sacrifice to loyalty was completed ! 
 
 The remainder of Perkin Warbeck's career, 
 and his ignominious fate at last, belong to his- 
 tory ; and this is not the place to moot his pre- 
 tensions to be called " The White Rose of York." 
 Certain it is that he had partisans among the 
 regal — nay, the Plantagenets themselves — and 
 among the noble, the wealthy, and the wise. 
 They must have had better opportunities of 
 judging of his claims than can be found by the 
 reflected light of the records which remain ; and 
 allowing for the fallibility of human judgment, 
 and yet more largely for the party interests of 
 the period, it is not difficult to understand the 
 sincere belief in his identity, which his followers 
 undoubtedly entertained. And, alas! Planta- 
 genet or Fleming, many were the sacrifices to 
 the last banner blazoned with the White Rose ! 
 
131 
 
 THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 BY ALICIA JANE SPARROW. 
 
 Farewell to the shore where my father is 
 sleeping ! 
 Oh, sweet and unbroken his rest may it be ! 
 Farewell to the home where my mother is weep- 
 ing 
 Her first-born — her dearest — alas ! alien me ! 
 Far away from the friends whom I loved in my 
 childhood, 
 Estranged from the hearts that I clung to of 
 yore, 
 I will seek me a rest in the desert or wild-wood, 
 And my country and kindred shall see me no 
 more ! 
 
132 
 
 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 OR, THE DRAPERS ASSISTANT. 
 
 BY MISS CAMILLA TOULMIN. 
 
 " We do too little feel each other's pain, 
 We do too much relax the social chain 
 Which binds us to each other ! " 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Send away the tea things, Mrs. M., it is past 
 seven o'clock ; Herbert must have dropped in 
 somewhere, I am sure," was the exclamation of 
 Mr. Markham on a certain winter's evening, as, 
 crossing his slippered feet before the fire, he re- 
 turned a large silver watch to its stand on the 
 mantel-piece, and drew from his pocket the even- 
 ing paper. 
 
 " Aunt," whispered a gentle voice on the other 
 side of the room, " may I ask Jenny to save the 
 tea-pot, in case Herbert should not have had 
 either dinner or tea ? I know he is gone about 
 a situation ; he took down the particulars of two 
 or three advertisements this morning." 
 
 " You know, Alice, the servants — " Here, 
 however, Mrs. Markham 's speech was cut short 
 by a ring of the bell, so we can only surmise 
 
LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER. 133 
 
 what the remainder would have been. Herbert 
 had returned ; but before he is introduced to the 
 reader, let me say a few words about his uncle 
 and aunt, the present host and hostess of him- 
 self and his sister, 
 
 Mr. Markham was what is called one of the 
 most "respectable" men in the cit}-, and that 
 emphatic word comprehends a world of proprie- 
 ties. He was in the grocery line of business, — 
 his shop situated in one of those narrow, crooked 
 streets, the tall houses of which, it is said, (if 
 not swept away to make healthy openings and 
 modern improvements,) may still outlast the 
 buildings of to-day. In that house had he begun 
 business ; and in that house Mr. John, his only 
 son, married and taken into partnership long ao-o, 
 now resided; his "respectable" parent having 
 of late 3'ears preferred the luxuries of a morning 
 and evening ride in his one-horse chaise to and 
 from his suburban residence. It is not worth 
 while to say on which side of London this was 
 chosen, for the suburbs have a strong family like- 
 ness, differing only as much as rich and poor 
 relations may do. They all have their Minerva 
 Terraces and Belle Vue Cottages, and now-a- 
 days Albert Eoads and Victoria Squares. They 
 all, too, have their little-great people, from the 
 reigning beauty, whose Sunday attire sets the 
 fashions of the place, to perchance some county 
 12 
 
 V-:^ 
 
134 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER,' 
 
 magistrate or ci-devant lord mayor, who is looked 
 on as a second Solon, providentially sent to en- 
 lighten the world. Trifling as such weaknesses 
 seem, at which we are all inclined to smile, grave 
 mischief arises from them ; for almost all our 
 social evils arise from a want of that extended 
 sympathy, which, stretching over the barriers of 
 class, should communicate good — like light — 
 without being impoverished, nay, multiplying it 
 rather, as by reflecting mirrors. Now the sys- 
 tem of cliques, whether they be of the witty or 
 weahhy, or of the little-great people of a subur- 
 ban neighborhood, strikes at the root of all this. 
 It hedges a little party round with a thick stone 
 wall, impervious to mortal sight, while the mel- 
 ancholy part of the afTair is that the poor deluded 
 prisoners think their dungeon is the world. 
 Mr. Markham's world consisted of the people 
 with whom he transacted business in the day; 
 (he always dined with his son in town,) and the 
 two or three neighbors they visited ; but as they 
 all belonged to the same genus, I do not think he 
 ever knocked out a cube of his wall, through 
 which to take a peep beyond. His only daugh- 
 ter, an elderly young lady of about thirty, and 
 his wife, completed the home circle, to which 
 his orphan nephew and niece had lately been 
 introduced. 
 
 The father of Herbert and Alice had been a 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 135 
 
 very different character from his elder brother 
 He had been a music master in a provincial 
 town ; and though early left a widower, had 
 brought up his children in much respectability. 
 But so precarious did he know such a means of 
 existence as his own to be, that it had long been 
 the wish of his heart to establish Herbert in 
 trade. Of his brother he knew little else than 
 that he was a prosperous man ; and when he 
 found that an illness of some standing had as- 
 sumed a dangerous turn, it was a very natural 
 thing to leave his children to the guardianship 
 of his only relative, and two hundred pounds, 
 the savings of a life, to his care till they should 
 be of age. Mr. Markham considered that the 
 only sensible wish " poor Charles" had ever ex- 
 pressed was that Herbert should be a tradesman; 
 it met his cordial approbation ; but as for advanc- 
 ing any of the two hundred pounds for appren- 
 ticing him, he should do nothing of the kind. 
 The youth was nearly seventeen ; let him get a 
 situation which would " lead to something." 
 Alice, who was three years her brother's senior, 
 was equally desirous of independence ; and per- 
 haps the fondest hope of both their hearts was 
 that they should not be separated. Yet they 
 both knew that there were few situations in 
 which this would be the case ; therefore was 
 Alice proportionally grateful when she heard 
 
136 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 from Herbert, on that eventful evening, the cause 
 which had detained him so late. He had found 
 employment for himself and sister as assistants 
 in an extensive drapery establishment ; nothing 
 remaining to be settled except Alice seeing the 
 parties, and the necessary reference to their 
 uncle being made. 
 
 What a benevolent dispensation of Providence 
 it is, that youth soaring aloft on the wings of 
 hope and expectation, and looking at life as it 
 will look through its own brightly colored imag- 
 ination, should find in its own untried spirit the 
 strongest weapon of defence against the world 
 with w^hich it must wrestle ! How else could 
 the suffering youth of this great metropolis, not 
 counted by tens and by hundreds, but by tens of 
 thousands, live through their fearful course of 
 slavery, in numbers sufficient to make at last 
 their deep-toned cry audible. Alas ! alas ! we 
 take no account of the myriads who have s«ink 
 after their term of suffering into the crowded 
 sepulchres or the dense city. And yet how great 
 a thing is every human heart, with its little world 
 of hopes and fears, its warm affections, its trust- 
 ing faith, its bright imaginings ! And how deso- 
 late, indeed — desolate as the last survivor of a 
 world's wreck — must that one be who hath not 
 some dear ones to mourn and rejoice with him. 
 So desolate, that I would fain believe the earth 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 137 
 
 counts them by units ; and least of all do I be- 
 lieve they would be found among the struggling 
 and oppressed, for such have warm sympathies. 
 But this is a mass of misery, past, irrevocable, 
 though good for us sometimes to think on ; there 
 is another picture yet more painful, because more 
 present to our sight, and more disastrous in its 
 resuhs. The myriads who do not die, but pur- 
 chase a lingering life by the sacrifice of health 
 for its remainder; or worse still, the myriads 
 whose minds are warped by evil training, and 
 then in their weakness are corrupted by over- 
 powering temptation — who are themselves made 
 selfish by cruel oppression, and whose tempers 
 are irritated (catching the infection beyond all 
 cure) by the endurance of constant acts of petty 
 tyranny ! Reader, is this a digression ? Nay, 
 only a dirge ere we drew up the curtain. 
 
 The establishment of Messrs. Scrape, Haveall 
 and Co. was situated in one of the principal 
 thoroughfares of London. From small begin- 
 nings it had grown into an " immense concern ;" 
 over the squares of plate glass, each of which 
 w^as as large as a moderate sized dining table, 
 which formed the shop w^indows, ran a line of 
 figures, intimating that five houses had been 
 
 taken in, namely, from 70, street, to 74, 
 
 inclusive. Brussels carpets and gilded mirrors 
 adorned the interior, showing to advantage the 
 12^ 
 
138 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER, 
 
 gorgeous fabrics — here suspended in graceful 
 festoons, there in studied but apparently careless 
 disorder, again in massive heaps — conveying 
 altogether an air of wealth and profusion, that 
 might make the heart tingle with a just pride at 
 the power, energy and resources of our princely 
 merchants. But Messrs. Scrape and Haveall 
 required — to cut their satins, measure ribbons, 
 fold shawls, and perform duties of the like kind, 
 innumerable as are the stars of heaven — nearly 
 one hundred assistants; mostly young men and 
 women between twenty and thirty years of age, 
 though a few of them had passed the latter period 
 of life, and some — Herbert and Alice Markham 
 for instance — were still in their teens ; and the 
 heart turning to such blighted youth forgets 
 wealth and splendor. 
 
 It was towards the close of a May day — bright 
 May, when the hedgerows are sweet, and the 
 hawthorn in blossom; when even the dusty 
 lilacs in the London squares put forth their pale 
 flowers, and the smoke-begrimed sparrows twit- 
 ter their merriest note. But the large rambling 
 shop of Messrs. Scrape, Haveall and Co., with 
 its long straight counters, and winding ways, 
 where the houses taken in joined one another, 
 was redolent of anything rather than spring 
 flowers. The atmosphere formed by so many 
 human breaths being of that close, unpleasant 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 139 
 
 character which makes the buyer of a yard of 
 ribbon exclaim, even on a winter's day, " How 
 pleasant to get into the fresh air again ! " Walk- 
 ing up and down the shop, occasionally speaking 
 in courteous phrase to a customer, and often 
 reprimianding an assistant, was a man of about 
 forty. It was not that his features were irregu- 
 lar, but there shone tli rough them so cold and 
 hard an expression, that every one would have 
 called him an ordinary man. He walked with a 
 shuffling gait, and it might have been observed 
 that he wore a peculiar sort of gaiter, the better 
 to support and conceal the bandages it was neces- 
 sary to Vv^ear. For as linendrapers' assistants 
 are never allowed to sit, except during the few 
 minutes in which they snatch their meals, swol- 
 len legs and absolute disease are the quite com- 
 mon results of fourteen or fifteen hours' stand- 
 ing ; and this is a low average to what is and 
 has been ! 
 
 This superintendent, or shop-walker, — hard- 
 ened into a tyrant by the wrongs of his own 
 youth, — was speaking to a lady near the door, 
 when Alice and Herbert chanced to meet, with- 
 out either of them being at the moment engaged 
 in waiting on a customer. They were at the 
 further end of the shop, and instinctively with- 
 drew a few paces till they brought themselves 
 behind a pile of goods, which shielded them from 
 
140 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER ; 
 
 observation. To converse in business hours, 
 even if there were nothing to do, was a forbidden 
 pleasure ; nevertheless, it was indulged in for a 
 few moments, especially as it was evident Alice 
 had been weeping bitterly. 
 
 " No, no, not for myself," said she, in answer 
 to his inquiries ; " it is that you should have 
 acted their falsehoods as I have seen you do 
 to-day." 
 
 "What have you seen me do?" replied Her- 
 bert, his face flashing, and yet in a tone of voice 
 that implied a resolution to brave out aught he 
 had done. 
 
 "A poor trick; a lady wished some silk — it 
 was not that what you showed her was too infe- 
 rior for her taste, but it was not dear enough, in 
 her opinion, to be good; you saw this — you 
 feigned to fetch another piece, but you only cut 
 that in half, and added a shilling a yard to the 
 price." 
 
 " And suppose I had not done so, she would 
 have left the shop without purchasing," 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 "Do 3'ou know why poor Martin was dis- 
 missed so suddenly last week ? " 
 
 " I did not hear the reason exactly ; — imper- 
 tinence, they said." 
 
 " A refusal to do such things as these ; and by 
 a perversity of fortune, thrice in one day, per- 
 
OR, 
 
 THE draper's assistant. 
 
 141 
 
 sons who spoke to him went away without buy- 
 ing." 
 
 "But, Herbert, wrong cannot come right," 
 returned Alice, raising her earnest, tearful eyes 
 again to his. 
 
 Herbert put his hand affectionately upon her 
 shoulder, and was about to speak, when an angry 
 voice, crying " Markham — ]Mr. ]\Iarkham, w^here 
 are you ? " quickly separated them ; yet was it a 
 moment they could never forget; a seemingly 
 trifling incident, like many we can all bring to 
 mind, that take fast hold of the memory whether 
 we will or not. In reality, it was the moment in 
 which the sister felt that the influence — the sort 
 of affectionate authority her three years' seniority 
 had hitherto given her — was over. The, chain 
 of habit was broken ; she could now only lure to 
 right by soft persuasion or bright example. Yet 
 one had overheard their discourse, and had read 
 both their hearts, by that intuitive knowledge of 
 human nature which genius gives. For genius 
 lived and had its being in at least one noble heart 
 behind that counter; genius of that high order 
 which makes its possessor the pioneer to a prom- 
 ised land, even when meeting, as more or less 
 such minds so often do, with scorn and ingrati- 
 tude; forming as it were the living angle of a 
 wedge, that makes the opening, to die perchance 
 in achieving it. 
 
142 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 " If we can get out by half-past ten to-night, 
 will you take a stroll with me ? " said William 
 Howard to Herbert Markham, an hour or so after 
 the conversation of the latter with his sister, to 
 which I have just alluded. 
 
 " Why, I don't know — I am sure," replied 
 Herbert in a hesitating manner ; " I half prom- 
 ised to go with some of them to a shilling con- 
 cert, and to supper afterwards." 
 
 " You had better change your mind," returned 
 the other : " a walk in the fresh air — say across 
 one of the bridges — will do you much more 
 good, besides costing you nothing." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't mind a few shillings." 
 
 " I know that ; but I wish 3^ou would come 
 ^vith me instead ; I really want to speak to you." 
 
 It seemed that William Howard could always 
 have his will, when he took the trouble of trying 
 for it. And yet none of them could account for 
 his influence, although many felt it. In person 
 he was slight and fair, with a high forehead, 
 shaded by soft brown hair, which, though he 
 could not have numbered more than eight and 
 twenty 3'ears, was already streaked with white ; 
 his eyes were of that changing color which so 
 frequently belongs to genius, and which might 
 be called chameleon grey; while, alas ! the hec- 
 tic cheek and frequent cough told a tale of suf- 
 fering to those who could read such signs. 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 143 
 
 Herbert scarcely knew how it was that he had 
 Deen so easily persuaded to give up the concert; 
 yet, certain it is, that towards midnight he found 
 himself inhaling the pure air from the river, in- 
 stead of the vitiated atmosphere of a crowded 
 room. Moreover, he was enjoying the conver- 
 sation of his companion extremely ; perhaps, too, 
 his vanity was a little gratified that Howard — 
 whom he soon discovered to be no ordinary per- 
 son — should think it worth while to converse 
 with a youth like himself so seriously ; for they 
 had, in fact, become quite confidential, and they 
 spoke of their mutual hardships with the freedom 
 of friendship. They stood on Waterloo bridge, 
 the slanting shadow of whose arches was thrown 
 distinctly on the rippling waters by the bright 
 moon above, as it seemed to rend asunder every 
 now and then the fleecy floating clouds. There 
 was a hush, a repose about the scene, afl^ecting 
 even to the most careless, after the fatigue, and 
 noise, and feverish hurry of the day ; while north 
 and south, and east and west, arose the darken- 
 ing masses of domes and dwellings, and above 
 them the lurid glare which, once observed, is 
 always recognized as the reflection of London's 
 myriad gas lights. 
 
 " How wealth and poverty neighbor one 
 another !" said William Howard, after a pause ; 
 " and yet they are unknown to each other, and 
 
144 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 have worlds more widely different than thou- 
 sands who dwell in different hemispheres. This 
 is the mischief, — the intense selfishness which, 
 having no faith in a governing Providence, will 
 plan and purpose for its little self, according to 
 its little knowledge, getting entangled in an in- 
 extricable manner in its vain efforts to work out 
 truth from a falsity, 'right' out of 'wrong.' It 
 is this fearful selfishness, this want of human 
 sympathy, that is the canker stretching through 
 the social chain, even to the sufferings of you 
 and me." 
 
 " Perhaps ;" replied Herbert, but half under- 
 standing his companion, and yet deeply inter- 
 ested in their discourse ; " but how is it to be 
 cured ? I have heard politicians say it is easy 
 to discover a fault, but often very difficult to 
 remove it." 
 
 " By working a different problem," returned 
 Howard, whhout attending to the last observa- 
 tion, — "by working /ro?w right, whithersoever 
 it may lead, instead of struggling after happiness 
 by the cross roads which have no connection 
 with it. It is by moral influence — no other 
 force — that the suffering must have their wrongs 
 redressed. The light will come — the dawn is 
 already apparent." 
 
 "Is it true that you write poetry?" said Her- 
 bert; — a strange rejoinder, yet not mal-a-propos. 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 145 
 
 William Howard smiled as he continued — " I 
 do not call my verses by so dignified a name. 
 Strange that to those who find no such channel for 
 their thoughts, the effort seems extraordinary — 
 to me it is so natural. But, Herbert Markham, 
 it was not to talk of poetry that I asked you to 
 walk with me. I have lived in this world — and 
 a beautiful world it is — ten years longer than 
 you have ; will you listen to me, and hear my 
 advice, as if I were an elder brother ? " 
 
 "That will I, and gratefully," said Herbert 
 with real emotion — for he felt the reverence, 
 and yet elevation, we most of us experience 
 when brought into communion with a superior 
 mind. 
 
 " You are surrounded by temptations — strong 
 ones I grant, if you look not beyond the present 
 moment — but I entreat you yield not to them. 
 Independent of your own loss, in choosing a path 
 that must lead to ruin, remember that it is by 
 showing ourselves worthy of liberty that we 
 slaves shall become free. Every falling off of 
 an individual is a backward step for our fellow- 
 sufferers. Already a small body is organized, 
 we meet often ; will you add another voice, 
 another unit, to a little party who, working out 
 their principles in the light of religion and mo- 
 rality, hope confidently to bring about a better 
 order of things." 
 13 
 
146 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 " But I am so ignorant," exclaimed Herbert ; 
 "what can I do?" 
 
 " Only at present be worthy — and yield not 
 to the vile trickeries which disgust while they 
 degrade." 
 
 " And do you never," replied Herbert, with 
 real astonishment, " and do you never name two 
 prices, or sell faded articles at candle-light, or 
 soil things to make them seem a bargain, or — " 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 *' And yet have been seven years in the 
 house !" 
 
 " At first I suffered severely, and was fined 
 half my salary for my indiscretions ; for the list 
 of finable offences was even longer then than it 
 is now. But by one of those consequences — I 
 will not call them accidents — which follow us 
 on the right path, in some unlooked-for manner, 
 it has happened that once I was the means of 
 preventing an extensive robbery ; and that three 
 of Messrs. Haveall's best customers have for 
 years insisted on being waited upon by myself 
 — these reasons, I believe, induce them to put 
 up with my ' folly;' and I tell you again there 
 is a little band who will not lend themselves to 
 these vile trickeries." 
 
 " And yet for seven years you have not bet- 
 tered yourself It is a hopeless prospect." 
 
 " Think of doing right ; and the bettering for 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 147 
 
 all of us will come. But speaking in a worldly 
 point of view, others who have followed the plan 
 have been benefited personally by it ; for I need 
 scarcely say that those who resist this sort of 
 temptation are not likely to fall into the habit of 
 seeking bad company ; and the very money they 
 have saved from the gulf of idle dissipation has 
 enabled them to start in business for themselves." 
 " And you — why not you ? " 
 " I am still poor — for I have my dear mother 
 to support." 
 
 " What is it your little band are struggling 
 for?" returned Herbert. 
 
 " To procure an alteration of existing customs, 
 by which our time of daily labor may be reduced 
 to twelve, or, as I say, ten hours daily. I am 
 satisfied it only remains for our wrongs to be 
 known for them to be redressed; but the evil 
 has grown so gradually and stealthily, that habit 
 has accustomed the world to its frightful reality, 
 and, slow to change, it cannot at first understand 
 the miseries of this monstrous system. Even 
 those who are the greatest sufferers, the most 
 ruined in health and degraded in mind, are often 
 the last to stir for their own relief. In fact, the 
 movement is taking place among the few whose 
 establishments are conducted on upright princi- 
 ples towards their customers, and humanity to 
 their servants; for, my young friend, we have 
 
148 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 the sanction of some employers on our side, and 
 honor and gratitude are their due. It is our 
 individual misfortune to be under the control of 
 narrow-minded masters, who have not even the 
 understanding to feel the cruelty they are prac- 
 tising ; the men who always clog the wheel when 
 social advancement is intended. And this is to 
 be accounted for easily, I think. But come, 
 promise me that you w^ill be one of us — if only 
 for your sweet sister's sake — promise ! " 
 
 " I do ; and I will pray to God to help me keep 
 such promise. Howard, I shall never forget to- 
 night ; but there, you are coughing again ; is it 
 well for you to be out so late?" And as they 
 walked away from the bridge, the deep tones of 
 St. Paul's boomed forth the midnight hour ; 
 while William Howard's continued cough meas- 
 ured time — the mortal term of his life — in a 
 manner as significant ! 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Three months passed av,^ay, changing bright, 
 flowering May to fruitful, golden August. Not 
 that the different seasons, indeed, were much 
 perceive! in the establishment of Messrs. Scrape, 
 Haveall and Co. ; unless it were that the more 
 balmy the air, or inviting the day for out-of-door 
 enjoyment, the more crowded was the shop, and 
 the later was it kept open ; and when at last it 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 149 
 
 was closed, there were the goods to put away, — 
 so that it was no unusual thing for the jaded and 
 worn-out assistants to see the dawn before retir- 
 ino- to their yet more crowded dormitories — 
 whence to arise, in three or four hours, with 
 wearied limbs and aching head, to fulfil again 
 the sad routine of their unvaried life. Yet 
 though the glad sunshine, or the perfumed sum- 
 mer breezes, made little difference to Herbert and 
 his companions, a change, a something to be felt 
 rather than described, had taken place in the 
 establishment ; or perhaps I should say, in a 
 small division of it — for Howard, and the few 
 who listened to his advice, formed, after all, a very 
 decided minority. Yet it was remarkable that 
 these few were the most respectable and best- 
 conducted individuals in the house ; and, more- 
 over, the chief favorites with regular customers, 
 who naturally prefer being waited on by some 
 one in whom they have confidence. 
 
 It may have been guessed that Alice IMarkham 
 possessed a stronger mind, and more fixed prin- 
 ciples, than her brother ; perhaps it was so, or 
 perhaps his youth may be pleaded as an apology 
 for the one act which had caused her so much 
 pain — for in three years, at their age, the mind 
 takes a great spring. However this might be, 
 William Howard soon found that in Alice Mark- 
 ham he had met a kindred spirit — one who in a 
 
150 LIFE BEHIND THE COrNTER ; 
 
 righteous cause Avould play the martyr, either hy 
 action or endurance. But why lengthen the tale ? 
 — could thev speak with earnest reasoning, and 
 exchange high thoughts with glowing enthusi- 
 asm, without perceiving that their hearts were 
 growing one ? And in the joy and glory of a 
 pure and passionate love — health and life, and a 
 feio hours in the four and twenty for social inter- 
 course aiid mental improvement, seemed more 
 than ever worth a struggle. So greatly had 
 poor Alice suffered from the fatigue consequent 
 on such unreasonable hours of attendance in the 
 shop, that William Howard persuaded her to 
 petition for eniplo^'ment in the rooms, where, 
 needlework necessary in making up things for 
 sale being done, she might sit a portion of the 
 day. It is true that this arrangement deprived 
 them of opportunities of exchanging many a 
 cherished word ; but in all human probability it 
 saved the life of Alice — we shall see presently 
 for what. 
 
 It was the custom of Herbert and Alice to 
 spend a portion of the Sunday with William 
 Howard and his mother. The three usually 
 attended church together, and then taking a 
 walk — for fresh air in the parks if possible — 
 made the humble dwelling of the widow their 
 halting place for the day. Sometimes, but not 
 often, Alice and her brother dined bv invitation 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 151 
 
 at their uncle's ; and on one remarkable occasion 
 a postscript was added to the note of invitation, 
 intimating that if they liked to bring with them 
 the young friend they had so often mentioned, 
 he would be welcome. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Markham had invited a new 
 apprentice of the former (with w'hom he had 
 accepted rather an extra premium) to meet their 
 young visitors, all of whom they received with 
 feelings of hospitality, decidedly strengthened by 
 the pleasant consciousness of patronage. Even 
 the elderly young lady, their daughter, had 
 thought it quite worth while to deck herself in 
 smiles, and put on her most becoming dress. 
 What little kindnesses will kindle gratitude in 
 affectionate hearts ! Never had Herbert and 
 Alice felt so much regard for their relatives as 
 from their courtesy they did this day, tracing 
 even in the " nice " dinner of salmon and lamb 
 which had been provided, the thought of their 
 gratification. The consequence was that their 
 hearts were opened, and they conversed with 
 much less reserve than usual ; and certain topics 
 at last were started, on which William Howard 
 spoke with the earnest enthusiasm which be- 
 longed to his nature. 
 
 " O dear ! " said Miss Markham, who, having 
 lately adopted ringlets, affected with them ex- 
 treme juvenility, — " O dear ! it would be such a 
 
152 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER ; 
 
 pity to shut up the shops at dark — it would 
 make the streets look quite dull, I declare ! " 
 
 " But, madam," replied Howard, " if you think 
 of the tens of thousands who would be made 
 happy by such a custom, the lives that would be 
 preserved, the health that would be retained — 
 and, more than all, the moral advancement which 
 must result from a moderate time being afforded 
 for reading and mental improvement — " 
 
 " Oh, sir," said Mr. Markham, very decidedly, 
 " I don't see what apprentices and assistants want 
 with reading. It would fill their heads with a 
 parcel of nonsense — that is all." 
 
 Howard colored deeply, yet he continued with 
 much self-control — "I do not say that it is de- 
 sirable that such persons should become what are 
 called ' literary ;' but I hope, Mr. Markham, you 
 will agree with me that some taste for reading, 
 some desire for mental cultivation, must form the 
 best safeguard against habits of idle dissipation ; 
 whereas a body jaded and worn by fifteen or six- 
 teen hours of anxious toil, disinclines the mind 
 for action, and tempts too many to seek a mo- 
 mentary stimulant. I may well say anxious toil, 
 for a situation ha? been known to depend on an 
 assistant persuading a customer to buy an article 
 for which she had no inclination." 
 
 'Yes," said Mrs. Markham, " you do plague 
 
 J 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 153 
 
 one dreadfully. I do declare there is no getting 
 out of a shop without buying." 
 
 " Aunt," said Alice gently, " I think the mis- 
 chief is the system of falsehood it teaches — oh, 
 if you knew the things 1 have heard and wit- 
 nessed." 
 
 " You should not tell tales out of school, niece," 
 exclaimed her uncle ; " every trade has its tricks 
 — that I know." 
 
