. 
 
 
 

 
 > ,*, , 
 
 MES. HENTZ'S WOEKS. 11 
 
 pleasing or more instructive than Mrs. Hentz. This novel is equal to any 
 which she has written." Cincinnati Gazette. 
 
 "A charming and delightful story, and will add to the well-merited re- 
 putation of its fair and gifted author." Southern Lite-art/ Gazette. 
 
 MARCUS WARLAND; or, THE LONG MOSS 
 SPRING. A Tale of the South. Complete in two vo- 
 lumes, paper cover, price One Dol., or bound in one volume, 
 cloth gilt, $1.25. 
 
 " Every succeeding chapter of this new and beautiful nouvellette of Mrs. 
 Hentz : ncreases in interest and pathos. We defy any one to read aloud 
 the chapters to a listening auditory, without deep emotion, or producing 
 many a pearly tribute to its truthfulness, pathos, and power." Am. Courier. 
 
 "It is pleasant to meet now atid then with a tale like this, which seems 
 rather like a narrative of real events than a creature of the imagination." 
 N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; or, THE JOYS 
 AND SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE. With a 
 Portrait of the Author. Complete in two large volumes, 
 paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, 
 cloth gilt, $1.25. 
 
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 the youngest may alike read with profit. It abounds with the most beauti- 
 ful scenic descriptions ; and displays an intimate acquaintance with all 
 hases of human character ; all the characters being exceedingly well 
 rawn. It is a delightful book, full of incidents, oftentimes bold and 
 
 ph 
 dr 
 
 startling, and describes the warm feelings of the Southerner in glowing 
 colors. Indeed, all Mrs. Hentz's stories aptly describe Southern life, and 
 are highly moral in their application. In this field Mrs. Hentz wields a 
 keen sickle, and harvests a rioh and abundant crop. It will be found in 
 plot, incident, and management, to be a superior work. In the whole 
 range of elegant moral fiction, there cannot be found any thing of more 
 inestimable value, or superior to this work, and it is a gem that will well 
 repay a careful perusal. The Publisher feels assured that it will give 
 entire satisfaction to all readers, encourage good taste and good morals, 
 and while away many leisure hours with great pleasure and profit, and be 
 recommended to others by all that peruse it." 
 
 THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE. With illus- 
 trations. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover, 
 600 pages, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, 
 cloth gilt, $1.25. 
 
 "We have seldom been more charmed by the perusal of a novel; and we 
 desire to commend it to our readers in the strongest words of praise that 
 our vocabulary affords. The incidents are well varied; the scenes beauti-
 
 12 MRS. HENTZ'S WORKS. 
 
 fully described; and the interest admirably kept up. But the moral of the 
 book is its highest merit. The 'Planter's Northern Bride' should be as 
 welcome as the dove of peace to every fireside in the Union. It cannot be 
 read without a moistening of the eyes, a softening of the heart, and a miti- 
 gation of sectional and most unchristian prejudices." N. Y. Mirror. 
 
 "It is unquestionably the most powerful and important, if not the most 
 charming work that has yet flowed from her elegant pen ; and th'ough evi- 
 dently founded upon the all-absorbing subjects of slavery and abolitionism, 
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 beauty, as to render it every way worthy the author of 'Linda,' 'Marcus 
 Warland,' 'Rena,' and the numerous other literary gems from the same 
 author." American Courier. 
 
 "The most delightful and remarkable book of the day." Boston Traveler. 
 
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 bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1.25. 
 
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 years since, of the famous 'Mob Cap' in this paper, we formed an exalted 
 opinion of the womanly and literary excellence of the writer, our feelings 
 have, in the interim, had quite sufficient leisure to cool ; yet, after the 
 lapse of years, we have continued to maintain the same literary devotion 
 to this best of our female writers. The two last productions of Mrs. Lee 
 Hentz now fully confirm our previously formed opinion, and we unhesi- 
 tatingly commend 'Rena,' now published in book form, in beautiful style, 
 by T. B. Peterson, as a story which, in its varied, deep, and thrilling in- 
 terest, has no superior." American Courier. 
 
 HELEN AND ARTHUR. Complete in two volumes, 
 paper cover, price One Dol., or bound in one volume, 
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 tails of the plot are skilfully elaborated, and many passages are deeply 
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 #& Copies of either edition of any of the foregoing works will be sent 
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 remitting the price of the ones they may wish, to the publisher, in a letter. 
 
 Published and for Sale by T. B. PETERSON, 
 
 No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia

 
 ELLA PLEADING FOR CLAUDE.
 
 THE BANISHED SON; 
 
 Ot|tr Stories of % |)tiul 
 
 BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LOVE AFTER MAKRIAGK," "LINDA," "RENA," "ROBERT 
 GRAHAM," "EOLLNE,"" COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE," ETC. 
 
 ' His years but young, but his experience old, 
 
 Mis head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe; 
 
 And in a word (for far behind his worth, 
 
 Come all thi; praises that I now bestow), 
 
 He is complete in feature, and in mind, 
 
 "With all good gruce to grace a gentleman." Shakspeare. 
 'Innocence unmoved 
 
 At a false accusation, doth the more 
 
 Confirm itself; and guilt is best discovered 
 
 By its own fears." Nabb. 
 
 JJ Ij i I a ft 1 1 p I) i a : 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET
 
 ENTERED, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 T. K. ft P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE BANISHED SON, Page 17 
 
 WILD JACK; OR, THE STOLEN CHILD, ... 47 
 
 BELL AND ROSE C5 
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY, Ill 
 
 SELIM ; AN ORIENTAL TALE, 139 
 
 HOWARD, THE APPRENTICE BOY, .... 157 
 
 THE BLACK MASK, 165 
 
 A TALE OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS, . . . 180 
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES, . . . . . . .191 
 
 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD, 253 
 
 THE SEX OF THE SOUL, 266 
 
 A TRIP TO THE BAY, . . . 271 
 
 2056681
 
 **. 
 
 '**"
 
 THE 
 
 BANISHED SON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " OH ! that uncle would forgive him \" 
 
 Thus ejaculated a young girl, as she sat, with her hands 
 folded over her knees, by the side of a waning fire. 
 
 " What a sad, sad evening this has been to me, though all 
 the while I have been compelled to smile and look happy !" 
 
 There was certainly nothing in the apartment in which she 
 was seated that seemed congenial with sadness. It was a large 
 and splendidly illuminated room, richly carpeted and furnished, 
 and, from the flowers, which not only decorated the vases, but 
 hung in gay festoons around the walls, it had evidently been 
 adorned for some festive occasion. Rare and beautiful flowers 
 they were, mostly green-house blossoms, relieved by the dark 
 evergreens with which they were entwined, for the flowers of 
 summer were long since faded and gone. 
 
 Though the fire, by which the young girl was seated, was 
 now nothing more than a heap of glowing embers, it had 
 lately burned with intense heat, so that every corner of that 
 large apartment was filled with the genial warmth of the tropic 
 latitudes. The dress of the young girl, who sat so lonely and 
 dejected in the midst of those gay garlands, was in keeping 
 with the festive character of the scene. A robe of white 
 gauze, falling in transparent folds over a rich under-dress of 
 satin, gave that gossamer grace to her figure which airy drapery 
 alone can impart. A wreath of white roses mimic, it is 
 true, but so exquisitely natural one could almost see the petals 
 curl and tremble amidst the tresses they adorned 
 
 C")
 
 18 PERCY; OR, 
 
 around her brow, confining the light-brown ringlets which fell, 
 unshorn and untutored, even to her waist. What a contrast 
 her gala dress and mournful attitude presented ! That floral 
 
 farland, and those sad, dark blue eyes, all swimming in tears ! 
 he looked wistfully at the clock. Its solemn, continuous 
 ticking, sounded mournfully in the solitude. It was a machine 
 of elegant workmanship, representing, on its gilded pedestal, 
 one of the most interesting scenes in the history of the Horatii 
 and Curiatii. Directly ; .n the foreground the father of the 
 Horatii was standing with an air of stern majesty, the swords 
 of his three sons grasped in his right hand, which he was 
 elevating towards Heaven. He seemed to be consecrating 
 those warlike weapons to a holy purpose, and calling down 
 the blessing of the gods on the enterprise to which he had 
 devoted his sons. The dignity, the inflexibility of the Roman, 
 spoke in every lineament. One could read on those firm and 
 nobly-formed lips the spirit that dictated the magnanimous 
 expression, " Qu'il mourut," when he believed his last survi- 
 ving son a fugitive and a coward. There was a fascination in 
 that figure to her, whose eyes were now gazing upon it. The 
 light of the lamps glittered on its surface, and it came out 
 resplendently in its lustre. She thought of Roman fathers 
 how stern and inflexible they were of Brutus, the avenging 
 judge of his own sons; of Manlius, condemning to an igno- 
 minious death the brave and gallant youth who had come to 
 lay the trophies of his valour at his father's feet. 
 
 11 Oh ! that fathers should be so stern and unforgiving !" 
 she exclaimed, the image of an unrelenting American father 
 resting darkly on her remembrance. 
 
 The door opened very slowly and gently so slowly that it 
 seemed turning on invisible hinges and a young man, wrap- 
 ped in a dark travelling cloak, with his hat deeply shading his 
 brows, stood on the threshold. 
 
 " Ella," uttered he, in a low voice ; and the young girl 
 started as if touched with electric fire. 
 
 " Oh ! Claude, Claude, is it you ?" she cried, and the next 
 moment, regardless of the roses she was crushing, the beautiful 
 gauze folds she was disordering, she was weeping on his 
 shoulder, half-enveloped in the folds of that dark, heavy cloak. 
 
 " How pale you are, dear Claude," she at length exclaimed, 
 " and how cold !" and, drawing him gently to the fire, she 
 assisted him to unclasp his cloak ; arid, then stirring the dying 
 embers till they glowed with cheering redness, she sat down
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 19 
 
 by his side, and, taking his chilled hand in hers, gazed 
 earnestly in his face. 
 
 "How beautiful you are to-night, Ella!" said he; "and 
 how adorned !" he added, in a tone of bitterness. 
 
 " This is all mockery nothing but mockery," cried she, 
 pulling off the roses from her hair, and casting them at her 
 feet. " They dressed me for my birth-day ball, and I was com- 
 pelled to submit. Uncle would have it so, and I could not 
 help hoping he intended to make this a night of reconciliation 
 and joy. Oh ! that he were less kind to me, or less cruel to 
 you. I want to hate him, and he will not let me." 
 
 " I have deserved punishment for folly and disobedience 
 sin, if they will have it BO but banishment from home, 
 banishment from you, Ella oh ! it is hard. I am not a 
 second Cain, that I should be driven, an alien, from my 
 father's house." 
 
 And the youth rose up suddenly, and walked about the 
 room, struggling with his wretchedness. 
 
 " Yes, I must go, never to return. In little more than an 
 hour from this I shall be wending my way, I know not, care 
 not whither. Disowned, banished, threatened with maledic- 
 tion if I remain longer near the home I have disgraced, I care 
 not what becomes of me. Fool, maniac that 1 have been, I 
 might have anticipated all this I might have known that I 
 had a Roman father to deal with. But, thoughtless of the 
 past, reckless of the future, I have rushed on to ruin. Ella, 
 my cousin, my sister, my more than sister, can I ; must I part 
 from you ?" 
 
 " No, no, no," she cried, clinging to him as if her arms had 
 power to shield him from the doom that hung over him, " you 
 shall not go. Your father cannot mean it. He does not will 
 it. I will go to him this moment, and, rousing him from his 
 night-sleep, I will kneel, weep, pray before him, till he relent 
 aud forgive. How dares he think of sleep when he has made 
 us both so wretched? Come with me, Claude; kneel and 
 pray with me. He cannot resist our united prayers." 
 
 " It is in vain, Ella/' he answered, a dark shadow gathering 
 over his face ; " I have already humbled myself in the dust 
 before him, and he spurned me. Never again, even to my 
 own father, will I degrade myself thus. I would meet banish- 
 ineut, poverty, suffering, even death itself, before I would 
 expose myself a second time to such humiliation. Nay, Ella, 
 put down that lamp ; you cannot avert my doom."
 
 20 PERCY: OR, 
 
 But Ella would not hear. With the lamp glimmering in her 
 band, and her white silvery -looking robes fluttering like the wings 
 of a snowy bird, she flew rather than ran up the long winding 
 stairs, that led to the chamber of Mr. Percy. In her excite- 
 ment, she forgot to open the door softly, and it swung heavily 
 on the hinges. Mr. Percy was not asleep. How could he 
 . sleep, when he had doomed his only son to banishment ? No ! 
 his was the restless couch and the thorny pillow : but his was 
 also the unconquerable will the proud, unyielding temper. 
 The decree had gone forth, and he would not change it, though 
 his heart-strings should snap in the struggle. 
 
 Raising himself on his elbow, he gazed with a bewildered 
 countenance on the youthful intruder. A strange apparition 
 in the chamber of that stern, dark man ! Rich curtains of 
 crimson damask shaded the bed, and threw a kind of glow on 
 the pale and haggard countenance of the occupant. His com- 
 plexion looked still more sallow in contrast with the snowy 
 white of the pillow, and under the shadow of the sable hair, 
 as yet only partially threaded with silver, that hung over his 
 temples. Ella threw herself on her knees by the bed-side, 
 and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. His conscience 
 told him her errand, and he spoke to her in a harsh, hurried 
 tone : 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? I like not to be disturbed. 
 I have tried to make you happy to-night. Go away, child, 
 and let me sleep." Sleep ! she could have said : 
 
 " There's a voice in all the house 
 Cries, ' Sleep no more Macbeth has murdered sleep.' " 
 
 " Oh ! uncle, forgive Claude and let him stay ; I cannot 
 see him go ; I shall die of grief, if you cast him away from 
 you. You cannot be in earnest, uncle ; you are only trying 
 him. Say so, and I will bless you on my knees, till the 
 latest day of my life." 
 
 " Do I look like a jesting man ?" cried he, drawing away 
 the hand she had grasped in the energy of speaking. " I ain 
 indeed in earnest, as that unhappy boy will soon know to his 
 cost." 
 
 " Oh ! uncle, he has suffered enough already ; you know 
 he has. Had he committed murder, forgery, any crime, you 
 might have disowned him ; but " 
 
 " Crime !" repeated the indignant father, sweeping back the
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 21 
 
 curtain with one hand, and with the other pushing away the 
 heavy locks from his brow, while his eyes flashed luridly. 
 " Had he committed murder in the madness of passion, I 
 could have forgiven him, and kept him near my heart, though 
 his hand were reddened with blood. Had he committed for- 
 gery in a moment of temptation, I could have forgiven even 
 that. But to go against warning and command to herd with 
 a company of vile vagabonds to follow them to their haunts 
 of wickedness to adopt their profession to become one 
 among them, heart and soul to suffer his name, my name 
 the name of Percy to be placarded in every corner of the 
 street, for the vulgar to gaze upon, and the wise to sneer at 
 the author of such a disgrace never shall be forgiven. Away, 
 and disturb me no more." 
 
 Ella rose from her knees. The tears seemed frozen in her 
 heart. She had entered the chamber with a wrestling spirit 
 the spirit that spoke through Jacob, when he said unto the 
 angel, " I will not let thee go, unless thou bless me." Alas ! 
 she had no angel to contend with but a proud, unconquerable 
 man a man whose family pride had received a deep and im- 
 medicable wound. With a look of hopeless dejection, of 
 sullen, passive endurance, she turned from that sleepless bed 
 of down, and descended the winding stairs. She was no 
 longer the bird, winging its upward flight. She was the 
 snail, dragging itself wearily along. The spring of hope was 
 gone, and a leaden weight held back her steps. 
 
 " I told you so," said Claude, turning of ashy paleness; for, 
 in spite of his assertion to the contrary, he had cherished a 
 secret hope from her intercession. " I told you, you would 
 plead in vain." 
 
 Ella, overpowered by disappointment and sorrow, leaned in 
 tearless anguish on the shoulder of Claude, who pressed her 
 in silence to his breast. She felt that deadly sickness of soul, 
 which precedes the final separation from the object most 
 loved on earth. They had been brought up under the same 
 roof, protected by the same guardian both were brotherless 
 and sisterless how could they help loving each other ? 
 
 " Oh ! that I were a boy," she cried ; " then I would go 
 with you, Claude, preferring poverty and exile with you, 
 to all you leave behind. I would share all your trials ; and 
 heavy ones will they be, poor Claude ! Whither will you go ? 
 What will you do ? But promise me, Claude, whatever you
 
 22 PERCY; OR, 
 
 do, you will never go back to scenes my uncle so much 
 abhors. He will yet pardon and recall you I feel, I know, 
 he will." 
 
 11 No, Ella, there is no hope of that ; but be assured, to 
 whatever extremities I may be driven, I shall never resort to 
 that expedient. If you ever hear of me again, it shall be 
 with honourable mention. Whither I shall go, what I shall 
 do, I know not. I shall just float along the tide of circum- 
 stances, and perchance the wanderer may find some green spot 
 to rest upon. I do not fear want, for my father's son has not 
 been sent away entirely destitute. I shall work out my own 
 destiny, and something tells me, that in manhood, I shall re- 
 deem the faults and follies of my youth. Ella, dear Ella, do 
 not weep so bitterly ! I am not worthy such tears. In this 
 moment, I feel all the madness of which I have been guilty. 
 I do not wonder that my father disowns me. I deserve to 
 be an outcast." 
 
 The clock struck one. Claude started, as if a knell tolled 
 on his ear. It was the signal for his departure for the stage 
 that was to bear him away, must even then be waiting at the 
 hotel, where his trunks were already carried. 
 
 " You will write to me, Claude ; wherever you may be, you 
 will write and tell me of your welfare ? Remember it will be 
 all I shall live for now." 
 
 "Yes, Ella, as soon as I find a home." His voice fal- 
 tered with deep emotion. "One promise, Ella: be kind, 
 be loving still to my father. Do not resent my banishment; 
 and should Nature resume its empire in his heart, and he re- 
 member with sorrow his alien son, then comfort him, Ella, for 
 my sake. Tell him that I love him still, and that my life's 
 struggle shall be to prove myself worthy of the name I bear. 
 Farewell, Ella ! sister, cousin, friend, dearer, a thousand times 
 dearer, than all these precious names to my heart but how 
 dear, I never knew till this bitter moment." 
 
 Incapable of speaking, Ella lay sobbing in his arms. Stoop- 
 ing down, he kissed the pale cheek that rested almost uncon- 
 sciously on his breast, while hot, scalding tears, that could no 
 longer be repressed, gushed from his eyes. To leave the home 
 of his father, the companion of his childhood, to go out into 
 the cold world, friendless and alone, not knowing what ills he 
 must endure, with what storms he must battle, with what ene- 
 mies he must contend and to feel, too, that all this was the 
 consequence of his own disobedience and folly it was a bit-
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 23 
 
 ter, bitter thought. With a desperate effort, he released him- 
 self from the clasp of those fair, clinging arms, placed her 
 gently on the sofa, and rushed from the house. The faint 
 light of the night lamp in his father's chamber, glimmered 
 through the window and streamed across his path. The un- 
 happy youth paused. It seemed that all beyond that ray was 
 darkness and desolation ; and yet it threw a solitary gleam 
 of brightness on the parting hour. It might be an omen of 
 future forgiveness. Softened, melted into even womanly ten- 
 derness, and filled with remorse at the memory of his dis- 
 obedience, he knelt on that illuminated spot, and bowed his 
 head in penitence and humility, even as if he were prostrated 
 at his father's feet. 
 
 " Father, Ella, farewell," he cried, and starting up, dashed 
 the tears from his eyes, and became a wanderer from his native 
 home. 
 
 And what was the offence for which he was thus suffering so 
 severe a penalty ? To explain this, we must go back to Claude's 
 earlier youth. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MR. PERCY was a man of sovereign aristocracy. He had 
 the three-fold aristocracy of birth, wealth, and talents. The 
 very name of Percy had an ancestral sound, and breathed of 
 noble blood. Called to sit in the high places of the land, and 
 to act a conspicuous part in his country's capital, he had but 
 little leisure to devote to the education of his son, who was 
 the object of his pride, even more than his affection. He was 
 an only son, and consequently the future representative of 
 his name and fame ; and, as if Nature, in this instance, waa 
 determined to gratify, to the utmost, a father's pride, she had 
 endowed the youth with her most splendid gifts. Of extra- 
 ordinary personal beauty, brilliant talents, the most graceful 
 and engaging manners, in the brightness of life's morning 
 hours he gave promise of a glorious noon. At college, he 
 was called the admirable Crichton, so wonderful was the ver- 
 satility of his talents, the ease with which he could master 
 the most difficult and abstruse sciences.
 
 24 PERCY; OR, 
 
 Mr. Percy exulted in the reputation of his son, but he knew 
 nothing of his heart. He had not time for that. Proud, cold, 
 dignified, and reserved, his demeanor repelled the sunny spirit 
 of Claude. It played over the cold, polished surface of hi? 
 father's character, like sunbeams on steel. The heart was re- 
 pelled the light only received. The only person who really 
 knew the heart of Claude, was his young cousin, Ella, the 
 orphan child of Mr. Percy's youngest and favourite sister. 
 The young Ella, too, was the only one who had found the 
 avenue to the warm corner of Mr. Percy's pride-mailed bosom. 
 She, alone, dared to sport with this august personage. As 
 the young vine, frolicking round the ancient oak the bright, 
 tender moss enamelling the cold, dark rock she twined her- 
 self round the pillar of his pride, and made it beautiful with 
 the garland of innocence and youth. She was so confiding, 
 so loving, and so gay, she must have something to love and 
 play about ; and when Claude was absent at college, and her 
 uncle resting from his official duties, it was a necessity of 
 her ardent nature to lavish upon him the tenderness that was well- 
 ing in her heart. But during the long vacations, when Claude 
 was restored to his home, what a paradise it was to her ! To 
 say that she loved her cousin, would convey but a faint idea 
 of the feelings she cherished for him. It was more than love j 
 it was worship idolatry which, though indulged with all 
 the innocence and unconsciousness of childhood, and expressed 
 with all the ingenuousness of a sister's affection, had, never- 
 theless, all the strength and intensity of passion. 
 
 During the long holidays, Claude, whose spirits often wildly 
 effervesced, " sought out many inventions" to wing away the 
 hours. One of his favourite amusements was to get up private 
 theatricals, in which Ella and himself acted very distinguished 
 parts. He was a passionate lover of the drama, and, with a 
 wonderful power of imitation, could catch the tones, looks, and 
 gestures of the heroes of the stage. It is not to be supposed 
 that these scenes were enacted in the presence of the stately 
 Mr. Percy but, after supper, he generally went abroad, and 
 they had ample scope for their dramatic taste. All the old 
 family trunks were ransacked for their stage costume, and 
 most ancestral-looking garments were brought forth, and, with 
 a little modification, converted into royal robes, and the proper 
 paraphernalia of Melpomene and Thalia. Their young friends 
 delighted to gather on these occasions, and never did more 
 spontaneous applause shake with thundering echoes the walls
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 25 
 
 of Castle Garden, than resounded through the hall they had 
 selected for their theatrical exhibitions. 
 
 Ella sometimes objected to Claude's choice of characters, 
 and, though he was rather despotic, he was obliged to submit 
 to her caprice or judgment. He must not take the part of 
 King Lear, as it made him look too old and crazy ; he must 
 not be Othello, for it would be too horrible to blacken and 
 disfigure his beautiful face ; but Romeo the handsome, youth- 
 ful, and impassioned Romeo that was the character which, 
 more than all others, she loved to see him perform. With 
 his cap, shaded with long, white feathers, drooping over his 
 classic brow, his dark-brown waving hair so romantically 
 arranged, and his eyes beaming with all the poetry of love, 
 nothing could be so graceful and beautiful as Claude. 
 
 Ella made a bewitching little Juliet, but she often forgot 
 her character in admiration of Claude ; and, even in the vaults 
 of the Capulets, when her eyes should have seemed sealed in 
 everlasting slumber, the dark-blue orbs would furtively open 
 to gaze upon her Romeo. Little did they think that these 
 gala evenings of their youth were to change the whole colour 
 of their destiny. 
 
 Once, when Claude was representing Macbeth in all his 
 majesty, and the servants, dressed like witches, with long 
 brooms, were dancing round a large marble basin, which was 
 supposed to a boiling cauldron, where many an " eye of gnat 
 and tongue of toad" were simmering and cooking; and Ella, 
 with a regal-looking turban surmounting her childish head, 
 was peeping behind a long, green curtain the door opened, 
 and Mr. Percy entered. The Ghost of Banquo, with his gory 
 locks and blood-stained brow, rising up at the royal banquet, 
 was not more appalling than this unexpected apparition. The 
 crimson turban of Lady Macbeth plunged into the darkness 
 of the curtain, the servants scampered away, dropping their 
 brooms as they ran. Claude alone stood his ground, like a 
 king, and confronted, with undaunted mien, his father's 
 wrathful glance. 
 
 What a scene for the ultra-majestic statesman ! who never 
 deviated from the perpendicular line of formality in the most 
 common affairs of life whose household concerns were always 
 conducted with the severest accuracy and the most rigid dis- 
 cipline and who, above all, had the most sovereign contempt 
 and aversion for theatrical exhibitions. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this vulgar revelry this scene 
 119
 
 26 PERCY ] OR, 
 
 of tumult and chaos ?" exclaimed he, in a voice like low 
 thunder. " How dare you, young man, convert your father's 
 hall into a scene of theatrical riot ?" 
 
 Giving the marble basin a violent push, that, heavy as it 
 was, sent it whizzing across the floor, he approached his offend- 
 ing son, but, forgetting the witches' brooms in the way, the 
 stately statesman nearly stumbled to the "ground. This gave 
 the crown to his anger, and it was terrible to behold. But 
 Claude's dauntless spirit quailed not. He was not afraid of 
 his father, or of any human being. He was too ingenuous, 
 brave, self-relying, to know aught of " that dark dweller of 
 the household," so thrillingly described in Zauoni. As well 
 might the sunbeam fear the rock or the ruin on which its 
 brightness falls. He stood, with his royal robes folded over 
 his breast his brow, which " the likeness of a kingly crown 
 had on," proudly elevated and his beautiful, resolute, dark 
 eyes, fixed upon his father's face. That look and attitude 
 would have made the fortune of a professed actor. 
 
 Poor little Ella could not listen in silence to this denun- 
 ciation against her beloved Claude. She rushed from behind 
 the curtain, pulling it down in her haste, thus displaying all 
 the mysteries of their craft, and, falling on her knees before 
 her uncle, exclaimed, with true tragic pathos : 
 
 " Oh, uncle, do not be angry with Claude. I am more to 
 blame than he is. I urged him to it indeed I did. But I 
 never dreamed of your coming home, dear uncle indeed I 
 did not." 
 
 " So it is only in my presence you think of conducting with 
 propriety, is it ? Go to your room, Ella, this moment : you 
 are nothing but a foolish, little girl, and may, perhaps, be 
 pardoned, if this prove the last offence. But remember the 
 condition the last !" 
 
 Lady Macbeth, gathering up her long, sweeping train, stole 
 slowly from the room, casting a piteous glance at Claude, 
 which changed to vivid admiration as she beheld the bold 
 beauty of his countenance. 
 
 The scene which followed was one in which passion and 
 pride struggled for mastery ; but pride at length prevailed. 
 Mr. Percy felt that it was undignified to scold, and when his 
 anger was somewhat abated, he condescended to reason with 
 his son. Had he done it more calmly, more gently, he might 
 have exercised more influence. But family pride, the idol he 
 set up for his worship, Claude cared no more for than the
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 27 
 
 image of Nebuchadnezzar's dream, with its legs of iron and 
 its feet of clay. Mr. Percy commanded him never to enter 
 the walls of a theatre never again to turn the leaves of 
 Shakspeare, or to have anything to do with dramatic exhi- 
 bitions, either public or private. He deemed this command 
 sufficient, for the thought that his positive commands could 
 be disobeyed never glanced into his mind. This folly had not 
 been anticipated therefore, not prohibited ; but, once dis- 
 covered and forbidden, he felt as if a flaming sword guarded 
 the majesty of his law. But, unfortunately, the master pas- 
 sion of Claude only gained strength from opposition. His love 
 of the drama became a monomania, and, in spite of his stern 
 father's prohibition, he not only visited the theatre, but fre- 
 quented the green-room, and became acquainted with some 
 very dangerous and fascinating characters. One of these, 
 who was about to take command of an itinerant company, 
 having witnessed a specimen of Claude's astonishing dramatic 
 talents, resolved to secure him as the new star of the season. 
 It was not without much hesitation that young Claude con- 
 sented to take so bold a step, but the tempter was eloquent, 
 and his own misguided imagination was a more eloquent 
 tempter still. His father was absent on a long journey ; but 
 Ella, his sweet cousin Ella, should he leave her, without con- 
 fiding to her his secret expedition ? Yes, it must be done ; 
 for, were she the confidant of his purpose, she would be the 
 sharer of his parental anger, which he well knew would fall 
 upon his head, but which he rashly dared to brave. 
 
 The sequel is already known. The wrath of Mr. Percy, 
 when he learned, through the public papers, that his son, his 
 heir, a Percy, had come before the world as an actor, cannot 
 be described. When the young prodigal, weary of the false 
 glitter of the artificial life which, in the distance, seemed so 
 alluring, dreading reproach and wrath, because he knew he 
 merited them, yet confident of ultimate forgiveness, returned 
 to his father's house, it was only to be sent forth again in 
 banishment and disgrace. The magnificent ball, given on 
 Ella's sixteenth birth-day, was celebrated by Mr. Percy's 
 orders, in contrast to Claude's degradation. Ella, hoping, be- 
 lieving all things, imagined that her uncle had prepared this 
 brilliant festival, that he might restore his son to favour, 
 without the embarrassment of a private reconciliation. Alas ! 
 she knew not the man. 
 
 Let us follow the young exile. Waked from his feverish
 
 28 PERCY; OR, 
 
 dream of excitement, he sees, by the cold, gray light of dawn- 
 ing reason, the rough realities of the future. Like our first 
 parents driven from the garden of Eden, "all the world 
 before him lay." But, had he taken Providence as his 
 guide ? In the sunshine of prosperity he had forgotten its 
 guiding cloud, and its pillar of fire went not before him to 
 illumine the darkness of his destiny. And very dark that 
 destiny now looked to him. He was so young and inex- 
 perienced only nineteen what could he do ? He never 
 once thought of resorting to the stage. His mind, by a 
 powerful reaction, was now as much repelled from that course 
 of life as it had once been attracted to it. He loathed the 
 very thought of it. Where should he go ? Uncaring 
 whither, he decided to direct his course to Virginia. He had 
 a college friend, who lived beyond the Alleghanies, and pos- 
 sibly, through him, he might learn of some employment a pri- 
 vate tutorship perhaps. Poor fellow ! He had never learned to 
 govern himself how could he discipline the young minds of 
 others ? But Claude resolved to earn his bread by honour- 
 able industry, or perish. He looked back with shame upon 
 his life of self-indulgence and vanity. He felt that he had 
 lived in vain. High and noble thoughts, born of adversity, 
 began to spring up and flourish in his bosom. He felt wiser, 
 better, stronger. Great trials either elevate and purify, or 
 crush and sink the character of man. Happy they, who, like 
 Claude, have an elastic principle within, that rebounds from 
 the pressure which threatened to weigh it down to dust. 
 
 We will not follow the young and deeply reflecting wanderer 
 through all the windings of his way ; but we will stop with 
 him, at the foot of one of the heaven-ascending Alleghanies, 
 and see who lies by that broken, over-turned carriage. Such 
 a rough, precipitous, dizzying road it is no wonder there 
 should be runaway horses, broken bones and bruised limbs. 
 
 Claude had jumped from the stage, as he often did, in- 
 capable of such long inaction in his present restless and strug- 
 gling mood, and was leaping down the craggy mountain path. 
 The sight of the shattered vehicle, the groans of the man, 
 who was lying partly under the ruins, arrested his step. The 
 sufferer was an aged man, with hair of snowy whiteness, and 
 features which, in repose, must have expressed benevolence 
 and benignity ; but now they were distorted with pain, and, 
 from his pallid complexion and ashy lips, it was evident he 
 was sinking beneath the weight of his sufferings. Claude,
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 29 
 
 seeing a silver cup, seized it, and ran to a clear spring, that 
 gurgled within a few feet of the travellers. Beautiful springs 
 there are welling at the foot of these great mountains ! He 
 bathed the forehead and lips of the aged sufferer, raising his 
 head gently on his arm, and smoothing back the white locks, 
 all soiled with dust. 
 
 The stranger, restored to consciousness, opened his eyes, 
 and beholding a countenance so young, so beautiful, so com- 
 passionate, bending over him, he almost imagined an angel 
 had been sent down to his relief. Leaning on his elbow, he 
 endeavoured to rise, but fell back again with a deep groan. 
 One of his limbs was broken, and it was evident he had re- 
 ceived some dreadful internal injury. Claude felt that, alone, 
 he could not assist the disabled stranger. A house stood at 
 a little distance, a log-cabin, where the stage was accustomed 
 to stop. His first thought was to run to the cabin, and pro- 
 cure assistance the next to await the coming of the stage, 
 whose course he had anticipated, and which, in its thunder- 
 ing passage down the hill, might overlook the poor, helpless 
 traveller, unless warned of his situation. He acted on this 
 last thought, and, with the assistance of the other passengers, 
 the stranger was removed to the cabin. Pitiable was the 
 situation of the aged sufferer. He was unaccompanied by 
 friends ; it was impossible to procure a surgeon, without send- 
 ing a great distance, in those lone mountain regions, and the 
 house to which he was carried could scarcely furnish him the 
 comforts wanting in health. How much more must he feel 
 the destitution in his present helpless, suffering, almost dying 
 condition ! 
 
 Claude sat by the rude couch, on which he was placed, hold- 
 ing a glass of wine, which ever and anon he applied to his 
 lips, trying to cheer him by kind and encouraging words. He 
 told him that a messenger had been despatched for a surgeon, 
 and that he would remain with him till all danger was past. 
 
 " But the stage is already at the door," said the old man, 
 feebly, " and you must depart. I cannot take advantage of 
 your kindness to a stranger." 
 
 But Claude would not leave him. The stage-horn blew 
 loud and musically, the passengers hurried to their seats, the 
 driver vociferated that all was ready, and still Claude held 
 the old man's hand and refused to depart. The heart of the 
 banished son yearned towards the venerable stranger. New 
 feelings were awakened within him. It was the first time he ,
 
 30 PERCY; OR, 
 
 had witnessed human suffering, and he knew not, till this 
 moment, what a deep fountain of pity lay in the unexplored 
 regions of his heart. But the angel had stepped into the pool, 
 and the waters were troubled. Mr. Montague (such was the 
 stranger's name) resisted no longer the generous sacrifice of 
 Claude. 
 
 " Heaven bless you, my son !" was all he could utter. 
 
 Claude sighed. How sweet, yet mournful, sounded that 
 name to his ear ! He thought he had heard it for the last 
 time, and it awoke ten thousand thrilling remembrances. 
 
 All night Claude watched by his bed-side, endeavouring to 
 mitigate the excruciating pain that racked his frame almost to 
 dissolution. The inmates of the house were kind but rough 
 people, and Mr. Montague evidently shrunk from their minis- 
 trations. The bed was hard, the pillows low, and the sheets, 
 though of snowy whiteness, of exceedingly coarse linen. The 
 wintry wind whistled through the log-built walls, and no 
 curtains protected the invalid from the blast. The windows, 
 destitute of glass, were nothing but openings, closed by wooden 
 shutters, which, occasionally loosening, flapped to and fro, 
 with a mournful, creaking sound. There was nothing cheer- 
 ful in the aspect of the room, but the bright, all-illuminating 
 pine blaze, that rolled up the immense chimney, reflecting its 
 glow on a sable figure that sat nodding on the hearth, on the 
 pallid face and snowy locks of the aged, and the bright -hair 
 of the young that mingled with it as it swept against the 
 pillow. Such was the apartment and scene, in which the 
 luxuriantly-bred and self-indulging Claude served his first 
 apprenticeship at the couch of suffering. Often, during the 
 stillness of the night, he would start and tremble with awe, 
 as the sufferer, in the extremity of his agony, would call upon 
 his Saviour and his God to help him, in the time of trouble. 
 
 " Forsake me not, my God ! Be not far from me ! Make 
 haste to help me, O Lord, my salvation ! In the day of my 
 trouble I will call upon thee for thou wilt answer me." 
 
 It was the first time that Claude had heard the voice of 
 prayer, save from the sacred desk. But then he listened to 
 it as a formula proper for the Sabbath, and the God thus 
 addressed seemed very far off. There was something awful 
 in being thus made to feel His presence in that lonely cham- 
 ber in being brought so very near Him by the prayer of faith, 
 mingling with the groans of agony. His earthly father had 
 cast him off. Had he indeed a Father in Heaven, who would 
 receive the returning prodigal ?
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 31 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LATE the next morning the surgeon arrived. The inflam- 
 mation, caused by such protracted suffering, made it a very 
 dangerous case, and for many days Mr. Montague lingered on 
 the borders of the grave. Claude would have written to his 
 friends, but the speechless lips of the sufferer could give no 
 directions ; and all that the young man could do was to watch 
 by his couch, and await the issues of life and death. At length 
 the inflammation subsided, and the patient was pronounced 
 out of immediate danger. Tnen Claude, at his request, wrote 
 to Mr. Vane, his son-in-law, who resided with him, near one 
 of the large towns of the Old Dominion, several days' journey 
 from the mountain-cabin. A week must elapse, at the shortest 
 possible calculation, before any of his family could arrive. In 
 the mean time, though helpless and suffering from his broken 
 limb, he gradually revived, and seemed to derive much pleasure 
 from the conversation of his youthful friend. Claude, with 
 the ingenuousness of youth, told him all his history. 
 
 " Poor boy ! poor boy !" cried Mr. Montague, moved even 
 to tears ; " so young and inexperienced ! I will be a father 
 to you ; I have no son of my own ; and you shall be the son 
 of my adoption. I owe my life to your care, and am selfish 
 enough to rejoice that Providence has opened a way in which 
 I can show my gratitude, and pay, though but in a small 
 degree, a debt so large. Oh, my dear boy, I will carry you 
 to a happy home, where all is love, and peace, and joy. You 
 shall have a sister, too, in my granddaughter my sweet, 
 sweet Mary. How happy she will be to have a companion 
 whom she will love as a brother I" 
 
 Claude bent his head on the old man's hand, and a tear 
 moistened the dry and feverish skin. 
 
 " Think me not ungrateful, sir but I cannot eat the bread 
 of dependence." 
 
 " Fear not ; I will only put you in the way of earning an 
 independent subsistence. You shall study law with Mr. Vane, 
 if you like the profession. In the mean time you can give 
 my Mary lessons in French and drawing, and thus make a 
 compromise with pride. Deny me not, my son, for my heart
 
 32 PERCY J OR, 
 
 clings to thee, and refuses to be separated from thee. I see 
 the hand of Providence in this. Disowned by him who gave 
 you birth, God has sent you to watch, with all a son's devo- 
 tion, by my lonely pillow, and to be cherished in a bosom that 
 feels for you already all a father's tenderness and love." 
 
 He opened his arms with a benign smile, and Claude felt as 
 if he were indeed clasped to the bosom of a father. That 
 night he wrote to Ella that he had found a home a father ; 
 he had no longer a dark and aimless existence, but a future 
 illumined by hope and promise ; she must no longer mourn 
 for the banished Romeo ; bright days were yet in store, when 
 love and faith and constancy would meet their reward. 
 
 What a change was made in that log-cabin by the arrival 
 of Mr. Montague's family ! He was a rich Southern planter, 
 and had all the appliances of wealth and the refinements of 
 luxury to grace his home. Downy beds, soft cushions, and 
 rich curtains were all brought for the comfort of the invalid, 
 as well as every delicacy that could please the taste and tempt 
 the appetite. Mr. Vane was a noble specimen of a Virginia 
 gentleman his wife a fair, gentle, interesting-looking lady; 
 but Mary sweet Mary how lovely she looked, clinging, like 
 a fair garland, round the neck of her aged grandfather ! How 
 angelic the expression of her soft, dark eyes ! how delicate the 
 lilies of her cheek ! Not even the faintest tint of red was 
 visible on that beauteous cheek : it seemed too pure, too holy 
 for the breath of human passion to pass over it. 
 
 " Ah, dear grandfather I" she cried, smoothing away his 
 long, silky hair, and kissing his pale forehead, " you should 
 not have crossed the mountains alone ; you know how hard I 
 pleaded to bear you company." 
 
 " These young arms could hardly have checked the fiery 
 horses," cried he, fondly returning her affectionate caresses. 
 11 1 believe I was wrong; but when we are very young, or very 
 old, we are apt to be too self-relying and independent. Had 
 not my driver fallen sick, so that I had to leave him and trust 
 to the guidance of a stranger, this accident would not have 
 overtaken me. But it is all right, and will prove a blessing 
 to us all. It has given a dear young son to my old age, and 
 a friend and brother to my gentle Mary." 
 
 Mary's dove-like eyes turned to him with a look of unutter- 
 able softness. They seemed to say, " My heart yearns for a 
 brother ; have I found one in thee ?" 
 
 Claude was welcomed into this interesting family with ex-
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 33 
 
 pressions of the most cordial affection. His filial cares to the 
 beloved father of the household were repaid with unbounded 
 gratitude. Claude thought that never was kindness that cost 
 so little, so richly remunerated. It was no sacrifice to him to 
 linger by the wayside, and, while he administered comfort and 
 assistance, drink in words of heavenly wisdom that strength- 
 ened and renovated his soul. This he repeated again and 
 again ; but Mr. Vane would thank him his gentle wife would 
 bless him and Mary's melting glance would express a thou- 
 sand grateful meanings. The sunny spirit of Claude began 
 to sparkle once more, for the cloud which had gathered so 
 darkly over him had " turned a silver lining to the night." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Vane returned home in a few days, for she 
 had young children that required her care ; but Mary remained 
 with her grandfather, and shared with Claude the office of 
 nurse. It would be weeks before his broken limb would be 
 healed so as to admit of travelling; and, during that time, the 
 mountain-cabin seemed changed to a fairy grotto, and Mary 
 the presiding sylph, who breathed a spell on everything around 
 her. Mr. Montague was so much better that he could sit, 
 propped up in bed for hours, reading ; and then Claude and 
 Mary would ramble about the woods in search of evergreens 
 to decorate the walls, or moss from the gray old rocks. It 
 was winter, and no gay, sweet flower peeped forth from the 
 green underwood ; but Mary was such a lover of nature that 
 she would wander abroad if there was nothing to look upon 
 but the clear blue heavens, and " the grand old woods." She 
 had brought her guitar, for Mr. Montague loved Mary's singing 
 better than any music in the world, and Mary did not like to 
 sing without an accompaniment. But she had an accompani- 
 ment now sweeter than any instrument, and that was the voice 
 of Claude the clearest, richest, most melodious voice that 
 ever warbled from human lips. It was astonishing to hear 
 such music as they made, gushing through the chinks of that 
 old log-cabin. 
 
 When Mr. Montague was tired of sitting up and reading 
 himself, he would lean back on his couch, and Mary and 
 Claude would take turns in reading aloud. Every night before 
 he fell asleep, they would read a chapter in the Bible ; and 
 Claude thought the poetry of Shakspeare less beautiful than 
 the minstrelsy of David, breathed from the sweet lips of Mary 
 Vane. 
 
 What would poor Ella have thought, who was mourning in
 
 34 PERCY; OR, 
 
 desolaLon of soul for her banished cousin, and whom she de- 
 picted to herself as a forlorn and heart-broken wanderer, could 
 she have seen him thus closely domesticated with this angelic 
 young creature, associated in such an endearing task, and 
 bound by such tender and near-drawing ties ? And was he 
 in danger of forgetting Ella the companion of his childhood 
 the generous, devoted, fond, and faithful Ella ? No ! the 
 presence of Mary only brought her, by the force of contrast, 
 more vividly and constantly to his remembrance. Hers was 
 the changing cheek and lightning glance that spoke of the 
 quick-flowing blood and the electric spirit ; Mary's, the pearl- 
 white skin, and the soft, heavenly, prayerful eye, that reminded 
 one of a beauty not of this world. Ella was the loveliest of 
 the daughters of earth, and he loved her with youth's first, 
 warmest passion; Mary, an image of the angels of Heaven, 
 whom he could worship and adore as a guardian saint. No ! 
 in Mary's presence he loved Ella with a holier, deeper love, 
 for she awoke all that was pure and holy in his nature. It 
 was only the poetry of nursing that devolved on Claude and 
 Mary. All the drudgery, if such it could be called, where all 
 seemed a labour of love, was performed by a negro servant 
 an old and attached slave who had come to take care of her 
 old master. It was affecting to see with what tenderness, 
 reverence, and devotion, she watched over him ; what motherly 
 kindness and love she manifested for her sweet young mistress ! 
 Mrs. Vane would hardly have been willing to have left Mary 
 with her helpless grandfather, and this fascinating young 
 stranger, had it not been for the guardianship of this faithful 
 and intelligent creature. 
 