 " More is the pity, though ! " said the grocer's 
 apprentice, growing alarmingly bold from the 
 treason to which he had been an attentive listener. 
 There was no verbal answer, but Mr. Markham 
 darted a fiery glance around, which, however, 
 only Alice read correctly; while her aunt again 
 spoke, saying — 
 
 " Besides, sir, how could servants and many 
 others, who are engaged all day, make their 
 purchases if the shops were closed at night ? " 
 
 " I imagine, madam, that under such an ar- 
 rangement mistresses would allow servants the 
 liberty of going out for this purpose in the day. 
 It has even been argued that it would be an 
 advantage to such persons, inasmuch as they 
 vi^ould escape the liability of being imposed on 
 by candle-light, or of purchasing an unsuitable 
 article by accident, and would be less likely to 
 be tempted on occasions to spend their money 
 foolishly, than from the facility they now have 
 
154 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 of doing so at all hours. At least, this is the 
 manner in which we meet this common objec- 
 tion ; but it certainly rests greatly with those 
 who are free agents, who can purchase at what 
 hours they like, to exert the great influence of 
 example by doing so at early hours." 
 
 " It seems to me, young gentleman," replied 
 Mr. Markham, " that in all your arrangements 
 you leave the master's interests entirely out of 
 the question." 
 
 " Not so, I assure you, sir ; for they would 
 reap many advantages in possessing a superior 
 set of servants, who would have better health, 
 and more alacrity to serve them; — besides, the 
 system of early hours once established, purchas- 
 ers would make their arrangements accordingly. 
 They would choose the articles they require, 
 early in the day — not go without them; and 
 the result would be active occupation during the 
 hours of business, instead of, as is often the case, 
 only the appearance of it ; for we are ordered to 
 seem busy whether we are so or not. Oh, sir, 
 if you only knew the misery and mischief which 
 have gone on for the last thirty years, accumu- 
 lating and progressing, you would see the neces- 
 sity of a change." 
 
 " No, I do not see it," returned their host, 
 " and I disapprove of this discontent among 
 young peoole, and beg to hear no more of it. 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 155 
 
 Young people must take their chance and work 
 their way, as others have done before them." 
 
 Yes, in as mortal danger of life as the soldier 
 on the battle-field — {for this is the comiputed, 
 ascertained fact) — from breathing foul air — 
 from want of sufficient rest — from continued 
 over-exertion — from hurried and irregular meals, 
 and frequently improper food ; and in the peril 
 of mind and morals which must result from the 
 systematic teaching of much falsehood, and the 
 absence of all leisure for establishing religious 
 principles — for cultivating the intellectual na- 
 ture, and enjoj^ing the healthful influence of 
 social intercourse. But Mr. Markham, who 
 spoke thus, considered himself a person of strict 
 principles, and above all, of business habits — so 
 that he thought it his duty to apprize the govern- 
 ing powers in the establishment of Messrs. Scrape 
 and Haveall, (they had lately given him a large 
 order for grocery,) that they had a dangerous 
 rebel in their house. The next day William 
 Howard was discharged ! 
 
 Again three months have passed — changing 
 now golden, glowing August to dull November. 
 
 In a very humble dwelling were assembled, 
 one Sunday evening, William Howard, his 
 mother, and Alice Markham. An open Bible 
 was on the table, from which the latter had been 
 
156 LIFE BEHIND THE COrNTER; 
 
 reading aloud, until the gathering tears stayed 
 her voice, and she paused ; her listeners know- 
 ing too well the reason of her silence to ask it. 
 Alas ! William Howard was now a confirmed 
 invalid; — anxiety of mind on losing his situa- 
 tion, and probably, a cold taken in going about 
 seeking another, had completed the work so long 
 begun — the fiat was gone forth — consumption 
 had marked him as its own. He knew the truth, 
 and was resigned to the will of God ; not with 
 that dogged, hardened, brute courage, which may 
 meet death unflinchingly, but with that holy trust 
 in His mercy, that while the heart feels the dear 
 ties of life, it has yet strength to say meekly — 
 " Thy will be done ! " 
 
 " So you think, dear Alice," said Mrs. How- 
 ard, making an effort to change the current of 
 all their thoughts, " you think that Herbert and 
 yourself will obtain situations in the establish- 
 ment we were speaking of, where they close at 
 seven o'clock ? — blessings on them, for having 
 the courage and humanity to set such an ex- 
 ample." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," said Alice, trying to 
 speak cheerfully ; " for they only wait to see 
 Mr. Haveall — and whatever evil may have been 
 going on in the house, he cannot accuse us of 
 participating in it. Ah, William, what a happi- 
 ness it must be to you, to know that your influ- 
 
OB, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 157 
 
 ence saved Herbert from becoming as false and 
 unworthy as so many of his companions : and 1 
 — oh ! how much do I owe you ! " 
 
 William Howard was scarcely allowed to speak, 
 for the slightest exertion brought on the cough, 
 but he wrote on a slate which was kept near 
 him — 
 
 "Less, dearest, than I owe you — truth and 
 virtue never seemed so lovely, as when reflected 
 from your conduct." 
 
 There was a long pause after the writing was 
 erased — and presently the bells from neighbor- 
 ing churches were heard sounding for evening 
 service, William Howard wrote upon a slate — 
 
 " Mother, will you go to church to-night, and 
 leave me, as you have sometimes done, with 
 Alice?" 
 
 Mrs. Howard rose, and kissing his pale fore- 
 head, said solemnly, — 
 
 " I will pray for all of us — I am inconsider- 
 ate to leave you so seldom together." 
 
 "No, no," murmured her son, "only for 
 to-night." 
 
 The lovers were together. Lovers ! what an 
 earthly word for two such beings as William and 
 Alice. The one — 
 
 " Whose shadow fell upon the grave 
 He stood so near," — 
 
 the other, in the years of opening life, with, in 
 14 
 
158 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER; 
 
 human probability, a long and solitary course 
 before her. The heart of Alice \Yas too pure for 
 her to play the prude for an instant. She knelt 
 on a stool beside the large easy chair in which 
 he was supported, and, passing her arm round 
 his neck, rested her own head upon his pillow, 
 so that she could overlook the little slate on 
 which he wrote, and murmur her answers into 
 his ear. Nay, I think she pressed a kiss or two 
 upon the skeleton fingers, before they traced these 
 words : — 
 
 " Tell me the truth, dear Alice, — where does 
 the money come from, by means of which I am 
 surrounded with so many comforts ? It cannot 
 be my mother's needlework that earns it." 
 
 " And you are too proud to take a little of our 
 savings?" 
 
 " No, darling, I am not. Pride does not be- 
 come the dying; but more is spent than even 
 this accounts for." 
 
 "Then I will tell you," said Alice, after a 
 pause ; " I think the truth will give you pleas- 
 ure. The fellow-assistants who profited by your 
 advice, and who feel that you are among the 
 first few to whom they are indebted for the bet- 
 ter order of things which is coming, have insisted 
 on clubbing together to afford you every comfort 
 in your illness." 
 
 The slate dropped from his hand, and he lorote 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 159 
 
 no more. Did they both forget the physician's 
 injunction that he should not speak? 
 
 " May God bless them for it ! " burst feebly 
 from his lips, yet more hurriedly than the phrase 
 could have been written ; " and yet," he con- 
 tinued, " they can ill afford it, especially now 
 that they want every guinea to further the plans 
 of the Association for their relief. Oh ! Alice, 
 is it really true that so many of the employers 
 have joined?" 
 
 "Many," returned Alice, almost joyfully; 
 " many of the most respectable houses already 
 close at seven ; and, though they are prepared 
 to suffer a little at first, from the opposition of 
 those who keep open, they seem at last to be 
 carrying out your favorite motto, ' to follow the 
 right whithersoever it may lead.' Nay, they do 
 say that the hours of toil will ultimately be re- 
 duced to ten, — enough for poor humanity, as ive 
 know who have ivorked." 
 
 "And for me to rob them at such a time!" 
 murmured Howard, sinking his head upon the 
 shoulder of Alice. She kissed his cheek — his 
 lips — his forehead — and felt the hot tears 
 streaming from his eyes. 
 
 " There is a way," said Alice, softly, her cheek 
 tingling, she knew not why, — " there is a means 
 for present need, if it could be adopted. You 
 know my uncle will not give me a farthing of 
 
160 
 
 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER J 
 
 my hundred pounds, nor can I touch it for some 
 months to come; — yet — yet — it is so left — 
 tliat — that — if I had married, it would have 
 become my husband's." 
 
 " Well, dearest ? " 
 
 Alice again paused, but her cheek leaned 
 against his — her lips touched his ear — and she 
 murmured, " Could it not so be yours ?" 
 
 For a while there was no audible answer. 
 William Howard raised his head from Alice 
 Markham's shoulder, and gazed for a moment on 
 the dark and earnest eyes which met his own 
 with no coquettish shrinking, but with a look that 
 revealed the depths of her soul. 
 
 " No, never !" he exclaimed, in a louder voice 
 than had been heard for many weeks ; and while 
 he twined his arms around her with something 
 of recovered strength, words of endearment burst 
 from his lips, and broken phrases that might be 
 interpreted, " Youth's bright imaginings, and 
 poets' dreams, are dull delusions compared with 
 such a heart as this !" 
 
 x\nd then came the paroxysm of the cough, 
 after so much excitement, and he sank back on 
 his pillow as helpless as an infant. A little 
 while, and they spoke of death, not marriage, 
 quite calmly; and yet his frame shook when 
 Alice murmured, "I — I — will be as a child 
 
OR, THE DRArER's ASSISTANT. 161 
 
 to your mother — and Herbert, too. Oh, Wil- 
 liam ! he will not disgrace your teaching." 
 
 Again the horrid knell of that painful, tearing 
 cough ; and once more his head drops fondly on 
 her shoulder. But there is a gush of something 
 that comes even hotter and faster than scalding 
 tears ; in the cough he has broken a blood-vessel, 
 and the life stream flows from his pale lips on 
 the bosom of his faithful, high-hearted Alice ! 
 A few hours of mortal life were all that remained 
 to William Howard. 
 
 Reader, this is a common story ; one that m 
 all its human emotions has been felt and acted 
 thousands of times. There is somethingf so 
 blinding in custom, that the best and wisest of 
 us are slow to see evils that do not come directly 
 home to us. How many a gentle and sensitive 
 woman, that has wept over the vivid pages of 
 romance, or lent her keenest sympathies to the 
 ideal sorrows of the drama, has, month after 
 month, and year after year, visited the gay and 
 gorgeous shops of the " Metropolitan Drapers," 
 without so much as dreaming of the deep and 
 real tragedies that were enacting " behind the 
 counter." The blighted youth — the ruined 
 health — the early graves — the withered minds 
 — the corrupted morals — and, oh! the noble 
 spirits, the true heroes of private life, who, stand- 
 14# 
 
162 LIFE BEHIND THE COUNTER ] 
 
 ing forward to cheer and teach, by precept and 
 example, have won the guerdon of eternal grati- 
 tude from their class. To my mind, it seems 
 there must have been many William Howards 
 ere the "Metropolitan Drapers' Association" 
 could have been formed ; an association now 
 encouraged and assisted by clergy, members of 
 parliament, influential literary and philanthropic 
 gentlemen, and the most respectable emjJoyers 
 in London. 
 
 And alas ! there must have been many a self- 
 ish, narrow-minded man, like Mr. Markham, 
 with heart contracted by the very system he 
 attempted to uphold, ere the wrongs of the op- 
 pressed could have grown so deep as to require 
 such a remedy. 
 
 Gentle, kind-hearted lady, who would not hurt 
 a noxious insect in your path — who, if your pet 
 bird pined in its gilded cage, would open the door 
 to give it the option of liberty — think how much 
 good there is in your power to do ! Remember 
 that units make up the millions. Raise your 
 voice bravely to assert the right; and in your 
 household see that it is done. Forbid the late 
 shopping — forbid even all tradir.g with the 
 houses that do keep open. Think, too, it is the 
 merry month of May — bright summer, golden 
 autumn, are before us; then turn in thought, as 
 you breathe the perfume of flowers, or inhale the 
 
OR, THE draper's ASSISTANT. 163 
 
 fresh sea-breeze, to those crowded shops, and 
 their sickly, heart-crushed denizens ! Yet they 
 might have the morning and evening walk in the 
 bright summer, and in the winter the cheerful 
 fireside, the friendly converse, and the pleasant 
 book. Health might bloom on their cheeks, and 
 joy sparkle in their eyes ! 
 
164 
 
 A FAREWELL TO THE LYRE. 
 
 BY MISS E. L. MONTAGU. 
 
 Farewell ! — the gift of Song is fading fast, 
 Like some fair flower, upfolding to its rest ! 
 I feel a glory from my soul hath past. 
 
 And quenched the sacred fires within my 
 breast. 
 My thoughts are dim — my thrilling lyre un- 
 strung — 
 And, like sweet dews from off the light leaves 
 flung. 
 Each fountain-drop returneth to the source from 
 whence it sprung ! 
 
 Farewell ! — there was a time my soul had 
 wept 
 To see the radiant Sun of Song go down ! 
 When 'neath its light the pale-browed Sorrow 
 slept. 
 And Anguish woke not till its rays were 
 gone. 
 But severed now is Music's mystic chain ; 
 The eye which marks that lamp of glory wane 
 Shall smile upon its setting, though it riseth not 
 ajrain ! 
 
A FAREWELL TO THE LYKE. 165 
 
 Farewell ! thou Lyre so deeply loved of old ! 
 Thy voice is tuneless, and thy spirit fled. 
 Farewell, each strain that in my breast lies 
 cold 
 Above your rest be Joy's soft silence shed. 
 Yet, though ye die, your mennory still is ours, 
 When faint ye breathe along the winged hours, 
 As odors soft arise from graves of buried flowers ! 
 
166 
 
 BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY MARY LEMAN GILLIES. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake do not grumble !" were 
 words uttered in a tone which expressed a sorely- 
 oppressed heart. The speaker was a young 
 man, dressed in a fustian suit of working clothes, 
 which though coarse were clean, and could not 
 disguise a fine form. His countenance was mild, 
 grave, and open ; his voice deep and touching, 
 possessing those inflexions which belong to strong 
 feeling and a certain degree of cultivation. The 
 woman beside him was a little compact creature, 
 with a pretty face, and piercing black eyes ; par- 
 ticularly neat in her attire, and quick in her 
 movements, by which she was every now and 
 then in advance of her companion, whose steady, 
 equal pace knew no deviation. 
 
 These people were husband and wife, and 
 were returning home together in discourse more 
 earnest than agreeable — one of those events 
 which, in the fluctuations of trade, from time to 
 time occur — a reduction of wages — had tried 
 the temper of the one, and touched the feelings 
 
BLIGHTED HOMES. 167 
 
 of the other. George and ]\Iartha Robinson had 
 been six years married. Their union had been 
 a rare combination of love and prudence ; her 
 early thriftiness had enabled her to bring many 
 substantial comforts to their home, and George, 
 if less provident, had obtained a character for 
 integrity and skill which secured him a prefer- 
 ence among employers. They had one child, 
 nearly three years old, and to superficial obser- 
 vation presented a domestic compact of peculiar 
 comfort and enjoyment. But we must lift the 
 veil. The sources of happiness lie not with ex- 
 ternals : it needs no moralist to tell us how inade- 
 quate is wealth to its production — how little the 
 glitter of the diamond enlivens the breast on 
 which it glows. In the home of George Robin- 
 son, those moral gems, order and cleanliness, 
 had a setting ; they were so predominant as to 
 be apparent at a glance, and a stricter observa- 
 tion would have disclosed an admirable system 
 of economy and habits of industry. These were 
 Martha's great requisites, and it is scarcely pos- 
 sible to overrate them ; but she deteriorated their 
 value, often nullified their power, by moral de- 
 ficiencies, — deficiencies of those qualities which, 
 though taking rank among the minor essentials 
 of character, are daily items in the account of 
 life that sway the balance to enjoyment or mis- 
 ery. She wanted gentleness of spirit, kindliness 
 
168 BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 of temper, and amenity of manner. In the days 
 of her petted childhood, in the brief courtship 
 which had preceded her early marriage, her 
 pertness had been regarded as wit, her youth 
 and prettiness giving a passport to much that 
 was reprehensible and repulsive. It was thought 
 that her exuberance of spirit and aci lity of 
 humor would become subdued and softened by 
 the sobering cares and soothing duties of domes- 
 tic life. Such did not prove to be the case. The 
 disposition to perceive deformity rather than 
 beauty ; to censure sooner than praise ; to find 
 out the faulty instead of the fair side of every- 
 thing, and to extract bitters rather than sweets, 
 which had once been exercised in a wide circle 
 of family, friends, and neighbors, gained strength 
 in the concentration it experienced after her mar- 
 riage. Every little mole-hill annoyance grew, 
 from her manner of viewing it, into a mountain 
 grievance, nor when passed away was it forgot- 
 ten. No moment was so calm in which her 
 caprice might not raise a storm or revive one ; 
 no entreaties to let " bygones be bygones " would 
 avail, and often had George Robinson occasion 
 to exclaim with Solomon — "Better is a dry 
 morsel and quietness therewith, than a house 
 full of sacrifices and strife." 
 
 On learning the abridgment which their means 
 had experienced, she had instantly launched into 
 
BLIGHTED HOLIES. 169 
 
 a flow of words which tortured her husband's 
 mind, and urged him to utter the adjuration just 
 quoted, but she continued her painful and fruit- 
 less expatiation till they reached home. With a 
 slow and sad step, George entered : had the in- 
 ner man possessed resignation to the present and 
 hope for the future, which a complacent com- 
 panion might have easily infused, how might he 
 have shut the door of his dwelling upon the angry 
 world, and realized a little Goshen of his own, 
 for the scene was all neatness, brightness, and 
 sweetness; but without the moral charms of 
 cheerful, tender lovingness, it was but the naked 
 trellis wanting the flowers it was fitted to sus- 
 tain. 
 
 The fire had been carefully made up; a gen- 
 tle stir, and it threw about the room a blaze 
 which glanced upon the well kept furniture, the 
 quiet carpet, and the curtained windows, while 
 the open door of the adjoining apartment gave a 
 glimpse of the bed with its nice hangings, the 
 child's cot with its white coverlet; turn his eye 
 where he might, the order essential to comfort 
 was apparent, but did not dissipate the desolate 
 feelings planted in his heart. He sat down by 
 the fire, leaned his elbow on his knee, and his 
 head on his hand. His attitude expressed 
 thoughtful melancholy ; Martha looked at him, 
 felt a conviction that he was unhappy, and was 
 15 
 
170 BLIGHTED HOBIES. 
 
 not insensible to a sympathetic regret ; had she 
 gone to his side, put her arm about him, and 
 said — "Dear George, look up, this will pass 
 away and soon," he was the very man to have 
 responded to such cheer, to have seen sunshine 
 behind the cloudj but it was her unhappy habit 
 to rouse him with a sting. Gentleness of man- 
 ner she was apt to characterize as affectation ; 
 expressions of tenderness and attachment as 
 hypocrisy, and thus habituated herself to the 
 reverse. 
 
 "I don't see," she exclaimed, with a harsh, 
 cutting tone, " the use of your sitting moping 
 there — putting your dirty feet on the fender — 
 you 'd take better care had you the keeping of it 
 bright." 
 
 With that she untied her bonnet strings with 
 a twitch and turned into the next room. The 
 sharp sound of shaking the dust from her shawl 
 ere it was folded, the abrupt push given to the 
 box in which her bonnet was replaced, were all 
 unnecessary discords, spoiling the moral har- 
 mony of her best habits. She returned to the 
 pretty parlor tying on a clean white apron ; her 
 cheek was rosy, her hair smoothly braided, her 
 cap, an effort of unexpensive ingenuity, all fresh- 
 ness, and thus, the very type of niceness, she 
 threw a snowy cloth upon the table, on which 
 she made arrangements for supper worthy of a 
 
BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 171 
 
 home of higher pretensions ; but her movements 
 were ungentle, her aspect ungracious, and thus 
 all these pleasant proprieties were robbed of the 
 atmosphere that could alone give them bright- 
 ness and warmth. 
 
 George, under the effect of the homeward 
 scolding, had not spoken since he came in ; he 
 merely looked up, on her briefly telling him if he 
 wanted beer to go and fetch it, and rising he took 
 his hat and went out. He had not proceeded 
 many steps before he overtook and fell into talk 
 with a fellow-workman. The latter was in a 
 state of great excitement; he had just left his 
 home under the influence of strong disgust and 
 excessive annoyance from his wife, a slatternly 
 woman, and he sought relief by indulging in 
 violent invective against her, declaring, with an 
 impetuous oath, his determination to spend half 
 the night at the public house. 
 
 " I '11 just show her," he continued, " that if 
 she won't make comfort for me at home, I '11 
 make it for myself abroad." 
 
 " No, no," expostulated Robinson, " you will 
 only make bad worse — you'll take too much 
 and spend too much, Walker !"" He added, put- 
 ting his hand on the shoulder of his companion 
 
 " Bessie is a soft, gentle creature — a woman 
 
 full of kindness ; and, oh, God ! what a blessing 
 
172 BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 must that be ! Take my advice, Walker, and go 
 home." 
 
 " Home I " he repeated. " What have I to go 
 home to ? There 's no fire ; the children are all 
 up and squalling ; everything at sixes and sevens 
 — in fact, the whole place in an uproar. No, if 
 she likes to live in a den I don't, and what 's more 
 I won't. She '11 drive me to something desper- 
 ate — an untidy, slipshod hussy 1" 
 
 From this brief interview Robinson returned 
 home with new feelings ; the excitenient and 
 interest that Walker had created had roused him 
 from the condition of morbid feeling to which he 
 had yielded. He placed the brighi pot, with its 
 head of foam, upon the table, and with a fresh 
 eye, as if he then scanned them for the first time, 
 looked upon the appliances to comfort that sur- 
 rounded him. The room v/as at the moment 
 vacant, his survey was therefore uninterrupted. 
 His face brightened as he gazed upon the little 
 panorama. During his absence, his slippers had 
 been put before the fire; his house jacket hung on 
 the back of his chair; on another, his clean linen 
 for the next day airing — all spoke the kindness of 
 a woman who yet could rarely utter a kind word. 
 His heart, at the moment full of her merits, from 
 the contrast that had been forced upon his con- 
 sideration, would, had he obeyed the impulse of 
 his natural character, have led him to seek her 
 
BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 173 
 
 and given warm expression to his feelings; but 
 they had been so often checked by her coldness 
 or reversed by her contradiction, that a second 
 nature had supervened, producing habits of re- 
 serve and self-restraint. Yet under the existing 
 stimulus he could not quite restrain himself, but 
 going towards the next room, he leaned against 
 the side of the doorway, and said cheerfully — 
 " Come, Patty, I am ready for supper." 
 
 " Are you ? " she replied. " Then you '11 have 
 it when it 's ready for you — so just wait till you 
 get it." 
 
 Thus repelled, for her voice was more harsh 
 than her words, he stepped back, but, try as he 
 would, he again felt his spirits ebb. He stirred 
 the fire, drew the table closer to it, and strove to 
 feel indifference. In the midst of this she ap- 
 peared, seated herself at the table, helped her 
 husband, but forebore to partake of anything 
 herself. She had a sullen satisfaction in nurs- 
 ing her wayward humor, and knew from experi- 
 ence that it was apt to fly off under the social 
 influence of a repast. 
 
 Robinson looked at her clouded face and felt 
 exasperated. He put down his knife and fork, 
 pushed back his chair, and exclaimed — " Now 
 what is the matter with you ? " 
 
 It must be recollected that Robinson was not 
 only angry but hungry, and the state of physical 
 15# 
 
174 BLIGHTED H03IES. 
 
 sensation has no small influence upon the moral 
 feelings ; perhaps his wife was not without shar- 
 ing this uneasy state of stomach ; be that as it 
 may, his tones struck jarringly on the quivering 
 chords of her excitable temper ; she replied with 
 her usual petulance and flippancy. Words are 
 a generative family — one begot another — and 
 to bring the quarrel to a close, Robinson seized 
 his hat, resolved to leave the house. Deter- 
 mined to prevent his egress, Martha threw her- 
 self between him and the door ; a struggle en- 
 sued ; he pushed her from him ; she stumbled 
 back, and falling over a footstool came violently 
 to the ground, striking her head as she fell 
 against the fender. 
 
 In an instant, terror and tenderness supplanted 
 rage in his breast. He raised her ; the color had 
 forsaken her face, and some drops of blood were 
 trickling from her forehead. After liurried efforts 
 to revive her, he laid her again gently on the 
 floor, and flew to alarm his neighbors. These, 
 with medical aid and the police, were soon in the 
 place, and the night closed with the wounded 
 woman in a fevered bed, and her husband in the 
 cell of a station house. 
 
 It was an agonizing night to both. Robinson, 
 though aggrieved, felt now as if he had been the 
 aggressor, and with the generosity that often be- 
 loni^s to strength, he blanjied himself for the rash 
 
BLIGHTED HOMES. 175 
 
 violence he had exerted towards so delicate a 
 creature, and made a thousand resolves to let 
 her have all her own way for the future. Mar- 
 tha, on the contrary, (really less hurt than was 
 apprehended,) bewailed her injuries, vituperated 
 her husband and his sex, till she learned that he 
 had been taken charge of by the police. Any 
 real danger to him ever turned the whole cur- 
 rent of her feelings in his favor, and absolute 
 force was necessary to prevent her seeking in 
 person to obtain, by self-accusation, his immedi- 
 ate release. 
 
 This event terminated like many of a more 
 aggravated character that disgrace the history of 
 some classes of our people ; George was liber- 
 ated on bail, and afterwards, on the candid ac- 
 k-nowledgments of his wife, acquitted. But, 
 indignant at the public degradation to which, for 
 the first time in his life, he had been exposed, 
 the circumstance made a deep impression on 
 him. The slightness of the injury to Martha 
 removed all his deeper feelings of regret, and 
 her unchanged habits effectually stemmed the 
 flow of his returning tenderness. Affliction has 
 its freemasonry: Robinson and Walker became 
 confederates under the sympathetic influence of 
 .a common grievance — unhappiness at home. 
 The neglected wives grew into gossips upon 
 those fertile topics — the fauks of each other and 
 
176 BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 of their respective husbands; for each acutely 
 felt her peculiar griefs and distinctly discerned 
 her neighbor's error. Bessie Walker, while be- 
 wailing her own domestic misery, w^ould exclaim 
 — " No one can wonder at the change in George 
 Robinson — such a vixen as Martha would drive 
 any man mad !" While Mrs. Robinson, amid a 
 resentful sense of injury from neglect, was florid 
 in reflection on the bad management and disgust- 
 ing carelessness of poor Bessie. It was the old 
 story of the mote and the beam, the miserable 
 effect of want of self-examination and reflection. 
 
 But every moment bears the seed of change — 
 the present is passing away, the future unfold- 
 ing. Where there is not moral progress, there 
 is moral deterioration ; there is no safety but in 
 an unceasing endeavor at improvement. The 
 woman who does not help to build a husband's 
 fortune assists to pull it down ; the union that 
 is not marked by moral progress proceeds and 
 closes in moral misery. The arrears of the do- 
 mestic duties make a dread account, and Heaven 
 help the moral bankrupt before whom they are 
 laid! 
 
 On a summer evening, somewhat more than 
 twelve months after the little incident of the sta- 
 tion house, Martha was seated at her window 
 busy at her needle, when the sound of the drum 
 and fife, and the tramp of feet, induced her to 
 
BLIGHTED HOBIES. 177 
 
 drop her work into her lap and look out. She 
 saw the recruiting Serjeant, who had been for 
 some time located in the neighborhood, passing 
 with a band of recruits. Among the usual crowd 
 on such occasions, one group arrested her atten- 
 tion ; it was a staggering, haggard-looking man, 
 with a shrieking woman clinging to him — three 
 or four little children were hanging about her, 
 and adding by their cries to the clamor. A 
 glance sufficed to show Martha that this was the 
 unhappy family of the Walkers, and a shiver of 
 instinctive sympathy attested her strong feeling 
 at the spectacle they presented. The passionate 
 tenderness and touching tones that gushed from 
 the lips of the distracted Bessie every now and 
 then fell distinctly on her ear, till the eflorts of 
 the gathering neighbors prevailed, and the ex- 
 hausted wife and her weeping little ones were 
 removed. The band again fell into order, the 
 music grew louder and merrier, and Martha 
 looked at the men to see if among the Serjeant's 
 prey she might discover any other of her neigh- 
 bors, when, bringing up the rear, she beheld 
 Robinson. With a slow, sad step, a pale cheek, 
 but a melancholy resolution in his bearing, 
 George came on ; as he passed his own dwell- 
 ing, he raised his dejected eyes and met those of 
 his wife — a momentary and expressive gesture 
 with his hand seemed to say — "It is all over; 
 
178 BLIGHTED H03IES. 
 
 better cut the knot I cannot disentangle ; I have 
 done it, and farewell ! " 
 
 When she recovered from the stunning effects 
 of the sight, she rushed to the bed of her sleep- 
 ing child, and wrapping it up, went forth with it 
 in her arms, conscious that it could plead for her 
 in a manner that she could not plead for herself. 
 Thoughts like lightning passed through her brain 
 as she hurried along to the place where the mili- 
 tary party had halted. The hour of parting, like 
 the power of death, yields a background, upon 
 which the object about to be lost stands forth in 
 peculiar brightness. All the hitherto unesti- 
 mated qualities of George Robinson blazed upon 
 the perception of his wife, and her own faults 
 and deficiencies took a dark array beside them. 
 Charities uncultivated die out, or fall into abey- 
 ance, often lying so dormant that the stir of 
 strong events is necessary to revive them. Why, 
 why will any leave the heart thus fallow, for the 
 harrow of death or sorrow to quicken it into only 
 unavailing fruitfulness ! 
 