 The log-cabin was deserted, and the evergreen wreaths hung 
 withering on the walls. Mr. Montague returned to his home, 
 still an invalid, but able to walk, supported by the arm of a 
 friend. It was a beautiful scene ! The return of the Christian 
 master the affectionate father the beloved patriarch to his 
 own dwelling ! To see the rows of negroes, with smiling ivory 
 gleaming white through their sable lips, looking so happy, so 
 respectful, standing each side of the avenue that led to the 
 noble mansion, ready to welcome home their almost worshipped 
 master ; to see him bending his venerable head, with such a 
 benign smile, and taking these humble, affectionate creatures, 
 so kindly by the hand, asking after their welfare, and blessing 
 Grod that he was permitted to return to them once more ! 
 Whoever had witnessed this scene would have been convinced
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 35 
 
 that the bond that binds the master and the slave, is not 
 always an iron bond, and that beautiful flowers of gratitude 
 and affection may be made to flourish in the dark bosom of 
 the negro. Warm was the welcome they gave the " young 
 master," who was established at once as an adopted son in this 
 abode of princely hospitality. He immediately commenced 
 his studies with Mr. Vane, and his instructions to Mary. By 
 day, an indefatigable student; at night, the teacher of his 
 lovely adopted sister. 
 
 Days, weeks, and months, glided away. Mr. Montague 
 noticed, with anxiety, that Claude's brow wore a saddened 
 expression, and his cheek a paler hue. Alas ! he began to 
 feel the withering fear that he was forgotten by Ella, as well 
 as disowned by his father. He had written again and again 
 to the first, telling her where to direct her replies ; and once 
 he had written to his father not to ask for restoration to 
 favour not to supplicate for his forfeited place in his heart 
 and home but to tell him of the friends he had found, the 
 profession he had chosen, and the solemn resolution he had 
 formed to .make himself worthy of the name of Percy so 
 that, in future years, when his "reformation, glittering o'er 
 his fault," should efface its shadow from remembrance, he 
 would dare to claim his esteem as a man, though he had 
 alienated his affection as a son. In this high-toned, manly 
 spirit, wrote the banished youth ; and yet no reply was vouch- 
 safed by the inflexible father no answer came from the once 
 loving and devoted cousin. Had not the heart of Claude been 
 shielded by a prior attachment, that was entwined with every 
 fibre of his being, he could not have been insensible to the 
 almost celestial loveliness of Mary. Nor was he insensible. 
 She was to him the incarnation of all that was pure and holy 
 the sister of his soul the star of his spiritual heaven. But 
 Ella was 
 
 "A creature not too bright nor good 
 For human nature's daily food 
 For transient sorrow, simple wiles, 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles." 
 
 But Mary, though she had the face of an angel, had the 
 heart of a woman which, though it sent no blushing heralds 
 to the cheek, throbbed wildly and warmly with newly awakened 
 emotions. In the solitude of that mountain cabin, the light 
 of a new existence had begun to dawn upon her ; and that light
 
 36 PERCY; OR, 
 
 had grown brighter and brighter, till it enveloped her spirit, 
 as with a glory. 
 
 Thus two years had passed away. The letters of Claude 
 still remained unanswered, and, with a freezing sense of her 
 heartlessness and inconstancy, he tried to forget the Juliet of 
 his boyish imagination. He was assisted in this by a solemn 
 scene, in which he was made an actor. 
 
 The aged grandfather lay upon his death-bed. He had 
 never recovered from the effects of the accident, which led to 
 the adoption of the banished Claude. Threescore-years-and- 
 ten had left their snows upon his head, without withering the 
 blood of his heart. But death was now near, and the warmest 
 heart grows cold at his touch. Once when it was believed 
 he slept, and Mary and Claude sat by his bed-side, as they 
 had often done in the mountain cabin he opened his eyes 
 and gazed upon them both so earnestly and wistfully, that 
 they involuntarily drew nearer to him, and asked him what 
 he desired. 
 
 " My children," said he, in feeble accents, taking a hand of 
 each and clasping them in his own, " I am going home. The 
 aged pilgrim is about to return to his God. But you young 
 travellers, your journey is but just begun. It is a weary 
 journey; but, if we go hand in hand with one that loves us, 
 the way seems smooth and pleasant to the feet. Mary, my 
 darling, you have been the child of my old age the object 
 of many prayers. I die happy; for I know there's one one, 
 whose hand is even now clasped in mine who will make life 
 a sweet pilgrimage to you. Claude, my dear Claude, I know 
 you and my sweet Mary love each other ! Both so good so 
 beautiful ! Heaven has made you for each other ! I give 
 her to you, Claude, as my dying legacy ; and may the Lord 
 be gracious to you, as you are faithful to this holy trust." 
 
 Claude, incapable of utterance, knelt by the side of the 
 kneeling Mary. Her hand trembled in his her eyes, swim- 
 ming in tears, for one moment turned towards him, then lifted 
 to Heaven, were filled with a love so deep, so pure, yet so im- 
 passioned a love which, for the first time, she had suffered 
 to rise from the depth of her heart free and unchecked 
 sanctioned and hallowed, as it now was, by the blessing of a 
 dying saint ! Claude would as soon have disputed the decree 
 of Heaven, as the wish of his benefactor. 
 
 The patriarch was gathered to his fathers. The leaves of
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 37 
 
 autumn fell upon his grave. With the flowers of May, Mary's 
 bridal garlands were to be woven. 
 
 Thus solemnly betrothed, without any volition of his own, 
 Claude was at first oppressed by the most strange and bewilder- 
 ing sensations ; but honour, gratitude, and delicacy, all urged 
 him to endeavour to transfer to Mary the love he had so long 
 cherished for the faithless Ella. He would think of her no 
 more. She belonged to the life that was passed the life of 
 vanity, self-indulgence, and pride; Mary, to that new and 
 spiritual life, born of suffering and self-humiliation. 
 
 Mary's cheek had always been as colourless as Parian mar- 
 ble. Now a soft, bright rose-tint began to tinge its snow, and 
 a lustrous beam was seen playing in the iris of her soft dark 
 eye. Claude watched, with deepening tenderness, those bright 
 and shifting hues. They humanized, as it were, her too 
 spiritual loveliness, and gave her a resemblance to one, whose 
 image could never be destroyed. Claude grew happier in the 
 consciousness of his increasing love for Mary, but an unac- 
 countable sadness seemed to oppress her. Often, when he 
 attempted to lead her mind to sweet thoughts of the future, 
 she would lean her head in silence on his bosom and weep ; 
 and all the time her cheek wore a deeper rose, and her eye a 
 more intense lustre. 
 
 One evening it was a warm, dewy, moonlighted April eve- 
 ning Mary sat with Claude in the long, pillared piazza. The 
 vine-leaves, already in full luxuriance, clustered round the 
 pillars, and cast their shadows on Mary's alabaster brow. He 
 held one of her bands in his, and "they both sat in silence 
 looking out into the pale, silvery night. A slight shiver ran 
 through Mary's frame. 
 
 " The night air is too damp," said Claude; for, though she 
 shuddered, her hand glowed with feverish heat. " Let us 
 go in, Mary, lest a mildew fall to wither the blossoms of my 
 May." 
 
 " It is so lovely, sitting here in the moonlight !" cried 
 Mary, looking upward with a melancholy smile ; " and when 
 this moon has waxed and waned, and another comes with 
 softer, mellower light, who knows if my eyes will be permitted 
 to gaze upon its beuuty t" 
 
 " Why speak in so sad a strain, my Mary, when everything 
 around us breathes of hope, and love, and joy ? Ah ! you 
 know not the fear your deepening melancholy awakens, as the
 
 38 PERCY; OR, 
 
 hour approaches that will make you mine forever the fear 
 that you love me no more." 
 
 " Not love you ! not love you, Claude !" repeated she with 
 impassioned emphasis. Then suddenly throwing her arms 
 round his neck, and suffering her head to droop upon his 
 shoulder : " 0, it is this love too strong too deep binding 
 me too closely to life that makes my misery and despair ! 
 Oh ! Claude Claude I can not, can not give thee up !" 
 
 " Mary, talk not so wildly. You alarm you terrify me 
 you know not what you utter." 
 
 " Yes, Claude," raising her head, and fixing on him a dark, 
 thrilling glance. " I know too well what I am uttering ; I 
 have wanted strength to say it ; hut I could not bear ; you 
 have made life so dear to me. Put your hand on my heart, 
 Claude, and feel it nutter like the wings of a dying bird. 
 Thus it flatters day and night j I hear it ; I feel it ; I know 
 that I am dying. It was thus she died my own sweet 
 sister ! Oh, Claude, I love you too well ; there is not room 
 in this poor, weak heart, for such boundless love. It is 
 breaking dying !" 
 
 Her arms relaxed ; her head fell heavily on his breast ; she 
 had fainted. The almost frantic Claude bore her into the 
 house. The father and mother hung over her with an anguish 
 which only those parents know, who have seen sweet house- 
 hold blossoms wither thus instantaneously in their arms. 
 Another lovely daughter of the family, an elder sister, had 
 been smitten in a similar manner. Thus insidious had been 
 the approaches of disease thus sudden had been the pros- 
 tration. It was strange they had not perceived, and been 
 alarmed by the symptoms the hectic flush, the lustrous eye, 
 the quick and panting breath. But they thought the purple 
 bloom of love was in her cheek, and its agitation in her heart. 
 They dreamed not the destroyer was near. 
 
 The anguish of Claude baffled description. Mary, with the 
 doom of death hanging over her young life, was loved as she 
 never had been in the hour of health and joy. He would 
 willingly have purchased her life with the sacrifice of his own. 
 Her loveliness, purity, and truth, and above all, the intensity 
 of her love, were worthy of such a price. That one so young, 
 so fair, so angel-like and loving, should die in the brilliancy 
 of ner bloom, and lie down beneath the clods of the valley 
 it could not be. God, the Almighty, would stretch out His
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 89 
 
 omnipotent arm, and save her : God, the All-merciful, would 
 not inflict so fearful a chastisement. 
 
 It was not till near the dawn of morning, that Claude sunk 
 into a feverish slumber. Then the shrouded form of his 
 adopted father seemed to stand by his bed-side, and in a voice 
 deep and solemn as the distant murmurs of the ocean, ex- 
 claimed, " Be still, and know that I am God ; thus saith the 
 Lord." Claude trembled in every limb. Again the voice 
 from the grave spoke : " Return, my son return to the home 
 of thy fathers. We, that love you here, are leaving you, one 
 by one. You have a mission yet to fulfil, before we meet 
 again." The vision faded, but it left a deep and solemn im- 
 pression on the mind of Claude. 
 
 When he stood by the couch of Mary, hope rekindled in 
 his heart. Surely, death never came in a guise like that. 
 The rose is glowing in her cheek with even brighter radiance. 
 Alas ! the blood that dyes that glowing rose is taken, drop by 
 drop, from the fountain of life. Mary had been struggling with 
 her destiny, silently, darkly struggling in the strength of 
 her love that human love which had interposed a shadow 
 between her and her Heavenly Father's face. But now the strife 
 was over. She met him with a smile of heavenly serenity. 
 
 " I am calm, now, my beloved," she cried. " God has 
 given me strength to resign thee. Oh, Claude, I have been 
 an idolater, and my soul must be torn from the idol I adored. 
 I have sinned, and deserve the chastisement. Had I been 
 permitted to live for thee, the world would haye been too dear 
 to me. I would have asked no other heaven." 
 
 Thus she continued to speak to him, who knelt in speech- 
 less agony at her side, till her fluttering breath could no 
 longer utter any but broken sentences and then her eyes, bent 
 upon his face, beamed with unutterable love. 
 
 Mary died the sweet, holy-minded creature, who seemed 
 lent to earth a little while, to show what angels are and the 
 flowers of May, that were to have decorated her bridal hours, 
 were strewed upon her shroud. Never had she looked so 
 transcendently lovely, as when folded in her winding sheet, 
 with white roses, less white than her " fair and unpolluted 
 flesh," scattered over her motionless breast, her long, soft 
 lashes, resting on her cheek of snow, and her exquisite features 
 breathing the stillness of everlasting repose. A smile of more 
 than mortal sweetness rested on her pallid lips, and seemed to 
 mock their icy coldness. But beautiful as she was, she was
 
 40 PERCY; OR, 
 
 but dust, and she had returned to dust again. They buried 
 her by the side of her aged grandfather, and scattered the 
 earth " over the face of eighteen summers." 
 
 Let us leave Claude awhile to the memory of the dead. 
 Let us return to that cold, stern, and proud man, whom we 
 left upon his bed of down. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MR. PERCY, after having banished his offending son, re- 
 mained, to outward appearance, unchanged but a worm was 
 eating into his heart ; outraged nature would make its accusing 
 accents heard. Pride, to whose stern dictates he had sacrificed 
 his affections, gave him no consolation. Even Ella, who had 
 loved him so tenderly that her love cast out fear, turned coldly 
 away from him the pale roses of her cheeks, and shrunk from 
 the caresses she once sought and returned. A restless, insa- 
 tiable desire for change took possession of him. He could not 
 live surrounded by mute remembrances of his son. A picture, 
 representing Claude in the brilliant beauty of boyhood, was 
 taken down from the wall. 
 
 "Oh! cruel and hard-hearted," thought Ella, "thus to 
 vent his anger on the unconscious semblance of his son !" 
 
 She knew not the silent workings of his soul. 
 
 The portrait of his departed wife, the beautiful image of 
 the loved and lost, on which he had been accustomed to gaze 
 for years, and thus keep alive the remembrance of her youthful 
 beauty he turned its face to the wall. The eyes, following 
 him wherever he moved, seemed to ask, reproachfully, for her 
 lost son. 
 
 Why did he not seek to recall the young wanderer ? In- 
 domitable pride still forbade. To recall an act would be an 
 acknowledgment of error, and a stain on the infallibility of his 
 character. As week after week passed by, without bringing 
 tidings of the exile, vague fears and dark misgivings haunted 
 and oppressed him. Perhaps, driven to despair by a father's 
 cruelty, and unable to contend with the ills that youth and 
 inexperience ever exaggerate, he had lifted a suiqidal hand, or 
 given his body to the secrecy and silence of th^ dark rolling
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 41 
 
 stream. He would have given his pride, his name, yea, life 
 itself, for one line, assuring him of the safety of his discarded 
 boy. It was when his mind was wrought up almost to mad- 
 ness by this suggestion, he saw in the public print an account 
 of a young man whose body was washed on the shores of one 
 of the rivers of the West. The stranger was young and hand- 
 some, but there was nothing about his person by which his 
 name could be identified, and " unknown" was written over 
 his grave. Mr. Percy crushed the paper in his bosom, so that 
 no eye but his own could see the startling paragraph; but the 
 image of that wave-washed body never forsook him. Floating 
 on the current of memory, it was for ever drifting to the deso- 
 late strand of his thoughts, where sorrow and remorse hung 
 weeping over it. 
 
 " Would you like to go to Paris ?" said he, one morning, 
 to the sad and drooping Ella. 
 
 "Oh! yes, uncle!" she cried, and, in her rapture at tlio 
 idea of flying away from herself, she threw her arms arouri'l 
 his neck and kissed his cheek. It was the first time she had 
 voluntarily caressed him since Claude's banishment, and lie 
 was strangely moved. He pressed her to his heart, and she 
 felt it throbbing as she never thought that hard heart could 
 throb. As he bent his head to conceal the agitation of his 
 features, she noticed that silvery shadows were fast spreading 
 over his jetty locks. Absorbed in her own grief, a grief not 
 unmixed with indignation against its author, she had not ob- 
 served the marks of suffering, more bitter and wearing because 
 concealed on the lofty lineaments of Mr. Percy. But that 
 palpitating heart, those whitening locks, and could it be ! 
 yes that tear falling on the cheek that rested on his bosom 
 all spoke of the chastisement avenging nature had inflicted. 
 The sealed fountain of Ella's sorrows gushed forth at this 
 expression of human sympathy, this drop of moisture, in the 
 arid desert of his heart. 
 
 " Oh, uncle !" she exclaimed, in a burst of passionate emo- 
 tion, " you have not forgotten Claude ; you love him still ; I 
 knew you must relent. Let me speak of him, uncle I cannot 
 bear this silence it seems so like the silence of death." 
 
 " Ella," said Mr. Percy, raising his head with a darkening 
 countenance, "forbear! have I not commanded you never to 
 breathe his name ?" * 
 
 " But you love him," repeated Ella, excited beyond tho 
 power of sell-control ; " you weep for him. Oh ! my uncle,
 
 42 PERCY; OR, 
 
 talk not of Paris Let us travel over our own country in 
 search of him for whom we both are mourning. I cannot live 
 in this uncertainty. I sometimes think I would be less miser- 
 able if I knew he were dead than to live in this state of agoni- 
 zing suspense. And yet," continued she, wringing her hands, 
 " whither should we go ? He said he would write as soon as 
 , he had found a home. Perhaps he has found a home in the 
 grave I" 
 
 She paused in her wild utterance, terrified at the effect of 
 her words. Twice her uncle attempted to rise then, sinking 
 back with a heavy groan, a dark shade spread beneath his 
 eyes, giving them such a sunken, hollow look, the whole 
 contour of his face seemed altered*. 
 
 " What have I done ?" she cried, again throwing her arms 
 around him. " Forgive me, speak to me, look at me, uncle !" 
 
 Mr. Percy made a powerful effort, and raised his tall form 
 to its usual commanding height. Ashamed of the weakness 
 he had exhibited, the stern disciple of the stoic school mastered 
 his emotion, and even assumed a colder, severer aspect : 
 
 " Retire, Ella, and learn to respect the feelings you cannot 
 understand. I am sent on a foreign mission. It depends 
 upon yourself whether I make you my companion. 1 have 
 pledged my services to my country, and require all my energies 
 for the lofty duties of my station. Never again hazard a scene 
 like this." 
 
 They went to Paris, and, amidst new and exciting scenes, 
 Ella recovered something of the brightness of her youth. The 
 beautiful young American was flattered and caressed in the 
 brilliant circles to which her uncle's rank and talents admitted 
 him an honoured member. Unmoved by the adulation of the 
 gay Parisians, she remained faithful to Claude in the widow- 
 hood of her young heart j and, though his name passed not 
 her lips, it was only the more tenderly and devotedly cherished. 
 This secret, fervent attachment, spiritualized by absence, and 
 sanctified by sorrow, gave a depth and elevation to her cha- 
 racter which softened, while it exalted, the girlish beauty of 
 her countenance. 
 
 The time of Mr. Percy's public services expired, and he 
 prepared for his departure. He never complained of ill-health ; 
 he was firm and energetic in the discharge of his duties ; but 
 his cheek grew more hollow, and his tall, majestic figure, 
 began to lose its upright position. The miners, that had so 

 
 THE BANISHED SON. 43 
 
 long been working in secret, had at length shaken the pillars 
 of the temple, and the stately fabric was giving way. 
 
 " I will go to Italy," said the weary statesman, " and, breath- 
 ing awhile its balmy atmosphere, rest from the turmoil of life." 
 
 The saddened mind of Ella kindled at the thought of visiting 
 that classic land the land of genius and song of Romeo anil 
 Juliet's tragic loves. But where was the Romeo of her con- 
 stant heart? Cold, dreary silence, was the only answer to this 
 oft-repeated interrogation, and it fell with leaden weight on 
 her sinking hopes. It must be the silence of death or oblivion. 
 
 But Mr. Percy found not the rest he sought. The bland, 
 delicious gales, the soft, golden sunsets, the grand and solemn 
 ruins, the magnificent monuments of departed genius, instilled 
 no balm into his tortured and remorseful spirit. Where pride 
 once reigned in regal majesty, the tottering feeling of in- 
 security which haunts the soul, unsupported by Christian 
 faith, when one by one the frail reeds of earthly hope are 
 breaking from beneath it, alone remained. He languished to 
 return once more to the home he had deserted, and to feel 
 himself surrounded once more by the mementoes of life's 
 happier hours. If he must die, let him be in the midst of 
 those mute remembrancers, from which he had once im- 
 patiently fled. * 
 
 Returned once more to his native country and home, he wag 
 roused awhile from his languid and hopeless condition, by the 
 distracted, state of his affairs. His young secretary, /.who had 
 anticipated his return from Paris, that all things might be in 
 readiness for the invalid statesman, had absconded, bearing 
 with him a large portion of the property intrusted to his care. 
 After having taken the usual measures for the apprehension of 
 the traitor, in whom he had implicitly trusted, Mr. Percy sunk 
 again into his state of restless gloom. At length, after years 
 of wavering conflicts with his own passions conflicts strong 
 and terrible as they were dark and silent he prostrated him- 
 self where the stricken soul alone can find rest, in penitence 
 and humility and faith, at the foot of the Cross. * 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in September, one of those mild 
 autumnal days of the more northern latitudes, when the sun 
 seems to shine through golden gauze, and shed a rich, yellow 
 radiance, in harmony with the mellowing dyes of the year. 
 
 Reclining on a sofa, partially raised by pillows from a recum- 
 bent attitude, lay the emaciated form of Mr. Percy. His onco 
 sable hair was now turned to snowy whiteness, and lines,
 
 44 PERCY; OR, 
 
 deeper than those made by the engraving hand of Time, were 
 traced upon his lofty brow. 
 
 Ella sat on a low seat at his side the book in which she 
 had been reading, hanging listlessly in her hand. Far dif- 
 ferent was she from the sunny-tressed, flower-crowned, bloom- 
 ing being, introduced years before, in her birth-day gala robes. 
 Those sunny tresses no longer hung in shming ringlets^ free 
 as the rippling wave, but were confined in classic bands 
 behind. The brilliant beauty of girlhood was softened into the 
 paler loveliness, the intellectual grace and subdued expression 
 of womanhood. The brightness, the eagerness, the animation 
 of hope, were exchanged for the shadow, the repose, the 
 pensiveness of memory. 
 
 " The dark of her eye 
 Had taken a darker, a heavenlier dye." 
 
 She was no longer the impassioned Juliet ; she was the gentle, 
 self-sacrificing Cordelia, watching with filial tenderness over 
 him, on whom the warring winds of passion had but too 
 fiercely blown. But the voice, that was not in the tempest, 
 the earthquake, or the fire, had breathed upon his spirit, and 
 peace, if not joy, was there. Ella bent down and kissed her 
 uncle's care-worn and pallid forehead. He was inexpressibly 
 .dear to her in his weakness, humiliation, and dependence. 
 There seemed a balm in the soft touch of those caressing lips, 
 for he closed his eyes in a gentle slumber, and Ella sat and 
 watched him till the twilight shadows began to steal in, and 
 mingle with the golden light of the setting sun. The sound 
 of entering footsteps roused her from the deep revery into 
 which she had fallen, and looking up, she beheld a stranger 
 standing within a few paces of the threshold. She rose and 
 gazed upou him with a troubled glance. A wild impulse led 
 her to compare the lineaments of the stranger with those of 
 the banished Claude. Of superior height and more manly 
 proportions, there was nothing in his figure that could remind 
 one of the boyish grace of her cousin. His hair was of a 
 darker brown, and the pale oval of his cheek was of a very 
 different contour from the glowing cheek of Claude. His eyes, 
 too they had the depth and saddened splendour of night ; 
 Claude's, the dazzling brightness of the meridian beam. 
 
 But those eyes rested not on her face. They were fixed, as 
 by a fascination, on the recumbent form which had met his 
 glauce as he crossed the threshold. Ella trembled. An icy
 
 THE BANISHED SON. 45 
 
 cliill ran through her veins, and curdled her blood: The re- 
 membered image of the bright and blooming Claude seemed 
 to stand side by side with that pale, sad, and lofty-looking 
 stranger, and mock her with the contrast. 
 
 Mr. Percy, awakened from his light slumbers, opened his 
 eyes, and met those of the young man, fixed so mournfully, 
 steadfastly, and thrillingly upon him. Trembling, he leaned 
 forward, and shading his brow with his hand, gazed upon his 
 face. " My father !" burst from the quivering lips of the 
 stranger. With a wild, unearthly cry, Mr. Percy sprang from 
 the sofa, and fell into the arms of his banished son. 
 
 " Let me die, let me die," he murmured, in broken accents. 
 " Oh, my God ! thou art great and good. Thou hast heard 
 the prayers of a broken heart. Let me die !" he continued, 
 lifting his sunken eyes to Heaven, with a look of ecstatic de- 
 votion. 
 
 Claude bowed his face on his father's bosom, and wept 
 aloud. That sad, sad wreck ! was that indeed his father ? 
 And Ella was that pale, trembling, lovely being, now kneel- 
 ing by them, with clasped hands and streaming eyes was 
 that the radiant Juliet he had left behind ? and was she 
 faithful and unwedded still ? Supporting his father's feeble 
 frame to the sofa, and gently withdrawing from his clinging 
 arms, he turned to Ella, and the tide of boyish passion rushed 
 in torrents through his heart. But such scenes cannot be 
 described. They are foretastes of reunion in that world, 
 where, the dark glass of time being broken, spirits meet each 
 other, face to face, in the cloudless light of eternity. 
 
 There are but few explanations to make. Claude had felt 
 it a holy duty to remain with the mourning parents of his buried 
 Mary, till time had softened the bitterness of their grief. 
 Then, faithful to a vow he had made, the night, when in 
 dreams he had beheld his adopted father, and heard from his 
 lips the solemn words, " Return : you have a mission to 
 fulfil," he resolved to seek in person the forgiveness of his 
 oifended parent, and devote his future life to his service. 
 Believing, from the silence and apparent alienation of Ella, 
 that she was by this time the bride of another, he had come, 
 a filial pilgrim, to the domestic altar, to offer there the incense 
 of chastened and purified affections. 
 
 The young secretary, who had absconded, was overtaken on 
 the confines of Mexico, and among the papers found in his 
 possession, were the letters of Claude, which he had withheld
 
 46 PERCY; OR, THE BANISHED SON. 
 
 and secreted, probably from the hope of one day filling the 
 place of the banished heir. 
 
 Joy is a great physician. Leaning on the arm and heart 
 of his son, Mr. Percy slowly measured buck his steps to 
 that world, from which he believed himself divorced for ever. 
 His voice was once more heard in the councils of the nation, 
 and it was listened to with deeper reverence for it uttered 
 lessons of wisdom beyond the learning of this world a wisdom 
 born of suffering, baptized by tears, and sanctified by the Spirit 
 of God. 
 
 Claude, once more a Percy, resumed his place in the halls 
 of his ancestors. He had told Ella all his story, and the name 
 of Mary became sacred to her, as a holy, household divinity. 
 
 " Mary," said Claude to his now betrothed Ella, " Mary 
 was the bride of my soul : but you, Ella the object of my 
 youth's first passion you only are the wife of my heart." 

 
 WILD JACK; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 " Think not the heart in ebon mould 
 To nature's softest touch is cold, 
 Or that the negro's skin contains 
 No bright or animated veins, 
 Where, though no blush its course betrays, 
 The blood in all its wildness plays." 
 
 " WE might call this Elliottville," said Mrs. Elliott to her 
 husband, as they wandered about the grounds of the habitation 
 which he had just rented, and which were beautiful in vernal 
 bloom. " I have counted at least several houses in this single 
 green enclosure." 
 
 " Each about as large as a humming bird's nest," answered 
 her husband laughingly. " This white building, with green 
 blinds and broad piazza, is our parlour. The one on the right, 
 with low, slanting roof, containing three rooms, will accom- 
 modate us with a sitting room, dormitory, and refreshmeit 
 room. Yonder, under the shade of the chestnut boughs, fo 
 my library, and study. Every building has its appropriate 
 office ; and dotting, as they do, this smooth green sward, have 
 quite a novel and picturesque effect." 
 
 " What a singular taste the architect must have had !" said 
 the lady. " These little cabins remind me of a watering 
 place, and far down in that wild-looking glen, behind the 
 
 (47)
 
 48 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 buildings, I hear the murmur of a gushing spring. How 
 charming ! But there is a house quite remote from this 
 cluster, embosomed in a grove of young oaks. It looks as if 
 it might be a chapel, from its devout, sequestered appearance." 
 
 "You can convert it into one, if you please. But here 
 comes our darling Bessy. She will revive here in this pure, 
 sweet air. It is almost like living in the country." 
 
 A young black girl approached, bearing in her arms an 
 infant of about nine months old. The child was exceedingly 
 fair and delicate, and the clear blue of the heavens was painted 
 on the mirror of its soft, smiling eyes. It was lovely, but 
 wanted the rosy charm of health, the spring, the bound that 
 belongs to vigorous infancy. The child seemed to have in- 
 herited from its mother, extreme delicacy of constitution, for 
 Mrs. Elliott's cheek was pale as the white rose she had just 
 gathered, and her figure was slender, even to fragility. 
 
 " Have you succeeded in your search ?" she asked in a 
 tremulous voice, of her husband, casting a tearful glance at 
 little Bessy, who, now seated on the grass, by her sable attend- 
 ant, looked round with a pleased and wondering expression. 
 
 " I have," he replied, " and think you will be perfectly 
 satisfied. She is a young mulatto woman, of the name of 
 Dilsy, with a little boy, about one year old. She is free, and 
 lives by herself, taking in sewing and washing. Her husband 
 is dead, and there seems to be no obstacle to her accepting the 
 situation in our family you are anxious to have filled." 
 
 " I cannot bear the idea of her having a coloured nurse," 
 said the mother, gazing anxiously on the sweet pale infant 
 playing in the grass, " but I would make any sacrifice for our 
 mutual health. I should like to see this woman." 
 
 " Yonder she comes now, leading her little boy," exclaimed 
 Mr. Elliott, pointing towards the gate. " I told her to come 
 immediately, thinking she would recommend herself better 
 than I could do it for her." 
 
 " She has a very prepossessing countenance," said Mrs. 
 Elliott, watching with interest the advancing figure of Dilsy. 
 " I think I could trust her." 
 
 Dilsy walked slowly, accommodating her movements to those 
 of her little boy, who waded through the long grass by her 
 side, his black, woolly head popping up and down, with mar- 
 vellous quickness, as if his journey were more upward than 
 onward. Dilsy was tall and well formed, and moved with the 
 native grace of an African. Her complexion was a clear
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 49 
 
 golden brown, and, what was very remarkable in one of her 
 colour, her lips had a tinge of redness which beautified her 
 whole face. She wore a party-coloured handkerchief round her 
 head, but her hair was visible below it, and the crispy wool of 
 the African was straightened and burnished in her, into Indian 
 glossiness and length. She had an indolent, reposing counte- 
 nance, exceedingly pleasant and rather handsome. Though, 
 as we have said, her own complexion had a bright golden tint, 
 the child whom she led by the hand, was as black as ebony. 
 The white of his eyes and the ivory of his teeth gleamed daz- 
 zingly from the little shining, sable face they enlivened. His 
 very short frock exhibited to the fullest advantage his round, 
 glossy, and well proportioned limbs. As he came near, he 
 broke from his mother's hand, and began to make somersets 
 in the grass, with inconceivable rapidity, and to the delight 
 of little Bessy, who clapped her waxen hands and laughed 
 outright. 
 
 "Behave yourself, Jim !" said his mother; but he was too 
 much engaged in his antics to heed her rebuke, and Mrs. 
 Elliott told her to let the children amuse themselves, while 
 she questioned her on the subject nearest her heart. Her own 
 health, and that of her infant, were so feeble that the physician 
 had urged upon her the necessity of transferring her child to 
 another nurse, as the only means of restoring either. Mr. 
 Elliott had been for some time in search of a proper person, 
 when Dilsy was recommended, who seemed to possess every 
 necessary qualification. 
 
 " We can give her the chapel for her room," said Mrs. 
 Elliott j and Dilsy and little Jim took possession of the cabin, 
 shaded by young oaks, and the little fragile Bessy soon de- 
 rived health and strength from the veins of the handsome 
 mulatto. 
 
 The only objection Mrs. Elliott could make to Dilsy was, 
 that she seemed deficient in sensibility. She never lavished 
 on Bessy any of those endearing caresses which negro nurses 
 usually bestow on their masters' children, thus breaking 
 down, as it were, the dark wall that separates the races from 
 each other. She was kind and attentive to her charge, but as 
 soon as she had fulfilled her duty, she would transfer it with- 
 out any demonstration of affection to its other nurse, and 
 occupy herself calmly with her accustomed work. Neither 
 did she manifest any tenderness for her own child. She took 
 great pride in dressing him neatly, and when the ladies, who
 
 50 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 visited Mrs. Elliott, noticed the boy, praising his intelligence 
 and sprightliness, she would look pleased, but she was singu- 
 larly undemonstrative j and it is not strange that Mrs. Elliott, 
 whose heart was always gushing forth in the warmest expres- 
 sions of love to her child, should think Dilsy cold and un- 
 feeling. 
 
 " Do you love Jim ?" asked she of her one day. 
 
 " Yes, mistress. To be sure I does. He's my own child, 
 and I'm obliged to love him." 
 
 " But you are not very fond of children, are you?" 
 
 " I never cares about hugging and kissing 'em as some does. 
 I thinks and feels though, and would do as much to keep 
 harm from 'em, as anybody else." 
 
 This was a great deal for the quiet mulatto to say. She 
 was that rare, and some believe fabulous character a silent 
 woman. 
 
 Spring, summer, and autumn glided away, and little Bessy 
 frolicked with Jim about the beautiful green enclosure, the 
 picture of rosy health, as she was of angel loveliness. Jim 
 had grown wonderfully. He was stout, strong, and brave 
 as a little lion, and as full of mischief and pranks as a 
 monkey. He could jabber and dance for the entertainment 
 of Mrs. Elliott's guests, and cut more capers for the amuse- 
 ment of Bessy than necromancer ever taught. 
 
 Dils/B mission was ended, for Bessy, as the cooler season 
 advanced, was gradually withdrawn from her nursing cares. 
 Mrs. Elliott, however, who had become attached to her, in 
 epite of her cool, unimpassioned manners, gave her permission 
 to remain in the chapel (as she always called the shade-em- 
 bosomed cabin), and continue her usual occupations. 
 
 There was a young man of about twenty, whose father re- 
 sided somewhere in the vicinity, but who was seldom seen at 
 home. Indeed, he seemed to live on horseback, dashing 
 about on a wild, black horse, that no one could venture to 
 ride but himself. His name was John Green, but he was 
 known only by the appellation of Wild Jack. Wherever he 
 went the sound of clattering hoofs preceded him a cloud of 
 dust followed. " Get out of the way Wild Jack's coming," 
 was the cry of the children in the street, as they scampered 
 towards the fence. In short, he was the wild huntsman of the 
 country, and as he passed along, like a swift dark cloud, a 
 thrill of admiration was always excited by his matehless horse- 
 manship. It was said he lived by gambling, for he was never
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 51 
 
 seen to work, yet the glitter of silver sparkled through the 
 meshes of his purse, and its clinking made constant music in 
 the bar-room. 
 
 One evening, as Wild Jack was riding rather more slowly 
 than usual along a back road that wound round the grounds 
 of Mr. Elliott, he caught a glimpse of little Jim, perched nn 
 the top of the fence, laughing and clapping his hands, at the 
 sight of the black steed, and its shining, flowing mane. Jack 
 reined in his horse and rode directly up to the fence where 
 the child was seated. 
 
 " Here, jump on to my saddle, and I'll teach you how to ride, 
 you little black rascal," exclaimed the horseman, leaning for- 
 ward, seizing the child by the arm and swinging him in front 
 of himself, as if he had no more weight than a feather. 
 
 "Me feard," said the child, shrinking from the fierce, 
 bright eyes of Jack, that ran up and down his plump little 
 body, like live balls. It was strange for him to express fear. 
 
 " You afraid ! why I took you for a man. I'll bring you 
 back directly." 
 
 Away he flew, and little Jim forgot his terrors in the de- 
 light of motion, and the charm of novelty. Up hill and down 
 hill they went, over fields and creeks, and it was not till the 
 gray of evening began to darken the glow of sunset, that the 
 little equestrian returned to the shades of the chapel. Dilsy 
 stood at the fence calling her truant boy, whose absence she 
 had just discovered. 
 
 " Here I be, mammy," cried little Jim in a tone of exult- 
 ation, holding up a large paper of candy, with which the 
 liberality of Wild Jack had supplied him. 
 
 " You've got the smartest little fellow here I ever saw," 
 said Jack, giving the child a swing into his mother's arms. 
 " I'm going to make a first-rate horseman of him. Don't you 
 want to ride again, you young harlequin ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered the delighted child, sucking a long stick 
 of red candy, the seal of his friendly compact with the for- 
 midable Jack. 
 
 Dilsy was flattered by his notice of her child, and when, 
 evening after evening, he disappeared with the flying horse- 
 man, she quietly awaited his return, without any misgivings 
 or apprehensions. As for little Jim, he conceived a most ex- 
 traordinary and passionate love for Wild Jack. For hours 
 before his coming, he would mount the fence and strain his 
 eyeballs and beud his ear, for the dusty cloud and clattering
 
 52 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 hoofs he so much loved to greet. Dilsy became more and 
 more reconciled to his new passion, as it kept him still several 
 hours on the top of the fence, instead of gamboling about in 
 her way, as he formerly did. 
 
 Once Jim was gone longer than usual. It grew quite dark, 
 and yet his little woolly head was not seen peeping in at the 
 door, nor was his childish voice heard exclaiming as usual 
 
 " Me come back, mammy." 
 
 Dilsy had worked hard during the day, and was sitting by 
 a warm, bright, lightwood fire. It had been a clear frosty 
 day, and the contrast of the cold, bracing atmosphere abroad, 
 and the glowing heat within, disposed her to a kind of lux- 
 urious drowsiness. The negro sleeps as comfortably and 
 sweetly in a split-bottomed chair, as on a downy bed, and 
 Dilsy closed her weary eyes, and slept in happy unconscious- 
 ness of the prolonged absence of her child. 
 
 That night, before Mrs. Elliott retired to rest, she stood by 
 the couch of her sleeping infant, gazing with a mother's joy 
 and gratitude on its round, roseate cheek, and white, dimpled 
 arms. She compared its present appearance of health and 
 strength with its former waxen paleness and extreme fragility, 
 and her heart swelled with emotions of thankfulness to Dilsy, 
 who had been the instrument, in the hands of God, of her 
 darling's restoration. 
 
 " Look at her," she cried, turning to her husband, while 
 she shaded back the soft flaxen hair from Bessy's snowy fore- 
 head. " How Sweet, how placid, how well she looks ! That 
 was a blessed day you brought Dilsy to me. Had it not been 
 for her, I do not think Bessy could have survived the summer 
 months. She really is a treasure. I feel as if I wanted to 
 do something to prove my gratitude to her." 
 
 " Why, you are proving it all the time, my dear. Not a day 
 passes that is not crowned by some act of loving kindness on 
 your part, towards this clever mulatto. I am sure her lines 
 have fallen in pleasant places. You make almost as great a 
 pet of Jim as you do of Bessy. Is that fine dress for him ?" 
 pointing to a gay tunic of brilliant scarlet, trimmed rather fan- 
 tastically with black. 
 
 " Yes. I long for the morrow to come, to see him dressed 
 in this suit. The bright red will set off so well his jetty skin. 
 I really think the boy is handsome he is so black and shin- 
 ing and has such an intelligent, merry face. I always won- 
 dered his mother did not show more fondness for him her
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 03 
 
 only child, too. I do not think she has much sensibility, but 
 a great deal of principle." 
 
 " All mothers are not as foolish as you are, my dear," said 
 he with an affectionate smile ; and Mrs. Elliott felt, though he 
 called her foolish, he did not condemn her folly. She fell 
 asleep with the vision of little Jim, arrayed in his scarlet 
 clothes, dancing before her eyes. 
 
 She was awakened by a cry so loud, so thrilling, that it 
 seemed as if something sharp was stabbing her ears. It broke 
 on the silence of night with terrible distinctness, and sounded 
 like the wail of a breaking heart. 
 
 " Good heavens \" exclaimed Mrs. Elliott, starting from 
 her pillow, " what cry is that? It is in our own yard." 
 
 Mr. Elliott sprang from the bed and hastily dressing him- 
 self opened the door, letting in as he did so a whole flood of 
 moonlight. Mrs. Elliott rose also, trembling with terror, and 
 wrapping herself in a large woollen shawl, followed her hus- 
 band into the piazza. The cry arose again more distinctly. 
 It came nearer, and the words 
 
 " My child ! my child ! They've stolen my child !" were 
 audible amid shrieks of agony. 
 
 " It's Dilsy !" cried Mrs. Elliott. " Oh ! husband, what is 
 the matter ? See her running up and down the yard. Call 
 her, for mercy's sake, and find what she means." 
 
 While she was speaking, Dilsy came rushing to the gate, 
 looking like a distracted creature, with her hair loosely flying, 
 tossing her arms wildly above her head. 
 
 " My child !" she shrieked. " Master Distress they've 
 stole him. I never see him no more." 
 
 Here she wrung her hands, and, bursting afresh into an ex- 
 ceeding loud and bitter cry, was about to run off towards the 
 street, when Mr. Elliott caught her by the arm and forced 
 her into the house. 
 
 " Let go !" she cried frantically. " Wild Jack's got him 
 he never brought him back he never will bring him back 
 again." 
 
 The truth flashed upon Mr. Elliott's mind. He had seen 
 Jim before sunset, mounted in front of the Wild Huntsman, 
 and from Dilsy' s broken exclamations, he learned how long 
 he had been gone, how she had awakened out of a long, deep 
 sleep, seated by the cabin's hearth, and how she remembered 
 waiting there for her boy, and wondering that he did not 
 come. She sought him and called him, till she was hoarse 

 
 54 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 Bought him in every nook and corner of the caliin, shaking 
 the "bed clothes as if he were a needle or a pin, that could be 
 hidden in their seams then seizing a torch, forgetful of the 
 moonlight, and swinging it above her liend, rushed to the 
 wood-pile, and hurled the sticks in the air, sometimes imagin- 
 ing the end of a blackened pine knot the head of her missing 
 child. At length came the horrible conviction that he was 
 tulen, carried off, to be sold to the slave-trader, and the cry 
 which had banished the slumbers of Mrs. Elliott, was wrung 
 from a mother's breaking heart. 
 
 All that kindness and sympathy could do, was done by Mrs. 
 Elliott, to soothe and comfort the poor, half-distracted Dilsy. 
 The household was roused, a warm fire kindled, and warm 
 covering wrapped round her chilled and shivering limbs. But 
 Dilsy refused to be comforted. The sensibility that had been 
 sleeping in the bottom of her heart, gushed out in an over- 
 whelming stream. Nor was it sorrow alone that stirred the 
 before unsounded depths of her soul. The thirst of vengeance 
 mingled with the yearnings of affection, and infused wormwood 
 and gall into the flowing brine. She threw herself on the 
 floor, and tore her long Indiaa tresses, calling on her Jim, 
 her baby, her child, in the most piteous and heart-rending 
 accents. 
 
 " I accused her of not feeling," thought Mrs. Elliott, wiping 
 away her own fast falling tears. " Ah ! how little we know 
 of what is passing in the heart. Poor creature what can I 
 do to comfort her '{" 
 
 " I will go over this moment and see the President," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Elliott. " The villain must be pursued and 
 overtaken. Be quiet, Dilsy you shall have your boy again 
 we'll see about it." 
 
 " God Almighty bless you, master will you ? God bless 
 you will you, master ?" cried Dilsy, springing up from the 
 floor and shaking back her dishevelled hair, her eyes glittering 
 with excitement. " I thought nobody care for little negro 
 free, too. Oh, Lordy ! Jimmy little Jimmy ! S'pose he 
 come back again !" 
 