 George and Martha met and parted, with deep 
 and tender feeling, with renewed consciousness 
 of the early love that had first brought them 
 together, and of the individual merits by which 
 each were distinguished. At that moment, Mar- 
 tha (for with her our moral mostly rests) saw the 
 errors that had marked her course, the faults that 
 
BLIGHTED H03IES. 179 
 
 had deformed her character and spoiled her hap- 
 piness. Had the considerations condensed into 
 tliat brief space been spread through her previ- 
 ous life, allotting to each day some little portion 
 of appreciation of the present and reflection for 
 the future, how different had been its course and 
 its now probable close ! 
 
 George had folded her and his child to his 
 heart ; he had blessed them, and left the larger 
 portion of the bounty money that had helped to 
 bribe him to the trade of blood — for it was at a 
 period when the wild work of war was rife ; and 
 with such solace as these could yield, she re- 
 turned home. 
 
 Home ! what was it to her now ? A desert, 
 from which the stir of life, the spring of action, 
 had departed. She sat down amid that scene — 
 so changed, yet still the same — and wept over 
 the bitter review which it suggested. Oh, now 
 to hear that approach which she had so often 
 met with indifference or unkindness I Her child 
 woke — woke with her sobs and the falling of 
 her tears upon its face. It looked up with the 
 bland, open expression which it derived from its 
 father, and, kneeling in her lap, clasped its little 
 arms about her neck. What a lesson ! Nature, 
 that gentle teacher, uttered no reproach. It said, 
 " Come back, thou erring one ; consider thy ways 
 and be wiser." 
 
ISO BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 New scenes and trials opened upon the un- 
 happy men who had rashly abandoned their 
 homes and social duties. They joined their 
 regiment, and soon trod the shores where the 
 genius of war was shaping the different destinies 
 of Wellington and Napoleon : for the one, laurels 
 and longevity — for the other, exile and the 
 double canker that devoured mind and body. 
 Sorrows at home had made Robinson and 
 Walker companions ; hardships abroad made 
 them friends. Mutual sympathies, common rec 
 ollections, and struggles, drew them together . 
 when the weary day, which had seen them 
 plunging into passes or tangled coverts — toil 
 ing through deep ravines or over rugged moun- 
 tains, harassed, worn, and wasted, came to a 
 close, they cowered over the bivouac fire to- 
 gether, and were more often in communion on 
 the past than engaged upon the present; for, 
 with the clingings of a failing man. Walker 
 would continually revert to home. Long before 
 he had left it, he had yielded to habits of intem- 
 perance, which now told against his constitution, 
 and Robinson was called upon for much exer- 
 tion in his behalf, which, with his characteristic 
 generosity, he kindly made. They were among 
 the gallant band that covered the retreat of Sir 
 John ^loore, and in the march from Lugo to Be- 
 zantos suffered severely. In twelve days they had 
 
BLIGHTED HOMES. 181 
 
 traversed eighty miles of road in two marches ; 
 passed several nights under arms in the snow of 
 the mountains ; and were seven times engaged 
 with the enemy. Walker had day by day lost 
 strength : the want of shoes and the bad weather 
 had aggravated the difficulties of the way, and 
 on the evening of their reaching Bezantos he 
 declared he could do no more — could go no 
 further. The rain that day had fallen for six 
 successive hours, and in a splashy spot, with his 
 head resting on a stone, he lay down. All the 
 troops passed on — but one. Robinson remained 
 beside his broken-down comrade, heard his last 
 prayers, his last wishes, as in that final hour his 
 thoughts flew to the home he should behold no 
 more! The struggle was brief: he called on 
 God and died! The weather had calmed — the 
 sky cleared — the moon broke forth, and, covered 
 with her light, Robinson left the cold remains, 
 with a sad satisfaction that the poor fellow had 
 laid his burden down and was at rest. 
 
 After the battle of Coruna, in which Robinson 
 was wounded, he was among those who con- 
 trived to escape to Portugal, and there joined the 
 remnants of regiments which were afterwards 
 embodied and fought at Oporto and Talavera. 
 
 Martha's life, from the day of her husband's 
 departure, had been one continued praiseworthy 
 struggle against the infirmities of her nature and 
 16 
 
182 BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 the assaults of fortune. By means of industry, 
 frugality, and some aid from early family con- 
 nections, she managed to preserve her home 
 undeteriorated, and to rear her child worthily. 
 Poor Bessie, with less energy of character and 
 elevation of purpose, sunk into successive stages 
 of degradation ; the scarlet fever robbed, or, per- 
 haps it might better be said, relieved her of her 
 wretched children, and she was received into the 
 workhouse. But even there the redeeming power 
 of good at last asserted itself : her patience and 
 kindliness of nature made her a good nurse, and 
 the blessing of the very old, the young, and the 
 sick, w^ere with her. 
 
 Little Matty Robinson was eleven years old 
 when the sad news came that her father had 
 fallen at Talavera. It came upon her mother 
 like a blight. The morning and the midnight 
 prayer had been breathed for his return ; the 
 chief object of her daily toils — her self-denial — 
 her self-discipline — to build up happiness for 
 Ms latter days. 
 
 " Oh," she exclaimed, " can it be I Is it possi- 
 ble that we are to meet no more — that he will 
 never see what I have made his child — what I 
 purposed to make his home ? Have I sorrowed 
 for him — have I loved him in vain?" 
 
 Among the motives for resignation presented 
 to her, was the probability that he might have 
 
BLIGHTED H03IES. 
 
 183 
 
 returned a wreck, ^Yhich she co ild not have 
 borne to behold. 
 
 " No, no !" she said ; " lame, blind, a beggar, 
 he would be welcome to me — dearer to me than 
 in iiis brig-Jitest days I" 
 
 Beautifully is it said, " Weeping may endure 
 for a night, but joy cometh in the morning!" 
 and truly that "the darkest hour is just before 
 dawn." Even while Martha's passionate words 
 were being uttered, a broken-down and dis- 
 banded soldier was making towards the town ,. 
 and before the morning had ripened to mid-day, 
 George Robinson was once more in his bridal 
 home — had clasped to his heart the wife of his 
 first aflcction — had wept with proud joy over his 
 child. 
 
 The moral of our sketch is sufficiently evi- 
 dent : we are all unapt to place a sufficient value 
 on the good in possession, or sufficiently to use 
 or economize the means of happiness. Did we 
 look into ourselves and our position, each would 
 find much lying dorm.ant that might be available 
 for enjoying and dispensing good: to none does 
 this remark apply more than to wives and moth- 
 ers. The woman who holds in her own right, 
 mor.tl worth, gentleness, and kindness, is an 
 heiress endowed by God ; hers is the holy power 
 to sustain the good man, restrain the aberrating, 
 and reclaim the bad. As a mother, who may 
 
184 BLIGHTED HOMES. 
 
 place limits t , her power, or to the range which 
 the spirit of good which she implants may take ? 
 " The life of every being is the well-spring of a 
 ?tream, whose small beginnings are indeed plain 
 to all, but whose ulterior course or destination, 
 as it winds through the expanse of infinite years, 
 only the Omniscient can discern." 
 
1S5 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S MAY. 
 
 BY J. SAUNDERS. 
 
 Sweet May I they tell me thou art come : 
 
 Thou art not come to me ; 
 I cannot spare a single hour, 
 
 Sweet May ! to welcome thee. 
 God knows how hard I 've worked this week. 
 
 To earn my children bread ; 
 And see, we have an empty board ; 
 
 My children are unfed. 
 
 And art thou still the san>e sweet May, 
 
 That I did love so well, 
 When humming like a happy bee, 
 
 Along some primrose dell, 
 I thought, oh ! what a lovely world 
 
 Is this, dear God has given ; 
 And wondered any one should seek 
 
 For any other heaven ? 
 
 Then hawthorn buds are come again. 
 
 And apple blossoms too ; 
 And all the idle happy birds 
 
 May sing the long day through. 
 16^ 
 
186 THE POOR man's MAY. 
 
 The old Green Lane awakes once more, 
 And looks, perhaps, for me ; 
 
 Alas ! Green Lane, one's heart may die- 
 I cannot come to thee. 
 

 If J3U1 WIEILIL ©IF ^7 mi'S'WM » 
 
 W. T. GcMari. Pm,i 
 
187 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 
 
 BY ANNA SAVAGE 
 
 " St. Keyne, sailh the chronicle, many a time 
 
 Drank of this Crystal Well, 
 And before the angel summoned her, 
 
 She laid on the waters a spell : — 
 If the husband at this gifted well 
 
 Shall drink before his wife, 
 A happy man thenceforth is he. 
 
 For he shall be master for life." 
 
 "I WILL not throw the sceptre down now that its 
 
 power I know, 
 For who that once had reigned a queen would 
 
 to a subject bow? 
 Must he to whom my smile was law his freedom 
 
 hold again, 
 And woman's will and woman's wit henceforth 
 
 be all in vain ? 
 Not till within our favored West one crystal well 
 
 is dry ! 
 Save me the dire disgrace, St. Keyne, of blessed 
 
 memory ! 
 And if I fail to gain the gift thou hast bequeathed 
 
 the wave, 
 Let woman's will make woman's wit henceforth 
 
 a willing slave." 
 
1S8 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 
 
 So spake fair Margaret. Triumph gleamed upon 
 
 her smiling face ; 
 The holy well is at her feet, and curbs her hur- 
 ried pace ; 
 She fills with care the crystal flask, and seeks 
 
 the charm to hide 
 Amid the drapery's graceful fold that decks her 
 
 for a bride : 
 Stay, maiden ! bend above the wave thy pure 
 
 and joyous brow. 
 And tell me, saw'st thou aught so fair as that 
 
 which greets thee now? 
 Go, vainly seek Cornubia through, from saint or 
 
 fabled elf, 
 A mightier spell than that, which there reflects 
 
 thy lovely self ! 
 
 Oh, who could doubt the gentle power thy feeble 
 
 hand may try 
 In thy new home, the ruling star to guide man's 
 
 destiny. 
 And there, by soft afl^ection's chain, bind tyrants 
 
 to thy sway, 
 Until they learn the lore they teach, "to honor 
 
 and obey I" 
 Though time may rob thy cheek of bloom, thy 
 
 blue eye of its light, 
 Still smiles upon life's turbid stream shall make 
 
 them seei.'v as bright ; 
 

 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE 
 
 189 
 
 Thy low sweet voice, thy kindly smile — these 
 shall the loved one greet, 
 
 And these the weapons that shall bind the cap- 
 
 
 tive at thy feet. 
 
 
 The 
 And 
 
 little symbol ring at last has clasped her 
 
 fairy finger, 
 
 now within the rustic porch the bridal party 
 
 
 linger. 
 
 
 And 
 
 many a wistful glance is cast 
 willow tree : 
 
 towards the 
 
 An 
 
 arch smile played on Margaret 
 bridegroom, where is he ? 
 
 's lip, — the 
 
 He kneels beside the enchanted well 
 
 ; ''Go drink 
 
 
 the stream in vain," 
 
 
 She 
 
 murmurs, " despot! own my sway ; a sov- 
 
 
 ereign still I reign : 
 
 
 Oh, 
 
 woman's wit more swiftly speeds 
 
 than lover's 
 
 step can fly ! " 
 T hen pointing to the empty flask, she claims the 
 
 
 mastery. 
 
 
 Nor 
 
 is, they say, that crystal well 
 dream, 
 
 a legendary 
 
 For 
 
 such there be of virtue rare bey 
 mar's stream ; 
 
 ond the Ta- 
 
 And 
 
 man, who boldly boasts his power, knows 
 
 
 not how soon 't is o'er, 
 
 
 But 
 
 hastes to drink of freedom's draught — some || 
 
 
 Margaret drank before ! 
 
 
190 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 
 
 And when he thinks, most proud and free, he 
 
 has dominion shown, 
 He dreams not who has stolen the spell and 
 
 made the charm her own : 
 Yea, kingdoms fall and tottering thrones are 
 
 from their stations hurled, 
 But woman's wit and woman's will supreme still 
 
 rule the world. ^ 
 
 * Lfs ffMriines peuvenl tout parceque elles gouvcrnent ecus 
 qui gduveriieiil Uml. 
 
191 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 BY ELIZABETH YOUATT. 
 
 " In memor)''s land waves never a leaf, 
 
 There never a sunnmer breeze Mows, 
 But some long smothered thought of joy or grief 
 
 Starts up from its solemn repose ; 
 And forms are living and visible there, 
 Which vanished long since from our earthly sphere." 
 
 IMlSS IIOLFURD. 
 
 Did we choose to mention real names, many 
 might recollect as well as ourselves the early 
 and somewhat sudden death of a poet, whose 
 precocious talent gave rise to hopes which were 
 destined never to be realized ; but we forbear to 
 do so, lest any might be found who would re- 
 member only to weep. He was little known out 
 of his own immediate circle, of which he was the 
 idol ; for Fame, ever busy in seeking after her 
 gifted children, had not time to stamp her seal 
 of immortality upon his brows before they with- 
 ered beneath the cold hand of death. And yet a 
 few kindred spirits were found to lament him, 
 and mourn over the sudden quenching of a 
 mighty intellect, whose living glory they might 
 have decried and envied ; — but death sanctifieth 
 all thinofs. 
 
192 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTEB 
 
 We were young at that time, and anxious to 
 pay tribute with the rest at the shrine of de- 
 parted genius, knowing him only through his own 
 tender and beautiful rcvealings; but although 
 the rock of inspiration was repeatedly struck, no 
 answering strain came forth at our bidding ; we 
 were not in the mood. Thought flowed too rap- 
 idly to be chained and cramped into lines each 
 ending in a rhyme, and flinging aside our tablets, 
 we went forth, lured by the sound of joyous 
 voices, and light laughter, and joined the merry 
 group upon the lawn. The young, the beautiful, 
 yea, and the gifted, even as he had been, were 
 there 
 
 " Smiling as if earth contained no tomb." 
 
 But there was one among them, a widow, aged 
 it would seem more by grief than time, whose 
 pale sweet face and low voice had won us to her 
 side all that summer day; and by w^hom we 
 again lingered, as we are apt to do where we 
 feel that our presence confers pleasure. 
 
 " You have been weeping," said she kindly. 
 
 " Yes, for I have been thinking of him." 
 
 " Silly child ! And yet it is well that the 
 actual troubles of life have not yet arisen to 
 sweep away these ideal griefs and sympathies. 
 After all it is a happy period — 
 
 When every heart appears 
 
 The temple of high thought, and noble deed ; 
 
RECOLLECTIONS O^ THE GIFTED. 193 
 
 When our most bitter tears 
 Fall o'er .some melancholy pas^e Me read, — 
 
 but it soon passes away.'' 
 
 " Not always, surely ? " 
 
 " Almost invariably. The fountain of a grief 
 which in youth is perpetually overflowing, and 
 whose waters soothe, even while they sadden, is 
 soon withered up by scorn and anguish. And 
 age, with all its accumulated miseries, sheds 
 fewer tears than childhood over its ideal and 
 imaginary sorrows : and yet he was worthy of 
 your lamentations." 
 
 " You knew him, then ?*' 
 
 " We have met, but it was years ago. I was 
 staying on a visit at the same house where he 
 first became acquainted with her of whom his 
 latter poems breathe so sweet a spirit of tender- 
 ness and regard. She was my school-fellow and 
 intimate friend, although many years my junior." 
 
 " And he loved her ? After all she is to be 
 envied." 
 
 " So she always said, and used to wonder 
 what she could have done to merit so much hap- 
 piness ; for she had a meek and humble spirit, 
 and was well suited to'be the bride of a poet." 
 
 " How she must have worshipped him !" 
 
 " Yes, so she did, I believe, until she learned 
 to love him still more. It was a strange tale, 
 that meeting ! " 
 17 
 
194 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 And the widow bowed down her pale face 
 upon her hands, while the spirit of the past stole 
 over her like a dream of old days. Vie whh- 
 drew a little apart, and sat down side by side 
 upon the grass ; and that low voice rose up like 
 a strain of melancholy music, betw^een the pauses 
 of which came the merry laughter of the gay 
 dancers on the lawn. 
 
 " A Christmas in an old country house is either 
 a very dull affair or quite the contrary ; the one 
 I am about to describe was the latter. Besides 
 an agreeable party domesticated within doors, all 
 equally ready to amuse or be amused, we had 
 always some visitor drop in of an evening, and 
 generally wound up vj'ith a dance, or a game of 
 forfeits, to please the children, in which children 
 of a larger growth were not ashamed to join. 
 
 " At the time of which we speak, some little 
 excitement was occasioned by the proposed visit 
 of Mr. Noel Fletcher, (for we will know the poet 
 only by that name.) He had been intimate at 
 college with the son of our worthy host, and 
 
 cheerfully accepted his invitation into D ; 
 
 and as the day approached, my friend Gay Pem- 
 berton, who scarcely ever had his volume of 
 poems out of her hand, and w'as even accused of 
 sleeping with it under her pillow, spoke of noth- 
 ing else but his expected arrival. We have 
 wondered since whether this was merely the 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 195 
 
 result of her romfntic and highly-wrought feel- 
 ings, or occasioned by a dim foreboding of how 
 intimately their future destinies were to be knit 
 together. 
 
 " It was the evening before the day on which he 
 was to have come, and everything that was said 
 or done returns to my mind as though it were 
 but yesterday. A few accidental visitors had 
 dropped in as usual, among whom was the cler- 
 gyman of the place, and a young man with a 
 bright florid complexion, and a pair of the mer- 
 riest blue eyes in the world, whose name I did 
 not catch ; and who, after romping with the chil- 
 dren until their bed-time, came and flung him- 
 self full length on a couch near where we sat, 
 and taking up a newspaper, seemed thoroughly 
 comfortable and at home. 
 
 " Gay Pemberton was in one of her wildest 
 humors, looking so happy and beautiful all the 
 time, that it was impossible to chide or be angry 
 with her ; and but little work went on among the 
 noisy group she had collected around her. Even 
 the whist players looked up at the sound of her 
 merry laughter, and smiled lOO, without knowing 
 why. And then on a sudden, as we must have 
 noticed on a bright summer day, the sun went 
 in, leaving a brief shade even more delightful 
 from contrast. 
 
196 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 " ' How I wish lo-mcrrow«vvere come ! ' said 
 she, thoughtfully. 
 
 " ' That is, if it bring the poet, but not else,' 
 we playfully rejoined. 
 
 *" Ah ! it is sure to do that, for Morris showed 
 me the letter, — and he wTites such a beautiful 
 hand ! — promising to be with Lim on Thursday, 
 without fail. How I longed to keep it, but I 
 feared he would laugh at me.' 
 
 '"It was more than probable. But you must 
 get Mr. Fletcher to write something in your 
 album.' 
 
 " ' If he speaks to me, I shall certainly ask 
 him, if it is only his name.' 
 
 " ' If he speaks to you ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, for I have fancied him proud and re- 
 served, as all geniuses, they say, are. You will 
 think me very silly, but I know what he will be 
 like, as well as if we were old friends, and am 
 almost confident that I should recognize him, 
 were we even to meet elsewhere.' 
 
 "'Perhaps this is he?' said I, as the door 
 opened to give admittance to the village doctor, 
 a marvellous resemblance to Shakspeare's far- 
 famed apothecary. While at that moment our 
 opposite neighbor looked up as if he had found 
 something vastly entertaining in his newspaper, 
 and laughed outright, almost as joyously as Gay 
 herself had done but a short time previously. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 197 
 
 " ' I should like to hear Miss Pemberton's ideal 
 of a poet,' exclaimed a young lady. 
 
 '"Well, then, I will give it to you, in order 
 that you may compare it with the original. He 
 is tall, and pale, as the gifted ever are ; with a 
 magnificent brow — dark, dreamy eyes — and a 
 proud lip, whose smiles are only for the very 
 few, but its scorn for the whole world; whom all 
 worship, but it is the privilege of but one or two 
 to love ! ' 
 
 " ' A dangerous privilege, if we are to believe 
 the wild chronicles of their lives,' replied another; 
 ' crreat talents are said to be for the world — not 
 for domestic life.' 
 
 "'But why should this be?' asked Gay, 
 almost sadly — and there were none to answer. 
 It is a question which will probably never be 
 solved. We are told by one, herself a poetess, 
 and a very sweet one too, that 
 
 ' Fame's laurel wreath 
 Distils its poison oil the brow beneath ;' 
 
 but left to draw our own conclusions from the 
 truthful experience of daily life, how far its 
 blighting influence extends around the charmed 
 circle of affection. 
 
 " ' Well,' exclaimed Gay, at length, for noth- 
 ing ever damped that sanguine and joyous spirit 
 for many moments together, ' I dare say if the 
 private histories of all were sought after, and 
 17# 
 
198 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 revealed like those of the gifted, they would be 
 found much the same in the end. Or, supposing 
 it true that genius is irritable and exacting ; 
 again I say, a glorious privilege is hers to whose 
 lot it falls to soothe and minister to it, catching 
 glimpses of a mighty intellect which should daz- 
 zle and blind her to weakness inseparable, after 
 all, from mortality.' 
 
 " Our opposite neighbor laid down the news- 
 paper ; perhaps he found it vain to try and read 
 in our vichiity, and fixed his eyes upon Gay, 
 with a look of undisguised admiration, of which 
 the young enthusiast was utter!" unconscious. 
 
 " ' But have you quite finished your descrip- 
 tion of the poet ? ' asked her fair interrogator. 
 
 " ' Yes, I think so, all but his voice, which of 
 course is low — sweet — and marvellously elo- 
 quent ! ' 
 
 " ' Have you forgotten what Dr. Johnson says 
 upon this subject?' asked the gentleman I have 
 before mentioned, joining in the conversation 
 quite naturally, while Gay answered him in the 
 same frank spirit. 
 
 " ' Yes, indeed. What was it ?' 
 
 "'The transition,' he tells us, 'from an au- 
 thor's book to his conversation is too often like 
 an entrance into a large city after a distant pros- 
 pect. Kemotely we see nothing but spires of 
 temples, and turrets of palaces, and imagine it 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 199 
 
 the residence of splendor, grandeur, and magnifi- 
 cence ; but when we have passed the gates, we 
 find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced 
 with despicable cottages, embarrassed with ob- 
 structions, and clouded with smoke.' 
 
 " ' Ah ! Dr. Johnson wf.s a bear ! ' said the 
 girl, wilfully; and then their wild and gleeful 
 laughter mingled so joyously, that many joined 
 in it from very sympathy. 
 
 " ' Oh ! if this book were mine ! ' continued 
 Gay, after a pause, and still referring to the same 
 endless theme, ' with Noel Fletcher's name writ- 
 ten thus, with his own hand, I think I should 
 have nothing left to wish for.' 
 
 " ' And yet compliments is a cold term,' said 
 our blue-eyed friend, archly. ' Would you not 
 rather have it, with the author's love ? ' 
 
 " ' No, indeed, his kind regards would more 
 than content me — his love has been too fre- 
 quently bestowed.' 
 
 " ' Never, I will venture to swear ! ' interrupted 
 her companion, vehemently. 
 
 " ' Then you have not read his works,' replied 
 Gay, turning over the pages, which she almost 
 knew by heart, with a rapid finger. ' See, here 
 is positive conviction — " To n^" Beloved One." 
 Not to mention twenty other sweet and tender 
 sonnets addressed "To Mary," &c. Nay, I 
 should say that he had not only been in love, 
 
200 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 and that too more than once, but had likewise 
 been disappointed ! Or why so eloquent upon 
 blighted affection, and broken hearts? Why 
 address those touching lines of " The Forsaken 
 to the False One," which must haunt her whole 
 future life, like an u.iforgotten voice ? And yet 
 I cannot fancy any girl flinging away in very 
 wantonness the rich gift of such a heart as his.' 
 
 " ' But surely you must be aware,' returned 
 he, speaking in a low voice, and more earnestly 
 than the subject seemed to demand, ' that these 
 are merely ideal themes. What is poetry with- 
 out love ? A Vv-orld without sunshine or flowers. 
 But the poet needs not experience every subject 
 on which he writes, while he can create and im- 
 agine them. Nay, where he feels most, he is 
 least likely to do justice to his task.' 
 
 " ' And yet,' replied Gay, ' this is stripping 
 romance of its brightest spell : we should seldom 
 weep over fictitious sorrows, knowing them to be 
 such. It is Louis, King of Bavaria, I think, who 
 says, " Out of the heart "alone shall that unfold 
 itself which shall truly go to the heart again ! " ' 
 
 "'Nevertheless,' said her companion, with a 
 vexed air, ' I will venture to affirm that Noel 
 Fletcher is no m^re in love than I am ! ' 
 
 "'Well, I shall be glad to believe that his 
 heart is really not the seared and blighted thing 
 he describes it.' 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 201 
 
 " ' Pshaw ! all romance an^' folly ! ' replied our 
 anti-poetical friend, abruptly. While Gay looked 
 like one but half convinced ; and remained poring 
 over the book until the hour of rest ; but little 
 more conversation passing between us worthy 
 of narration. 
 
 " The following morning I was to start on a 
 fortnight's visit some thirty miles ofT, but to re- 
 turn time enough to accompany Gay Pemberton 
 to her happy home, where another succession of 
 merry days was in store for us. Ah ! those were 
 pleasant times — the golden days of our youth! 
 And we do well to make the most of them, for 
 their freshness once past is gone forever ! The 
 very thought of having to be up early kept me 
 wakeful all night, otherwise, perhaps. Gay's 
 gentle voice, for we slept together, would have 
 failed to arouse me, as with closed eyes and 
 smiling lips she repeated one of Noel Fletcher's 
 sweetest sonnets, the last lines dying away until 
 they became almost inaudible. It was strange 
 to hear such poetry so given at that hour ; and 
 sad too, for the subject was a gloomy one, and L 
 could not think but I w^as dreaming too, and so 
 lay quite still until the morning sun warned me 
 to prepare for new scenes. Novelty at that time 
 was but another word for pleasure, and Gay was 
 as cheerful and busy as myself, so that our little 
 treasures were soon arranged, and we both sat 
 
202 RECOLLECTIOXS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 down on the nea ^y packed box, and began to 
 talk of the future. 
 
 " She laughed when I told her about the son- 
 net which she had repeated in her sleep, — con- 
 fessing that it had occupied her last waking 
 hours, and that she was very silly, but should 
 grow wiser some day, she hoped, — pitying me 
 the next moment for being obliged to go away 
 before Noel Fletcher's arrival. 
 
 " * But, perhaps, he may not be gone on your 
 return, although they say he is so much sought 
 after. — By the bye, he may have come even 
 now for aught we know, for I remember he &aid 
 in his letter, ''Early on Thursday morning;" I 
 will just run down and ask Morris.' 
 
 " She did so, but returned, breathless with agi- 
 tation, a few moments afterwards, ^nd flinging 
 herself into my arms, burst into a passionate flood 
 of weeping, and hid her burning face upon my 
 bosom. They were the flrst tears I ever remem- 
 ber to to have known her shed. 
 