 Covering her face with her hands, she burst into an hys- 
 terical laugh, aud picking up a white muslin apron of little 
 Bessy's that had fallen upon the floor, began to wipe her eyes 
 with it, without knowing what she was doing. In the mean 
 tiuie, Mr. Elliott, burning with indignation for the outrage 
 on the poor mulatto, walked over, in the dead of night as it
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 55 
 
 was, to the President's mansion, which was not far from his 
 own. He was one of the Professors of the University, which 
 was situated on the beautiful hill, near which he resided; and 
 when the President was roused from his slumbers by the voice 
 of Mr. Elliott, he naturally concluded that the students had 
 been detected in some midnight depredation. He was a man 
 of surpassing benevolence of character, united to a stern and 
 inflexible sense of justice. He entered warmly into Mr. El- 
 liott's plans for the recovery of the child, and proposed that 
 emissaries should be despatched on the three roads, which led 
 from the hill, in pursuit of the robber and his prey, promising 
 to bear his part of the expense, and pledging himself for the 
 other members of the faculty. Early the next morning, three 
 men, hired by the President and professors, started in three 
 different directions, for the purpose of tracking the human, 
 bloodhound. 
 
 It has been said that self-interest alone prompts the white 
 man to be kind to the negro race that he feeds, and clothes, 
 and warms him, because he is his own property, and he him- 
 self would suffer, if his slave were neglected or wronged. This 
 may be the case in some instances, but it certainly was not in 
 this. Here was a poor, humble, unprotected mulatto, a free 
 woman, with a free child. She enriched no one, she belonged 
 to no one ; her child was her own property, and its loss im- 
 poverished no one but herself. And yet, in defence of this 
 woman's rights, for the recovery of her stolen boy, were en- 
 listed the sympathies and influence of the dignified President 
 of a celebrated University, and its intelligent and learned 
 professors. Was this self-interest ? No, it was divine philan- 
 thropy ; it was the acknowledgment of that bond which unites 
 the great brotherhood of mankind, and which is drawn closer 
 and closer by misfortunes and wrongs. Dilsy and her child 
 were of the lowly African race, and yet how many hearts were 
 now throbbing in unison with hers ; how many prayers were 
 ascending to heaven for the recovery of her child I 

 
 56 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 " God help me, in my grievous need ; 
 God help me, in my inward pain, 
 Which cannot ask for pity's meed ; 
 Which has no license to complain ; 
 Which must be borne, yet who can bear 
 Hours long, days long, a constant weight, 
 The yoke of absolute despair, 
 A suffering wholly desolate ?" 
 
 Two weary days passed away, and no. tidings of the lost 
 hild. The wild agony of the mother had settled down into a 
 kind of stupor, the result of despair. Mrs. Elliott kept her 
 in the house, and, by giving little Bessy entirely to her charge, 
 tried to interest her feelings and divert her attention from her 
 own sorrows. She did this in kindness, but perhaps it was 
 an error in judgment, for the sight of the beautiful child, 
 blooming in the security of home, reminded her only more 
 vividly of her own wandering boy. She would sit for hours, 
 gazing with a dull, vague look, on the little scarlet dress, so 
 fancifully margined with jetty braid, hanging conspicuously 
 on the wall. 
 
 " Some how or other, mistress," she said mournfully, " that 
 looks just like Jim's shroud. To look at it long, it turns all 
 over black." 
 
 " You will see little Jimmy wear it before long," replied 
 Mrs. Elliott, kindly. " When so many are interested in his 
 recovery, it is almost impossible that he should not be found." 
 
 " Oh, mistress, that black horse goes like the wind. No- 
 body could catch him. 'Taint like other horses. O dear ! 
 Lord ! how I wish I'd never let Jimmy get up with that awful 
 man." 
 
 The second night one of the men returned, weary, and un- 
 successful. He had perceived no trace of the fugitives, and, 
 convinced they must have taken some other route, thought it 
 best to return. The next morning the other two also came 
 back, but without the child. One of them, however, imparted 
 information of great interest. He had followed in the track 
 of a young man, mounted on si fiery black horse, who had 
 been seen at early dawn, riding along, with a little child be-
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 57 
 
 fore him. The description corresponded exactly to Wild Jack, 
 and the man was sure of overtaking the robber, but he soon 
 came where four roads met, and knew not which way to turn. 
 In his perplexity, he suffered one of the superstitions of his 
 childhood to guide him, and he directed his course to the 
 rising sun. In the course of the day he heard of a slave- 
 trader, who had passed that way with a large number of slaves, 
 and among them was a little boy, of the age of Jim, who was 
 represented, like him, to be black as polished ebony. There 
 was no doubt that Wild Jack had had an understanding with 
 the man, and sold to him the stolen child. 
 
 The emissary, who was not a bold man, thought not of con- 
 tending with one of these desperate characters, but imme- 
 diately turned his face homeward, to communicate the facts 
 which had come to his knowledge. 
 
 Dark were the clouds that now gathered round the fate of 
 little Jim. While the man was returning, Tie was borne still 
 further from them, on a wild, unfrequented road, and perhaps 
 even then he was transferred to some other master, who might 
 be bearing him away on the wings of the morning. 
 
 Mr. Elliott sat with the President in his office, with an 
 anxious and troubled countenance. While they were engaged 
 in earnest conversation on the subject, the door opened, and 
 Mr. Green, the father of Wild Jack, was announced. 
 
 He was a meek, sorrowful-looking man, with a stooping 
 frame and downcast countenance. One might look in vain in 
 his pale, dim eyes, thin cheeks, and melancholy mouth, for 
 any resemblance to the bright, fierce, wicked face of Wild 
 Jack. 
 
 There was something in his appearance that appealed irre- 
 sistibly to the compassionate feelings of the gentlemen ; and 
 the President, moved by commiseration, as well as by habitual 
 politeness, addressed him kindly, and offered him a seat, by 
 the ample and blazing fire. But he would not be seated. Ho 
 stood with his hat crushed between his knees, with an expres- 
 sion of conscious unworthiness, and the worn and crushed hat 
 seemed a meet emblem of his crushed and grief-worn heart. 
 The father of a wicked, law-defying son, whom he had in vain 
 endeavoured to " train up in the way he should go/' must feel 
 abject and wretched. 
 
 " Are there any tidings of your son, sir ?" asked the Presi- 
 dent, breaking the silence, which began to be irksome. 
 
 "I've heard of the lost child, sir," he replied meekly, 
 421
 
 58 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 " and I've come to tell you that if you'll stop the search after 
 him, he shall be brought back day after to-morrow night 
 Yes, sir, I'll swear on the Bible, if you say so, that what I 
 say is the truth." 
 
 The gentlemen looked at each other in surprise. Ihey 
 knew but little of Mr. Green, and, judging of him by the cha- 
 ir. cter of his son, as people are apt to do, imagined him to be 
 
 man with very dim perceptions of right and wrong. He 
 was considered a poor man, owning a small farm and a few 
 negroes, whose work he shared while he superintended their 
 kbours. Jack was his only son, whose birth and his mother's 
 death were simultaneous events. Poor Jack ! had he ever 
 known a mother's restraining influence and tender watchful- 
 ness, his evil propensities would never have acquired their 
 present rank and poisonous luxuriance. 
 
 " This is very strange," said the President, fixing his eyes 
 sternly on his agitated and working features. " Am I to con- 
 sider you an accomplice with your son in this felonious act T' 
 
 The poor man looked up to heaven with an humble, depre- 
 cating air, and the President felt something knocking against 
 his heart, painfully and reproachfully. He had no son of his 
 own, but he could comprehend what were a father's feelings, 
 and he knew those of a man. 
 
 "I didn't come here to criminate or defend myself, sir; 
 neither did I come to defend my son. It wouldn't do any 
 good, if I did, for you all know him. I don't pretend to 
 deny that he's carried off the child. I know if he's taken, his 
 life will be forfeited. But I don't think he can be. He's got 
 a way that nobody ever had before. I sometimes think an 
 evil spirit is in him but he is my son, for all that all that 
 I've got in the world. He's bone of my bone, and flesh of 
 my flesh, given me by his mother, now in heaven. You can't 
 catch Jack, but you can keep him from coming near me as 
 long as I live. You will advertise him and set a price on his 
 head, and it will be all right." 
 
 " To be sure, it will," interrupted the President emphati- 
 cally, and Mr. Elliott's clear eye pronounced amen. 
 
 " You can do it," continued Mr. Green, " but with all that, 
 it is very doubtful whether you ever see him or the boy 
 either. But I promise you solemnly, gentlemen, if you'll all 
 keep quiet and say nothing, that day after to morrow night, 
 at about midnight, the child shall be in front of Mr. Porter's
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 59 
 
 tavern. If he's not there, you may take me, put me in jail, 
 and hang me in place of my son." 
 
 There was an air of such earnestness and sincerity about the 
 man, combined with such profound melancholy, that they were 
 both deeply impressed. .They were beginning to be convinced 
 of the hopelessness of pursuit, and were ready to listen to any 
 proposition which reason might sanction and justice approve. 
 
 " If we put faith in your promises and suspend our present 
 efforts," said the President, whose inflexible justice xipbraided 
 him for a too easy surrender of his judgment, " and your son 
 should appear again in our midst, we cannot suffer so danger- 
 ous an individual to be at large. The law must claim its 
 due." 
 
 " He never shall appear among you. He never again shall 
 disturb the peace of this community. We will both seek a 
 home remote from this, where, I trust, he will begin a new 
 and better life." 
 
 " Well, then," said the President, looking at Mr. Elliott. 
 
 Mr. Elliott bowed his head in token of assent, and Mr. 
 Green was assured that on the faith of his promise, they would 
 suspend the pursuit and wait the coming of the child. 
 
 " I pray you," said Mr. Green in departing, " not to allow 
 a crowd to collect round the tavern. Let the mother be there 
 waiting, but say nothing to anybody else. If anything hap- 
 pens to keep the child, you will find me at my farm, ready to 
 give myself into your hands, for imprisonment or death." 
 
 It is not strange that Dilsy should not believe the promise 
 of Mr. Green, or that she should consider her boy as lost for 
 ever. Two more long, weary days were to pass, before the 
 appointed hour, in heart sickness and anguish. She could not 
 sit still, but wandered like a restless ghost about the grounds, 
 with little Bessy warmly clasped in her arms, who would fix 
 her soft blue eyes in mute wonder on her dark, despairing 
 countenance, and sometimes wipe away a large tear from the 
 mulatto's cheek, with her snow-white, dimpled hand. She 
 would stand at the gate, and look up and down the road, till 
 her strained and dazzled glance could see nothing in the 
 bright sunshine, but a painful glitter, obscure as darkness. 
 
 " You are wrong to give up to despair, Dilsy," said Mrs. 
 Elliott, " when so much has been done for you. You've told 
 me sometimes that you had no friends that a poor, free 
 mulatto couldn't have any. You see you are mistaken. If 
 my J3e.isy was stolen away, there could not be more active
 
 60 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 measures taken to restore her to my arms. You must not be 
 ungrateful, Dilsy." 
 
 "I don't mean to be, mistress you're too good. I knows 
 it I feels it but I can't talk. Ah, mistress, nobody would 
 think of stealing your baby. Nobody would buy a white 
 baby." 
 
 A flush passed over Mrs. Elliott's white cheek, as she re- 
 plied . - 
 
 " White children are sometimes stolen, as many a weeping 
 mother can bear witness. But it is not often the case in this 
 country. But, Dilsy, Mr. Elliott firmly believes Mr. Green's 
 promise, and is sure that Jimmy will come back again. You 
 should put trust in God, if not in man, for his promise never 
 fails." 
 
 " I can't think of any promise to comfort me," said the poor 
 mulatto. 
 
 " He suffers not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his 
 knowledge, and He feedeth the young ravens when they cry." 
 
 " That may mean little Jimmy. He's black like the 
 raven," said Dilsy, thoughtfully, "and he's got nobody to feed 
 him now if God don't." 
 
 She brought the white muslin apron of Bessy's which she 
 had moistened with tears on the night of Jimmy's abduction, 
 and presented it, nicely washed and starched, to Mrs. Elliott. 
 
 " Beg pardon, mistress," said she. " I didn't know nothing 
 of what I was doing, or I wouldn't have used it so." 
 
 " You have not hurt it, Dilsy. A mother's tears are sacred. 
 Keep it, and when Jimmy comes back you must dress him in 
 the scarlet tunic, and this pretty apron, and carry him round 
 as a show-boy. They who sow in tears shall reap in joy, 
 Dilsy." 
 
 As the night appointed for the child's restoration drew on, 
 Mr. Elliott himself lost his sanguine hopes, and became anx- 
 ious and restless. He feared that he had been duped by the 
 elder Green, who had probably had recourse to ,a stratagem, 
 to gain time for his son's escape from justice. He thought 
 he would feel very foolish to wait half the night, as he in- 
 tended to do, at the tavern, for the fulfilment of a solemn 
 promise, and then find he had been baffled and deceived. 
 
 It would be better, perhaps, to let Dilsy go alone, for, should 
 his doubts be confirmed, he could not bear to witness her grief 
 and despair. Yet, when night came on, an irresistible impulse 
 urged him to the spot, where a crowd was already assembled,
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 01 
 
 and among them was the grave and reverend President. This 
 gathering was " not in the bond," for secrecy., had been en- 
 joined, but Dilsy could not keep her own counsel. Her heart 
 was too full not to overflow, and the curiosity of the whole 
 neighbourhood was excited by the information. 
 
 The President was obliged to make a long harangue before 
 he could induce the people to condense themselves within 
 doors, so as not to frighten away the being, whoever it might 
 be, whose mission it was to restore the stolen child. His 
 words had the desired effect, and Dilsy was left alone in the 
 piazza, counting each moment of the waning hours by the 
 quick beatings of her throbbing heart. Mr. Elliott had lent 
 her his large, warm cloak, to wrap around her, for the night 
 air was cold and frosty. She did not feel it, however, so great 
 was the tension of her mind. If she walked the length of the 
 piazza once, she did hundreds of times, while the big tavern 
 clock, that great auctioneer of time, kept ringing with its iron 
 tongue, " going, going, gone." Yes ! the hours were going, 
 slowly, but surely. Ten, eleven twelve was near at hand. 
 
 It was a clear, cloudless night. The moon shone with the 
 pallid glory peculiar to a Southern wintry night, as sweetly 
 and calmly as if there were no scenes of rapine and anguish 
 passing beneath her holy beams. Large pine-fires were blazing 
 in the chimneys, throwing a red glare upon the window panes, 
 and lighting up, with more than noonday brightness, the pro- 
 miscuous groups within. It was strange to see the majestic 
 President and dignified professors in such company, especially 
 at that unwonted hour. It must have been a strong motive 
 to induce them to leave their families and homes during the 
 silent watches of the night to haunt a tavern, too such 
 sober, pious men, as they were : and this motive was the 
 restitution of the wrongs of a poor mulatto, the restoration of 
 a little negro boy. Verily, there is some humanity, some 
 Christian benevolence, at the South, notwithstanding the 
 strenuous efforts to prove the contrary. 
 
 Hark ! the clock strikes twelve that is the appointed hour. 
 Yes ! just at twelve, said the elder Green, the boy should be 
 returned. The people rushed to the doors and windows, and 
 would have passed into the street had they not been restrained 
 by the commanding voice of the President. 
 
 Dilsy pressed forward, and winding one arm around a pillar 
 of the piazza, for she felt suddenly very weak, leaned out into 
 the moonbeams, that burnished with silver her golden-coloured
 
 62 WILD JACK; OR, 
 
 forehead. All was still 'abroad j not an evergreen leaf qui- 
 vered in the /rosty atmosphere. The road was white and 
 sandy, and had a ghost-like look, stretching on, long and 
 winding, into the dark pine woods. 
 
 Dilsy stood panting against the pillar, when suddenly her 
 eyes kindled with revengeful fire. " It was all a base sham .; 
 they never were going to bring him back ; Master Elliott 
 knew it all the time ; they were all making a fool of her ; 
 there was no truth in white folks, not one of them." While 
 these dark, vindictive thoughts, rolled through her mind, she 
 heard the distant sound of something, she scarcely knew what. 
 . The soil was too sandy, along the road that ran along in front 
 of the tavern, for hoofs to .clatter, but still she knew that a 
 horseman was approaching. A black speck seemed to be 
 driven swiftly along over sandy waves ; it grew larger and 
 larger, came swifter and swifter, till the outlines of Wild Jack 
 and his black horse were distinctly visible ; and perched in 
 front of him was a little child, as black as a starless midnight. 
 Dilsy gave a sharp, loud shriek, and sprang, with one bound, 
 down the steps. The people rushed after her with considerable 
 vehemence. Whirling the child by one arm from the saddle 
 to the ground, Wild Jack dashed his spurs into his horse's 
 flanks, and went off with the speed of the whirlwind. One 
 might as well think of overtaking the whirlwind, as this fierce, 
 wild youth. A yell, loud as an Indian warwhoop, rent the 
 silence, and some plunged into the sand, in a vain effort of 
 pursuit. 
 
 " Oh ! Jimmy, Jimmy !" exclaimed his mother, snatching 
 up the shivering child, and folding him in her cloak " is it 
 you ?" 
 
 " Yes, it's me, mammy," answered a little, weak voice. 
 The mulatto burst into tears. Those little, feeble accents 
 told a tale of suffering and privation. 
 
 " Bring him in, bring him' in to the fire," cried many 
 voices, and Dilsy, staggering like a drunken woman, made her 
 way through the crowd in the door-way and sunk down on a 
 seat near the fire. 
 
 Poor little Jimmy did indeed look as if he had endured 
 sufferings, which he was too youpg to relate. His round fat 
 cheeks were thin and hollow, and his. bright eyes had a dim, 
 strange, bewildered look, that it was painful to witness. The 
 back part of his dress was all worn to tatters, and his woolly 
 head was all bristling with burs and tangled with loaves. He
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD. 63 
 
 was as cold as an icicle, and when brought near the hot blaze, 
 he began to cry bitterly. 
 
 " Remove farther from the fire it makes his numb 
 limbs ache," said Mr. Elliott ; " he must be warmed gradu- 
 ally." 
 
 Had Jimmy been a young prince, instead of an unowned 
 negro child, he could not have been treated with more 
 kindness and consideration. He had warm milk and nice 
 warm buttered biscuit brought him to eat, and warm flannel 
 rolled around him, till the painful, bewildered expression of 
 his face changed to one of dreamy satisfaction. They began 
 to. question him, but all he could answer was " Don't know." 
 His dawning faculties seemed obscured by the fright and suf- 
 ferings of the few past days. He soon fell asleep in his 
 mother's arms, that aoft cradle from which the poor little fel- 
 low had been so cruelly torn away. 
 
 Dilsy's softened heart was now overflowing with gratitude to 
 the white friends who had exerted themselves so energetically 
 in her cause. She was ashamed of her hard, vindictive feel- 
 ings, and inwardly resolved never again to cherish them. She 
 had a good deal of the Indian in her nature, as was indicated 
 by her straight, shining hair. She was quick to resent and~ 
 slow to forgive an injury, but the remembrance of blessings 
 conferred was lasting as life. 
 
 Mrs. Elliott wept with joy, when her husband returned ac- 
 companied by the reunited mother and child, and then she 
 wept with grief over his forlorn and altered appearance. Such 
 a long and terrible journey on horseback, as. he must have 
 had with Wild Jack, was enough to kill an older child. 
 Little Jimmy must have been made of tough materials, not 
 to have been shaken and battered to pieces. His flesh was sore 
 and bruised, and in many places his dusky skin was lacerated 
 and worn off. But kind hands anointed him, and the wounds 
 of a child's body are healed almost as soon as those of his 
 heart. After a day's rest and nursing, he was bright enough 
 to be arrayed in the dazzling scarlet suit and white muslia 
 apron. The apron did not look quite in place, but Dilsy said 
 she loved it better than anything she had, and she wouldn't 
 have him leave it off for anything. Jimmy looked really quite 
 magnificent in his royal-hued raiment, and as all the burs 
 were picked out of his head, and his cheeks were already be- 
 ginning to round themselves, " little Richard was himself 
 again."
 
 64 WILD JACK; OR, THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 Dilsy carried him from house to house, in triumph, while 
 a younger nurse toted the fair blue-eyed Bessy, who was only 
 a satellite to the primary planet Jim, on this memorable oc- 
 casion ; Jimmy was emphatically the young Lion of the day, 
 and great regret was expressed that he could not relate his 
 adventures. At first, all he could say was, " I don't know." 
 Now his invariable answer to every question was, " Wild 
 Jack." That fierce, bright image was for ever darting across 
 his little mind, and for a time it seemed doubtful whether any 
 other would ever be imprinted there. 
 
 The ladies loaded him with presents, and if Dilsy had suf- 
 fered much, she also rejoiced much, and in consequence loved 
 much. She was certainly better and happier after this event 
 than before. She had cherished the idea that nobody cared 
 anything about her or hers. Even the kindness of Mrs. 
 Elliott she thought selfish, because she was necessary to her 
 child. Now, she acknowledged the existence of disinterested 
 benevolence, and her heart warmed and expanded under its 
 genial influence. 
 
 The history of Jim, during his days of absence, was never 
 known. It was conjectured that Mr. Green had bought him 
 back from the trader to whom his son had sold him, at the 
 sacrifice of his little farm and possessions ; for they were all 
 sold, and the master departed to some unknown regions, 
 probably accompanied by his reprobate son. 
 
 The wild equestrian was never again seen, flying along on 
 his raven steed, after he had darkened for a moment the 
 moonlight night we have described. Whether he has re- 
 pented of his evil ways, or keeps rushing on the downward 
 road that leads to death, we have never learned. 
 
 The following summer little Jim was playing blithely on 
 the green by the side of the blue-eyed Bessy. He seemed to 
 have forgotten Wild Jack ; yet if a horse came galloping by, 
 he would jump up and run to his mother, and bury his face in 
 her lap. 
 
 There is no romance in the story of Jimmy, but there is 
 truth, without any alloy of fiction. We have related it, as one 
 of many instances of Southern kindness and humanity to a 
 lowly race whose feelings the Southron is too often accused 
 of disregarding and trampling under foot.
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " ! what a pure and sacred thing 
 Is beauty, curtained from the sight 
 Of the gross world, illumining 
 One only mansion with her light ! 
 Unseen by man's disturbing eye, 
 The flower that blooms beneath the sea, 
 Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
 Hid in more chaste obscurity." MOORE. 
 
 " I AM so thirsty, brother. I must have some of the water 
 gushing from that spring. Oh ! it looks so cool and inviting." 
 
 Thus exclaimed Bell Raymond, to her brother Frank, rein- 
 ing in her horse as she spoke. They were both on horseback, 
 having taken a long jaunt into the country, to visit some 
 friends ; and now on their homeward way, Bell began to be a 
 little weary, and very thirsty, and very warm. She caught 
 sight of a silver, singing spring, flashing through a little 
 thicket of shrubbery, and nothing would serve but a draught 
 of the sparkling water. 
 
 " We have no cup/' said Frank. 
 
 " You can make one of oak leaves." 
 
 '' I see a nice little cottage, a few yards ahead, where we can 
 barow a drinking utensil. Who knows but there is some 
 sweet little country lassie there a rose in the wilderness ? 
 Shall I go ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I will accompany you," said Bell, springing 
 from her horse, and gathering up her riding dress with an im- 
 patient gesture. 
 
 " I do despise these long, sweeping skirts," said she, tossing 
 the folds over her left arm j " they are so wretchedly in one's 
 way." 
 
 " But they arc so graceful, Bell." 
 
 <65)
 
 66 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 " What's the use of being graceful, with no one to admire 
 me, but a brother ?" said she, laughing. 
 
 While they were talking, they were getting near the cot- 
 tage, which, though a rough, unpainted, low and time-worn 
 building, had still an air of neatness and comfort, and even 
 taste was not wanting for there were vines trained to shade 
 the low windows, and flowerpots were placed against the wall. 
 
 " There she is, by all that is charming I" whispered Frank, 
 as a young girl of apparently seventeen or eighteen summers, 
 came to the door, with a very bright blush, and very sweet 
 smile, and a very low curtsy, and asked them to walk in. 
 She looked bashful and embarrassed, but not awkwardly so, 
 and though her dress was of plain domestic, it fitted so per- 
 fectly to her lithe and slender figure, one would hardly wish 
 it exchanged for silk or muslin. A knot of pink ribbon, that 
 fastened her hair behind, relieved the plainness of her attire, 
 and matched the roses of her slightly sun-burned cheek. 
 
 Bell, to the surprise of her brother, instead of asking for a 
 cup, accepted the invitation to walk in, and followed the young 
 cottager through a narrow passage, into the plainest, most 
 primitive-looking apartment she had ever entered. Frank, de- 
 lighted with an adventure which opened so auspiciously, fol- 
 lowed her with a number of superfluous bows, intended no 
 doubt to make a favourable impression on the young hostess. 
 The furniture consisted of a half-dozen plain chairs, a table of 
 stained pine, and an old-fashioned clock, with a moon-face, 
 and a startlingly loud tick. The chimney was ornamented 
 with fresh, odorous pine-boughs, and some beautiful wild 
 flowers adorned the mantelpiece. But a still greater orna- 
 ment appeared in the shape of books, arranged on a shelf, 
 on the right of the fire-place, and which Frank's quick eye 
 detected the moment he entered the room. 
 
 " I fear we intrude," said Bell, seating herself at the same 
 time, with a very-much-at-home air; "but we called to beg a 
 cup, to dip water from your beautiful spring. I have been 
 riding so far, and am so very thirsty then it is so insuffer- 
 ably warm !" 
 
 Untying the ribbons that fastened her plumed riding-cap, 
 she threw it upon the next chair, and shook her beautiful hair 
 back from her moist forehead. 
 
 " Really, Bell, you do make yourself very much at home," 
 exclaimed her brother. " One would think you were prepar- 
 *ug to stay hours instead of moments." 
 
 " I would npt care how long I stayed," replied she, looking
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 67 
 
 eagerly round her. " This is such a cool, shady, quiet spot 
 I am perfectly in love with it. But please get me some 
 water that is, if the young lady will be kind enough to lend 
 us a cup." 
 
 " I will get you some, with pleasure," cried the young girl, 
 turning quickly to the door. 
 
 " By no means," exclaimed Frank, springing after her. 
 "I cannot allow you to take so much trouble. I am ac-j 
 customed to wait on my sister^ who, I assure you, is a very 
 arbitrary young lady." 
 
 " It is no trouble," said she, quietly gliding between him 
 and the door, and stepping across the threshold. 
 
 " Well, let me go and assist you," he cried, with persever- 
 ing gallantry, and was about to follow her, when Bell called 
 after him : 
 
 " Don't, Frank. You embarrass her. She does not wish 
 you to go." 
 
 " Embarrass her ! Why, she has as much self-possession as 
 you have, though not half the impudence. Bless you, Bell, 
 for being seized with a fit of thirst on this identical spot, and 
 for discovering the spring, which entirely escaped my heedless 
 eye. But let us peep into those books, and perhaps we can 
 find out the name of our bonnie lassie. Well done ! the Lady 
 of the Lake, to begin with. There is poetry for you and 
 here's her own sweet name, I am confident Rose Mayfield. 
 Rose, sweet Rose, flower of the wilderness and blossom of the 
 vale. Was there ever anything so appropriate ?" 
 
 " Brother ! how foolishly you run on. But she really is 
 a nice, pretty girl, and I like her. To think of finding her 
 here alone she must have somebody living with her, surely 
 and these books ! How in the world came she by those 
 books ? There are Plutarch's Lives, and Rollin's History, and 
 Cowper, and Milton, and Thomson. Bless me, what a classic 
 library !" 
 
 " She's coming/* exclaimed Frank, glancing from the win- 
 dow, " with all the grace of a Hebe, and all the lightness of a 
 wood-nymph. She is a perfect fac-simile of the Lady of the 
 Lake : 
 
 " What though no rule of courtly grase 
 Has trained her mood to measured pace, 
 A step more light, a foot more true, 
 Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew: 
 E'en the light harebell lifts its head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread." .
 
 08 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 J5, ose f or suc h was indeed her name came in while the 
 last line was upon his lips, with a waiter, upon which were 
 two tumblers of the clearest and purest crystal. Bell did not 
 believe the establishment contained such luxuries. Never did 
 water taste so cold and so refreshing. Frank drank it very 
 slowly, looking at the Hebe through the bottom of the glass, 
 whose irregular surface multiplied her into myriad forms. 
 
 " You are fond of reading, I see," remarked Bell. " You 
 have some choice books here." 
 
 " Yes," answered Rose, " I do love reading very much. I 
 can hardly dream of a greater pleasure." 
 
 " When I ride this way again I will bring you some books," 
 said Frank; "you have probably read all these." 
 
 " Oh ! many times," cried she, so earnestly that she blushed 
 at her own warmth. " I believe I know the poems all by 
 heart." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Bell, " how I envy you. I don't 
 believe I could repeat six lines to save my existence. I love 
 it. It is very sweet. But it is like music. It dies away, 
 and you know not whither it is gone. It is so much trouble 
 to commit to memory." 
 
 " I never tried to commit it," said Rose. " It stays in my 
 memory without my knowing it, and comes back to me when 
 I am not seeking to recall it." 
 
 " Do you not feel very lonely here ?" asked Frank, irresist- 
 ibly curious to learn something of the inmates of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 " Oh, no !" she answered with animation. " I have not 
 time to be lonely during the day, and father is always at home 
 in the evening. Besides, there is an old woman in the kitchen 
 who takes away the feeling of loneliness." 
 
 " Your father is a hem I presume " cried Frank, allow- 
 ing his curiosity to get the advantage of his politeness. "Your 
 father's profession takes him much from home, I suppose." 
 
 " My father is a farmer, sir," she said simply, though a 
 smile perceptibly curled her lips. " He goes abroad with the 
 rising, and returns with the setting sun." 
 
 " I wish I were a farmer," said Frank, emphatically. " I 
 do believe they must be the happiest men in the world." 
 
 " I wish I were a farmer's daughter," said Bell, with a sigh, 
 " and lived in such a snug little place as this. It must be so 
 nice. But come, brother, our mother will wonder what detains 
 us so long."
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 09 
 
 Smoothing back her hair, she drew her cap towards her by 
 one string, with a jerk that ruffled the long, sweeping plumes, 
 and, swinging it round several times, gave it a toss on her 
 head, and, in spite of all, it set there gracefully 'and becom- 
 ingly. Then flirting her riding dress over her arm, she rose, 
 and, leaning out of the window, broke off a green twig from 
 an acacia tree, whose branches waved against the house. 
 
 " What's the use of all those bewitching airs, Bell, when 
 there's no one to admire but a brother ?" asked Frank, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Without noticing him, she turned to Rose, and thanked her 
 with smiling grace for her kindness and hospitality, begged 
 permission to come and see her again, and left the cottage. 
 
 "I shall not forget the books," said Frank, whose move- 
 ments were more tardy. " There are some poets wanting in 
 your collection, which I shall be most happy to supply." 
 
 " I thank you," she replied, with a deep blush, " but I do 
 not think I ought to trouble you. I could not accept so great 
 a favour from a stranger." 
 
 11 Let me lend them to you, then. You are not too proud 
 to accept so trifling an obligation. You call me a stranger, 
 and that reminds me that we have not introduced ourselves 
 to you a most unpardonable omission. Your humble ser- 
 vant is ycleped Frank Raymond my sister, Bell Raymond 
 names, I trust, you will not altogether forget." 
 
 " My name is Rose Mayfield," she replied, with simplicity, 
 believing him entirely ignorant of the fact, and aware that 
 politeness required of her a reciprocal frankness. 
 
 " I could have sworn it was no other," ejaculated Frank. 
 " It is in vain to say the Rose by any other name would smell 
 as sweet." 
 
 " Frank, Frank, you loiterer, come along," exclaimed the 
 gay voice of Bell, who had mounted her horse and rode directly 
 under the window. As she bent her head and peeped through 
 the acacia leaves, which mingled with her plumes and her 
 light-brown curls, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief and 
 mirth, she made a charming picture, on which Rose gazed 
 with delighted admiration. Never had so fair a vision gilded 
 their humble cottage. Seldom does one so fair adorn the halls 
 of wealth and fashion. Frank watched the countenance of 
 Rose. No shade of envy darkened its sunshine. Its expres- 
 sion was even rapturous, and yet that rapture was inspired by
 
 70 
 
 the beauty and elegance of another, enhanced by all the 
 advantages of dress and embellishment denied to herself. 
 
 Again Bell repeated her summons, and Frank was compelled 
 to make his parting bow, and though it was one of lowly defer- 
 ence, there was no mockery in it, as in his fashionable greeting 
 salutation. 
 
 Bell was in high spirits. Eested from her fatigue, refreshed 
 by the pure draughts from the fountain, and delighted with 
 her new acquaintance, she rallied Frank without mercy on the 
 evident impression which the young cottager had made on his 
 imagination, if not his heart. But when, after their return 
 home, and in the presence of their high-bred and aristocratic 
 mother, she continued her railleries, he did not bear them with 
 so good a grace. Mrs. Raymond never moved beyond the 
 charmed circle of wealth and fashion, and the idea of her 
 children being interested in anything out of their own peculiar 
 sphere, was preposterous and degrading. Frank, knowing so 
 well her views of society, had warned Bell, previous to their 
 arrival, not to shock her prejudices and opinions, but the wilful 
 girl disregarded his injunctions, and amused herself by alarming 
 her mother's pride 
 
 " You have no idea how much Frank admired her, mother," 
 continued Bell. " He lingered on the threshold long after I 
 was mounted for flight, making the prettiest speeches imagin- 
 able " 
 
 " Frank Raymond making fine speeches to a coarse, vulgar, 
 country girl, must have been a novel spectacle," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Raymond, in a tone of derision. 
 
 " Very coarse and vulgar, indeed, mother," repeated Frank, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Why, Frank, it is ho such thing," interrupted Bell; "on 
 the contrary, she is quite refined and lady-like, and knows 
 more poetry by heart than I have ever read. Her hands are 
 as small as mine, and almost as white." 
 
 Bell held out a pair of the fairest hands in the world, all 
 sparkling with rings. 
 
 " She had probably been rubbing them with flour," said 
 Frank, gravely. ^ "Were they not as hard as boards?" 
 
 "Oh, no; quite soft and yielding. You know she said 
 there was an old woman in the kitchen who does all the work 
 for the family I suppose while she reads poetry and culti- 
 vates flowers. I wish I could change places with her a little 
 while. She looked so nice and happy."
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 71 
 
 "Isabel Bell," cried Mrs. Kaymond, reproachfully, "how 
 ungrateful in you to breathe such a wish, when you never 
 knew a desire that was not gratified ; when you have been the 
 most indulged, caressed, and petted of human beings !" 
 
 " That is the very reason, my own dear, indulgent mother, 
 that I am dissatisfied. If you would only deny me something 
 that I want, throw some obstacles in the way of my wishes, 
 excite me by "opposition, it seems to me I should be a great 
 deal happier. Everything is so smooth and monotonous, it is 
 impossible to keep off the demon of ennui." 
 
 " Well, Bell, I will try to gratify you in one respect by 
 forbidding you ever to visit that cottage again, or to renew 
 your familiarity with one so much beneath you." 
 
 " But I told her I would call again," said Bell, with ani- 
 mation ; <^and Frank promised to lend her some books." 
 
 " Frank will do no such thing," cried his mother, haughtily. 
 " If he forgets himself so far as to think of cultivating an in- 
 timacy so degrading, I shall exercise my maternal authority, 
 and treat him as a boy in years, as he seems to be in action." 
 
 " But I am not a boy, mother," cried Frank, gayly, but 
 decidedly; " and I think it hard if a young man of three-and- 
 twenty cannot be civil to a discreet, well-spoken damsel, with- 
 out being scolded, and threatened with the rod of correction." 
 
 " You need not always be telling your age, Frank," said 
 the still young-looking and handsome Mrs. Ilaymond. 
 
 " Please don't call me a boy then, mother." 
 
 Bell was roused to full energy by her mother's unexpected 
 prohibition. 
 
 " You treat me like a child five years old," said she, pet- 
 tishly. " I suppose if I am riding and literally dying of thirst, 
 I must not stop to quench it, and I must repay hospitality 
 with rudeness, and politeness with ill-breeding.'' 1 
 
 " You know my meaning, Bell ; why do you pervert it so t" 
 
 " I do not like to be treated like a baby." 
 
 " Did not you ask me to deny you something ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Bell, laughing at her own waywardness ; 
 " but I did not expect to meet with compliance." 
 
 Bell retired to her chamber, to prepare for an evening 
 .party, which she had engaged to attend. She said she did 
 not wish to go ; that she would not go ; yet she bade her wait- 
 ing-maid open her wardrobe, and take out ; one by one, her 
 beautiful fancy dresses, for inspection.
 
 72 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 " Not that pink gauze. I have been riding in the sun, and 
 look too red for that." 
 
 " Oh ! you have such a lovely complexion to-night," said 
 Anna, the young waiting-maid. 
 * " Let me see the blue, trimmed with silver." 
 
 " This makes you look so fair," cried the girl, holding up 
 the glittering tissue in the glancing light. 
 
 " Put it away; it 'is too gaudy ; only fit for an actress. I 
 wish I had but one plain, domestic dress, and I would know 
 what to wear. I do think this dressing is the most tedious, 
 annoying business in the world. Bring me that white gos- 
 samer over satin I will wear nothing but white to-night no 
 jewels. Go into the green-house and gather some white rose- 
 buds and geranium leaves. I will wear no other ornaments." 
 
 Bell had a sudden fit of simplicity, and tried to look like a 
 simple cottage-maid, in her white robes and natural flowers ; 
 and she did look surpassingly lovely ; she was told so at least 
 a hundred times in the course of the evening ; but, praises of 
 her beauty were so common, she heeded them not. Her in- 
 terest was excited by the appearance of a stranger, who, unlike 
 most strangers, did not seek an immediate introduction to 
 herself, the reigning belle of the season. He stood aloof from 
 the crowd which surrounded her, a man of noble person, and 
 dark and striking countenance. 
 
 When she first saw him, he was standing by a table looking 
 at some engravings, which he appeared to be explaining to a 
 lady, who listened with delighted attention. He did not look 
 very young, yet no one would think of calling him old. He 
 was certainly the most elegant-looking gentleman in the room ; 
 and, as time glided on, and he did not approach her to pay 
 her the customary tribute of homage and admiration, she felt 
 mortified and disappointed she was sure he was a distin- 
 guished personage. He had such an air of dignity and high- 
 breeding, and every, one paid him so much deference, and 
 seemed so much flattered by his notice. She would not ask 
 his name, for she did not like to have it supposed she was 
 ignorant of it, but, when her brother came near, she eluded 
 her admirers for a few moments, and begged of him to satisfy 
 her curiosity. 
 
 " Why, that is Mr. Urvin, just returned from a five years' 
 sojourn in Europe, Asia*and Africa, for what I know. They 
 call him the distinguished traveller, and he really is a fine- 
 looking man, with very elegant and dignified manners."
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 73 
 
 " I do not see why he should assume such airs, if he has 
 travelled," said Bell, in a tone of pique. 
 
 " Ah ! I see how it is," said Frank, laughing; " he has not 
 paid tribute to her royal Majesty, the queen of the evening. 
 Do not be angry, but I overheard our hostess offer to introduce 
 him to you. ' Thank you, madam/ said he, with a sarcastic 
 smile, l but I always shun a belle.' " 
 
 " Arrogant !" exclaimed Bell, her cheek flushing brightly 
 as she spoke. " I am sure I do not ask or wish his notice. 
 He shall rue the day he ever made that speech," she added 
 to herself. 
 
 " Our little Rose would suit him," whispered Frank. " Sho 
 certainly is prettier than any of the damsels here, making the 
 usual exception and then she has so much heart and soul 
 in her face." 
 
 Bell scarcely heard what he said of Rose ] her mind was 
 dwelling on the remark of the elegant traveller, whose avoid- 
 ance had made the attentions of all others irksome and dis- 
 tasteful. Taking the arm of her brother, she walked to the 
 opposite side of the room, too much excited to remain in one 
 position. 
 
 " There he comes," said Frank, in a low voice ; " but, pray, 
 don't look so scornful. Let him see how sweet and amiable a 
 belle can appear." 
 
 But it was too late. The scornful lip had not time to 
 smooth itself into a smile before they passed him, and Bell 
 could not help giving her ringlets a toss that discomposed her 
 white rose-buds, and brought them down, in a fragrant shower, 
 at his feet. Stooping down, he gathered them up, and pre- 
 sented them to her with a respectful bow. He did not retain 
 so much as a geranium leaf, but handed them to her with as 
 little sentiment as if it were a bonnet she had dropped, instead 
 of flowers. As Bell took them from his hand, she looked up 
 and met his eyes. Never had she seen anything so dark, so 
 piercing, so brilliant, yet so awe-inspiring, as that single glance. 
 With a deeper blush than had ever before dyed her cheek, she 
 slightly bowed and passed on. She had prepared a look of 
 great indifference, bordering on contempt, but she forgot to 
 put it on, and it was well that she did, for it certain! j- 
 not have increased Mr. Urviu's admiration of leUes. 
 
 122
 
 74 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Graceful and useful all she does- 
 Blessing and blest where'er she goes 
 Pure-bosomed as the watery glass, 
 And Heaven reflected in her face." COWPER. 
 
 " I'm weary of the brilliant hall, 
 "Where fashion's votaries throng 
 I'm weary of my own vain heart, 
 Slave of the world too long." ANON. 
 
 ROSE MAYFIELD stood at the door of her father's cottage, 
 watching the setting sun. It was the hour she loved, for she 
 knew her father's steps were then bending homeward. Every- 
 thing was prepared for his reception the little table, covered 
 with the whitest and smoothest cloth, was spread in a back 
 porch; old Hannah was milking the cow in the barn-yard, 
 while the odour of warm bread and steaming meat issued from, 
 the kitchen. Rose stood, looking toward the corn-field waving 
 beyond, but her eye was abstracted, and it was evident that 
 her thoughts were gone out on a more distant excursion. She 
 was thinking of the fair equestrian and her gallant brother, 
 for their visit was an event in her quiet and sequestered life. 
 It recalled the associations of her earlier years, and a quick, 
 low sigh heaved her bosom. For Rose, though a hard-work- 
 ing farmer's daughter, had passed but a comparatively small 
 portion of her life in her present humble home. A brief re- 
 view of her childhood will explain the apparent inconsistency 
 of her education and position. When she was a little child 
 she had the misfortune to lose her mother. Just about the 
 time when the heart-stricken, widowed father, was mourning 
 over his own bereavement, and the helplessness of his orphan 
 daughter, a lady was thrown from her carriage, almost oppo- 
 site the cabin, and brought in for shelter and relief. It was 
 weeks before she was able to be removed. In the mean time 
 the engaging little Rose twined herself round her childless 
 heart, and she entreated the father to allow her to take the 
 child home with her, and cherish and educate her as her own. 
 It was not without many a hard struggle that Mr. Mayfield 
 conquered his reluctance to give up his darling, but he be-
 
 BELL AND ROSE. <5 
 
 licved that Providence had raised up this friend to her mother- 
 less childhood, and, with mingled gratitude and grief, he 
 suffered her to depart. 
 