 " ' Oh ! take me wdth you I ' she wildly ex- 
 claimed. ' If you love me, take me instantly 
 away ! ' 
 
 " ' Impossible, my dear child ! but I will stay 
 with you, if you will tell me how I can be of 
 service, and who has grieved you thus.' 
 
 " ' No one. It is all my own fault ! ' And hei 
 sobs redoubled with the effort to speak. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 203 
 
 . " At this moment the breakfast bell rang ; and 
 as the only fault, if that could be called a fault, 
 which I could ever discover in our worthy host, 
 was a most rigid adherence to punctuality in all 
 things, its warning was not to be disregarded. 
 
 *' ' Go down,' said Gay, ' and say that I have 
 the headache — that I am ill ! — I shall be calmer 
 against your return, or you will have heard the 
 story of my folly from other lips ; but do not 
 think for an instant of giving up your journey 
 on my account — it is fit that I should suffer, 
 and be despised as I now despise myself!' 
 
 " I obeyed her in silence, having no time, be- 
 sides being too bewildered, to put any further 
 questions then ; but I could not help observing 
 that when I delivered my message, Morris, the 
 eldest son of our host, laughed outright, and stole 
 a mirthful glance at our blue-eyed friend of the 
 previous night, who was comfortably established 
 at the breakfast table with his everlasting news- 
 paper. 
 
 " ' I trust Miss Pemberton is not serioilsly in- 
 disposed,' said he, kindly, as I took the vacant 
 place by his side. 
 
 " ' No, I believe not, only a headache,' and then 
 Morris laughed again most provokingly, while 
 his friend looked almost as annoyed as myself. 
 
 " ' You must not forget to tell Gay,' said the 
 former, 'that Mr. Noel Fletcher has inquired 
 
204 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 most anxiously after her, and is inconsolable at 
 her absence.' 
 
 " ' Noel Fletcher ! ' and the whole truth flashed 
 upon my mind, and I felt half inclined to be angry 
 with the poet for his incognito, but that he seemed 
 so penitent ; so poor Morris had the full benefit 
 of it, and after all he was most to blame for not 
 properly introducing his gifted friend. 
 
 " But how was Gay employed all this time ? 
 Doubtless in recalling to mind, with tears of 
 shame and vain repentance, all that had passed 
 between them on the previous night. No won- 
 der that she should tremble at the thought of 
 meeting him. 
 
 " ' And yet how rould I imagine,' said she, 
 simply, ' that such a man could be a poet ? with 
 his bright color like any farmer, and his merry 
 eyes, — besides, he was actually embonpoint ! ' 
 
 " ' How amused he must have been at your 
 description of him,' said I. 
 
 " Gay colored, but she grew calmer : pride — 
 the pride which rarely deserts a woman — had 
 come to her aid ; and she parted from me with 
 more composure than I had expected. Morris' 
 triumph, and Mr. Fletcher's too, if he felt any, 
 would be but brief, when they found the wild 
 romantic girl transformed into the proud and dig- 
 nified woman. And I pictured to myself their 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 205 
 
 cold embarrassed meeting, as the carriage whirled 
 me away to fresh scenes and pleasures. 
 
 " A fortnight — how soon it is gone when we 
 are happy! — Fourteen days, then, seem only 
 like so many hours. Poor Gay, I had forgotten 
 all about her, and how she was most likely long- 
 ing for my arrival to go back to her quiet home> 
 the spell of her wild yet sweet dreams broken 
 forever ! It was evening when I returned — 
 there were lights in the upper rooms, and the 
 sound of music and merry laughter. And yet, 
 somehow, I half feared that Gay would not be 
 found among that mirthful party, nor was she. 
 Morris smiled when I inquired after her, even as 
 he had done on the eventful morning of my de- 
 parture ; and pointed to the balcony, which was 
 of stone, extending the whole length of the house, 
 and a cool and pleasant retreat in the summer, 
 although scarcely desirable on such a night as 
 this. 
 
 " ' Pshaw I ' said ]\Iorris, ' who ever felt the 
 cold at eighteen, beneath such a glorious moon, 
 and with a poet for a companion ? ' 
 
 " ' Mr. Fletcher is still here then ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, in spite of his numerous engagements 
 — but they are coming.' And a moment after- 
 wards Gay's arms were about my neck, and her 
 sweet voice welcoming me back; while tears — 
 real burning tears, in spite of her beaming looks, 
 18 
 
206 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 fell like rain. But she dashed them away in a 
 moment, asking a thousand random questions 
 about my visit, without waiting for an answer to 
 one of them. While Noel Fletcher stood by 
 with folded arms, looking as delighted as if she 
 had been uttering the most eloquent harangue in 
 the world; his blue eyes fairly dancing with 
 happiness. 
 
 " ' And now,' said I, having replied as briefly 
 as possible to her numerous queries, ' I am quite 
 ready to return with you whenever you please.' 
 
 " 'I am in no particular hurry,' said Gay, cast- 
 ing down her eyes. ' But you must be fatigued 
 with your journey — shall we retire ?' 
 
 " I willingly agreed, while Mr, Fletcher said 
 laughingly, although I believe he really thought 
 it at the moment, that I Vv'as very selfish and dis- 
 agreeable, to wish to keep Miss Pemberton all to 
 myself; and then in a changed voice turned to 
 whisper a very^ protracted good-night, which 
 lasted several minutes before Gay could disen- 
 gage her hand and follow me up stairs. There 
 was little need of words — on the dressing-room 
 table lay a small and elegantly bound book, which 
 I knew at once to be Noel Fletcher's Poems ; and 
 when Gay took it up, and, smiling through her 
 tears, pointed to its title page, and we read there 
 her own name ' with the author's love,' I asked 
 no more questions, but rejoiced with the un- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 207 
 
 troubled gladness of youth, tliat things had thus 
 come to pass. 
 
 " It is needless attempting to repeat Gay's 
 broken history of what had taken place during 
 my brief absence ; and the pains Noel Fletcher 
 must have taken to satisfy her previous doubts 
 with regard to the ideality of his poetical loves 
 and sorrows ; and here his looks were certainly 
 in his favor, for no one would have taken him to 
 be a man whose heart was either seared or broken. 
 Then he had to reconcile her to the very reverse 
 of her wild dream — to apologize for those merry 
 eyes, and the bright healthful glow of his com- 
 plexion, and promise, if it would win her, to be 
 the gloomy being she had described, proud to all 
 but one, so that one might be Gay Pemberton ! 
 While she wondered how she could have ever 
 fancied him any other than he was, — and owned 
 for the thousandth time that she had been very 
 silly ! 
 
 " And now I would fain linger over this part 
 of my narrative, relating how, as I have before 
 said. Gay's worship of the poet, the genius, had 
 gradually less of awe, and more of human love 
 in it. How her very gentleness disarmed our 
 playful satire, and how Noel Fletcher adored 
 her, while his verses grew no less eloquent be- 
 cause addressed to a real and tangible deity ! — 
 His introduction to her venerable parents — their 
 
208 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 simple bridal — and how rnerr}^ and happy we all 
 were on that day. It seems like a bright dream 
 long- past ! " — And the widow, when she arrived 
 at this part of her story, closed her eyes wearily, 
 as though she would fain the vision would come 
 again. 
 
 " Well, you know the end," said she at length : 
 " of the double wedding which took place at that 
 time, there are left two v*'idows and no bride- 
 groom ! " 
 
 There was another pause, after which she con- 
 tinued more calmly, but still without reference to 
 her own history, into which we dared not inquire, 
 but only guessed that it must have been a very 
 sad one,— 
 
 " Oh ! what a home was theirs ! Gay's sweet 
 faith had been the true one, and she was not 
 called upon for any marvellous degree of pa- 
 tience and endurance. The most sanguine im- 
 aginings of her young and romance-loving spirit 
 were more than realized ; while the glorious 
 voice of the poet went abroad like a blessing! 
 Again and again it was heard — it found its way 
 into palace and cottage — and then, just when men 
 began to look for its coming, as for a familiar 
 and household thing, was suddenly hushed for- 
 ever ! Heaven have pity upon her on whom this 
 weary silence will fall the heaviest ! " 
 
 " Amen," said I gently, for my heart was full 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OP THE GIFTED 209 
 
 '* To-morrow," continued the widow, " I start 
 for her solitary abode. They say she is ill, but 
 I do not pray for her recovery unless it please 
 God, but would rather supplicate that in his 
 mercy he would take her to himself! There is 
 no more happiness for her in this world now. 
 Nay, do not weep, my poor child!" she added, 
 laying her withered hand kindly upon my bowed 
 head. " After all, it is a glorious earth we live 
 in, especially to the young; and there are a 
 thousand happy wives and mothers to one widow 
 such as I. The gifted are not always taken, and 
 while sorrow is isolated, and seldom to be met 
 wdth, joy aboundeth everywhere. Hark! how 
 they laugh ! You should be with them, and not 
 here; but age and grief are apt to make one 
 selfish." 
 
 That night we went to sleep thinking of all 
 that we had heard during the day, but more 
 especially of Gay Pemberton and the poet, and 
 dreamed that a certain fairy tale which had made 
 the charm of our childhood was realized, and the 
 genius of the future stood ready to bestow any 
 one gift we liked to ask for — but it was to be 
 but one. There was health, for the lack of 
 which all other pleasures were continually losing 
 their zest, — riches, which should command the 
 world, — beauty, how often yearned and wept 
 for, — fame, more tempting than them all, and 
 
210 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 the only one which would survive the tombs, — 
 and yet we hesitated, while the bright face of 
 the spirit smiled calmly on us, and the smile 
 brought back as with a spell the memory of all 
 that we had heard, and our choice was instantly 
 made ; — our one wish — Maij we never survive 
 those ive love ! For what is health when we 
 pray as that widow prayed to die? — riches, 
 when those with whom we would share them 
 are gone away? — beauty, which was sought 
 and prized but to win the regard of those eyes 
 which death hath closed ? — or fame, dear only 
 that one might well be proud of us ? And me- 
 thought the fairy looked pleased with our choice, 
 and then the whole vision passed away. 
 
 The following morning came a brief note from 
 our new friend. " Rejoice with us," she wrote, 
 " it is all over ! The prayer of the broken heart 
 has been heard, and they are together again in 
 heaven ! " 
 
 Years have rolled on since then, and there are 
 none left to recognize the above sad and truthful 
 sketch ; did we think otherwise, it would never 
 have been written : and yet, like the fables of 
 childhood, it has its moraL That the gifted are 
 neither raised by their genius above, nor formed 
 to live without, the pale of human love and sym- 
 pathy, but common clay even as ourselves, — 
 loving — trusting — doubting — too often erring! 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED. 
 
 21 
 
 With good intents, marred in the acting oft, 
 With heavenward thoughts that fail thro' weariness, 
 And droop the wing while yet the glance aspires; 
 Having much cause for gratitude, — but more 
 For peuiieuce sincere ; yet how infirm 1 
 
212 
 
 TO A PROFILE. 
 
 BY B. BARTON. 
 
 I KNEW thee not I then wherefore gaze 
 Upon thy silent shadow there, 
 
 Which so imperfectly portrays 
 
 The form thy features used to wear ? 
 
 Yet have I often looked at thee 
 
 As if those lips could speak to me. 
 
 I knew thee not ! and thou could'st know, 
 
 At best, but little more of one 
 Whose pilgrimage, on earth below, 
 
 Commenced just as thine own was done ; 
 For few and fleeting days were thine. 
 To hope or fear for lot of mine. 
 
 Yet few and fleeting as they were, 
 Fancy and feeling picture this, 
 
 They prompted many a fervent prayer. 
 Witnessed, perchance, a parting kiss ; 
 
 And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee, 
 
 At such a period, profit m.e ? 
 
 Whether they did or not, I owe 
 At least this tribute to thy worth ; 
 
TO A PROFILE. 213 
 
 Though little, all I can bestow, 
 
 Yet fond affection gives it birth : 
 And prompts me, as thy shade 1 view, 
 To bless thee, whom I never knew ! 
 
214 
 
 LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 BY CAMILLA T U L M I N . 
 
 " What is the matter, Lucy ? " 
 
 " Nothing-, dear aunt," replied Lucy Freeling, 
 who from long habit thus addressed Mrs. Law- 
 son, although they were but distantly related. 
 " Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " I thought you had been crying," returned the 
 other; "your eyes look very red." 
 
 " My eyes ache rather, as they often do now ; 
 that is why I have put away my work so early." 
 
 The scene I would paint was a neatly-fur- 
 nished, comfortable-looking room, in one of those 
 thousand streets of London, which, without hav- 
 ing an}' pretensions to consequence or considera- 
 tion, are, nevertheless, thought very eligible by 
 a large class of people, either for some individual 
 or general advantages. In one corner, as if to 
 be out of the way of the other occupants of the 
 room, sat a young man of about four and twenty, 
 working diligently at his ordinary employment, 
 that of a watch-maker. Various implements and 
 particles of minute mechanism, whose uses are 
 incomprehensible to the ignorant, were before 
 him, and the strong light of a partially-shaded 
 
LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 215 
 
 lamp fell precisely on his work. Jasper Law- 
 son was not a common character, and perhaps 
 his employment, which, while it required pa- 
 tience and a certain degree of attention, like 
 women's needle-work, afforded much opportunity 
 for the self-instruction of thought and reflection, 
 might have had something to do in moulding his 
 disposition. He was " the only son of a widow," 
 to whose comfort, even in the matter-of-fact re- 
 spect of pounds, shillings, and pence, he largely 
 contributed; his mother having no other depen- 
 dence except a small annuity, secured to her 
 from some benefit society to which her husband 
 had belonged. 
 
 Lucy Freeling was the daughter of a distant 
 relation, and had been left an orphan in early 
 childhood ; but the widow had so tenderly ful- 
 filled the offices of a parent that Lucy had 
 scarcely known her loss. The interest of a few 
 hundred pounds, which should have been hers 
 when she became of age, might have sufficed to 
 bring her up in the station to which she belonged. 
 But for a few years Mrs. Lawson had exceeded 
 these limits for the purpose of giving her in- 
 creased advantages for education ; and when she 
 arrived at the age of seventeen had paid a sum 
 of money to place her for two years with a mil- 
 liner and dressmaker. Although she was not 
 old enough to make a legal contract, it was per- 
 
216 LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 fectly understood and relied on that this advance, 
 so judiciously made, would be refunded when 
 Lucy attained her majority. Alas ! before that 
 time arrived, the trustee in whose hands her 
 little fortune was placed became a bankrupt ; 
 and that from such unexpected causes, that the 
 circumstance of Lucy's money being engulphed 
 in the general ruin arose less from fraud than 
 from imprudence. But the eighty pounds debt 
 which had been incurred was now a dreadful 
 burden to those who had such slender means of 
 repaying it. Nevertheless, the right-minded girl 
 set bravely to work, determining by the exercise 
 of an art in which she had so prudently been 
 instructed, to make up the sum by small degrees. 
 The widow had also put by from her little in- 
 come, and Jasper had worked hard to help out 
 the repayment ; and now the struggle was nearly 
 over — a few more pounds were all they required. 
 Lucy not unfrequently worked at home, instead 
 of at the large establishment where she was em- 
 ployed ; for her home, as we have before hinted, 
 was centrically situated, and she lost very little 
 time in going backwards and forwards ; this had 
 she done on the evening on which we have intro 
 duced her. But there was another person in that 
 neat and comfortable parlor, and one who was 
 now a frequent guest. Ralph Ashton Avas a 
 lawyer's clerk, and on the strength of a situation 
 
LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 217 
 
 which he considered rather above that of a jour- 
 neyman watchmaker, he thought in his own 
 heart that he somewhat condescended in joining 
 their tea and supper table three or four nights a 
 week. Not that such a feeling was by any means 
 evident from his manner ; on the contrary, the 
 most casual observer might have felt pretty sure 
 that Ralph Ashton was doing his utmost to make 
 himself agreeable to Lucy Freeling, and to have 
 betrayed his own self-conceit, or certain other 
 attributes of his nature, would have been a mis- 
 take unworthy of his cunning. He was good- 
 looking, so far as a coarse kind of regularity of 
 features, and a bright dark eye, might constitute 
 good looks ; and he had a smattering of superfi- 
 cial knowledge, and a certain speciousness of 
 manner, which were likely enough to deceive 
 a single-minded inexperienced girl like Lucy. 
 Even Jasper, his superior in every way, but 
 diffident of himself, and endowed by nature with 
 an almost womanly delicacy of sentiment and 
 tenderness of feeling, had been caught by the 
 outward seeming; and, though the knowledge 
 racked him to the heart's core, did not wonder 
 that Lucy regarded him with interest. 
 
 Not so the widow. From the first moment of 
 Ashton's acquaintance with her son, he had been 
 disliked by her ; although when pressed hard for 
 19 
 
218 LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 a reason for her antipathy, she could seldom find 
 any but the most trivial ones. 
 
 There had been a whispered conference be- 
 tween those who were all but acknowledged 
 lovers, accompanied by downcast looks and a 
 flushed cheek on the part of Lucy ; but Ealph 
 Ashton had left somewhat earlier than usual, 
 having several letters to write for his employer 
 before morning, and Lucy, pleading more than 
 ordinary fatigue, retired to rest, leaving Jasper 
 and his mother alone. He had extinguished the 
 lamp by which he worked, and only the light of 
 a single candle remained besides that of the sink- 
 ing fire, which it was too late to replenish. He 
 was leaning upon the mantel-piece, looking down, 
 and apparently watching the flickering embers ; 
 but the expression of his countenance was sad 
 almost to solemnity. 
 
 " Mother," he exclaimed, after a pause, and in 
 a voice that trembled perceptibly, " I suppose it 
 is all settled ? The attempt is vain," he added, 
 " I cannot hide my feelings from you." 
 
 " I am afraid it is," replied the widow sorrow- 
 fully, " though Lucy has made no acknowledg- 
 ment to me of her affection. Poor girl, she must 
 suspect that the choice she has made is the over- 
 throw of all my hopes for my old age." 
 
 " Don't blame her, mother — perhaps she does 
 not know all this. Long ago I should have given 
 
LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 219 
 
 myself a fair chance, and told her that I loved 
 her hetter than with a brother's love ; instead of 
 weighing words and looks, and smothering every 
 expression of my feelings, from the romantic 
 notion that I would not ask her to love me until 
 I was in business for myself, and could place her 
 in the position of a prosperous tradesman's wife. 
 Idiot that I was, not to be sure that I should be 
 forestalled." 
 
 " And now that you are so near the summit of 
 your wishes!" apostrophized his mother. 
 
 " To my astonishment ! The offer of Mond- 
 son to take me into partnership is a most ex- 
 traordinary piece of good fortune." 
 
 " He knows there are not half a dozen such 
 workmen in London, and that a fortune is to be 
 made by the improvements you have suggested," 
 replied Mrs. Lawson, with pride. 
 
 " Well," sighed Jasper, " from whatever cause 
 it is, it comes like a mockery now. I doubt if 
 there will be any more improvements of mine. 
 I have little heart for anything." 
 
 " I can hardly forgive her for this, Jasper — 
 and so much as I have always said against him—" 
 " There it is, mother," interrupted the young 
 man almost fiercely, - if she love him in the man- 
 ner that I love her, the more he is blamed the 
 more will she cling to him. Why, I feel if she 
 were plunged into want and misery — her beauty 
 
220 LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 gone, or with evil tongues like harpies darting at 
 her, such an hour of woe would be the one in 
 which I would show my adoration most passion- 
 ately, most madly, if you like to call it so — she 
 would still he herself^ and it is herself that I 
 love." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Lawson was awed and pained by 
 her son's enthusiasm. Like many other excel- 
 lent-hearted and shrewd persons, she was quite 
 incapable of following those subtle emotions, 
 which are the most real in the world, and more 
 than any others influence human destinies ; and 
 yet are scoffed at by a large number of persons 
 as " miere imagination," " romance," "nonsense," 
 and a long list of et ceteras ! 
 
 We must take the reader a little behind the 
 curtain. Ralph Ashton was quite as much in 
 love with Lucy Freeling as his nature permitted 
 him to be; but his was that common passion, a 
 purely selfish one. He admired her beauty, and 
 would be proud of a wife thus endowed, and with 
 mental acquirements something beyond those 
 common to her station. But his cunning brain 
 worked upon two ulterior objects which had 
 nothing to do with these personal qualities. It 
 so happened, that a great deal of the business 
 connected with the affairs of the bankrupt trustee 
 had passed through the office in which Ashton 
 was employed, and he knew enough of it to form 
 
LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 221 
 
 an almost positive opinion that Lucy would ulti- 
 mately recover her little fortune. However, he 
 took care to keep this knowledge to himself, and 
 wooed her apparently with the most disinter- 
 ested affection, not even at present hinting of the 
 plan which in his own mind was well-nigh ma- 
 tured, that of establishing his wife at the west- 
 end of the town as a fashionable milliner, well 
 knowing that her taste and skill, and superior 
 manners, would be sure to raise her to an emi- 
 nence that must contribute greatly to his ease 
 and comfort. In short, he planned to himself 
 becoming something like that very contemptible 
 creature, of deathless memory, the renowned 
 Mantilini. 
 
 A few weeks passed over, and Ralph Ashton 
 and Lucy Freeling were engaged to be married. 
 In justice to the latter, we must say that she had 
 only very lately suspected the deep feelings which 
 her life-long companion, Jasper Lawson, enter- 
 tained for her, and the discovery made to her by 
 his vexed and disappointed mother pained her 
 deeply. It is true Mrs. Lawson had sometimes 
 hinted at her hopes for the future, in phrases 
 sufficiently intelligible to Lucy, but alas ! Jasper 
 had concealed his affection but too well. The 
 time had been, she knew, that he might have 
 won her ; but it was gone by, she said, and she 
 could but regard him as a dear brother. 
 19^ 
 
222 LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 They were engaged, and all seemed fair before 
 them ; and Ealph even ventured to hint one day 
 from intelligence which he declared he had re- 
 ceived but a few hours before, that perhaps after 
 all Lucy would have her money. He did this 
 advisedly, for he knew it was very likely that 
 the news would reach her in a day or two from 
 another quarter. Sorrow was coming, however, 
 as it generally does, from an unexpected source. 
 The " aching" of her eyes, of which Lucy had 
 complained as the result of excessive application 
 to her needle, became more distressing, and on 
 medical advice being obtained, the most alarm- 
 ing symptoms were discovered. With all the 
 horrors of threatened blindness before her, Lucy 
 was confined for several weeks to a darkened 
 room ; and months must elapse before there was 
 any hope that under the most favorable circum- 
 stances she could apply herself to her ordinary 
 occupation. During this time Jasper became a 
 junior partner in the establishment to which he 
 had belonged, and through his mother, his in- 
 creased income contributed to the comforts and 
 medical attendance of the poor sufferer. How 
 could the poor destitute orphan refuse help from 
 him who only asked to be called " her brother ?" 
 She did not refuse it, nay, she felt that she would 
 rather be assisted by him than by her betrothed. 
 How stranq-e are the intricacies of human feeling"! 
 
LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 223 
 
 During these months of suffermg, the affairs 
 of the bankrupt trustee had been thrown into 
 chancery, and there was little hope now of a set- 
 tlement of them for years. Poor Lucy ! little 
 could she have thought that the day w^ould come, 
 and that soon, in which the loss of her money, 
 months of suffering, partial blindness, and per- 
 sonal disfigurement, would appear to her like so 
 many " blessings in disguise " that had combined 
 to save her from a gulf of misery and ruin. 
 
 When the cure, so far as it could be effected, 
 was complete, a white film still remained to mar 
 the beauty and obscure the vision of one of those 
 deep blue eyes, which had seemed like stars of 
 light and love to poor Jasper Lawson. More- 
 over the oculists declared that the preservation 
 of the other eye depended on the most careful 
 abstaining from anything like straining the visual 
 organs. 
 
 Only a few days had elapsed since this fiat 
 went forth, and but once had Ralph Ashton seen 
 Lucy since the bandages were removed, when 
 she received a letter from him, dictated by that 
 one virtue, wdiich those v/ho possess no other are 
 ever ready to put prominently forward — Pru- 
 dence. It pointed out some facts, which she 
 really must have known before, and among them 
 the great change in their future prospects her 
 affliction had made ; hinted very intelligibly at 
 
224 LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 
 
 the wisdom of a separation, and concluded by 
 mentioning that unless she desired to see him he 
 should refrain from calling again, and signing 
 himself " ever her sincere friend ! " 
 
 Lucy Freeling was for a while stunned by the 
 blow ; but though her young and susceptible 
 heart had been caught and led astray, it was of 
 a nature too fine to be broken by a mockery — a 
 falsehood. 
 
 " Do not tell me not to weep," she exclaimed, 
 a few days afterwards, as she sat between Mrs. 
 Lawson and her son, with a hand in one of each ; 
 " I know you would comfort me as dearest mother 
 and brother might. But do not tell me not to 
 weep. It cannot be that man whom I have loved ; 
 and with these foolish tears there seems to pass 
 away some dream, some folly — better this — 
 better this — a thousand times than to have been 
 his wife. I feel it so. Believe it. I do indeed." 
 
 A sharp irrepressible cry escaped Jasper Law- 
 son, and both his mother and Lucy turned to- 
 wards him. One look was exchanged, and 
 throwing himself passionately beside her, he 
 twined his arm round her waist, and pressed her 
 to his heart with an impulse that would not be 
 stayed. 
 
 " Lucy," he exclaimed, " there is one whose 
 heart has been filled with thoughts of you for 
 years; to whom you are the same in sickness 
 
LUCY AND HER LOVERS. 225 
 
 and in health ; rich, or in poverty ; with beauty- 
 perfect, or with beauty blemished ; his heart does 
 not feel the difference — it is yourself he loves, 
 no conjured image of a youthful fancy. Mother, 
 mother, did I not tell you this when hope was 
 dead within me ? " 
 
 Is there much wonder that Lucy's heart, re- 
 leased from the sway of a phantom love, clung 
 now and forever to the Tried and the True ? 
 
226 
 
 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 BY MARY LEMAN GILLIES. 
 
 The man who sits down in a virtuous home, 
 however humble, in which his own industry 
 enables him to breathe the atmosphere of inde- 
 pendence, and his wife's management to enjoy 
 cleanliness and comfort, has a vast scope for the 
 creation of happiness. The minds of his chil- 
 dren, — of his wife, — his own mind, are so many 
 microcosms, which only ask to be inquired into 
 and developed, to reveal hoards of wealth, which 
 may be coined into current enjoyment. We are 
 ever too little sensible of the good immediately 
 within our grasp ; too ready to cavil at difficul- 
 ties and to declare them impossibilities. A great 
 man once said there were no such things, and as 
 all proverbs have their foundation in practical 
 truth, this idea may receive confirmation from 
 the common phrase — " Where there is a will 
 there is a way." It is certain that the difference 
 between what zeal and energy will accomplish 
 with small means, compared with what power, 
 ill applied or feebly applied, will long leave un- 
 achieved, is most astounding. Few are those 
 who have not to reproach themselves with su- 
 
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 227 
 
 pineness, or a prodigal waste of time and re- 
 sources ; few, who, when they look back upon 
 the field of past experience, but feel how barren 
 they have left the track which might have been 
 richly cultivated. Let ns instantly reform. The 
 present will become the future ; let us resolve 
 that it shall be rich in fruit, delicious to the re- 
 verting spirit of review, and yielding good seed 
 for the progressive path before us. The travel- 
 ler rarely begins with his own country ; in like 
 manner, the searcher after enjoyment too often 
 looks beyond home ; too late in life's journey, 
 when little of either strength or time remains, 
 this is regretted. In the case of home, the early 
 neglect is usually irretrievable, where, we may 
 be certain, if flowers are not cuhivated, weeds 
 will spring, — where the violet and the rose 
 might have charmed our senses, the nettle and 
 night-shade will offend them. Fenelon was ac- 
 customed to say, " I love my family better than 
 myself; my country better than my family ; and 
 mankind better than my country ; for I am more 
 a Frenchman than a Fenelon, and more man 
 than a Frenchman." This is an instance of 
 reasoning more beautiful in theory than reducible 
 to practice ; I should be satisfied with the man 
 who proceeded almost inversely and invested his 
 first funds in the domestic treasury ; these once 
 established and yielding interest, he may at once 
 
228 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 enjoy and dispense at will. Many spirits are 
 moving on the stream of society, and the rising 
 waters are attesting their influence. Religion 
 has its preachers, science and politics their lec- 
 turers, but there seems to be a dearth of moral 
 teachers — Apostles of the Religion of Home, 
 who would show warmly and eloquently to as- 
 sen:ibled congregations the beauty and the bene- 
 fits of the home affections, — the dreadful blank 
 and ruinous bankruptcy attendant on their want 
 or violation — who would send away their dis- 
 persing auditors with awakened hearts, each say- 
 ing in the secret chamber of its individual breast, 
 — '' Iioill be a better wife, a better husband, a 
 better parent, a better child, than I have ever 
 been." Those w^ho should make this resolve 
 and act up to it might count upon an exceeding 
 great reward — the harvest of present happiness, 
 and the solace of future consolation. Of the lat- 
 ter need, let it ever be remembered, none will be 
 spared; the wedded will be the widowed — the 
 parented will be the orphaned. The links of life 
 are not more surely cemented than they are struck 
 asunder, and happy is he in whose living hand 
 is left the fragment of the chain : if, when the 
 heart that loved him is cold, he can lay his hand 
 upon his own, and say — " I never neglected her 
 — I was never unkind; we suffered, but I ever 
 sought to make her share of sufTerinq- the least." 
 
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 229 
 
 As happy she who can recollect habits of devo- 
 tion and endurance, that she kept ever present to 
 her mind how he was toiled and tried in the con- 
 flicting struggles of the world abroad, and had 
 sedulously sought, as much as in her lay, to 
 create for him a recompense at home — sweet 
 will be this drop in her bitter cup of bereave- 
 ment. Without risking the charge of partiality, 
 I may say this consolatory consciousness of self- 
 abnegation falls more often to the lot of woman 
 than of man. Many affecting instances in the 
 most unfortunate walks of life are often recorded 
 in the public prints, where a wife, to shield a 
 savage assailant from punishment, has pleaded 
 guilty to self-violence. These revolting circum- 
 stances will disappear with the class in which 
 alone they are found, as temperance and intelli- 
 gence advance ; for hearts, hundreds of hearts, 
 that were originally capable of tenderness, have 
 been defrauded of the blessed privileges of loving 
 and dispensing kindness, because unhappy cir- 
 cumstances denied the current of affection per- 
 mission to flow forth, and gentleness and sweet- 
 ness to become the habit of behavior. The 
 kindlier feelings, checked in their outset, grow 
 stagnant, or take a concealed and sluggish course, 
 never yielding sufficient evidence of vitality. 
 Thus many whom self-culture has redeemed 
 mentally from the bondage of early bad habits, 
 20 
 
230 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 have failed to attain moral emancipation from 
 the thraldom in which want of genial manners 
 principally contributes to hold them. I have 
 noticed even a false shame evinced at giving- 
 any evidence of susceptibility to the lovable 
 emotions, and rudeness affected to hide the ten- 
 derness that was yearning to burst forth. To 
 these I would say in the beautiful language of a 
 popular song : — 
 
 Love now ! ere the heart feels a sorrow, 
 Or the bright sunny moments are flown : 
 
 Love now ! for the dawn of to-morrow 
 May find thee unloved and alone. 
 
 Oh! alone — alone in the house of mourning! 
 What would you not then give to recall the time 
 when you suffered your best feelings to lie in 
 unprofitable silence ? — what would you not give 
 to recall to consciousness — consciousness of your 
 love, your contrition — the heart you had often 
 hurt by apparent indifference? By a magic 
 peculiar to death, all that was beautiful, was 
 amiable, in the departed, rises on the stricken 
 heart of the survivor with renewed beauty ; 
 while in the same proportion his own merits 
 shrink — his own demerits are magnified. Spare 
 thyself this bitter addition to a bitter draught ~ 
 the cup may not pass from thee ! Let not the 
 sun of affection go down while it is yet day, or 
 the night of thy mourning will be dark indeed ! 
 
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 231 
 
 It seems strange that mental improvement should 
 be more easy than moral amelioration — but so 
 it is ; the mind's prejudices fall before that silent 
 monitor, a book, and the faculties assert their 
 freedom : but it requires more effort to affect a 
 change of manner, and modes of expression — if 
 the amenities have not grown with our growth, 
 and strengthened with our strength, they rarely 
 take kindly to the soil. Gentleness and tender- 
 ness then must be among the first and most con- 
 stant of the influences exerted over the infant 
 mind. The general increase of kindliness and 
 urbanity, in the classes in which the graces of 
 society have been least regarded, are among the 
 best advances that have long been making. The 
 history of private life in past times exhibits a 
 severity of conduct towards the young, from a 
 mistaken notion of its utility, nay, of its neces- 
 sity, that it is painful to recall. The sceptre was 
 not deemed more essential to the king, the mace 
 to the keeper of his conscience, than the rod to 
 the school-master; and if portraits of these birch- 
 loving pedagogues could be presented to us, no 
 doubt the stereotyped frown would be found on 
 every face. Lady Jane Grey records that she 
 never sat in her mother's presence, and severe 
 study was a sweet shelter from such severe aus- 
 terity. Joy to the young spirits of the nineteenth 
 century — everywhere be their hearts opened by 
 
232 FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 kindness and encouragement! Let us not be 
 niggards of the moral comfit — praise. Credit 
 to a dawning or dormant capacity is often what 
 an advance of capital is to a struggling trader; it 
 assists, perhaps inspires, the exertion that enables 
 him to realize fortune and repay the loan with 
 interest. I would present to every parent the 
 following beautiful lines by Coleridge, and even 
 suggest their being committed to memory : — 
 
 " O'er wayward childhood would 'st ihou hold firm rule, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces, 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
 For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it ; — so 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
 Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show, 
 The straightened arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
 And robes that, touching as adown they flow, 
 Distinctly blend like snow embossed in snow ; 
 
 O part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie. 
 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 But love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
 And bending o'er, with soul transfusing eyes, 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies : 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. 
 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day. 
 
 When overtasked at length 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, 
 Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth, 
 And, both supporting, docs the work of both." 
 
233 
 
 OLD HAUNTS 
 
 BY M. F. TUPPER. 
 
 I LOVE to linger on my track 
 
 Wherever I have dwelt, 
 In after years to loiter back, 
 
 And feel as once I felt ; 
 My foot falls lightly on the sward, 
 
 Yet leaves a deathless dint, 
 With tenderness I still regard 
 
 Its unforgotten print. 
 
 Old places have a charm for me 
 
 The new can ne'er attain, 
 Old faces — how I long to see 
 
 Their kindly looks again ! 
 Yet, these are gone : — while all around 
 
 Is changeable as air, 
 I'll anchor in the solid ground 
 
 And root my memories there ' 
 20^ 
 
234 
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. 
 CHAPTEK. FIRST. 
 
 " I AM very late, dear Fanny, but I have twenty 
 things to tell you of, which have detained me 
 to-day," said Walter Bingham to his wife, as she 
 met him in the hall with a smiling face and 
 affectionate welcome. Their house was a small 
 one, in an obscure and fourth-rate street; but 
 love and peace were the guardian angels that 
 kept the portal, and shed a fairy lustre through- 
 out the dwelling. 
 
 " Nay," replied the wife, " you said that I 
 must not expect 3'ou before five, but that you 
 would not be later than six; it has not struck, 
 so I am sure I have no right to complain." 
 
 "Ah, Fan, you never scold — but you know 
 very well I meant to be home long ago," 
 
 Walter Bingham's history may be briefly told. 
 He had been left an orphan when a mere child, 
 and confided by his father's will to the guardian- 
 ship of his maternal uncle, the child's nearest 
 relative. Mr. Shirley was a thoroughly worldly 
 man. It would have been a compliment to call 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 235 
 
 him "a man of the world," seeing that this 
 phrase, ugly as it is in its most general meaning, 
 nevertheless implies a width — a grasp of mind 
 Walter's uncle never possessed ; but he was in- 
 tensely worldly and selfish in all his aims, nar- 
 row as they were, without a sympathy beyond 
 his own hearth, from which indeed in this sense 
 the orphan was excluded. Fortunately, Walter's 
 fortune, amounting to about six thousand pounds, 
 had been so tightly secured in the hands of trus- 
 tees, that, beyond receiving the appointed allow- 
 ance for his education, even Mr. Shirley's inge- 
 nuity could not make away with it during the 
 boy's minority ; but he was not without his plans 
 by which to appropriate it nevertheless. On one 
 dexterous pretext or another he avoided settling 
 Walter in any profession or pursuit until he be- 
 came of age ; taking care meanwhile to make his 
 life glide away so smoothly, that delays and 
 changes of purpose seemed to have arisen from 
 the most fortunate course of events. 
 
 His scheme, however, was to make Walter's 
 inheritance the nucleus of a fortune for his own 
 son Charles, a shrewd youth, who added to his 
 father's characteristics a keener intellect, and, if 
 possible, a colder heart. In due time, therefore, 
 a mercantile project was brought forward, and in 
 a few weeks a partnership was formed between 
 the cousins. Charles Shirley was at this time 
 
236 
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 seven or eight and twenty : it was represented 
 that his experience — and circumstances had 
 given him a knowledge of business — should be 
 weighed against Walter's money, and they 
 started on terms of perfect equality. A thriving 
 business, however, once established, the " expe- 
 rienced" partner had no notion of another reap- 
 ing the fruits of his toil. By turns appalling his 
 dupe — for that is the proper term — by the pro- 
 posal of daring and unprincipled speculations, 
 and impressing him with a sense of his own un- 
 fitness to cope with anxieties so great, or decide 
 on undertakings so important, in less than six 
 years he contrived to dissolve their partnership 
 — leaving Walter, it is true, but a wreck of his 
 property, and yet gaining his end without any 
 violent rupture or wordy quarrel. 
 
 The cousins were as opposite as light from 
 darkness. Walter Bingham's was a. nature that 
 would not swerve aside from the path of strict 
 integrity for all the temptations of gain which 
 could be offered him. His own high heart had 
 saved him from many of the evils of an imper- 
 fect and even corrupt education ; but his charac- 
 ter had developed rather late, and all which was 
 valuable he had learned since he became his own 
 master, and not a few of his early lessons had he 
 unlearned during the same period. He was now 
 a great deal too self-reliant to be made the dupe 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 237 
 
 of any one. He had married, too, and wedded 
 with a gentle, loving woman, whose finely tem- 
 pered mind responded to all his own highest 
 principles and noblest aspirations. Both were 
 devoid of vulgar ambition, both tested things by 
 their reality and not by their seeming; and, as 
 is ever the case in such unions, each feh from 
 this mutual support firmer of heart for all high 
 purposes than they could have been separately. 
 One or two plans for realizing an income with- 
 out dipping into his diminished capital had been 
 adopted by Waker Bingham, and two or three 
 years had passed in these experiments without 
 any very flattering degree of success; and by 
 the autumn day on which they are introduced 
 to the reader, the young couple were seriously 
 thinking of emigrating to Australia. All in all 
 to each other, there was no tie in England to 
 make the step a painful one ; and they knew 
 that under any sky their own hearts could make 
 
 home. 
 
 Their simple dinner w^as soon over, and mean- 
 while Fanny learned how her husband had been 
 disappointed of seeing one man of business, and 
 had had to wait half an hour for another, and 
 how a stoppage of vehicles in one of the narrow 
 great thoroughfares had impeded the cab he had 
 taken to save time, with half a dozen disasters 
 fully sufficient to account for his coming home 
 
238 
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 just at the dinner hour, instead of in time to take 
 his wife a pleasant walk previously. The even- 
 ing was chilly, so Fanny proposed a fire; and 
 they drew their chairs cosily near the cheerful 
 blaze. How one enjoys the first fire of the sea- 
 son ! — (or for that matter one on a cold summer's 
 day) — it really has an exhilarating effect, some- 
 thing akin to real sunshine after gloomy weather. 
 And then Walter Bingham recapitulated the 
 day's adventures, and, among other things, 
 said — 
 
 " I have been haunted all day by the counte- 
 nance of a child I saw this morning, and have 
 only this instant remembered of whom it is he 
 reminded me. You have heard me speak of 
 Lucy — poor Lucy." 
 
 " You mean the poor servant girl who nursed 
 you so tenderly through the fever when you 
 were a boy ? " 
 
 " I do. Her who was driven from my uncle's 
 house with fiercest anger and in deepest shame. 
 Vain were all my after efforts to discover her 
 fate, for I was but a powerless youth, and those 
 about me divined that I felt grateful to the out- 
 cast, and pitied where they only scorned. Fallen 
 as she was, there must have been much of the 
 angel left uncorrupted in that poor girl's soul. 
 At the very time when desertion and infamy, 
 and woman's sorest hour of trial, were hanging 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 239 
 
 over her like the gatherings of a thunder-cloud, 
 ready to discharge its death-boU, she watched 
 beside me with the tenderness of a sister ; — yes, 
 though they who were my kindred thought all 
 was done when a doctor was summoned and a 
 hired nurse provided. But it was poor Lucy 
 who in the lonely hours of the long night was 
 always near ; who could shake up the pillows to 
 a form and softness like no other; and from 
 whose hand the cooling drink seemed always 
 most refreshing : and then when I used to grieve 
 for the loss of her rest, she would smile sadly 
 and say, ' I cannot sleep — let me stay here and 
 be of use.' And often and often, when 1 lay be- 
 tween the fitful waking and dozing of sickness, 
 have I seen her blue eyes, glistening with the 
 tears which did not flow, raised to heaven as if 
 in silent supplication; while her countenance 
 bore a look of sufl:ering I can never forget. And 
 just that look— just those blue eyes — did I 
 behold in the street to-day." 
 
 " But you said it was a child you saw," replied 
 the young wife, looking, perhaps involuntarily, 
 towards a pretty little crib of basket-work and 
 pink silk, where slumbered a rosy little Walter. 
 It was the mention of a child that had first 
 aroused her interest, touching some strange 
 heart-chord, and to it she easily reverted again, 
 
240 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 even from poor Lucy's well known but tragic 
 story. 
 
 " Not an infant, my love," returned Bingham, 
 " but a boy of some twelve or fourteen years of 
 age. I was endeavoring to make a short cut 
 into Holborn, guiding my steps rather by the 
 compass than by any recollection of the map of 
 London, when suddenly I found myself in the 
 midst of a densely populated but evidently most 
 wretched neighborhood. Lost in reverie — " 
 
 "Oh, do break yourself of that habit : I am 
 sure you will be run over one of these days 
 if you don't," interrupted the anxious Fanny, 
 taking her husband's hand ; but he continued — 
 
 " I believe I was first aroused from my mus- 
 ings by the sensation of a change in the atmos- 
 phere to something more disagreeable than I had 
 ever inhaled before. Close and fetid it was to 
 an intolerable degree ; and no wonder when I 
 looked on the scene around me. I was in the 
 midst of dilapidated habitations, which yet 
 seemed swarming with tenants, if I might judge 
 from the throngs of half-starved, half-clad, un- 
 washed creatures, of both sexes and of all ages, 
 by whom I was surrounded. Men, brutalized I 
 would fain believe by ignorance, with a stolid 
 look, unlighted by any gleam of intelligence, save 
 that which to my mind is more revolting than 
 idiotism — low cunning; women of demeanor as 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 241 
 
 coarse, and using language as foul, as their com- 
 panions, with long and bushy hair matted about 
 their faces, and all — both men and women — 
 more or less idling; some lounging at doors and 
 windows, smoking or quarreling; and even where 
 there was the pretence of employment, it was 
 conducted in so listless a manner that it could 
 not be associated with industry. 
 
 " The children, mimics as they always are, 
 reflected the scene around them ; yet, though 
 equally abject, emaciated, and miserable, there 
 was, on the whole, more activity about them, 
 more human intelligence, — they seemed only 
 undergoing the process of corruption — the seal 
 of utter, irremediable degradation was not yet 
 fixed. Still, even in their play — and how won- 
 derful it is that such children should play at all ! 
 — there was the same animal selfishness to be 
 traced as that which seemed written on the adult 
 countenances, the same chuckle at momentary 
 success, and the same absence of all generous 
 sympathy. 
 
 " To all this, however, there was one excep- 
 tion. Sitting on a door-step, at a little distance 
 from a ragged, dirty, noisy group of urchins, was 
 the boy to whom I allude. He had evidently 
 been weeping bitterly, but there was a lull after 
 the passion of tears, and his blue eyes were 
 raised to the sky with an expression of hopeless 
 21 
 
242 
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 misery I can never forget. It has haunted me 
 all day ; and the very intensity with which, at 
 the moment, I tried to recall the likeness to my 
 memory, robbed me of the presence of mind — 
 or instinct rather — which should have prompted 
 me to question the poor child. But I had little 
 time for reflection ; almost at the instant, a ruf- 
 fianly-looking man came forward, and seizing 
 the boy with the authority of a master, began 
 cuffing him with his fist, as he half drove, half 
 dragged him along. Amid the storm of impre- 
 cations which accompanied these proceedings, all 
 I could understand was, that the child had lost, 
 or been robbed of, a penny, with which he had 
 been intrusted to pay the postage of a letter. 
 Strange, Fanny, is it not? that I cannot forget 
 that poor boy ! " 
 
 CHAPTER SECOND. 
 
 Winter had passed away; a long, cold win- 
 ter : yet to the well housed, well clothed, well 
 warmed, well fed many, a season of social, genial, 
 or studious hours profitably passed, and pleasant 
 to remember. In a well curtained, well carpeted 
 chamber, with the cheerful fire acting as the 
 magnet of the room — and the book, or the pen- 
 cil, music's softening recreation, and the highest 
 and most inexhaustible resource of all, that rapid 
 and suggestive interchange of thought, for which 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 243 
 
 we want some more definite term than " conver 
 sation" — it matters but little what the strife of 
 the elements maybe without; how biting the 
 wind, or penetrating the rain, or death-dealing 
 the frost ! Far differently the winter passes in 
 the haunts of penury, or even in the abodes of 
 the laboring poor. The resources which are just 
 equal to meet the wants of summer, sorely fail 
 in the hour of bitterer trial, when physical suffer- 
 ing brings its inevitable train of moral degrada- 
 tions ; and the animal instinct of self-preservation 
 asserts its dominion over every nobler faculty. 
 
 It had been a winter of great misery to the 
 very poor ; and a period of those convulsions in 
 the mercantile world which spread their eddies 
 in many widening circles. Walter Bingham 
 had not escaped their influence; he was still 
 without employment, and poorer than in the au- 
 tumn, inasmuch, that he had dipped for those 
 months' support still deeper into his capital. 
 But a heavier sorrow than this had fallen on the 
 young couple. Alas ! the little crib was empty; 
 
 the pallor of death had displaced the roses of 
 
 health, and the new life, so full of promise and 
 freshness, had died out from the earth, though 
 so many of the old and feeble, and loveless and 
 wretched, still lingered behind: — one of the 
 solemn lessons, with which each day is rife, that 
 tell of the vanity of human expectations. 
 
244 
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 The Binghams had quite decided on emigra- 
 tion, and had completed nearly every preparation. 
 Berths were even secured in a ship which would 
 shortly sail, but Walter had still business to settle 
 with his wily cousin. Though what the calen- 
 dar calls spring, it was a chilly evening ; in fact, 
 much such weather as, belonging to opposite sea- 
 son' strangely enough, sometimes recalls during 
 one he other to mind ; and so like was it in its 
 cha :ter to that day on which we first intro- 
 duD Walter Bingham to the reader, that he 
 had een more than once irresistibly reminded 
 of it and its events. He had called on his cousin 
 on his return home, hoping finally to arrange the 
 matter between them, in which there was a dis- 
 pute about two or three hundred pounds. They 
 were in earnest conference in a parlor fronting 
 the street, and had drawn near the window to 
 examine some memorandums scarcely otherwise 
 to be distinguished in the deepening twilight. 
 Suddenly there was a noise in the street — a 
 rabble of men and boys, apparently dragging 
 along some juvenile offender — and then a halt 
 immediately before the house. In a moment, 
 Bingham recognized in the culprit the child who 
 had interested him so much six months before ! 
 
 To rush into the street, and to rescue the boy 
 from the rough hands which grasped him, prom- 
 ising to listen presently to any accusations, was 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 245 
 
 the work of a few seconds ; and a similar act of 
 impulse was to draw him into Mr. Shirley's 
 dwelling. Most poorly clad, dirty, ragged, mea- 
 gre, miserable looking to the last degree, the boy 
 still retained the expression which had touched 
 so deeply in the heart of Walter Bingham. The 
 blue eyes, gleaming through tears, from time to 
 time looked upwards as he answered Waher's 
 questioning. 
 
 " How came you into this trouble ? " he asked. 
 
 " I broke a window," said the boy. 
 
 "Broke a window — on purpose?" pursued 
 his interrogator. 
 
 " Yes ; I have no home — I want to be sent 
 to prison." 
 
 "No home — no parents?" continued Bing- 
 ham. 
 
 " I never had," sobbed the boy. " I am a 
 
 workhouse child. I was brought up at M 
 
 workhouse." 
 
 " But they have not turned you adrift into the 
 streets, surely?" 
 
 " No : they put me out to a shoemaker." 
 
 " Then why are you homeless ?" 
 
 " Because I sold a bit of leather for twopence, 
 ■which I thought master had thrown away — I 
 am sure I did" — and here the boy broke into a 
 torrent of tears. 
 
 " Come, tell me all about it," said Bingham, 
 21^ 
 
246 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 in a kind voice, suspecting there was a story of 
 oppression and temptation to hear. 
 
 " He beat me for losing a penny, and said I 
 stole it — but I never did," sobbed the poor un- 
 fortunate; " and then — and then — they called 
 me a thief, and the boys laughed at me, and 
 asked me what I stole — as — as — I never had 
 halfpence for play or for cakes — and yet they 
 would not believe me when I said I was not a 
 thief, and so — and so — I took the bit of leather, 
 and I never had twopence before." 
 
 " And what did you do with the money?" 
 
 " I bought nuts for the boj's in the court. But 
 they sent me to prison for a thief, and when I 
 came out I had nowhere to go — master would 
 not let me into his house — and so — and so — I 
 broke the window to go back to prison : for I 
 won't be a thief, and what can I do ?" 
 
 What can I do ? Oh, question so difficult for 
 sages and legislators to answer ; and one which 
 can never be satisfactorily solved till charity 
 walks "more bravely abroad in the world — with 
 a hand ready to raise up the fallen, — and hope 
 shines as God meant it to shine — a light to 
 cheer and lead forward even the most wretched! 
 Absorbed in the child's history, Bingham had 
 not noticed his cousin ; but now he looked up, 
 and was almost alarmed to see that he had sunk 
 into a chair, and that his countenance was of a 
 
THE BLUE EYES. 247 
 
 deathlike paleness. Truth, to tell, he too had 
 started at the expression of the " blue eyes," and 
 
 when the boy mentioned the M workhouse, 
 
 his guilty conscience told him the rest. 
 
 Bingham raised his hand to his brow, as if he 
 would sweep back a host of newer memories, and 
 recall, in all their vividness, the scenes of his 
 boyhood. 
 
 "Lucy — poor Lucy! — is it so?" he mur- 
 mured, appealing to his cousin, who, with the 
 characteristic cowardice of cruelty, dragged him 
 into an adjoining room, and besought him in the 
 most abject manner to keep his secret. Mean, 
 craven souls always judge the nobler ones which 
 they are unable to comprehend by their own low 
 standard, and Shirley was full of dread and sus- 
 picion that his cousin would use his newly ac- 
 quired knowledge as a means of terror and a 
 threat over him. 
 
 Charles Shirley had a shrewish wife, with a 
 fortune " settled on herself! " 
 
 There was a terrible confession wrung from 
 him by interrogations, and made in fear and 
 trembling. 
 
 A false marriage, an awakening to shame, 
 desertion, and maternity, and death in a work- 
 house ! 
 
 " Not for your sake, not for yours," exclaimed 
 Bingham, with honest indignation, "but for the 
 
248 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 memory of that suffering girl, but for the pres- 
 ence of those 'blue eyes' which watched over 
 me in the hours of mortal sickness, I take the 
 charge of your nameless child. To the southern 
 hemisphere, away from the land of his birth, I 
 take him — he is not j^-ours to give." 
 
 And when Fanny, his dear Fanny, she whose 
 heart ever beat in unison with his own, heard 
 the tale, she wreathed her arms round her hus- 
 band's neck in a proud and approving caress, and 
 looking down at her black garments, and point- 
 ing to the empty crib, she murmured — " To be 
 a substitute, at least a consolation." 
 
 And the three are at this hour crossing the 
 blue ocean ! May fair winds speed them on 
 their way, and a bright sky canopy their new 
 home. The heart's promptings more often come 
 straight from heaven than the cool calculations 
 of the head ; and I am dreaming a beautiful 
 dream, of childlike affection, and unutterable 
 gratitude ; of an approving conscience, and of 
 fortune's gifts, which seem profuse to them of 
 few wants and simple pleasures ! 
 
249 
 
 "THE WARM YOUNG HEAKT." 
 
 Y AUTHOR OF PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY, 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL face, and a form of grace, 
 
 Were a pleasant sight to see \ 
 And gold, and gems, and diadems, 
 
 Right excellent they be : 
 But beauty and gold, though both be untold, 
 
 Are things of a worldly mart ; 
 The wealth that I prize, above ingots or eyes, 
 
 Is a heart, — a warm young heart ! 
 
 face most fair, shall thy beauty compare 
 With affection's glowing light ? 
 
 riches and pride, how pale ye beside 
 Love's wealth, serene and bright! 
 
 1 spurn thee away, as a cold thing of clay, 
 
 Though gilded and carved thou art. 
 For all That I prize, in its smiles and its sighs, 
 Is a heart — a warm ^roung heart ! 
 
250 
 
 THE HAPPY PAMILY. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Happy mother ! happy child I 
 
 Each around the other clinging, 
 She with pensive face and mild, 
 
 He his blithest carol singing : 
 See, his little song beguiles 
 Another of his mother's smiles, 
 While her fond and soft caress 
 Forms his dearest happiness ! 
 
 Happy mother ! happy child ! 
 
 What though soon that gentle boy 
 
 Should learn to sigh, should meet with sorrow! 
 He who is her greatest joy 
 
 Then from her sweet peace shall borrow ! 
 Or think we of the coming hour 
 When bo3diood yields to manhood's power; 
 Then shall he make her soul rejoice. 
 Truth breathes in our prophetic voice ; 
 
 Happy mother ! happy child ! 
 
TMIE iPIAIPIPX IFx^MILlTo 
 
251 
 
 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO. 
 
 It was the last day of the assizes in a country 
 touTi, and a man sat on the wayside a few miles 
 distant from that town, his chin resting on both 
 hands, his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on 
 the ground, and his whole air betokening the 
 extreme of despondency or suUenness ; perhaps 
 of both ; for though he was young, scarce two 
 and twenty, there was a deep gloom on his brow, 
 which might be referred to either feeling, and a 
 lurid gloom was in the downcast eyes, while his 
 cheeks were pale and sunken, through anguish 
 of mind, not want or illness. His entire worldly 
 possessions were contained in the small bundle 
 lying beside him, tied up in a handkerchief; 
 truly all his possessions, for he had neither 
 good character nor friends. At those assizes 
 just terminating, he had been arraigned for mur- 
 der—the murder of his dearest friend, the as- 
 cribed motive being the appropriation of a trifling 
 sum belonging to the deceased. There was a 
 strong chain of circumstantial evidence against 
 him, but a connecting link was wanting, and he 
 
252 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 was found " Not guilty :" a Scottish jury would 
 have said "Not proven;" but no such middle 
 course being allov/ed in England, the resuU was 
 an acquittal. But what an acquittal ! No hand 
 was extended in friendly greeting; no voice 
 welcomed him back to liberty; no eye looked 
 kindly on him. He was restored to all the privi- 
 leges of a free-born Englishman ; but he was an 
 outcast from the society of his countrymen. The 
 law pronounced him innocent ; but the public 
 voice proclaimed him guilty, and renounced his 
 fellowship. On being recognized that morning, 
 he had been dismissed with insult from the mis- 
 erable lodging whither he had betaken himself 
 the previous evening. He had been reviled, 
 hooted, and pelted beyond the outskirts of the 
 town, and only saved from personal injury by 
 the interference of the officers of that law it was 
 assumed he had offended; and his spirit was 
 chafed and his feelings wounded by the con- 
 tumely with which he had been treated. 
 