 Mrs. Chandler resided in a city remote from his little farm, 
 and opportunities of intercourse were few and far between. 
 In the home of her benefactress and adopted mother, she re- 
 ceived those advantages of education which her father could 
 never have imparted. Mrs. Chandler was no worldly, fashion- 
 able woman; she was a simple-hearted, high-minded Christian, 
 whose influence was as pure, as benign, and as .diffusive as 
 sunshine. The emanations of her mind and heart were radi- 
 ated into the mind and heart of Rose, and beautiful mental and 
 moral flowers grew and blossomed, as the result. Sometimes 
 Mrs. Chandler had a coadjutor, who took a great interest in 
 directing the studies of his sister's protege, and whose influence 
 was almost as powerful as her own a younger brother a 
 man of remarkable depth and reach of mind, as well as be- 
 nevolence of feeling. The extreme simplicity, humility, and 
 gratitude of the young girl pleased him, united, as they evi- 
 dently were, with brilliancy of imagination and vigour of intel- 
 lect. Hose looked up to him with admiration and reverence; 
 and when he departed for a foreign land, with the prospect of 
 being absent for years, she felt as if a pillar of strength, on 
 which she had been leaning, as an anchor to her weakness and 
 youth, were suddenly removed. But a far greater misfortune 
 was impending over her. Her friend and benefactress was 
 taken from her, and the last moments of this noble and excel- 
 lent woman were embittered by the recently-acquired know- 
 ledge that the property which she had intended to bequeath 
 to her adopted daughter, was no longer hers to bestow. The 
 man who had the charge of her business during her brother's 
 absence, proved to be a villain, who absconded with the for : 
 tune which she believed secure from treachery or loss. Hose 
 had never thought of being the heiress of her friend's wealth, 
 and, had she been left the inheritance of millions, it would 
 not have softened the blow that crushed her to the dust. She 
 was just fifteen when she returned to her own humble dwell- 
 ing, and the father who welcomed her as an angel of light. 
 To say that Rose did not feel the change, that she did not sigh 
 for the refined and cultivated society which she had been ac- 
 customed to meet at Mrs. Chandler's, that she did not shrink 
 from the homely duties that devolved upon her, would be 
 false ; but she struggled bravely, heroically, with her repinings,
 
 76 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 and tried to come down gracefully and meetly to the lowly 
 realities of her condition. Then it was so ungrateful in her 
 to murmur. There was old Hannah in the kitchen, to do all 
 the drudgery of the house-work ; she had time to read and 
 cultivate all her acquired tastes ; then her father was so good, 
 BO kind and indulgent, and loved her with such unmeasured 
 idolatry, how could she help being happy ? 
 
 Mrs. Chandler had always dressed her with elegant simpli- 
 city, and she had returned with an ample wardrobe of her own, 
 as well as the gift of her benefactress ; but, with a good sense 
 and propriety remarkable in one so young, she felt that such 
 dresses were inappropriate to the home she now inhabited; so 
 she made herself garments of plain domestic ; and, when her 
 father came in from his daily labour, in his shirt-sleeves, soiled 
 perchance, and moist with the dew of toil, she did not shrink 
 from his embracing arms, nor fear that her dress would be 
 spoiled by the contact. 
 
 She often thought of the brother of her benefactress, won- 
 dered if he had returned to his native land, and whether he 
 retained any recollection of the little girl he had so kindly 
 instructed and so wisely counselled. But, as nearly three 
 years had passed away, she gave up the hope of beholding 
 him again, and feared he had found a grave in a foreign land. 
 
 It is not strange that the sudden appearance of the beautiful 
 Bell and her brother should have ruffled the calm and uniform 
 surface of her existence, or that the sparkling draught of social 
 enjoyment, of which she had just tasted, should have awakened 
 a tliirst the pure waters of her own fountain could not quench. 
 
 The moment she saw her father she ran to meet him, took 
 his straw hat from his hand, and sportively fanned his sun- 
 browned face. The smile of grateful and admiring fondness 
 with which the weary farmer greeted her, touched her with 
 remorse for the vague repinings she was conscious of feeling a 
 moment before. 
 
 " Oh ! dear father," thought she, " let me think more of 
 your comfort than of strangers I may never meet again." 
 
 If Frank had thought Rose pretty and graceful, under the 
 cloud of embarrassment and constraint that obscured, in some 
 measure, her natural attractions, how much more he would 
 have admired her, as she flitted round her father, anticipating 
 his wants and soothing him with her gentle caresses ! He 
 had compared her to the Lady of the Lake, and certainly she 
 resembled Ellen in her devotion to her father and the grace
 
 < BELL AND ROSE. 77 
 
 and tenderness of her filial attentions. While partaking of 
 their supper, Hose told him of her visiters, and described, 
 with animation, the beauty of Isabel, though she smiled at 
 her affectation and caprice. The farmer looked gr;ive when 
 she told him of Frank's offer of books, which implied an in- 
 tention of renewing his visit. He wanted his Rose to be seen 
 and admired, yet he was anxious and troubled lest admiration 
 should flow from a doubtful source. He could not bear to 
 damp the pleasure with which she evidently dwelt on this 
 incident, and he knew the modesty and simplicity of her 
 ciiaracter too well to fear of her being lured by mere fashionable 
 graces. It was for her happiness he trembled, and yet how 
 could he think of immuring her in perfect solitude, and suffer- 
 ing her blooming youth to pass away, like the flower of the 
 oasis, unseen and unappreciated? After the first feeling of 
 alarm had subsided, a pure and honest pride in her beauty 
 and refiuemeut lighted up his countenance. Perhaps the young 
 man was of that noble, honourable class, to which her bene- 
 factress had belonged; and, through him, Rose might be re- 
 stored to the sphere she was born and educated to adorn. 
 While these thjughts swelled his bosom, he laid down his 
 knife and fork, looked earnestly at Rose, then round the little 
 stoup, beneath which they were seated, shook his head, took 
 up his knife and fork, and said, almost unconsciously 
 
 " Who knows ? Who knows ?" 
 
 " Who knows what, father ?" 
 
 " But what these young folks may prove very good friends 
 to you, after all ?" 
 
 " I hope so," replied Rose ; " and yet I had better not in- 
 dulge in hopes that may end in disappointment. It is more 
 likely that they may never think of me again, and it is better 
 that I banish them from my thoughts." 
 
 This was more easily said than done ; but there is power in 
 action, and Rose was superfluously industrious after the supper 
 was over. She swept the floor after Hannah, though not a 
 particle of dust was left upon it, and wiped over the cups and 
 saucers with a dry napkin, though Hannah had made them 
 shine with all the lustre of neatness. 
 
 " Are you never going to be ready to sit down to reading ?" 
 said the farmer. " What a bustling little body you are to- 
 night !" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am ready now. But let me brush your ha;r 
 first, and smooth this rumpled shirt-collar. You know I've
 
 78 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 no one to look at but you, and I love dearly to see you looking 
 nice and comfortable. Now, take this old arm-chair, and tell 
 me what I shall read. Suppose I soothe you with a little 
 poetry to-night." 
 
 She took down the volume which she had seen in the hands 
 of Frank, and began to flutter the leaves. 
 
 "I had rather listen to some of good old Plutarch's Lives. 
 They mean something, and give a body something to think 
 about afterwards. But, as for poetry, it comes in at one ear 
 and goes out of the other. Never mind, please yourself, my 
 darling; your voice will make anything pleasant." 
 
 Rose immediately exchanged the books, and cheerfully com- 
 menced what she had read at least a dozen times. Mr. Mayfield 
 Bat opposite his daughter, in the old arm-chair, with his hair as 
 sleek and shining as comb and brush could mnke it, and his 
 white shirt collar, relieving the hardy brown of his complexion. 
 Pie sat gazing on his young daughter, whose fair brow was in- 
 clined over the book, while her rosy cheek rested in the 
 hollow of her right hand. Her attitude was graceful, her face 
 surpassingly sweet, and her voice was music itself. He gazed 
 upon her with a fondness so intense that it deepened into sad- 
 ness. She came out in such bright and beautiful relief, in 
 that dark cabin, her accents glided so gently into his ear and 
 sunk down so meltingly in his heart, that his eyes closed from 
 excess of delight, and his ear grew heavy with its weight of 
 melody. What a luxury for the toil-worn and weary man to 
 leave behind him the labour and dust and burden of his day of 
 care, and in the quiet and comfort of his own home to recline 
 at ease, and look at and listen to such a daughter ! It is no 
 wonder such a state of luxurious content should compose the 
 feeling for a deeper calm. 
 
 Ruse was reading the history of Pastus and the devoted 
 Arria. Her eye kindled and her cheek glowed over the record 
 of her self-sacrificing and matchless love. 
 
 " Oh ! father," said she, looking up and suffering the book 
 to drop upon her lap, " I never, never can be tired of this. It 
 is sad, but it awakens such exalted sentiments. I remember 
 a beautiful little poem, written on this subject. I think it 
 began thus : 
 
 When Arria to her husband gave the sword, 
 Which from her chaste and bleeding breast she drew, 
 " Take this," she cried" My Paetus, do not fear 
 Sweet is the wouiid that has been given for you."
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 79 
 
 A sudden, loud, nasal sound arrested the poetical reminis- 
 cences of Rose. The poor, tired farmer was soothed into a 
 deep sleep, and as his head was leaning backward, he was in- 
 dulging in a most anti-heroic snore. The enthusiasm of Rose 
 gave a quick, painful rebound to her own bosom. She had 
 often experienced a similar shock, but never had she felt it so 
 acutely. It jarred on every nerve ; she could not help con- 
 trasting the discordant notes with the music of Bell's gny 
 laugh the accents of the graceful and gallant Frank. She 
 felt more intensely than she had ever done before, the want 
 of sympathy, the want of congenial youth and refinement, and 
 despised herself for experiencing it. She would not have 
 wakened her father for the world, but she went softly behind 
 him and insinuated a pillow between his head and the chair, 
 thereby closing the open gates from which the sonorous 
 breathings came forth. 
 
 Such was the tenor of the life of the young Rose ; one 
 evening was the epitome of the next, and the next. How 
 diferent was the lot of the brilliant and capricious Bell ! And 
 yet Rose was the happier of the two ; she had a self-sustaining 
 principle within ; she looked to God above, and then into her 
 own pure heart, to see His image there. 
 
 The paths of these two young maidens widely diverged, and 
 yet, as they may perchance approach more closely, we must 
 follow, first one and then the other, in their different orbits. 
 
 Bell had now a new object of interest, that roused her from 
 the ennui that so often oppressed. It was singular, but her 
 admiration of Mr. Urvin was not diminished by his expressed 
 reluctance to her society. It was rather increased. There 
 were many moments when she despised herself for being a 
 belle, as much as she did the insipid beings who fed her vanity 
 with the fuel of adulation when she felt more than willing to 
 barter the incense of the multitude, for the sincere but silent 
 homage of one true and noble heart. She wanted something 
 to look up to and reverence something to stir the unsounded 
 depths within. She could not reverence her mother, for she 
 had no qualities to inspire veneration she was " of the earth, 
 earthy." Frank was too near her own age, too gay and mis- 
 chievous, too much on her own level. She could not look up 
 to him. But Mr. Urvin ! how high he seemed to tower 
 above all surrounding objects ! So lofty, so dignified, with 
 eyes so darkly eloquent, and mien so cold, yet so strangely 
 attractive ! She had now but one thought, one wish to over
 
 80 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 come his prejudices, to conquer his proud reluctance, and to 
 triumph at last in the possession of his admiration. 
 
 'Mrs. Raymond had an almost insane desire to cultivate the 
 acquaintance of foreigners and travellers of distinction. She 
 had seen, with pique and resentment, Mr. Urvin's avoidance 
 of her daughter, but he was too distinguished to be given up 
 without an effort. His reputation for wealth and talents 
 threw a dazzling prestige round him, more hallowed in her 
 aristocratic eyes than the halo that encircles with golden glory 
 the brows of saints and martyrs. She gave a splendid party, 
 for the sole purpose of inviting him, and urged Bell to appear 
 as simple as possible, in dress and manner. But Bell, with a 
 strange caprice, or perhaps from the fear of having her real 
 feelings detected, would wear her most glittering attire, and 
 instead of flowers, wreathed her brow with costly gems. 
 She would not have Mr. Urvin suppose that she wished to 
 attract his attention, or gratify his pride by subservience to 
 his tastes. Of course, an introduction was unavoidable. It 
 was as a Idle, she was resolved to triumph as a conqueror, 
 she would bind him in golden chains to her car of victory. 
 To his grave, respectful, yet most graceful salutation, she re- 
 sponded with those bewitching smiles which others had pro- 
 nounced irresistible. To his intelligent, manly, and interesting 
 remarks, she replied at first with some of those airy nothings, 
 which generally pass for brilliant wit, and had there not been 
 something in her clear blue eye that seemed to shame the folly 
 of her lips, and had not the roses, coming and going on her 
 cheeks, appeared to blush for her affectation, it is probable 
 Mr. Urvin would have left her side, with his prejudices 
 against belles deepened, instead of being subdued. As it was, 
 he felt amused and interested, for there is a charm in youth 
 and beauty, after all, to which the gravest philosophers are 
 compelled to bow. She questioned him of his travels, and 
 while listening to his eloquent description of foreign lands, 
 forgot her wish to shine and captivate, and, without knowing 
 it, appeared as natural as Rose herself. The influence of a 
 commanding inind was upon her, and a charm a spell un- 
 known before bound her to the spot. She forgot to flirt 
 her ringlets with that little sportive motion which had been 
 called so graceful. She forgot to pick off, with her white and 
 sparkling fingers, the green leaves of her beautiful bouquet, 
 or to play a thousand fantastic tricks with her ivory fan. 
 She stood an entranced and eager listener, feeling as if the
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 81 
 
 doors of her understanding were just opening, and sunbeams 
 darting dazzingly in. She longed to ask him the definition 
 of a belle, but she dared not do it. She had lost the assumed 
 boldness with which she commenced her attack, and it could 
 not be recalled. 
 
 Just before the evening closed, when her spirits were as elas- 
 tic as the air she breathed, she was passing through the folding 
 doors, within which Mr. Urvin was then standing, conversing 
 with a group of gentlemen. He had his back towards her, 
 and did not see her, though her robes swept lightly against 
 him. He seemed engaged in earnest conversation, and she 
 distinctly heard him utter the name of Rose Mayfield. For a 
 moment her footsteps involuntarily paused, then she hurried 
 on through a side door, nor stopped till she found herself in 
 the garden, in whose shaded walks she was sure of escaping 
 observation. It was astonishing what an electric spark the 
 mere pronunciation of that name had given her. What pos- 
 sible association could there be with this proud, stately, and 
 wealthy gentleman, moving in the very highest walks of society, 
 and the poor and humble Rose ? He had probably seen her acci- 
 dentally, as she had done, and admired the simplicity of her 
 character and the unadorned graces of her person. Had not 
 Frank said she was just the person to charm him ? Was she 
 cot the very opposite to that object of his abhorrence, a belle f 
 In an instant she arrived at the most surprising conclusions. 
 He was the betrothed lover of Rose those books were his 
 gift he would raise her to rank and affluence, and they would 
 meet in the social circle, and even her mother would be con- 
 strained to tolerate her as the bride of the admired Mr. Urvin. 
 
 It was the most unfortunate thing in the world that she had 
 ever heard that name, sweet and simple as it was, for it acted 
 like an evil spell, and banished all her enjoyment. She tried 
 to conceal her feelings, but when she returned to her guests, 
 her cheek was paler, and her manner devoid of animation. 
 
 " Bell, my love," said her mother, " what is the matter ? 
 Are you fatigued ? Do try to rally a little. I see Mr. Urvin 
 coming this way. Every one is speaking of the impression 
 you have made on him. It is such a triumph, Bell. I'm sure 
 I wonder you do not exult at your success. There, I am glad 
 to see the colour coming back to your cheeks." 
 
 " I am tired, mother tired to death," said Bell, pettishly. 
 " I do wish every one would go and as for Mr. Urvin, I
 
 82 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 don't see what there is in him to make such a fuss about. I 
 really think him a decided bore." 
 
 " Bell !" cried her mother, in a low voice, for she was 
 fearful of being overheard, "you are the strangest girl I ever 
 knew. You are never in the same mood three minutes in suc- 
 cession. You are the most capricious and spoiled of human 
 beings." 
 
 "I know that, better than any one else, mother." The 
 conversation was interrupted by the approach of Mr. Urvin, 
 who came to make his parting bow. 
 
 " Oh ! that I dared to ask him what he knew of Rose May- 
 field !" thought Bell. " Yet, that he knows her at all, is suf- 
 ficient to prove all my fears." 
 
 Fears ! why should she fear the influence of Rose on this 
 man, so lately a stranger ? What was he to her, what could 
 he ever be, even if the farmer's daughter were blotted from 
 the scroll of existence ? Again and again she asked herself 
 this question, when, after the dispersion of the company, she 
 sought her chamber, and threw herself wearily on the bed. 
 
 " Oh ! you will spoil your beautiful dress !" exclaimed 
 Anna, in most distressed accents. 
 
 "I don't care," replied her young mistress. "I never 
 will wear it again. I detest all this finery, jewels and all. 
 Take off the dress and keep it, and never let me see it again." 
 
 " It is too fine for me," cried the delighted girl. " I could 
 not think of robbing you of it. But how shall I take it off, 
 while you are lying down ?" 
 
 " Wait, then, till I am ready," said Bell, without thinking 
 of the poor, tired waiting-maid, who could scarcely keep her 
 weary eyelids from falling together. She did not mean to be 
 unkind, but she was so absorbed in her own new and be- 
 wildering thoughts, she forgot even her presence as soon as 
 she ceased speaking. She lay for a long time a strange and 
 radiant figure to be reclining there when the girl, overcome 
 by fatigue, sunk down upon the floor and bent her head upon 
 the bed-cover. Roused from her abstraction by the sudden- 
 ness of the motion, Bell's heart smote her for her thoughtless- 
 ness and selfishness. She rose and suffered herself to be un- 
 dressed^ thinking how much less trouble Rose Mayfield'a 
 simple toilet must be than hers, with all its splendid deco- 
 rations ! Ah ! how little did Rose dream of being an object 
 of envy to the vain and beautiful Bell !
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 83 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Give me the cot below the pine, 
 
 To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
 And every day have joys divine, 
 
 With the bonnie lass o' Ballodomyle." BURNS. 
 
 "If happiness have not her seat 
 
 And centre in the breast, 
 We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
 
 But never can be blest. 
 Nae treasures, nae pleasures, 
 
 Could make us happy long 
 The heart aye's the part aye, 
 
 That makes us right or wrong." IBID. 
 
 Is it supposed that Frank submitted to maternal authority, 
 and never more returned to the cottage, where the silver foun- 
 tain gushed ? If it is, it is a great mistake. He had made a 
 promise to Rose, which he felt bound, as a man of honour, 
 not to violate. So, with an elegant pocket edition of Shaks- 
 peare, which he had employed at least a day in marking, he 
 started for the farmer's cabin without warning even Bell of 
 his design. As he rode up to the door, he caught a glimpse 
 of the bright face of Hose through the light, drooping leaves 
 of the acacia, and the tree seemed in rosy bloom. The flower 
 exhibited still deeper bloom as he entered. The spontaneous 
 delight which Rose felt on finding that she was not forgotten, 
 illumined her whole face. Frank wondered that he had thought 
 her pretty before, she so infinitely transcended her former self. 
 Her dress, though still the perfection of neatness, was far more 
 becoming. Perhaps Rose herself could hardly analyze the 
 motive that induced her, since the visit of the brother and 
 sister, to pay more attention to her toilet, especially in the 
 after part of the day. She discovered that a modest gingham 
 frock was not too fine for a farmer's daughter, and then her 
 father loved so dearly to see her dressed with care ! The hue 
 of her garment was blue Frank's favourite colour and a wild 
 flower, dyed in sapphire, was set like a gem in her dark brown 
 hair. 
 
 Frank saw that he was welcome, and the conviction that he 
 was so. removed the slight embarrassment he had felt on his
 
 84 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 entrance. He had dreaded coldness and constraint, since he 
 came unaccompanied by his sister; he had prepared himself 
 for a refusal of his book ; he had thought it possible she could 
 not see him at all. Perhaps the farmer himself might make 
 his appearance, and tell him to keep at a respectful distance 
 from his daughter. After dwelling on the possibility, nay, 
 even the probability of these things, it may be imagined how 
 extremely pleasant it was to meet the bright smile, the kin- 
 dling blush, that assured him of modest welcome. The volume 
 he brought was illustrated, and this gave him an admirable 
 excuse for sitting down by the side of Rose to show her the 
 engravings. Then he offered to read to her, while she con- 
 tinued her sewing, combining, in this way, the pleasures of 
 literature and industry. Frank was a magnificent reader, and 
 none but such should ever attempt the dramas of Shakspeare. 
 Rose had heard them read before, by the brother of Mrs. 
 Chandler; but his voice, like the organ, was fitted only for 
 the sublime and majestic intonations of the darker passions ; 
 it could not play like Frank's, from the light play of Mercu- 
 tio's wit, to the impassioned breathings of Romeo's love 
 then again from the insidious malice of lago, to the terrific 
 ravings of Othello's jealousy. Rose listened with a charmed 
 ear. The work fell from her hands, while her eye, fixed upon 
 the reader, changed its expression with every varying senti- 
 ment. It is no wonder that Frank felt inspired, when, ever 
 and anon, looking up from his book, he saw such eyes riveted 
 with unconscious interest on his face. 
 
 " Have you never attended the theatre ?" asked he, abruptly. 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " You must go. Of how much pleasure have you been 
 robbed ! You must visit the city you must go to the theatre. 
 You must see something of the world, from which you have 
 been so long excluded. It is a sin and a shame that you 
 should be buried here in this solitude. Are you contented, 
 Rose ? Forgive my familarity, but I cannot help calling 
 you so." 
 
 " I suspect I have my share of contentment," she replied 
 with a smile, though a shade passed over her brow. " I ought 
 to be happy, I am sure, for I reign absolute Queen of this 
 little realm. My wishes are laws as absolute as those of the 
 Medes and Persians. If I ain tempted to sigh for pleasures 
 beyond iny reach, I find an antidote for discontent in my
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 85 
 
 books and flowers, and the music of the singing fountain. Is 
 your sister perfectly happy ? Are you ?" 
 
 " Yes ! I am perfectly happy at this moment. A rose-leaf 
 could not find room on the brimming cup of my felK-ity. If I 
 did not look from that window and see the sun .sinking lower 
 and lower, and know there would soon be a limit to my hap- 
 piness, I could defy the philosophy of Solon. Oh ! for another 
 Joshua to stay the evolutions of yon golden wheel !" 
 
 Frank rose to depart. He felt that he could not, with pro- 
 priety, linger till a later hour. 
 
 " May I ask you to accompany me to the fountain ?" said 
 he, glad to find an excuse to prolong his stay a little longer. 
 " I do not understand its mysteries, and I cannot go without 
 a drink of its sparkling waters." 
 
 Rose led the way to the fountain, bearing in her hand a 
 silver cup, one of the costliest gifts of her benefactress. Frank 
 thought it was tin till he took it in his own hand, and then he 
 wondered at the pure massive silver, on which the name of 
 Rose was engraven, as much as he did at the silvery refine- 
 ment of her language and the grace of her manners. 
 