 How long he had been there he could not have 
 told : the shadows might have moved, but he 
 marked them not — all was shadow now to him; 
 while the flight of time was unevidenced by any 
 diminution of the weariness of body or lassitude 
 of mind which had bade him pause there to rest. 
 There were footsteps along the road, and voices 
 approaching, but he did not look up ; at that 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 253 
 
 moment he seemed not to care who the passers 
 by might be. Suddenly one near to him pro- 
 nounced his name and the crime for which he 
 had been tried, coupled with opprobrious and in- 
 sulting epithets. He started to his feet with his 
 bundle in his hand, and looked wildly round 
 him. Several lads were gathered in a semi- 
 circle, and one of their number having just pro- 
 claimed his identity with the object of universal 
 detestation, they were gazing on him with looks 
 of mingled aversion and curiosity. " Stand back, 
 all of you ! " exclaimed the unfortunate man, in a 
 threatening tone, indignant at being stared at in 
 that manner, like a wild beast. 
 
 They retreated a few yards ; then, embold- 
 ened by distance and numbers, began to taunt 
 and upbraid him with the death of his friend, 
 and with many a degrading thought and evil 
 passion which had never entered his heart nor 
 his imagination, until, stung to madness by their 
 provocations, he raised a large stone which lay 
 at his feet, though more with the intention of 
 dispersing his tormentors than of injuring any 
 one of them. A shcut of defiance from the young 
 ruffians strengthened his purpose, and already 
 the missile was poised in his hand, when a voice 
 seemed to echo that hated word "murder," but 
 in warning, in his ear; then, recalled in an in- 
 stant to himself, he repulsed the temptation of 
 
254 
 
 THE LAW OF OPIl<fION. 
 
 revenge, cast the stone to the ground, and spring- 
 ing over the hedge, amidst a yell of exultation 
 from the youthful champions of justice, bounded 
 away across the country, over fence and ditch 
 and field, in his headlong flight towards his 
 home. 
 
 Home ! What a world of meaning is conveyed 
 by that single word ! What does it not imply 
 of hope and gladness, of sweetest memories, 
 strong affections, and pure and stingless pleas- 
 ures? And shunned and miserable as he was, 
 even that unhappy being had a home, where 
 dwelt those who were very dear unto his heart. 
 But how might they receive him ? The doubt 
 had inflicted greater agony on his spirit than the 
 bitterest taunts of his most savage persecutors. 
 It was dusk when he entered his native village, 
 and involuntarily he slunk along with a stealthy 
 step, lest the sound of his foot might awaken 
 animosity. Many weeks had elapsed since he 
 was there last, and though all was still the same, 
 it looked different to him. There were the same 
 cottages, with their low quaint fences, and walls 
 draperied with honeysuckle and roses ; but as 
 he passed they seemed to frown on him some- 
 what of the abhorrence with which the once 
 kindly tenants now would meet him. The vil- 
 lage church, built on a rising ground, was soon 
 observable, looking shadowy and spectre-like 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 255 
 
 amid the gloom ; and he remembered his child- 
 ish awe, in j^ears gone by, at the thought that 
 he should one day be placed beneath the green 
 turf which girt it round — now he would that he 
 had been laid there then. There, too, was the 
 blacksmith's shed, where he had so often loitered 
 in idle hours ; some work still detained the black- 
 smith at his anvil, and it was surrounded by 
 loungers, talking eagerly — alas! he could but 
 too well guess the subject of their conversation ! 
 A little shop, with oranges, eggs, cakes, bull's- 
 eyes, and such kinds of sweatmeats, in the win- 
 dow, stood near : it was his mother's. He had 
 not seen her since his arrest, and he knew that 
 she had been very ill during the interval — ill 
 through distress at the charge brought against 
 him. Long ere this she would have known of 
 his release : would she, could she, too, share in 
 the general aversion he had excited ? 
 
 With a faltering step he entered beneath the 
 humble roof — the shop was empty, and he passed 
 onward to the open door, which led into the inner 
 room. At the sound of his footstep, a girl, who 
 had sat crouching on a low stool beside the fire, 
 rose and came forward, and on seeing him, flung 
 herself into his arms, and burst into tears. She 
 was his sister, his only one, and they had been 
 a great deal to each other ; yet, as he kissed her 
 cheek, he almost fancied she shrunk from the 
 
 L 
 
2m 
 
 THE LAW OF OPl^aON. 
 
 caress. He released her from his embrace, and 
 approached his mother, who, ghastly pale, and 
 looking, as she was, heart-broken, sat motionless 
 as a statue in the ancient high-backed chair, 
 which his grandmother used to occupy of old. 
 Her countenance was so rigid, her form so death- 
 like, that he dared not, as he could have wished, 
 fall upon her neck, but he kneh down at her feet, 
 as he used to do as a child, when she would 
 teach him those prayers he had too frequently 
 omitted of later years. The poor woman laid a 
 hand on either shoulder, and looked into his 
 face. " Thank God, you have come back ! " said 
 she, in a low voice — "thank God that you are 
 safe ! But, oh that I should ever have hved to 
 see this day ! " 
 
 "Mother, mother!" said the wretched man, 
 hoarsely, "I am innocent — lam innocent of 
 shedding blood, as when I lay an infant in your 
 arms ! Mother, say you do not think me guilty ! " 
 
 " I hope you are not, Richard," replied the 
 mother. " God only knows how earnestly I 
 hope you are not." 
 
 And this was Richard Drewatt's welcome 
 home, after all his sorrow, his sufferings, and 
 his danger, and by those who loved him better 
 than did any one else on earth. But the curse 
 of imputed crime was upon him ; and even his 
 nearest and dearest could not feel towards him 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 257 
 
 as of old. They were kind to him, however, 
 and strove hard that he should perceive no differ- 
 ence in their mode of treating him ; though, not- 
 withstanding all their efforts, scarcely a minute 
 passed without some involuntary betrayal of the 
 change. For some days he remained quiet, 
 without stirring abroad : he was, indeed, unfit 
 for looking after an3^thnig. But while keeping 
 still as death in the little room over the shop, the 
 kindly-meant, but often ill-judged, remarks of the 
 occasional customers — from whom his arrival 
 was attempted to be concealed — reached his 
 ears, telling him in what estimation he was held 
 by former friends. 
 
 The village stood within two miles of a large 
 town, whither he at length proceeded one morn- 
 ing in quest of employment, having stolen from 
 his mother's dwelling before daybreak, like a 
 thief escaping from prison, and gained the open 
 country ere any of the neighbors were awake. 
 Near the entrance to the town was the shop 
 where he had learned and wrought at his trade 
 of cabinet-maker, and he called there first, not 
 with any expectations of success ; for though his 
 former master had given him a good character 
 on his trial, he had not shown him any kindness 
 afterwards ; but Eichard had nerved his mind to 
 the effort to stem the tide of persecution, and 
 assumed that, being acquitted, he must necessa- 
 22^ 
 
258 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 rily be considered innocent. But to his applica- 
 tion, the master answered coldly that his place 
 was filled up, and no more hands were at pres- 
 ent needed. He went to another, and yet 
 another, until he had been at every shop of the 
 description in the town, but with equally bad 
 success : in each establishment there was some 
 one that knew him, and his application was cut 
 short at once. The last of the number belonged 
 to the former foreman of his old master, and his 
 refusal of employment, though as decided, was 
 more kindly worded than most others. Drewatt 
 turned to go away, and yet he hesitated. " It is 
 this unfortunate story against me prevents your 
 taking me on," said he, at length. " Surely, sir, 
 you cannot believe that I am guilty ? " 
 
 " I do not myself," was the reply, " but I am 
 sorry to say there is a feeling against you, and 
 my men would not let you work with them." 
 
 Sad, and sick at heart, Richard stole back to 
 his mother's house in the dim twilight. How 
 different it was in former times, when from that 
 very town which now rejected his proffered labor, 
 he used to return every evening, tired perhaps 
 with his work, but gay and happy, and to a home 
 indeed made blessed by affection and innocent 
 and spontaneous merriment. Now they were 
 forced and very mournful smiles which greeted 
 him ; and he had scarcely voice enough to reveal 
 
THE LAAV OF OPINION. 259 
 
 his disappointments, expected though they had 
 been. 
 
 On the following morning he set forth again, 
 on a similar errand, to another town, about twelve 
 miles distant from the village. But the same 
 ill-fortune still attended him : some really had 
 no vacancy for workmen, some looked suspi- 
 ciously at him — f5r his description had gone 
 the round of all the papers — and then declined 
 engaging him. One person there was, evidently 
 inclined to give him work, who asked his name, 
 looked queer on hearing it, and inquired if he 
 had not been till lately in the employ of Mr. Dunn 
 at C. Eichard replied in the affirmative, and 
 was told there was no employment for him there. 
 
 Yet more dejected than before, the unfortunate 
 man retraced his steps, resolving without further 
 loss of time to quit the village perhaps forever, 
 to prosecute, at a greater distance from the scene 
 of his rebujEfs and insults, his search of an oppor- 
 tunity to earn his subsistence honestly, by the 
 labor of his hands. His immediate removal was 
 indeed requisite ; for the fact of his presence 
 began to be wdiispered abroad, and people were 
 growing chary of sending their children to the 
 shop, where a reputed murderer might be en- 
 countered, and were not over ready to come 
 themselves. And this shop being now the wid- 
 ow's sole support, loss of custom wonld be too 
 
260 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 ruinous to be lightly hazarded. Were we giving" 
 the rein to invention, we might have sought to 
 work upon the reader's feelings by depicting such 
 loss of custom as being the immediate conse- 
 quence of the general feeling against Richard. 
 But we are relating a plain unvarnished tale ; 
 and in this instance the worthy villagers did not 
 thus visit the presumed misdeeds of the son upon 
 his unoffending parent ; though the school which 
 Kate kept formerly had inevitably to be discon- 
 tinued. 
 
 It was night when Richard reached the first 
 straggling houses of the hamlet ; yet after pass- 
 ing them he sat down in the deeper obscurity at 
 the foot of a ruined wall, for his heart failed him 
 at the thought of meeting those at home, with 
 the tale of repeated denials he had to tell. He 
 heard a footstep coming along, and shrunk down 
 to the level of a large stone and the rank weeds 
 beside it, for whose vicinage he was thankful ; 
 for, more especially in his present irritated and 
 desponding mood, he hated the very idea of en- 
 countering any of his former acquaintances. 
 Presently he heard a lighter though slower step 
 approaching from the opposite direction ; and 
 while still the angle of the wall prevented his 
 seeing this second person, the man, who was by 
 this time close to him, called out — " Why, who 
 comes here ? is 't you, Mary ? " 
 
THE LAW OF OriNION. 261 
 
 "No — it's me — Kate Drewatt," replied Rich- 
 ard's sister in a trembling voice, and the next 
 instant he could discover her form amid the dim- 
 ness. 
 
 " Oh ! ar' n't you almost afraid to be out so 
 late ? shall I go home with you ? " inquired, with 
 considerable hesitation, the former speaker, whom 
 Drewatt recognized as one he had often consid- 
 ered Kate's most favored lover. Poor girl ! it 
 was in those bygone days when she had several. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I can go home by myself," 
 said Kate, in a prouder tone. 
 
 " Why, Kate, you must n't take it ill of me, 
 that — that — " began the youth. " I mean you 
 mustn't put any blame on me because that — " 
 
 " I put no blame on any one for anything," 
 replied Kate, sadly. " But you need n't tell me 
 plainer what you mean, George Rushwood, for 
 your looks and your behavior have spoken plainly 
 as a printed book already." 
 
 " But what I mean, Kate, is not for you to be 
 going to think I did n't love you, because I can't 
 now wish you for my wife. If you were changed, 
 Kate, as you can never change ; if you were ugly 
 and frightful, instead of the prettiest girl here- 
 abouts, I would have loved you all the same — I 
 could have worked for you, and for your mother, 
 if she was poor and old, and had a dozen help- 
 less children, I'd have worked for them all. But 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 no, Kate — though it goes nigh to break my 
 heart to say so — I can't have the folks say that 
 my wife is Dick Drewatt's sister." 
 
 " You might have waited till she was offered 
 to you before you refused her," replied Kate with 
 a little feminine spirit, though even then she 
 could hardly speak for weeping. " But though 
 Kate Drewatt is very, very unhappy, she is not 
 yet so miserable as to wish the love or the pity 
 of any man, much less any man who could de- 
 spise her." 
 
 During their short dialogue the poor girl had 
 moved past Rushwood, and she now hurried 
 away, without leaving time for a reply. Her 
 sometime suitor, and even now lover, gazed after 
 her for a minute. "No — I can't do it!" he 
 exclaimed at length, striking his stick loudly on 
 the earth : " I can't ! Father and mother would 
 come out of their quiet graves to curse me, if I 
 did it ! " and with a bitter malediction on his un- 
 suspected listener, Eushwood went his way. 
 
 Can any one guess that listener's feelings ? 
 They cannot imagine them more painful than 
 they were. He knew before that he had been 
 the means of heaping fearful misery on his fam- 
 ily ; but until then he had not seen its full ex- 
 tent. But self will have its due on all occasions : 
 even amid his aggravated distress on their ac- 
 count, it cost him a bitter pang to know that 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 263 
 
 Kate had not made a single attempt to vindicate 
 him. He could not, therefore, marvel at the 
 imperfectly concealed loathing with which she 
 endured his parting embrace, even while mur- 
 muring best and sincerest wishes for his happi- 
 ness ; his mother, too, as she blessed him, 
 breathed a prayer rather for his reformation than 
 his preservation from evil ways ; and he left 
 them with a heavy heart, inwardly resolving 
 never again to cast the blight of his presence 
 over them. 
 
 However, fortune seemed disposed to smile 
 more kindly on him in the distant town, which, 
 after many days of weary travelling, he reached 
 at last; for there he obtained employment, under 
 a feigned name, and by his expertness and indus- 
 try appeared to have secured a fair prospect of 
 its continuance. 
 
 One day there came a person on business to 
 Dre watt's employer, whose face the wanderer 
 half fancied he had seen before, though, as the 
 stranger appeared to take no notice of him, he 
 thought it must have been mere fancy. After 
 that day it occurred to him, however, that his 
 fellow-workmen kept more aloof, and were little 
 disposed to enter into conversation with him, and 
 not at all to seek his companionship — a circum- 
 stance rendered the less rem.arkable, it must be 
 owned, by his being in general silent, moody, 
 
264 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 and reserved ; for, strive as he might to prevent 
 it, the hard usage he had of late experienced had 
 wrought such change in his demeanor. When 
 Saturday night came, he was asked whether he 
 had ever gone by the name of Drewatt ; he could 
 not deny it, and was at once discharged — pen- 
 niless, except for his last week's wages, since he 
 had made a constant practice of transmitting 
 every farthing he could spare to his mother, 
 whose declining health and narrow means — 
 narrowed yet more through Kate's loss of her 
 school — stood in much need of such assistance. 
 Richard judged truly that after this discovery 
 it would be of no avail to seek employment in 
 the neighborhood, and on the impulse of the mo- 
 ment he determined on taking his departure in- 
 stantly from the place where the stigma of hatred 
 and disgrace had followed. So packing up his 
 personals, Vv'hich had not much increased in bulk 
 during the interval, he set out that very night to 
 recommence his wanderings. He had gone 
 scarcely half a mile with this intent, when he 
 perceived a horse standing by the roadside rider- 
 less. On drawing near he found that he who 
 should have been the rider was lying, head 
 downwards, in a dry and shallow ditch, in the 
 heavy sleep of intoxication, with one foot still in 
 the stirrup, and his life at the horse's mercy. 
 But, wiser than his master, the animal stood 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 265 
 
 perfectly quiet, — one might almost fancy, medi- 
 tating on the fallen state of man. The stranger 
 appeared in danger of instant suffocation ; there- 
 fore Drewatt hastily extricated his foot, dragged 
 him to a safer position on the grassy bank, and 
 loosened his cravat. It then occurred to him to 
 try to discover some clue to the residence of his 
 unwished-for charge, whom he did not much 
 like to leave alone in that condition, and who 
 was to all appearance a farmer well to do in the 
 world. On examining his pockets with that 
 view, Drewatt found a large sum in gold, and 
 notes to evidently a greater amount. The voice 
 of the tempter spoke at once to his heart, and 
 met a fearful echo there. Would that wealth 
 were his ! for wealth it would be to him, more 
 than he could hope the toil of his whole lifetime 
 would amass. And what but his own will were 
 required to make it his ? and then no more weary 
 wanderings in search of work — no more depen- 
 dence on the whim of his employers — no more 
 depressing fears lest the breath of slander might 
 deprive him of the poor man's chief earthly bless- 
 ing, leave to labor for his livelihood. Here was 
 enough to convey him to a distant country, where 
 none ^could recognize him : here was enough to 
 establish him well in business for himself in that 
 strange land ; and to enable him to provide suf- 
 ficiently for his mother's wants. And she need 
 23 
 
266 
 
 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 never know how lie had gained that money which 
 supported her old age — nor need the world ; and 
 even should suspicion of the robbery be cast upon 
 him, it could not follow him in his flight ; he 
 could guard against being tracked ; and as for 
 that name, which must be left as a useless en- 
 cumbrance behind him, it could not be consigned 
 to greater ignominy than already covered it, or 
 be exposed to deeper execration than had been 
 already poured upon it. 
 
 He began to remove the talismanic treasure 
 from the sleeper's pocket; but, at its touch, bet- 
 ter thoughts came over him : the thought of that 
 world hereafter, where each should be judged by 
 his deeds and feelings, and not according to the 
 opinions of his fellow-men ; the thought also of 
 this world, where he would thus be lending a 
 darker coloring to the calumnies of evil wishers, 
 overwhelming his unhappy relatives with yet 
 more poignant anguish. No, he would not do 
 it ! the temptation had passed by, and the gold 
 seemed to scorch his hand as if it had been burn- 
 ing coals, and the notes felt like living scorpions, 
 as he quickly replaced them, eager to get the 
 now hated things out of his sight. His next 
 consideration was, what to do with the senseless, 
 brutalized being who had steeped his senses to 
 complete submersion in his inebriating draughts. 
 There was no house in view, and he could not 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 267 
 
 remove him without assistance, while at the same 
 time Drewatt feared to leave him, for at that 
 moment the dread lay painfully heavy on his 
 mind, that should the farmer be robbed, it would 
 be ascribed to him. He sat there for some time : 
 at length a person came along the road, whose 
 aid he claimed. They shook the sleeper until 
 he was as wide awake as his stupefied facuhies 
 would permit, then placed him on his horse, and, 
 supporting him on either side, conveyed him to 
 the town, where, in the first respectable inn they 
 came to, he was left to finish his sleep, his prop- 
 erty being first counted over in the presence of 
 several persons, and consigned to the safe keep- 
 ing of mine host. Then, with a well pleased 
 conscience, and the satisfaction of having done 
 his duty, Drewatt sought a lodging for the night, 
 within the precincts of the town which, but a few 
 hours before, he thought he had left forever. 
 
 On the following day he was, to his inexpres- 
 sible amazement, taken into custody on suspicion 
 of having robbed the very man who was so much 
 indebted to his kindness. It appeared that at a 
 cattle market, held on Friday, the farmer had 
 effected sales to a great extent, for which he had 
 been paid in gold and notes ; of the latter he had 
 marked down the numbers, and now asserted 
 that one, for five pounds, was missing. On the 
 Monday Drewatt was examined, he was proved 
 
268 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 to have been alone with the complainant, after 
 which period there was no opportunity^ for com- 
 mission of the theft. His previous bad character, 
 which now came forward, likewise went against 
 him, and he was remanded until further evidence 
 could be procured. And this was the reward of 
 all Richard's good resolves and withstandings of 
 temptation ! Would this story, also, reach the 
 viHage, to furnish food for ill-natured comments, 
 and carry renewed sorrow to that dwelling which 
 misfortune had already made its own. He did 
 not doubt it: indeed, he was in that frame of 
 mind not much to doubt that the note would be 
 discovered in such position, and other circum- 
 stances transpire, so as to perhaps convict him. 
 "It is as well to do evil as good," he thought; 
 for he thought, too, that had he stolen the money, 
 he should not have waited for detection. 
 
 We will not do more than allude to the whirl- 
 wind of varied passions which convulsed Drew- 
 att's mind during the interval, until, looking 
 indeed like a very culprit, he was again brought 
 up for examination. But there an unexpected 
 witness presented himself — the landlord of the 
 public house where the farmer had passed the 
 Friday night, and staid drinking in honor of his 
 good fortune nearly all Saturday, and he pro- 
 duced the note in question, with which his cus- 
 tomer had paid his bill. The state of intoxication 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 269 
 
 m which the farmer was at the time prevented 
 his recollecting the circumstance; and he was 
 severely reprimanded by the magistrate for his 
 recklessness in thus preferring a charge against 
 an innocent man, when a more careful computa- 
 tion of the gold in his possession would have 
 proved his property in a state of security which 
 he had not deserved. Perhaps the magistrate's 
 animadversions drove the idea out of his mind ; 
 but at all events, Drewatt's accuser walked away 
 without offering any recompense to the man who 
 had in all probability preserved his life. Drewatt 
 was told he might bring an action for false im- 
 prisonment, with every certainty of damages: 
 but he would try nothing of the kind ; he was 
 sick of the law — sick of himself — sick of the 
 world altogether ; nor was such feeling much 
 diminished by discovering subsequently that the 
 general impression was that he had meditated 
 the robbery, but that the approach of another 
 person had compelled a change of purpose. 
 What else could such an evil-minded man have 
 ^neant to do ? 
 
 A fortnight after this, pale, emaciated, and 
 enfeebled, Drewatt passed out of the townii. He 
 had been ill, very ill indeed, since his discharge, 
 and all his money and some of his clothes were 
 gone, one shilling alone remained for his ex- 
 penses, and he felt that soon he must beg, or 
 23=^ 
 
270 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 starve, — or steal! Walking was toilsome to 
 him then; but on he went, slowly indeed, and 
 with frequent rests, yet he had gone a good many 
 miles, when, an hour or two after midday, he 
 sat down to make his humble meal. There was 
 an alehouse by the roadside, and a little beer 
 might have recruited his strength ; but he had 
 no money to waste, and passing it by some dis- 
 tance, he drew forth the slice of bread and bit of 
 cheese he had brought with him for his dinner. 
 While engaged in eating it, Richard perceived 
 something lying a little way further on, on the 
 other side of the road, and when he had finished, 
 he went over and picked it up. It was a green 
 silk purse, — though not exactly what every one 
 would have called a purse, being simply a little 
 silk bag, tied round carefully with the cord which 
 formed its string. Such as it was, however, it 
 was not empty, and Richard's heart leaped for 
 joy as he felt that it contained two large coins 
 besides smaller ones. Here was fortune ! here 
 was enough, in all probability, to keep him some 
 time longer from want, perhaps until he should 
 be able to meet once more with employment. 
 Yet, though the sight of its contents would have 
 been pleasing to his eyes, he put the purse into 
 his pocket without loosening the string ; not from 
 any doubt as to the appropriation of the money, 
 but he felt some misgivings about meddling too 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 271 
 
 much with it in a hurry, lest this apparent good 
 fortune should be the source of fresh trouble. 
 He went on with a lighter heart and a firmer 
 step, most thankful for the timely assistance thus 
 thrown in his way. After a time, he began to 
 wonder how the money had been dropt, and who 
 had lost it. " Would it had been a farmer," he 
 thought, " were it ten thousand times as much, 
 and sunk in the deep dark ocean, and of no 
 benefit to me ! " Such are the feelings which 
 the misconduct of one man too frequently excites 
 towards his class. But the aspect of the little 
 bag forbade the idea ; it had belonged, most 
 probably, to some one in very humble circum- 
 stances, perhaps was the sole treasure of one 
 whom its loss would leave poor and wretched as 
 himself — and he knew how hard such misfor- 
 tune was to bear. This thought poisoned his 
 delight, and as he proceeded he employed him- 
 self in further conjectures as to the loser. 
 
 At length he saw a young girl coming along, 
 looking from side to side of the road, and exam- 
 ining every tuft of grass with the unmistakable 
 air of one who has missed some article which 
 should have been forthcoming. " Have you lost 
 anything ? " he inquired. 
 
 " I have, indeed ! " she replied, turning on him 
 a look of deep concern. 
 
 " Was it a purse ? " 
 
272 
 
 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 " Oh yes ! — a little green silk bag, with two 
 half-crowns, a shilling, and three sixpences!" 
 exclaimed the girl eagerly, evidently in a hurry 
 to identify it. 
 
 It was immediately restored to her, and the 
 most heartfelt gratitude was poured forth with 
 that natural eloquence which has its source in 
 feeling. But almost as eloquent, and yet more 
 welcome to Drewatt, was the language of those 
 jright and truth-fraught eyes, as also the expres- 
 sion of that youthful and ingenuous countenance, 
 whose beauty they enhanced. Drewatt had seen 
 many pretty girls, but never one who seemed 
 half so lovely in his eyes — the voice of kindness 
 and friendship sounds doubly sweet to ears un- 
 accustomed to receive it, and hers being that 
 voice might have some influence on his feelings. 
 She observed how ill he looked, advised him to 
 rest, and insisted on his accepting the best share 
 of some fine plums she carried in a basket. And 
 very pleasant and refreshing they were to Drew- 
 att's weariness, though yet more refreshing were 
 the kind words and fearless demeanor of the 
 girl, as, seated near him on the bank, she eat her 
 own division of the fruit. Had she but known 
 who was her companion, what difference might 
 it not have occasioned in her conduct ! Drewatt 
 did not try the experiment, but after the fruit 
 was finished, they walked on a little way to« 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 273 
 
 getlier, when he assisted her over a stile, and 
 she departed in her ignorance ; though the whole 
 of the story of her own life had passed into his 
 possession ; and he knew that to increase, instead 
 of being a burthen on the scanty resources of an 
 infirm father, she had, as soon as her younger 
 sister was old enough to supply her place in the 
 house, procured a situation as needlewoman, in 
 a city a considerable distance away, whither she 
 was now proceeding ; her entire fund for travel- 
 ling expenses consisting in the little treasure he 
 had restored to her, to make the most of which, 
 having sent on her box, she was performing a 
 portion of the journey on foot. 
 
 The following day Drawatt reached another 
 town, and recommenced his series of applications 
 for employment ; but all in vain ; trade was bad, 
 and many of their regular hands being out of 
 work, no one would engage him — otherwise, his 
 sickly look might alone have barred success, as 
 it did in his endeavors to procure any other kind 
 of work. A second fit of illness seized him, and 
 when its violence was passed by, and he emerged 
 from the wretched dwelling which had sheltered 
 him, he was utterly destitute, without a farthing, 
 or anything in the world, excepting the clothes 
 he wore. He had no resource but beggary, and 
 for some days he subsisted on the fluctuating 
 charity of the towns-people. Then this failed, 
 
274 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 also, and he was reduced to fearful want. Food 
 had not passed his lips for more than twenty- 
 four hours, and he stood in a quiet street, near 
 the door of a baker's shop, eying its contents as 
 they alone can do who are starving. There was 
 no one in the shop — no one in the street ; the 
 bread, for whose want he was perishing, stood 
 before him in tempting piles ; and so near the 
 door ! nothing could be easier than to slip in and 
 carry off one little loaf; no one would see him, 
 no one would ever know it. For a moment he 
 wavered, and advanced a step ; then he drew 
 back. During his recent illnesses the lessons 
 which his mother had imprinted on his mind in 
 childhood, the precepts of that holy volume which 
 she had made her guide through life, and the 
 words which he had so often heard the clergy- 
 man utter in the pulpit, had all wrought power- 
 fully upon his heart, and were not without their 
 fruits. No, he would not yield to the temptation ; 
 a few days sooner or later it might be that he 
 died, but he would not prolong his existence by 
 dishonesty. Resolutely, though with trembling 
 limbs, he walked away, and turning into a sort 
 of lane, sat down beneath a wall. The worst 
 seemed to have come at last ; he had begged in 
 vain, he would not steal, nothing remained now 
 but to starve. Presently a man came down the 
 lane whistling. As he came near he walked 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 275 
 
 slower and looked at Drewatt. The latter knew 
 him well ; he was a native of his village, who, 
 having been imprisoned for theft, had on his 
 return been driven away by the general insult 
 and avoidance ; and he had been one to show his 
 contempt for the convicted thief — how his heart 
 smote him at the recollection I The other stop- 
 ped and gazed on him for a moment, ere he could 
 fully recognize the sadly altered face, then ex- 
 claiming, "Is this you, Dick Drewatt?" ex- 
 tended his hand, which was clasped most eagerly. 
 " You don't avoid me noiv .'" observed the same 
 speaker, with a smile. Drewatt burst into tears : 
 bodily weakness and conflicting feelings subdued 
 him to such unmanly emotion. " Nay, I did not 
 mean to vex you," continued his former acquaint- 
 ance, with a kindly roughness, at the same time 
 sitting down by him. " I should be the last man 
 to pick holes in anybody's jacket." 
 
 " But I am not guilty," said Drewatt, ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 " So we all say," replied the other, with some 
 bitterness, " only the world won't believe us. So 
 I told the court ; but they paid no respect to my 
 assertions, — they never do. It 's a good job that 
 they did not find you guilty, and hang you up 
 hke a dog that was not worth a place among the 
 living." 
 
276 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 " It might have been as ^Yell as giving the dog 
 an ill name," remarked Drewatt, mournfully. 
 
 u ^y — so that's it? Well, tell me all about 
 it ; I am not so bad or so reckless as I appear, 
 and am earning my living honestly. But first 
 come along, and let us have a pint of beer, and a 
 slice of beef, too ; you don't look as if they would 
 hurt you : fretting and fearing won't keep a man 
 alive." 
 
 After that welcome meal, it was a blessing to 
 the persecuted man to pour forth Vv-ithout reserve 
 the detail of his sorrows, his disappointments, 
 and his misfortunes, to one who would not scorn, 
 or mock, or shrink from him. The recital was 
 listened to with an air of sympathy which could 
 not be assumed, and the first words of genuine 
 consolation and encouragement, from one who 
 knew his actual circumstances, were uttered by 
 the man whom in brighter days he had con- 
 temned. In return for Drewatt's narrative, his 
 old acquaintance, Martin, related somewhat of 
 his own experience of the world since he had 
 quitted their native village — hov/ want of char- 
 acter had stood in his way, and how, recognized 
 when he least desired, that evil had been eclipsed 
 by a character for dishonesty — how the only 
 classes that had welcomed him were those which 
 no companionship nor example could corrupt, 
 and the only promising way of gaining his live- 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 277 
 
 lihood was by disreputable means. He told how 
 easy he found it to sink, how difficult to rise, 
 how hard to extricate himself from the moral 
 quicksands ready to engulf him ; how he had 
 striven, and how constantly the sincerity of his 
 efforts had been discredited. But the love of 
 evil had not been in his heart ; and resolutely 
 disentangling himself from its temptations, he 
 had set forward on the more stony path. Desti- 
 tute of a trade, having been the factotum of the 
 hamlet's only shop, he had at first earned his 
 subsistence as a bricklayer's laborer ; but the 
 work was hard and the wages were small, and 
 having some inkling of the craft of basket-maker, 
 he had attempted it with sufficient success to 
 induce him to stick to it altogether. 
 
 " It makes a fair enough living, one week with 
 another," he concluded, "and making a little 
 allowance for disagreeable thoughts, I am as 
 happy as possible. You met me in a very merry 
 humor to-day, for I 've sold all my stock, and 
 that 's always a piece of good fortune to rejoice 
 at. And now you must come w^th me; my little 
 room will hold us both, and when we get richer 
 we shall have a better lodging." 
 
 " But how am I, at least, to get richer ? " asked 
 Drewatt sadly. " I 'm not strong enough for a 
 bricklayer's laborer, and could not even make a 
 basket." 
 
 24 
 
278 
 
 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 " But you '11 soon be strong enough to be a capi- 
 tal workman, as you know you are by rights," 
 said Martin cheerfully ; " and then you can 
 make something more to the purpose than a bas- 
 ket. I once heard of a man who made a very 
 large fortune, and he began by putting a common 
 wooden box outside his door. Don't you think 
 a table or a chair might do as well ? So, cheer 
 up, Dick, my boy, we '11 be well to do in the 
 world some day ! Only get rid of that unlucky 
 name of yours, which would be enough to con- 
 demn a saint. We must christen you over 
 again; what shall it be? nothing out of the 
 common way. Ah, Joseph Richards will do, 
 and not seem so strange to you either. So now 
 come home with me, and a good sleep will soon 
 set you all to rights." 
 
 A few days, with food and rest, and the cheer- 
 ful companionship of Martin, did wonders in re- 
 cruiting Richard's shattered health ; and as soon 
 as he was capable, he put his friend's plan in 
 execution. A few articles, of the best construc- 
 tion which the materials Martin could afford to 
 buy and the tools he could borrow or buy per- 
 mitted, invited, not without success, the purchase 
 of the passenger ; and as they were converted 
 into money, others of superior description filled 
 their place ; until at the year's end the two 
 friends were enabled to hire a shop, a very hum- 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 279 
 
 ble one truly, but still a place where the articles 
 produced by their joint industry might be ex- 
 posed for sale to better advantage, and in greater 
 quantity, than before. As we have already inti- 
 mated, Richard was a very superior workman ; 
 and as Martin also displayed no small ingenuity 
 and taste in the fabrication of his lighter wares, 
 their competition with establishments of longer 
 standing and higher pretensions gradually in- 
 creased in success, and their receipts in value, 
 the greater portion of which their steady and 
 frugal habits enabled them to employ in the im- 
 provement of their business, so that in three or 
 four 3^ears more they were sufficiently prosperous 
 to take a large shop in one of the best streets in 
 the town. Here might be seen through one 
 window a crowd of highly finished and fashion- 
 able furniture, while the other displayed Martin's 
 baskets, and a hundred other elegant trifles for 
 use or ornament, which the partners had deemed 
 it advisable to add to their stock in trade. 
 
 At this time, likewise, their household received 
 an addition in the person of one whom Richard 
 had little expected ever to welcome to his home. 
 But though worldly affairs had prospered, all 
 else had not gone so happily with him in the in- 
 terval, and he had grieved deeply to hear of his 
 mother's death, which his own evil name had 
 hastened. And she had gone down to the grave, 
 
280 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 though blessing him, still mourning over his pre- 
 sumed delinquencies, and in that thought there 
 was bitterness unspeakable. Poor Kate, thus 
 left alone in the village, with none to love her, 
 none to whom she could cling for support and 
 comfort in her desolation, had yet at first declined 
 her brother's request to join him. But when she 
 came to seek the means of providing for her own 
 subsistence, the fact of Richard's relationship 
 paral^'zed her efforts. It had been her wish to 
 procure a place, no matter as what, anything for 
 which she was fit, no matter with rich or poor, 
 so it was with somebody respectable. But though 
 not so plainly intimated, the truth was clear 
 enough to her comprehension, no one would 
 have her brother's sister in their house ; and, in 
 the end, that brother's entreaties and arguments 
 prevailed, and Kate took up her abode beneath 
 his roof. Here then she found again, and through 
 him, that respect in the world's eyes, of which 
 he had been the means of depriving her. Taught 
 somewhat, also, by her own slight experience, of 
 the hardships which had so nearly crushed Rich- 
 ard forever, what he must have suffered, Kate 
 felt that his punishment had been adequate 
 almost to his imputed crime ; and recognizing in 
 his struggles to regain his lost position, and in 
 the uniform exemplary conduct and probity 
 which had secured the good-will and opinion of 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 281 
 
 his fellow-townsmen, the unfeigned desire of 
 well-doing, she found esteem and approbation 
 mingling once more with the affection which had 
 clung to him through all his darkest hours. She 
 no longer shrunk from him now, but strove to 
 make the past forgotten in the present — perhaps 
 there were times when she even deemed that 
 past might have been misinterpreted, and that 
 public opinion had condemned him wrongfully. 
 However, the expression of her sentiments was 
 little called for, as the days gone by were but 
 rarely spoken of in that house ; there was to all 
 much in their events to which they would not 
 that the very walls should listen, and they were 
 usually allowed to rest in silence well nigh as 
 deep as though they never had existed. 
 
 The same care and frugality as of old still 
 characterized the household, to an extent beyond 
 what circumstances might appear to call for; 
 but not merely did its members feel little dispo- 
 sition for amusement or luxury, but not knowing 
 on how precarious a tenure their present pros- 
 perity might be held, all were anxious to place 
 themselves above the danger of that helpless 
 penury to which they had seen that general 
 aversion could so easily reduce them. Thus a 
 dentist occupied the best rooms ; and Kate, with 
 Martin's assistance, attended the shop, while 
 Richard, glad to escape the necessity of often 
 
282 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 entering it, industriously pursued his occupation, 
 in which he was now able to employ two or 
 three men and apprentices. Perhaps he might 
 have hoped that, thrown so much together as 
 they were, a kinder sentiment than friendship 
 would grow up between his sister and Martin, 
 thinking that a marriage between those who 
 knew so much about each other's circumstances 
 that time could scarcely reveal anything to their 
 disparagement, would be, as matters stood, the 
 best thing that could occur. However, there 
 seemed little probability of such an event ; on the 
 contrary, Kate Richards, as she now was named, 
 soon attracted the admiration of a respectable 
 young tradesman, considerably to the embarrass- 
 ment and vexation of her brother, who foresaw 
 nothing but evil arising out of this attachment, 
 however it might end ; since, whatever might 
 prove Kate's decision, it was evident that the 
 young man was not in himself disagreeable to 
 her. 
 
 One day Richard had been called into the 
 shop to receive directions about some furniture 
 which was to be made to order, and he was still 
 loitering when three persons entered. The first 
 glance recognized the pretty owner of the little 
 green silk bag, and though he did not make him- 
 self known, he could not think of retiring. She 
 was accompanied by a younger female, and a 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 283 
 
 person who evidently either was, or soon would 
 be, the husband of one of them, since it was very 
 obvious that they were selecting furniture for 
 their best rooms, and also that it was the first 
 time of furnishing at all. From her evincing 
 most interest in the matter, Richard — somewhat 
 oddly — at once set down his acquaintance of an 
 hour as the bride then or to be. And yet the 
 idea vexed him, though he felt that there was no 
 just reason for its doing so ; for what could it be 
 to him ? At length the bright eyes of his way- 
 side friend were turned on him ; she half started, 
 and in a moment looked again — he could not 
 appear unconscious, and she exclaimed with the 
 same lively frankness which had marked her 
 demeanor of old, " Surely, sir, I 've seen you be- 
 fore ? Was it not you that once gave me the 
 purse I had lost ? " 
 
 This recognition met a cordial response, and 
 in a few minutes the whole party were talking 
 as though they had known each other for months. 
 And in a little while Richard had learned by 
 what chance he had again encountered Mary 
 Hope, for in her lot also there had been changes. 
 Her father was dead, and her sister being about 
 to make an exceedingly good match, by marry- 
 ing a tradesman just set up for himself in that 
 very town, they had persuaded Mary to give up 
 the situation which she still held, and come to 
 
284 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 liv^e with them for altogether. And so she was 
 neither married nor to be married; yet, again, 
 what should that be to him ? Did he not feel 
 that a viewless barrier divided him and his from 
 the rest of the world ? Had he not regarded with 
 pain the possibility of an attachment between 
 Kate and one otherwise well suited to her ? and 
 if such considerations weighed in her case, should 
 they not weigh a hundred times more heavily in 
 his own ? Alas ! the prudence and foresight 
 which had before been watchful, slumbered now 
 that his own feelings required their utmost vigi- 
 lance. Brought in contact with the only woman 
 whose face had ever lingered in his memory as 
 a fair thing to be treasured, he yielded to the 
 fascination, thoughtlessly seeking her presence, 
 and cultivating the willing friendship of her rela- 
 tives, until, ere he had once reflected on conse- 
 quences, he was so deeply attached, that it would 
 indeed have needed a powerful effort to break 
 the charm which bound him. But no such effort 
 did he make ; hope whispered sweetly, and he 
 listened but too willing to be persuaded, as she 
 argued the improbability of misfortune again 
 assailing him, or evil report once more casting 
 its shadow over his path, and blighting the hap- 
 piness of those allied to him ; and set forth the 
 folly of throwing aside the proffered blessings of 
 his lot, through dread of mere unlikely possibili- 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 285 
 
 ties. A scene seemed spread before his eyes of 
 cloudless joy and felicity — of his sister and him- 
 self tasting that happiness of which they had 
 once thought to have taken leave forever — uni- 
 ted to those they loved, and enjoying the gifts of 
 fortune, and the respect and friendship of their 
 acquaintance. He could not turn from the en- 
 chanting vision, he would not repel it ; but re- 
 signed himself to its contemplation, to the almost 
 total forgetfulness of the thunder-cloud which 
 might burst over him when least expected, 
 destroying all his brilliant hopes, and bidding 
 Mary and his sister's lover upbraid and scorn 
 both him and Kate. 
 
 Thus matters went on; Richard heeded not 
 that Kate was on the very point of uniting her- 
 self to one who knew not her father's name, still 
 less suspected her brother's character ; he heeded 
 not that he had himself all but asked Mary Hope 
 to be his bride. He had made up his mind to 
 fearlessness ; to be happy, and tremble not at 
 shadows. He was in this mood one day walk- 
 ing with Martin, who had not a little contributed 
 to his satisfied frame of mind, when a stage-coach 
 passed to its place of stopping, but a little way 
 off. Eichard at once turned deadly pale. " I 
 am lost ! " he said. " A man on that coach has 
 recognized me, and I know well what will fol- 
 low." 
 
286 
 
 THE LAW OF OriNION. 
 
 " But are you certain?" asked his friend. 
 
 " Ay, certain enough. I saw he recollected 
 me as well as I did him. He was a fellow- 
 apprentice of mine, and one of the witnesses 
 whose evidence, though true, went so unfortu- 
 nately against me. We were friends of old, and 
 he spoke kindly of me on the trial ; but that is 
 nothing; I have learned the extent of such friend- 
 ship, and know I shall be ruined. Fool that I 
 was, to think it would be otherwise ! If I had 
 not been a fool indeed, what misery might not 
 have been spared me ! " 
 
 " Then let us hurry home," said Martin. " By 
 keeping in-doors a day or two, he may never 
 find you out." 
 
 " It is too late," replied Richard, glancing 
 round, and there sure enough was his old friend 
 hastening after them, though to his surprise with 
 outstretched hand, and friendly air. His greet- 
 ing, too, was friendly, and betokened much pleas- 
 ure at meeting Richard so obviously improved 
 in circumstances. 
 
 It was impossible to avoid asking Berry to ac- 
 company them home, and, in fact, Richard felt 
 as though it would be in vain to struggle against 
 the inevitable ruin now closing round him. On 
 their way, Berry addressed Drewatt by that now 
 unwonted name. " That name is unknown 
 here," said he, sadly, " to all except this friend 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 2S7 
 
 who is now with me. "Whatever you may do 
 afterwards, do not call me by it to-day I " 
 
 Berry understood his meaning instantly, and 
 answered rather to it than to his words. " Do 
 not fear me, Dick, I never will betray you ; I 
 know what you have suffered. I, for one, be- 
 lieve you innocent, and am delighted to find, as 
 must be the case if this place is yours, that all 
 this knocking about has done you no harm in 
 the end." 
 
 Richard led him into the shop without reply- 
 ing, for though this declaration had for the time 
 reassured him, he remembered but too bitterly all 
 that persecution had already cost him. After a 
 few hours of equally friendly communion, Berry 
 left them, and Richard knew that his secret still 
 was safe, that his identity with a person whom 
 he had heard mentioned even by them was yet 
 unsuspected by his fellow-townsmen. Bat the 
 satisfaction this gave him was of but short dura- 
 tion. He had been rudely awakened from his 
 dream, and his eyes would not reclose, but re- 
 mained open to the precipice on whose brink 
 both Katherine and himself were standing. The 
 slightest breath might dash them down, and what 
 right had they to drag with them others who 
 were unconscious of their danger. Kate also 
 was aroused from the pleasant visions she had 
 indulged in ; but that he knew not, nor dared he 
 
288 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 at that moment disturb her tranquillity with these 
 considerations he had himself so long forgotten. 
 It was his own conduct, with respect to poor 
 Mary Hope, which most forcibly struck on his 
 conscience, and called forth his remorseful feel- 
 ing. Had he not, heedless of the misery it might 
 bring upon her, striven to win her affection, and 
 of late thought he had succeeded ? Lovely, ami- 
 able, and gentle-hearted as she was, was this all 
 to which his love for her had tended ? Deeply 
 guilty as he felt towards her, no reparation was 
 possible ; but his past conduct could not be per- 
 severed in, and he at once made up his mind as 
 to his course. 
 
 On the evening after encountering Berry, he 
 went to her sister's house and asked Mary to 
 take a walk with him. She complied, and they 
 gained the open country the nearest way, almost 
 in silence, Mary catching somewhat of the 
 contagion of her companion's grave demeanor, 
 which greatly aroused her wonder. At length, 
 when they were far from the noise and bustle of 
 the town, Richard began to tell her of his attach- 
 ment, of how truly and fervently he loved her, 
 and how that feeling had grown to be the one 
 thing ruling both thought and action. Earnestly, 
 even eloquently, he spoke, for his heart was with 
 his words ; and Mary listened, as perhaps few 
 girls have listened to such a tale ; for though it 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 289 
 
 was pleasant to her ears, there was something- in 
 the speaker's manner which seemed to cast the 
 foreshadowing of coming evil over her spirit, and 
 all other emotions were mastered by a nameless 
 fear. When he paused, she looked up and would 
 have spoken, but he prevented her. " You have 
 yet more to hear," he said ; " you have to hear 
 much, Mary, which my love for you could alone 
 extenuate. But I do not try to excuse it; I 
 know how wrong and basely I have acted, and 
 I do not ask for pardon. Let us sit here, and in 
 a few moments you shall know all." 
 
 Pale and trembling, Mary sat down at the foot 
 of the tree he indicated, while Richard placed 
 himself near. He then went on to tell how a 
 dark cloud had settled over his name, and 
 blighted his character, and how it had injured 
 those who were then dearest to him ; he sketched 
 his fate since that unfortunate period, and finally 
 he told her his name and the crime with which 
 he had been charged, and with which her mem- 
 ory had instantly connected it. Mary's face was 
 hidden by her hands, and the tears flowed fast 
 through her fingers. They seemed to fall like 
 drops of molten lead upon his heart. " And 
 now, Mary," said he, rising, "you know all 
 You know why I dare not now ask you to share 
 my miserable doom ; but you cannot know how, 
 madly adoring you, I was induced to believe my- 
 25 
 
290 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 self beyond the reach of danger, and therefore in 
 my blindness thought to win you for my wife. 
 All the guilt of that deception I now feel and 
 confess ; I know I have behaved like a brute and 
 a villain ; and yet the knowledge that you will 
 hate and despise me is almost punishment 
 enough." 
 
 " Hear me, Richard Drewatt," exclaimed Mary, 
 as she rose also, and dashed the blinding tear- 
 drops from her eyes ; " for once I will call you 
 by that name, to tell you that, from all I have 
 known and heard of you, from all you have suf- 
 fered and withstood, I believe you to be as guilt- 
 less of that terrible crime as I am myself. 1 
 cannot blame your conduct ; I know not if it was 
 prudent ; but I cannot wish you had done other- 
 wise. And why should you so despond ? you 
 have not done evil, and good is sure to triumph 
 at the last. Why should you be certain of mis- 
 fortune, when it may never reach you? Safe 
 and undisturbed, as you have lived here so long, 
 you may remain ; every year added to your age 
 would lessen the danger of discovery, and at best 
 or at worst, come weal or woe, Mary Hope is 
 willing to share it with you, if you will let her ! " 
 
 Richard's first emotion was one of rapturous 
 delight at this unexpected declaration. But 
 with reflection came wiser and m.ore generous 
 thoughts ; he remembered that with her feelings 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION, 
 
 291 
 
 so wrought upon, she was incapable of judging 
 calmly, and he dared not accept a sacrifice so 
 rashly offered. He told her this, and bade her 
 take time to weigh and consider, ere she pledged 
 herself, in word or thought, to share the fortunes 
 of one so strangely situated. I\Iary yielded to 
 his arguments, but feared no change in her re- 
 solve, nor that the appointed space of a week 
 would leave her less inclined to repeat the pledge 
 he now refused. 
 
 On his return, Kate's eyes told Richard she 
 had been weeping bhterly, and inquiry elicited 
 that she had dismissed the lover, in whose keep- 
 ing her heart was left. And this too was his 
 doing; another evil of his lot. He was deeply 
 grieved, and besought her to allow him to speak 
 to the young man in explanation, that there 
 might at least be no ill-will between them. But 
 she would not hear of it, her dread of contempt 
 was too torturing ; and he could scarcely win 
 her to regard with patience his intention of doing 
 so, should Mary Hope's feelings remain unakered 
 by reflection. 
 
 The week was nearly ended when Richard 
 received a communication from a clerg^^man, 
 requesting him to visit the death-bed of one who 
 had greatly injured him, and wished his forgive- 
 ness ere he died. The clerg)^man added, that 
 the injury he would find in part repaired. Ap- 
 
292 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 parently intended to prevent an excess of pleas- 
 ant emotion, this letter raised expectations 
 Kichard almost feared to indulge in ; and half 
 doubting whether, after all, it might not be 
 merely some person who had wronged him of a 
 few pounds, he obeyed the summons v/ithout 
 delay. Twenty miles were soon passed over; 
 but he arrived barely in time to hear the self- 
 accusing confession of Berry, who, irritated by a 
 sudden quarrel, had committed that crime for 
 which he had himself been tried ; to comfort the 
 parting and deeply repentant spirit with his for- 
 giveness, and close the eyes of his former friend, 
 who, run over by a wagon, thus died a death 
 of lingering agony. The full and complete con- 
 fession had, however, been already signed and 
 attested ; and in a few days it was known all 
 over England, that the supposed murderer was 
 innocent, and that the actual criminal no longer 
 lived. 
 
 That very evening saw Drewatt enter the 
 house of Mary's sister. The true-hearted girl 
 met him with the frank smile and ready wel- 
 come which bespoke a changeless heart. " I 
 have come to you," he said — 
 
 " To find me still the same," she added. 
 " There is no change in me, Richard ; nor shall 
 be to the latest hour of my life." 
 
 " Nay, it was not that brought me here," he 
 
THE LAW OF OPINION. 293 
 
 continued, " I should not have so forestalled the 
 time. But were I alone concerned, your trust 
 and truth might well make me happier than the 
 tidings which I bring, that it is not a wretch 
 shrinking from the knowledge of his fellow-crea- 
 tures, but one who can fearlessly hold up his 
 head in the company of honest men, who now 
 thanks you for that confidence." 
 
 And very thankful he was for that power; 
 thankful not merely that the stigma under which 
 he had so long languished was removed ; but 
 even more, that in all his sufferings, and all his 
 trials, he had never yielded to the temptation of 
 doing aught which would now have embittered 
 his happiness, and left his reputation sullied by 
 his own evil act, when the shadow of misfortune 
 had been withdrawn. It was a proud day for 
 Richard Drewatt, when his own rightful name, 
 untarnished and uncontemned, was placed above 
 his door. But it was yet a prouder, when at the 
 altar he received Mary's hand, and gave his sis- 
 ter's to a worthier and a richer lover than the 
 one of whom his evil name had robbed her. 
 
 " I have much to thank you for," said he to 
 Martin, some time afterwards. " Our common 
 prosperity is entirely owing to your cheerfulness, 
 perseverance, and foresight, which prevented two 
 innocent men sinking beneath the blind injustice 
 of the world." 
 
 25^ 
 
294 THE LAW OF OPINION. 
 
 "Why do you not say innocent manl" de- 
 manded his partner bluatly. " You are proved 
 so, but I am not." 
 
 "But I feel you are as innocent as myself; 
 I do not wait for proof, nor must we hope for it. 
 Strangely as this exculpation has come to me, to 
 you it is almost impossible." 
 
 " It would indeed be impossible ! " said Martin ; 
 " for I am not innocent. No, Drewatt," he con- 
 tinued with some bitterness, " I was guilty of all 
 they said ; but they never asked by what temp- 
 tation I fell. My sister was starving, and was 
 too proud to beg, and I had sent her everything 
 I had. Think, Dick, if you knew that Kate was 
 starving ! However, my theft did not save her, 
 and she died, thank God, without knowing of it ! 
 But for all that, because I had erred once, I was 
 not worthless, though very nearly I became so. 
 Ay, Dick, it was o?ice, then ; but injustice, neces- 
 sity, and the impossibility of earning my living 
 honestly, made me do things afterwards which 
 gladly, very gladly, would I forget. And diffi- 
 cult, indeed, was it to get on the right path, after 
 my feet had, as it were, become glued to the 
 wrong one. But I did it at last, and you could 
 not guess how many temptations I had to resist 
 and conquer. But 1 always hated myself when 
 I did evil, though people made me do it, by pre- 
 tending that I loved it. Ah, Kichard ! should 
 
THK LAW OF OPINION. 295 
 
 you ever have a child to educate, teach him not 
 merely not to condemn too rashly, lest he over- 
 whelm the innocent with the punishment of the 
 guilty ; but teach him, also, that even the guilty 
 may often be as deserving of his pity as his cen- 
 sure ; tell him that misfortune is the parent of 
 more crimes than is a wicked heart; tell him 
 that even the fallen should retain some claim to 
 the forbearance of a fallen race ; and bid him, at 
 least, leave the way to reformation open, and 
 drive not the unhappy wretch from evil to worse, 
 and, worst of all, to the fellowship and example 
 of those who are ever ready to seize on fresh 
 pupils, and become tutors in crime." 
 
296 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Where is the gay melodious voice, 
 
 O where the mirthful tone, 
 That bade my kindred soul rejoice. 
 
 In hours forever gone ? 
 Forever gone ! — ay, — with that name 
 
 A thousand memories throng, — 
 The gentle look, the soothing word, 
 
 The silvery laugh and song! 
 
 The lofty hall, and trellised bower, - 
 
 Where waved the stately plume, 
 And brightly glanced the midnight gem, 
 
 And flowers breathed rich perfume, — 
 They flash o'er memory's darkened eye. 
 
 Like lightnings through a storm, 
 And with them starts to claim a sigh 
 
 Each well-known friendly form. 
 
 No soft lamp pours its silvery ray 
 
 Through yon proud chamber's gloom, — 
 
 All silent is the mouldering way 
 Where censers breathed perfume ; 
 
 -J, 
 
STANZAS. 297 
 
 But stiil resound the lark's sweet notes 
 
 Amid these scenes so fair, 
 And still on morning's wing she floats 
 
 To woo the fragrant air ! 
 
 Though cold be beauty's crimson cheek, 
 
 And dim her laughing brow. 
 And her blue eye no more bespeak 
 
 A mind as pure as snow, — 
 Yet still the rose blooms wild around, 
 
 The queen of Eastern flowers, — 
 And still the clashing waves resound 
 
 Beside the forest bowers ! 
 
 But hushed is music's mirthful voice, 
 
 And silent is each tone, 
 That bade my kindred soul rejoice 
 
 In hours forever gone ! — 
 And nature's sights are nothing now — 
 
 A leaf or breath of air — 
 Unless, departed friends ! with you 
 
 Their glory I can share. 
 
298 
 
 AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
 
 BY MISS ELIZA A. STARR. 
 
 The wild asters and the golden-rod, 
 
 In their beauty and their prime, 
 With the sunlight on their mingling leaves, 
 
 In the bright September time ; 
 In copse, in glen, by the wood-paths green, 
 
 And in every lonely place, 
 The asters bloom, and the golden-rod, 
 
 Like a smile on nature's face. 
 
 When the ripened corn is gathering in, 
 
 And the days are warm and bright — 
 When the orchard casts its mellow fruit. 
 
 In the mild autumnal light — 
 When the maple tops and the sumach leaves 
 
 Are flushed with a crimson stain — 
 The asters still, and the golden-rod, 
 
 Stand fresh on meadow and plain. 
 
 When the shivering leaves drop sear and dry 
 
 To the chill brown earth to rest, 
 And the summer flowers, with pale, meek brow; 
 
 Lie dead on its desolate breast — 
 That saddest time in the long, bright year. 
 
 When the harvest fields are bare, 
 
AUTUJIN FLOWERS. 299 
 
 The asters wild and the golden-rod 
 In the sunshine cold are there. 
 
 The autumn wind and the autumn rain — 
 
 But they nod and nod the while — 
 And when the wind and the rain are past, 
 
 Look forth with a quiet smile, 
 From copse, and glen, and wood-paths drear, 
 
 And the cold, damp leaves among, 
 With a golden crest and star-bright eye. 
 
 To welcome a smiling sun. 
 
 The aster wild and the golden-rod, — 
 
 The last of a gentle race. 
 That budded and bloomed, then passed away 
 
 To a lonely resting place — 
 That budded and bloomed, then died, — yet each 
 
 Of those frail and lovely flowers 
 Its meek destiny of love wrought out 
 
 In the joyous summer hours. 
 
 And they, the last of a sisterhood — 
 
 The aster and golden-rod — 
 That seem in the chastened autumn light 
 
 The lingering smile of God ! 
 O bear they not to the secret springs 
 
 Of our mournful autumn feeling, 
 A kindly mission of hope and trust, 
 
 Life's sad mysteries revealing ? 
 
300 
 
 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 BY MRS. ABD Y. 
 
 "Fathers have flinty hearts, — no tears can 
 move them," said a dark-eyed, sentimental-look- 
 ing young man, after relating at full length the 
 terrible fact that his respected sire had refused 
 his consent to his immediate marriage. 
 
 " And uncles are much worse," said the lady 
 of his love ; " I have always detested uncles 
 since I read the Children in the Wood : uncles 
 and guardians are individually disagreeable, and 
 what may not be expected when they are united 
 in one ? " 
 
 " Nothing very appalling," said a quiet, lady- 
 like person, un peu passee^ who sat knitting in 
 the back-ground; "our uncle was my guardian 
 as well as yours, Ella, and you know that, 
 although I have possessed my legal liberty 
 eleven years, I have voluntarily continued to 
 make his house my home." 
 
 " But you have no heart, and never had one," 
 said Ella Winfield; " and my uncle's son was a 
 school-boy when you were a ward, and you had 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 301 
 
 no fear of being trepanned into a marriag-e with 
 him." 
 
 " Neither need you," said Cousin Kate, as she 
 was generally called. "Edward Arnold has 
 never even seen you ; when you came to reside 
 with his father he was in Portugal." 
 
 " And is it not very odd that he should be 
 returning just now ? " 
 
 " Not at ail ; he has terminated the business 
 which took him abroad, and of course his father 
 is desirous of his society and his services in 
 England." 
 
 " Well, it appears to me very dreadful to marry 
 the son of one's guardian." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Cousin Kate, "many 
 wards have thought differently. Miss Burney's 
 Cecilia, for instance, whom I doubt not you will 
 admit as far higher authority than any damsel 
 in real life, married the son of her guardian, and 
 gave up her large fortune to be united to him.. 
 But you must not be alarmed, Mr. Medwin," 
 she continued, turning kindly to the dark-eyed 
 young man, "at Ella's visions of horror; we 
 will guard her in perfect safety for you." 
 
 " Cruel mockery ! " exclaimed Medwin, strik- 
 ing his forehead after the most approved melo- 
 dramatic fashion. " I shall fall a broken-hearted 
 victim to the tyranny of my father." 
 
 "Surely I misunderstand you," said Cousin 
 26 
 
 u 
 
802 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 Kate ; " I had imagined that your father and Mr. 
 Arnold had given their consent to your union 
 with Ella, provided that at the end of six months 
 each party continued in the same mind." 
 
 " But how are we to exist during this tedious 
 age of separation?" asked Medwin : "we are 
 prohibited from corresponding with each other, 
 and we are not to be suffered even to consider 
 ourselves engaged." 
 
 " There is nothing in a name," said Cousin 
 Kate; "if your attachment should continue to 
 the end of six months, it will be of little impor- 
 tance whether your relatives recognized your 
 engagement or not." 
 
 ^'■If it should continue," exclaimed Medwin, 
 reproachfully; "how unfeeling a doubt! — but 
 you, Ella, do me more justice." 
 
 " I do," replied Ella, in tears ; " we have 
 plighted our troth to each other; and this must 
 be our consolation in absence. I hope I shall 
 live to receive your permitted visit at my uncle's 
 house this day six months, if not — " 
 
 " I shall not long survive you," said Medwin. 
 
 Cousin Kate continued knitting with great 
 apathy during the whole of this affectionate col- 
 loquy ; but Ella did not resent her want of feel- 
 ing. Cousin Kate was thirty-two, and the beauty 
 of seventeen concluded that she had outlived all 
 sentiment and sensibility ; besides, she retained 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 303 
 
 no girlish airs and graces ; she sported half caps, 
 half-high dresses, and numerous other appoint- 
 ments, which are considered characteristic of the 
 " half young lady ;" she had passed, two years 
 ago, from the " beautiful " of book-muslin and 
 roses to the " sublime" of black satin and blond, 
 and her young friends had stamped her with the 
 dreaded title of an old maid. To Cousin Kate, 
 however, the appellation brought no terrors, for 
 every one knew that she bore it from choice. 
 Men, say what w^e will of them, have generally 
 tact enough to find out the recommendations of 
 such women as decidedly unite sound sense, 
 sweetness of temper, and good principle ; and 
 Cousin Kate, with an indifferent person, a small 
 share of accomplishments, and a property of a 
 hundred a-year, had refused half a dozen of the 
 best matches in the neighborhood. 
 
 " How I wish you had a more sympathizing 
 friend," whispered Medwin to Ella ; " but I have 
 precisely the same trial ; Sutherland does noth- 
 ing but laugh at me." 
 
 " I shall always value Mr. Sutherland," said 
 Ella, "because he introduced you to our ac- 
 quaintance ; but, alas ! he cannot understand 
 you. I have no doubt he speaks on the subject 
 exactly like Cousin Kate, and thinks the conduct 
 of your father and my uncle everything that is 
 just and considerate." 
 
304 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 " Precisely so," answered Medwin, with a 
 sigh. " When people advance in years, they 
 confound all distinctions of right and wrong, and 
 lose all sense of trouble or pleasure; — but 
 would we exchange our feelings for theirs ? " 
 
 " Surely not," said Ella. 
 
 " I would not change the miseries of love 
 For all the world calls happiness." 
 
 Medwin disdained to reply to Ella's apt quo- 
 tation in plain prose, and forthwith responded, — 
 
 "Know'st thou two hearts by love subdued — 
 Ask them which fate they covet — whether 
 Health, joy, and life in solitude. 
 Or sickness, grief, and death together." 
 
 How many more hackneyed quotations the 
 lovers might have perpetrated, and how much 
 more original nonsense they might have talked 
 it is impossible to say, had not Sutherland at 
 this moment entered the room. 
 
 Sutherland was a good-looking, gentlemanly, 
 middle-aged man ; he had been slightly ac- 
 -^uainted, in London, with Medwin and his 
 father, and when he met with the former at a 
 particularly stupid watering-place, he was glad 
 to improve his knowledge of him, and also to 
 introduce him to the family of Mr. xA.rnold, with 
 whom he had been intimate for many years. A 
 dull watering-place is the most favorable locality 
 in the world for losing the heart; and Suther- 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 305 
 
 land, when he saw the many enamored pairs on 
 the pier and cliffs, could not help recalling the 
 words of Rasselas ; " Many were in love with 
 triflers like themselves, and many fancied that 
 they were in love, when in truth they were only 
 idle ! " He felt rather annoyed, however, at 
 Med win's palpable devotion to Ella Winfield, 
 having himself been the cause of their introduc- 
 tion to each other, and he was much relieved 
 when the senior Mr. Medwin came down to join 
 his son, held a conference with Mr. Arnold, and 
 finally came to the conclusion with which my 
 readers are already acquainted, that the young 
 people were to undergo six months' probation 
 before receiving formal permission to render each 
 other happy or miserable for life. 
 
 " Medwin, your father is waiting for you ; all 
 is ready for your departure," said Sutherland. 
 Ella sobbed bitterly, and Medwin whispered to 
 her — 
 
 " True constancy no linie, no power, can move ; 
 He that hath known to change ne'er knew to love." 
 
 " How long will this violent attachment last ? " 
 whispered Sutherland, with a satirical smile, to 
 Cousin Kate : " tell me — 
 
 What day next week the eternity will end 
 
 7)5> 
 
 And Cousin Kate, finding that poetical quota- 
 tion was the order of the day, and determined 
 26=^ 
 
306 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 not to be outdone, looked up from her knitting, 
 and made the Shaksperean rejoinder — 
 
 " Briefly die their joys 
 Who place them on the truth of girls and boys ! " 
 
 Mr. Arnold took his niece a short round of the 
 watering-places before returning home ; he was 
 really fond of her, and really wished to have her 
 for a daughter-in-law : perhaps he liked her 
 pretty face, perhaps her pretty fortune, perhaps 
 the ties of kindred assisted him to be patient with 
 her follies, perhaps he detected the good will and 
 kindness of heart of which she was in reality 
 possessed, beneath the outward embroidery of 
 romance and affectation ; at all events, he wished 
 to restore her spirits, and reinstate himself in her 
 good graces. All, however, was in vain. Ella 
 went to Ramsgate, and fixed herself like an en- 
 chanted lady in a chair on the beach, till she was 
 in imminent danger of being carried out to sea 
 in the midst of a tender reverie. At Margate 
 she could only wonder that there were people in 
 the world with hearts sufficiently easy, and minds 
 sufficiently disengaged, to take pleasure in raf- 
 fling for work-boxes and tea-caddies, and listen- 
 ing to ballads at bathing-rooms. At Heme Bay, 
 she felt a momentary interest in going to look at 
 the " magic car," associating it with reminis- 
 cences of the Arabian Nights Entertainments ; 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 307 
 
 but the sight of the cumbrous vehicle thus elabo- 
 rately designated, quickly rectified her impres- 
 sions, and she certainly felt relieved when a 
 letter from home summoned her uncle to return 
 thither, even although it came in consequence of 
 the sudden arrival of her much-dreaded cousin. 
 Mr. Arnold lived about twenty miles from Lon- 
 don ; his villa and grounds appeared all space, 
 bloom, fragrance, and comfort, after the confined 
 lodging-house and scorching shingles of th^ ma- 
 rine desert they had quitted, and Ella could not 
 feel quite so unhappy as she had promised her- 
 self to be. Her cousin w^as a handsome and 
 agreeable young man, but so far from oppressing 
 her with admiration, he was quite unheedful of 
 her, and directed his whole attention to Cousin 
 Kate ; he could not mean anything by it, he 
 could not really be in love wdth a woman six 
 years older than himself, who had been winning 
 hearts while he was playing at marbles ; but 
 still it was provoking to be treated as a child and 
 a supernumerary. 
 
 " I am taking my first lesson of neglect," she 
 observed w^ith pique to Cousin Kate, '' and I do 
 not find the study agreeable." 
 
 " Rather say," replied that lady, " that you are 
 taking your first lesson on the folly of unjust 
 suspicions ; neither my uncle nor his son, you 
 
808 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 must allow, show any symptoms of having des- 
 tined you to a marriage of compulsion." 
 
 Ella next addressed her uncle : " 1 am afraid 
 my cousin Edward has taken a decided dislike 
 to me," she said. 
 
 " Very likely he has," replied Mr. Arnold, 
 coolly ; " but dislike may be sooner overcome 
 than indifference. Take heed, Ella, how you 
 cause him to go from one extreme to the other." 
 
 But Ella did not "take heed;" she had con- 
 stantly flowers to be tended, pens to be mended, 
 pencils to be cut, silk to be wound, and music to 
 be copied, in all of which she craved the aid of 
 her cousin Edward in tones so winning and per- 
 suasive, that he must have been hard-hearted 
 indeed to have been deaf to her entreaties. His 
 dislike was overcome ; she became his favorite 
 companion, and Cousin Kate, rivalled, but not 
 mortified, quietly betook herself again to her 
 books and her knitting. 
 
 Medwin returned with his father to London : it 
 appeared a dreary prison-house to him, and the 
 garden of Bedford Square had never seemed so 
 insufferably dingy and dusty; he filled a quire 
 of paper with love-fraught verses, and played 
 none but the most doleful ditties on his flute. 
 His sister complained that he had become a dull 
 and dispirited companion, and protested that she 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 309 
 
 felt quite an aversion to Ella Winfield for having 
 altered him so much for the worse. 
 
 " You shall soon see my school-friend, Ara- 
 minta Staples," she said to him, on the third 
 week after his return; " papa has allowed me to 
 invite her to stay with me ; I dare say you will 
 forget your watering-place goddess in half an 
 hour after your introduction to her." 
 
 Piqued by this prediction, Medwin resolved to 
 dislike Araminta Staples very much, picturing 
 her to himself as an inveterate school girl, with 
 red elbows, a passion for thick bread and butter, 
 and an unremitting giggle. Miss Staples, how- 
 ever, proved to be a handsome, pleasing, and 
 unaffected girl, and her style of beauty was much 
 more accordant with Medwin's real taste than 
 that of Ella Winfield ; she was an animated, 
 sparkling brunette, with jetty ringlets and a 
 brilliant color, and Medwin felt disposed to say 
 wnth Lord Byron — 
 
 " Who for paler dames would seek ? 
 How poor their forms appear, how languid, wan, and weak! '» 
 
 Medwin's father also gave the decided preference 
 to the claims of Miss Staples over those of Miss 
 Winfield; her fortune was rather better; Ella 
 had seven thousand pounds, while Araminta, as 
 the old gentleman facetiously observed, could 
 "stretch an octave !" — besides, her lively, easy 
 
310 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 manners were very agreeable to him : she had, 
 as he emphatically declared, " no nonsense about 
 her," a phrase of which I profess myself utterly 
 incapable of understanding the meaning, but 
 which I conclude means a great deal, from the 
 spirit and energy with which elderly gentlemen 
 are wont to pronounce this mysterious panegyric 
 on their favorites. Araminta, too, could " strike 
 an octave " to the satisfaction of the son as well 
 as of the father ; not that she was more musical 
 than Ella, — in fact she was much less so, — but 
 Ella had a fine voice, and thought her time lost 
 m playing anything but an accompaniment to her 
 own singing. Med win played the flute very 
 indifferently, and could not venture to destroy 
 Ella's sweet and scientific singing by his per- 
 formance ; while Araminta, who did not sing at 
 all, and whose playing was confined to waltzes 
 and quadrilles, was perfectly satisfied to sit at 
 the piano for hours, while Medwin mounted 
 guard by her side with his flute in his hand, 
 accompanying her in all the easy passages, and 
 indulging himself with a gratuitous " rest" when 
 a difficult one happened to occur. Araminta 
 was also very fond of poetry ; Medwin looked 
 over his quire of paper to find some effusions 
 worthy of her attention. He gav^e the preference 
 to some stanzas headed, " To her who will un- 
 derstand them ;" but he had extolled blue eyes 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 311 
 
 and auburn locks in the third and fourth lines ; 
 he could not expunge them, but he could alter 
 the description to dark eyes and raven locks, and 
 he forthwith did so. The verses were favorably 
 received : Miss Staples was asked to prolong her 
 visit, and consented to do so ; the members of 
 the family circle were perfectly cheerful and con- 
 tented with each other, and the garden of Bed- 
 ford Square, enlivened by the companionship of 
 the " dark-eyed maid," appeared to Medwin a 
 most exquisite promenade in comparison with 
 the rough shingles and barren rocks character- 
 izing the scene of his plighted troth. 
 
 Six months had exactly elapsed since the sep- 
 aration of Medwin and Ella. Medwin, accom- 
 panied by his friend Sutherland, was travelling 
 down by the railroad to the residence of Ella's 
 uncle ; no other person entered the carriage 
 which they had selected, and they conversed in 
 perfect freedom. 
 
 " This railroad pace is delightful for lovers," 
 said Sutherland, glancing rather mischievously 
 at the woe-begone countenance of Medwin. 
 
 " Delightful for true, but not for truant lovers," 
 responded Medwin, with a deep sigh. " After 
 all, I think I had better have written to Ella." 
 
 " I do not think so," said Sutherland ; " you 
 promised to be at Mr. Arnold's house on this 
 
312 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 day, and because you have broken your promise 
 in a great matter, there is no need that you 
 should break it in a small one." 
 
 " But what a confession I have to make ! " said 
 Medwin ; " who could have predicted it ? " 
 
 " / did from the very first," said Sutherland. 
 
 " It amazes me, Sutherland," said Medwin, 
 " how you contrive to keep clear of these scrapes; 
 my father tells me that several ladies have lost 
 their hearts to you." 
 
 " Perhaps so," answered Sutherland ; " but I 
 have not lost my heart to several ladies ; and 
 this circumstance may account for my freedom 
 from those embarrassments of the affections 
 which you denominate ' scrapes,' " 
 
 Medwin was silent for a few minutes. " Sup- 
 pose Ella should attempt her life," he said ; " she 
 has told me that there is a deep fish-pond in the 
 grounds of her uncle. " 
 
 " Is there ? " remarked Sutherland, quietly ; 
 *' I shall then be more than ever rejoiced that we 
 conveyed the news of your dereliction in person, 
 because we can both assist in extricating her 
 from the companionship of the carp and tench." 
 
 " You make yourself very merry, Sutherland, 
 with the misfortunes of your friends." 
 
 " Nay, Medwin, in general you accuse me of 
 being too wise rather than too merry ; but you 
 wiU allow that I have cause at present to be both 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 813 
 
 merry and wise ; after devoting the flower of my 
 youth to the drudgery of a public office on a 
 slender stipend, I have been, as you are aware, 
 just rewarded to the very extent of my hopes and 
 wishes by a situation of eight hundred a year." 
 
 Medwin inclined his head in token of assent 
 and congratulation, but inw^ardly thought that it 
 was of very little consequence whether so con- 
 firmed an old bachelor as his friend had eight 
 hundred or two hundred a year to live upon. 
 The train stopped. Mr. Arnold's house appeared 
 in sight, and Medwin led the way to it with a 
 pace more resembling that of a boy " creeping 
 like a snail unwillingly to school," than the fly- 
 ing steps of an impatient lover anxious to prove 
 the inviolability of his plighted troth. 
 
 Ella and Cousin Kate sat together in a pretty, 
 tasteful drawing-room, opening on a verandah 
 gay with early flowers. 
 
 " How I dread the arrival of poor Medwin ! " 
 sighed Ella : " Sir Walter Scott says — 
 
 • What spectre can the charnel send 
 So dreadful as an injured friend ? ' 
 
 but an injured lover is by many degrees worse. 
 Do you not think it likely that Medwin will 
 challenge my dear Arnold ? " 
 
 " Not at all," replied Cousin Kate, calmly ; 
 " and if he did, I am persuaded that your dear 
 Arnold would refuse the invitation." 
 27 
 
314 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 " 1 trust, however," said Ella, with anxiety, 
 "that you have fulfilled your promise to me, and 
 directed the pistols, and the fowling piece, and 
 the old sword over the breakfast-room mantel- 
 shelf, to be taken down and locked up." 
 
 " All is done to your wish, my dear," replied 
 Cousin Kate ; " nay, if you desire it, I will even 
 lock up the little case of tortoise-shell pistols 
 given to me last week by my uncle, from one of 
 which proceeds a mother-of-pearl bodkin, and 
 from the other a wrought gold toothpick : but 
 hark ! a ring at the garden gate ; your slighted 
 lover is advancing up the gravel walk ; and now 
 I can oiily offer to yDU, by way of consolation, the 
 hackneyed assurance that the sooner a disagree- 
 able interview begins, the sooner it will be over." 
 
 In a moment Medwin and Sutherland were 
 in the room ; hasty and embarrassed greetings 
 were exchanged, and Cousin Kate, kindly de- 
 sirous to shorten the troubles of Ella, stepped 
 out into the verandah, summoned Sutherland to 
 admire with her the beauty of a plant, and led 
 him on to a flight of steps, from whence they 
 descended into the garden, and confided to each 
 other the follies and frivolities of their respective 
 young friends. Meanwhile the plighted lovers 
 cast furtive glances at each other ; the gentle- 
 man twirled his hat, and the lady applied her- 
 self to her vinaigrette. 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 315 
 
 " My feelings, Miss Winfield," said Medwin 
 at length, " may be better imagined than de- 
 scribed." 
 
 " So may mine, I am sure," responded Ella in 
 a low tone. 
 
 "Dreadful!" thought Medwin, "she is more 
 passionately attached to me than ever. Con- 
 stancy," he proceeded, *' is praised and respected 
 by all ; but how melancholy is the reverse, how 
 sad is the contemplation when the heart changes, 
 when perhaps it even transfers its affections from 
 one object to another!" 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! " said Ella to herself, " he has 
 heard of my inconstancy, and is taking this 
 method of showing how he scorns and despises 
 me." 
 
 "What does a person deserve," asked Med- 
 win, " who, after professing undying attachment 
 for a first love, can in the course of a few months 
 address the same fond protestations to a second; 
 what, I say, does such a person deserve ? ' 
 
 " The scorn' and abhorrence of the world," 
 replied Ella with animation, determined not to 
 attempt to screen herself, but to plead guilty to 
 the most poignant accusations of her injured 
 lover. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Medwin aside, " she sus- 
 pects that my meaning is personal ; she is quite 
 losing her command of temper You are 
 
316 
 
 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 right," he replied; "such conduct is indeed in- 
 defensible ; 'there is no killing like that which 
 kills the heart ;' and oh ! what are the woes of 
 sickness, poverty, or blighted fortune, connpared 
 with the agony of crushed hopes, slighted affec- 
 tions, wounded sensibility, and wasted tender- 
 ness ? — Where can the deserted one repair for 
 consolation ? — the brilliant bubbles that sparkled 
 on the waters of existence are broken — the — " 
 
 ''• Spare me, spare me !" sobbed Ella, " I can- 
 not bear to hear you ; it is too much for my 
 feelings ; I could fancy I was listening to Charles 
 Phillips." 
 
 " She really has excellent taste and discern- 
 ment, after all," thought Medwin; "I pity her 
 
 more than ever Believe me. Miss Winfield," 
 
 he continued, " that I sincerely esteem and ad- 
 mire you, and although unfortunately I love 
 another — " 
 
 " You mean that unfortunately /love another," 
 interrupted Ella with spirit. 
 
 " This is not a subject for jesting," said Med- 
 win gravely ; " I take shame to myself to ac- 
 knowledge that I have been for three months 
 engaged to my sister's friend. Miss Staples, — 
 now, dear Miss Winfield, do not grow hysteri- 
 cal." 
 
 But Ella's joyous, irrepressible laughter had 
 nothing hysterical about it. 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 317 
 
 " You have made me feel quite easy," she 
 said, " respecting a confession that I am about to 
 utter ; we have been actuated by sympathetic 
 inclinations, it is certain, for just about the time 
 you mention I accepted the proposals of my 
 uncle's son ! " 
 
 " Can I believe my senses ? " exclaimed Med- 
 win; " after all your protestations, all your vows 
 that you could never love but me, have you given 
 your heart to another ? " 
 
 " Those vows," replied the young lady, " were 
 breathed with still more warmth by yourself, and 
 why should you be surprised that I have followed 
 your example in breaking them ? Cousin Kate 
 told me from the first that I never really loved 
 you." 
 
 " And Sutherland," retorted the young gen- 
 tleman with some irritation, " assured me this 
 day six months, that he was certain I should 
 forget you before the new moon became an old 
 one." 
 
 Just then Cousin Kate and Sutherland, having 
 reascended the verandah, walked from it into 
 the drawing-room, accompanied by Mr. Arnold 
 and his son, who had joined them in the garden. 
 Medwin exchanged a cordial greeting with his 
 rival, and Edward Arnold inquired after the 
 health of Miss Staples in a tone of interest which 
 21^ 
 
318 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 showed that Sutherland had made him aware of 
 the true position of affairs. 
 
 " All has turned out well," said Ella's uncle, 
 " and I think the marriages had better take place 
 as soon as possible ; it is not fair to expose con- 
 stancy to too severe a trial ; I shall never place 
 much trust in the plighted troth of young people." 
 
 " Nay," said Sutherland, advancing to him, 
 and taking the unreluctant hand of Cousin Kate 
 in his own, " permit me from experience to say 
 a few words in defence of true lovers' vows. 
 Ten years ago, Mr. Arnold, I first saw and loved 
 your amiable and excellent niece : I told my love 
 to her, and obtained from her an assurance that 
 she returned it ; she was then emancipated from 
 all control ; I also was an orphan, and had none 
 to oppose my wishes; but we loved wisely at the 
 same time that we loved well ; we decided that 
 our united incomes were inadequate to supply us 
 with the comforts and conveniences of life ; I had, 
 however, favorable prospects of affluence ; we 
 plighted our troth, but we resolved not to expose 
 ourselves to the prying scrutiny and obtrusive 
 comments of our acquaintance by publicly ap- 
 pearing as a contracted couple ; we each met with 
 several opportunities of forming what the world 
 calls a desirable connection, and we each declined 
 such opportunities for the sake of the other ; our 
 letters and interviev^rs were not frequent, but we 
 
PLIGHTED TROTH. 319 
 
 lived in hope ; and absence, although it restrained 
 the fervor of our love, did not diminish its ten- 
 derness. I had anticipated that in five years I 
 should have attained the situation that I now 
 hold ; I have waited double that time ; but for a 
 bride like Kate, I would have willingly waited 
 had the years been passed in pain and bondage. 
 You have been contemplating two marriages, I 
 trust you will not object to sanction a third, and 
 that you will allow that we have carried on our 
 courtship with as Httle trouble to our friends as 
 any pair of lovers whom the county can pro- 
 duce." 
 
 " And have I accused you of being a confirmed 
 old bachelor," said Medwin to Sutherland, " when 
 you have been longing all the time to get mar- 
 ried ? " 
 
 " And have I told you that you never had a 
 heart," said Ella to Cousin Kate, "when you 
 had a much truer one than my own ? " 
 
 " I too have many apologies to make," said 
 the host ; " I have frequently been in the habit 
 of saying that constancy was like a ghost, — 
 often talked of, but never seen ; and I have not 
 once had the courtesy to exempt the present 
 company from my strictures. Henceforth, how- 
 ever, I shall compare it to an aloe which blooms 
 once in a hundred years, and take great pride 
 in boasting that my humble abode has been the 
 
220 PLIGHTED TROTH. 
 
 theatre of its development, and that I have this 
 day witnessed the spectacle of a couple, who, 
 having been contracted ten years, are at length 
 happily enabled to marry without having in the 
 time of probation broken or wished to break their 
 ^Plighted Troth!'" 
 
321 
 
 YOUNG THOUGHTS MAKE YOUNG HEARTS. 
 
 BY CALDER CAMPBELL. 
 
 Think not of the winter's cold 
 
 When the summer's breath is round thee ; 
 Think not of the worth of gold 
 
 Ere its sordid wants have found thee. 
 Think not of the cautious art 
 Which guards yet petrifies the heart ; 
 Nor, in thy youth, with darings bold, 
 Mix age's leaven, hard and cold; — 
 Old thoughts make young hearts old! 
 
 Take thy pleasure with free hands, — 
 Nor content thyself with viewing 
 
 Flowers and fruits, whose relish stands 
 As much in plucking as pursuing ; 
 
 Deem not sunshine made, that thou 
 
 Should'st bar its brightness from thy brow; 
 
 Heaven hath lent us sweetness — light — 
 
 All that 's good, and fair, and bright, 
 
 As much for taste as sight! 
 
 Sorrow cometh soon enoug-h — 
 
 Wisely should we seize each blessing 
 
 That comes to smooth life's journey rough, 
 With a joy in the possessing : — 
 
322 YOUNG THOUGHTS MAKE YOUNG HEARTS. 
 
 Let our thouo-hts then turn as loner 
 As e'er they can, to dance and song; — 
 To every feeling that imparts 
 Gleeful smiles by natural arts — 
 Young thoughts make young old hearts! 
 
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