 " You were not educated in this cottage, Rose ?" said he, in 
 a tone of earnest int'.est. "Think me not too inquisitive 
 and impertinent, but tell me where you have acquired this 
 mysterious grace and elegance, which contrasts so strangely 
 with everything around and about you ?" 
 
 " I'm sure nothing can be more graceful than the fall of 
 the fountain," answered she, playfully, " or more elegant than 
 this clustering foliage. But," added she, in a tone of deep 
 feeling, " you are right in your supposition. For more than 
 ten years 1 was under the guardianship of the best, the purest, 
 the most refined of human beings. All that I am in heart 
 and soul, I owe to her precepts and example. She is dead, 
 but her memory is the polar star of my existence, to which 
 the magnet of my spirit for ever turns." 
 
 She spoke with enthusiasm, and tears trembled bright as 
 the spray of the fountain in the soft depths of her eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! that my mother could see her could hear her I" 
 thought Frank. " She shall see her she shall hear her > 
 and her aristocratic prejudices shall' be charmed away by the 
 magic of her presence." 
 
 Slowly they sauntered back to the cottage, and very slowly 
 did Frank mount his horse for so young and gay a gentleman. 
 Rose stood in the door-way, in the mellow beams of the setting
 
 86 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 sun. One of the sapphire-coloured flowers fell from her hnir 
 as she leaned against the frame-work. Frank sprang from his 
 horse, and, picking it up, hid it in the folds of his vest. 
 
 " When I come again I will bring you some flowers from 
 Bell's ^reen-house/' said he, " to indemnify you for the loss 
 of this/' 
 
 "Will *he never come again herself?" asked Rose, pained 
 t having received no message from the capricious beauty. 
 
 Frank blushed, remembering his mother's prohibition. He 
 hardly knew what to reply. 
 
 "She did not know I was coming. I was selfish, and 
 wished no one to share the welcome I was bold enough to 
 think was in store for me. She has not forgotten you, I 
 assure you." 
 
 When Frank returned home he took very good care to keep 
 out of his mother's way, fearing she would ask him where he 
 had been. How often from this time he visited the cottage, 
 she never knew, and perhaps he did not know himself. He 
 learned to measure time by a new chronometer and that was 
 the old-fashioned hour glass on the farmer's old deal-table. 
 
 One afternoon, just as he was turning into the path which 
 led to the farmer's gate, he was surprised by the approach of 
 a gentleman on horseback, coming from the house, and his 
 surprise was not diminished when he recognised the stately 
 bearing, and dark, flashing countenance of Mr. Urvin. A 
 glance of mutual astonishment and dissatisfaction passed be- 
 tween them, as, with rather a cold bow, they rode by each 
 other. Frank's face glowed with crimson as he saw Mr. Urvin 
 look sarcastically at the magnificent bouquet which he had 
 fastened, in some mysterious manner, to his saddle-bow, and 
 at the bundle of books which he carried under his left arm. 
 In spite of all his efforts to resume his self-possession, it was 
 with the air of an indignant and deeply-injured man that he 
 entered the room where Hose was seated, perfectly uncon- 
 scious of his approach or entrance. She was leaning on the 
 table with her head bowed down upon her hands, while her 
 bosom heaved with suppressed sobs. Frank threw the books 
 upon the table without speaking, but the noise made her start 
 and suddenly lift her head. She smiled through showering 
 tears, and hastily wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, en- 
 deavoured to efface the traces of her deep emotion. Frank 
 looked so cross and sombre that her smile vanished, and a 
 pause of mutual embarrassment succeeded
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 87 
 
 " I fear I am an intruder this evening," said Frank, tossing 
 the flowers on the table, instead of offering them to her with 
 one of his graceful and gallant speeches. a You seem very 
 much preoccupied." 
 
 " I must be pardoned if I am so," replied Rose, surprised 
 and wounded by his cold and altered manner. " All the re- 
 membrances of my childhood and earlier youth have been most 
 powerfully and vividly awakened by the visit of a friend from 
 whom I have been long separated. I did not know I was so 
 much of a child still." 
 
 Again she paused and wiped her glistening eyes. " This 
 friend is Mr. Urvin, I presume, whom I met at your gate," 
 said Frank, in a voice which had lost all its music. 
 
 " Yes ! the brother of my benefactress the guide, the 
 counsellor of my youthful mind. I have not seen him since 
 the death of his sister, and we both felt, in all its first force, 
 our irreparable loss. It was mine," continued she, with 
 quivering lip, " to repeat to him the last words of this angelic 
 woman." 
 
 It was natural to suppose that Frank would have sympa 
 thized in her sensibility, and exerted himself in the task of 
 consolation. But he was possessed of that demon whose name 
 is Legion, and which human reason never yet cast out. Never 
 was a being so transformed. He could not sit still and talk 
 calmly with such a fever burning in his veins. He rose and 
 went to the window, and made terrible destruction among the 
 green leaves that curtained the casement. 
 
 " Has anything displeased you ?" asked Rose, with inex- 
 pressible sweetness of manner, after watching him for some 
 time pulling off the leaves, crushing them in his fingers, and 
 hurling them through the air with a look of determined hos- 
 tility. 
 
 Ashamed of his rudeness, yet unable to conquer the feeling 
 which caused it, he turned round and took a seat. The flush 
 had left his cheek, and Rose was struck by his unusual pale- 
 ness. 
 
 " You are not well," she exclaimed, with sudden appre- 
 hension. " How exceedingly pale you look ! Let me run to 
 the fountain and bring you some water." 
 
 " No, T\O !" cried he, thoroughly ashamed of the passion 
 which had subdued him. " I am well. It is nothing but a 
 fit of ill-humour. Can you forgive me for being so cross and 
 unamiable ?"
 
 88 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 f " On condition that you tell me the cause of the phenome- 
 non." 
 
 " I know I have no cause to be displeased," said Frank, 
 and he had the grace to stammer a little; " hut, knowing the 
 perfect seclusion in which you live, you cannot wonder at my 
 astonishment on seeing a man whose splendid endowments are 
 the admiration of the fashionable world, your departing guest. 
 The deep emotions he has called forth are another mystery. 
 I dreamed not of this time-honoured intimacy. I did not know 
 that the being existed who exercises such commanding influ- 
 ence on your sensibilities." 
 
 " That is, you find me not quite so lone and friendless as 
 you imagined me to be," said Rose, an unwonted fire sparkling 
 in her eye. 
 
 " And yet this friend has been for many weeks in the city," 
 said Frank, as if struck with a sudden thought, his counte- 
 nance brightening as he spoke. " And, if I understand you 
 right, this is the first time he has visited you. How can you 
 reconcile this with his early friendship ?" 
 
 " By his total ignorance of my abode. When he left the 
 country I was an inmate of his sister's family ; at her death I 
 returned to my own home. He knew not the location of that 
 humble home, and, though he has made constant inquiries, it 
 was not till this morning that he ascertained it. He is too 
 noble, too generous, too great in mind, and too warm in heart 
 to forget those, however lowly, whom he has once honoured 
 with his regard." 
 
 She spoke with warmth, and every glowing word fell cold 
 as ice on the heart of Frank. She loved him. How could 
 she help it ? Was not the apparently heartless Bell herself 
 enthralled by the fascinations of this man ? and what was he 
 in comparison ? a mere mote in a sunbeam. He had been 
 indulging in a charming dream, but it was past. He had 
 deceived himself with the idea that Rose liked him ; that she 
 regarded him with a growing preference. Her smiles and 
 blushes were so eloquent ; and then how often had he imagined 
 he had seen the love-light beaming in her modest, but expres- 
 sive eyes ! Yet he could not accuse her of art or coquetry. 
 He had so far mastered the demon within him as to do justice 
 to her worth, and was magnanimous enough even to justify 
 her choice. 
 
 " Here are some books which I have brought you," said 
 he j " you may find something to interest you in their pages.
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 89 
 
 I hope so, at least, as it is not likely I shall see you again 
 very soon." 
 
 " Why not ?" ejaculated Rose, in a low voice. 
 
 " I do not feel as if my presence here could impart much 
 pleasure, or my absence regret. You have other dearer friends, 
 with whose claims I would not interfere, even if I had the 
 presumption to believe that I had any counter-influence." 
 
 " I am not so rich in friends that I can afford to lose one 
 as soon as I have found another," said Rose, giving him a 
 glance of mingled reproach and displeasure. " There are no 
 claims with which your kindness could interfere there is no 
 influence hostile to your own." 
 
 " Ah ! but there are some feelings which will not bear 
 partnership," exclaimed he, with a kindling countenance. 
 
 Just at this moment a side-gate opened, and farmer May- 
 field was seen approaching, with his shirt-sleeves rolled above 
 his elbows, and his gleaming scythe cradled on his shoulder. 
 Rose started and drew back with a heightened colour. Frank 
 bade her a hasty adieu, mounted his horse, and was out of 
 sight of the cottage before the farmer had hung his scythe in 
 its accustomed place. Then he repented the hasty impulse 
 which had led him to avoid the father, as if ashamed of him- 
 self, or the honest and hard-labouring man. Slackening his 
 pace, he rode leisurely along, trying to cool the fever of his 
 thoughts. He hung his hat on the pommel of the saddle, so 
 that the twilight breeze could blow upon his fervid brow, and 
 fixing his eye on the evening star that fairest gem in the 
 resplendent diadem of night watched the little white fleecy 
 clouds, one by one, glide over it, turning to silver as they 
 passed, then melt away in the soft tranquillity of the azure 
 firmament. 
 
 Mrs. Raymond had been so absorbed by her schemes for 
 Bell, and her plans to secure for her the exclusive devotion of 
 Mr. Urvin, that she had, in a measure, lost sight of Frank. 
 As he had said nothing more of Rose, she imagined that there 
 was no possible danger from that source, and Bell had never 
 mentioned that her name had ever been breathed by the lips 
 of Mr. Urvin. Many a time had Bell formed the resolution 
 of speaking to him of the farmer's daughter, but an unconquei 
 able dread of having her fears confirmed, always paralyzed her 
 tongue. Though she dared not think he had any peculiar 
 interest in herself, there was no one in her own circle whose 
 rivalship she feared, and she felt sure she had conquered his
 
 90 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 horror of a lette. He evidently sought her society, and paid 
 her the great and unmistakable compliment of addressing her 
 as a rational, intelligent, and immortal being. Mrs. Raymond 
 grew very impatient at this state of things, and counselled 
 Bell to assume certain airs and graces, which she had the 
 good sense to perceive would only create disgust or ridicule. 
 
 The evening after Frank's exciting visit to Rose, as he was 
 ounging on a sofa, near which his mother was seated, while 
 Bell flitted about the room, superfluously busy about nothing, 
 some chord of remembrance was struck which vibrated to the 
 name of Rose Mayfield. It might have been a dried acacia 
 sprig, put as a mark in one of Frank's books, or a withered 
 rose, or the engraving of a cottage, but whatever it was, the 
 image of Rose came, a charming vision before her mind's eye, 
 and forgetting the presence of her mother, Bell suddenly asked 
 Frank when he had seen Rose Mayfield. 
 
 Roused from a deep revery by the abrupt question, Frank, 
 unprepared to make an evasive answer, and disdaining it if he 
 were, replied : 
 
 "I saw her this very afternoon." 
 
 " This afternoon !" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond. " What ! 
 that farmer's daughter ! that low girl, with whom I forbade 
 you having the least intercourse ! Frank, Frank, how basely 
 you have deceived me !" 
 
 " I deny the charge !" cried Frank, springing up and look- 
 ing as brave as a lion. " I have never deceived you. When 
 you laid your commands upon me, I told you I was no longer 
 a boy, nor would I be treated as such. I never promised 
 obedience I never meant to do so." 
 
 " Frank !" cried Mrs. Raymond, pale and trembling with 
 passion. " Is this the respect I have a right to claim ? This 
 insolent defiance of my express prohibLJon this outrage to 
 propriety this disregard of your own social position this 
 shocking example to your sister !" 
 
 " In everything else I have tried to conform to your wishes, 
 mother, but I cannot adopt your narrow prejudices, or sacrifice 
 the happiness of my whole life to cold, heartless pride." 
 
 " Frank, there is not another gentleman in this city, who 
 would degrade himself as you have done !" 
 
 " What do you think of your admired Mr. Urvin youi 
 glass of fashion and your mould of form ? Did I not meet 
 him this very afternoon, riding from her gate ? He is her 
 most intimate friend ; the brother of the kdy in whose home
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 91 
 
 she was educated, and where she acquired that exquisite refine- 
 ment and grace of manner I have never seen equalled. Ask 
 him the next time you see him, what lie thinks of Hose May- 
 field." 
 
 " Mr. Urvin !" repeated Mrs. Raymond, in a raised voice. 
 " I cannot believe he has any interest in her, unless it may be 
 charity. His attentions to Bell have been too marked and 
 exclusive to allow of such a thing, even if he were tempted to 
 stoop so low." 
 
 " Mother !" cried Bell, whose face had turned as pale as 
 death, while Frank was speaking, " Mr. Urvin has never com- 
 mitted himself to me, by word or look. He has never mani- 
 fested for me more than the interest of a friend never." 
 
 " Everybody is talking about his attentions to you, and 
 your admiration of him. Everybody is congratulating me on 
 your brilliant prospects. It is your own fault, if he is not 
 your declared lover if you charm him one moment, you repel 
 him the next. A girl with half your attractions might have 
 secured him loug ago." 
 
 " Mother !" said Bell, with a dignity of manner so unwonted, 
 so unnatural, that Mrs. Raymond almost doubted her identity. 
 " I have never tried to secure or captivate Mr. Urvin. I formed 
 the rash design of doing so, when I heard he avoided, an in- 
 troduction to me. But in his presence, every vain and foolish 
 thought dies within me. I only feel his immeasurable superi- 
 ority, and the scorn and contempt he must feel for every little 
 and low-born artifice. I have never thought myself worthy 
 of him. I believe Rose Mayfield to be so. The first evening 
 he ever was here, I overheard him utter her name in a tone 
 of no common interest, and I felt a conviction that he loved 
 her. I am sorry for it, for Frank's sake." 
 
 " Really !" cried Mrs. Raymond, getting more and more 
 angry, " you will drive me crazy, talking about this girl. If 
 I thought Frank had one serious thought of marrying such a 
 one as she of linking himself to such low connexions he 
 should never darken these doors again." 
 
 " Well, mother, I have had a great many serious thought? 
 about marrying her, and I have not given them up yet, in 
 spite of my formidable rival. I am determined to enter the 
 lists with him, and he who wins must wear her." 
 
 " I suppose you will assist your honourable father-in-law in 
 the work of the farm," said his mother, in a cold, jeering tone. 
 
 " I should not think myself degraded by so doing. That
 
 92 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 little cabin would be to me lovely as the bowers of Eden, with 
 a Rose, sweet as the rose of Sharon, blooming there for me." 
 
 " Ridiculous ! absurd ! insulting I" cried Mrs. Raymond, 
 traversing the carpet with the true tragedy step. " If you 
 must talk in this outrageous manner, I desire you to leave the 
 room. Your presence is too oppressive." 
 
 " Willingly, my dear mother. I was just thinking of 
 taking a walk in the garden. Come, Bell the star-light is 
 beautiful, and the night-breeze is laden with the fragrance of 
 a thousand flowers." 
 
 Winding his arm round Bell, they were about to leave the 
 room together, when suddenly turning back, he approached 
 his mother, and said : 
 
 " I am sorry, I am grieved, that I have displeased you, my 
 mother. Forgive me, if I have uttered anything disrespectful 
 or defying. I would not forget my duty as a son, while I 
 assert my independence as a man. Will you not give me your 
 hand in token of reconciliation ?" 
 
 " I want no hollow professions," replied she, turning 
 haughtily away, and rejecting his offered hand. " Actions 
 speak louder than unmeaning words. There can be no recon- 
 ciliation that is not founded on obedience." 
 
 'The brother and sister left their exasperated mother, and 
 sought the balmy stillness of the flower garden. They walked 
 in silence till they reached an arbour of lattice work, literally 
 covered with odoriferous vines. There they sat down, when 
 all at once Bell leaned her head upon his shoulder and burst 
 into tears. He did not ask her why she wept, for his heart 
 told him why. But he was strangely affected by tears falling 
 BO copiously from eyes so unused to weep. His own eyes 
 glistened with sympathy, and pressing her tenderly to him, he 
 said: 
 
 " If we are both doomed to be unhappy by the same cause, 
 and our mother casts us in auger away, we will only cling 
 more closely to each other, Bell, and love each other with a 
 fonder, deeper, love."
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 93 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Look on a love, -which knows not to despair, 
 But all unquenched, is still my better part 
 Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
 As dwells the gathered lightning in the cloud." BYRON. 
 
 " Riches, like insects, 
 Wait but for wings, and in a moment fly." POPE. 
 
 MR. URVIN purchased an elegant house, and had it fur- 
 nished according to his own classic and magnificent taste a 
 widowed lady, a distant relative of his, presided over the 
 establishment and the world said all this was preparatory to 
 his marriage with Bell Raymond. When invitations were 
 issued for a party at this splendid Bachelor's Hall, as it was 
 styled, a thrill of pleasurable excitement went through the 
 heart of the social circle. But the deepest thrill was felt in 
 Mrs. Raymond's vain, ambitious bosom. 
 
 " This," thought she, " will be a decisive moment. Should 
 he distinguish Bell by public attention in his own home, it 
 will be equivalent to a declaration. As for this country girl, 
 Frank's jealousy has exaggerated her pretensions. Very 
 likely his sister might have taken her as a companion or an 
 underling, and if Bell did hear him mention her name, he was 
 probably recommending her as a chambermaid or a seamstress. 
 I never saw anything like the infatuation of these children." 
 
 Bell looked forward to the evening with no anticipations of 
 triumph. A great change had come over her. The light 
 and flimsy materials which had long disguised the naturally fine 
 proportions of her character, had gradually been burning out 
 in the pure and vestal flame kindled in her heart. Vanity 
 and love cannot exist together, they cannot breathe the same 
 atmosphere j for humility, with softening shadow, follows the 
 footsteps of love, and the eye, fixed with adoring gaze on the 
 perfections of another, forgets to admire its own radiance. I 
 
 Bell was indeed greatly changed. Her mother scolded and 
 fretted, and said that she was grown dull and stupid, and 
 actually losing her beauty for want of animation. Bell had 1 
 learned to think that beauty was not the only charm that
 
 94 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 could captivate the heart of man. The dark, searching eye, 
 whose glance rested upon her with such power and intensity, 
 penetrated far deeper than the surface, and she felt as if there 
 was a kind of omniscience in its beam as if all her folly and 
 waywardness were laid bare before it, neutralizing the transient 
 admiration that beauty might inspire. 
 
 It was late when they entered the crowded rooms, for Mrs. 
 Raymond always liked to create a sensation wherever she went. 
 As they passed along with slow steps through the human waves 
 that divided to make a passage for them, to the lady of the 
 house, Bell started as if a shock of electricity ran through her 
 frame. Through the vista made by the opening, she saw their 
 host, at the upper end of the illuminated apartment, and stand- 
 ing by him, with her arm linked in his, was a young girl, 
 whom she had never before met in the halls of wealth and 
 fashion. And in unadorned white, she was not more conspicu- 
 ous for the simplicity of her dress, than for her sweet and 
 blooming loveliness. She looked like a rose freshly plucked 
 from the wild wood, in all its dewy fragrance and purity. 
 
 "Who is that beautiful girl leaning on the arm of Mr. 
 Urvin ?" asked Mrs. Raymond in a tone of wonder and alarm. 
 
 Bell looked everywhere but at the right place. She felt a 
 mysterious reluctance to mention aloud a name which would 
 ring as the death-knell of all her hopes. Mrs. Raymond re- 
 peated the question impatiently of Frank, whom she had by 
 no means restored to favour. He, for reasons best known to 
 himself, was equally blind and obtuse. He could not distin- 
 guish Mr. Urvin, though his stately figure rose above all that 
 surrounded him. He turned his head to the right and left 
 looked everywhere but straight before him while his face 
 reddened and his brow contracted. In the mean time, Mr. 
 Urvin said something in a low voice to the young lady, who, 
 withdrawing her arm, drew modestly back from the blaze of 
 the chandelier, while Mr. Urvin advanced to meet his guests. 
 Mrs. Raymond's jealous fears were somewhat soothed by the 
 manner in which he accosted Bell, offered her his arm, and re- 
 quested the privilege of introducing her to a young friend of 
 his, who was a stranger in the city, and to whom he had pro- 
 mised the pleasure of her acquaintance. Mrs. Raymond's 
 eyes eagerly followed the graceful figure of her daughter, so 
 beautifully contrasted with the tall form of her conductor, and 
 as he bowed his head, evidently conversing with her in a low,
 
 f 
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 95 
 
 earnest voice, till his sable hair almost touched her lustrous 
 ringlets, her hopes rose from their unexpected prostration. 
 
 " There, Frank ! you can see her now. She is standing by 
 that flower-stand yonder," repeated she. " What a be"autiful 
 profile, and fine-turned head ! Who can she be ?" 
 
 " Do you think her pretty ?" asked Frank, in a tone of in- 
 difference. " Really, you have a strange taste ! Do you not 
 think there is something low and vulgar in her air ? I 
 shrewdly suspect she is a parvenue." 
 
 " I ought not to wonder at your difference of opinion," said 
 his mother in a tone of sarcasm, " since you have lately given 
 such a proof of the refinement and fastidiousness of your own 
 taste. This young lady has a decidedly distinguished air, and 
 must be somebody, or Mr. Urvin would not have honoured her 
 by his attention. See he is introducing her to Bell. Why 
 don't you go and seek an introduction yourself, instead of 
 looking so red and stupid, and staring at her so strangely ?" 
 
 " Well, I will go, and then introduce her to you, mother. 
 Perhaps she will look better on a nearer view." 
 
 Mrs. Raymond seated herself where she could watch the 
 trio, now standing by the pyramid of flowering plants, which 
 formed a blooming back-ground to their figures, and brought 
 them out in strong relief. 
 
 '' Frank seems to have made an impression," thought she, 
 noting the radiant blush and smile with which she received 
 his low bow. " He is a handsome boy, and knows how to 
 make himself agreeable, too. Perhaps this young lady is an 
 heiress. If she is, Heaven grant that she may cure him of 
 his disgraceful partiality for that farmer's daughter ! But 
 supposing Mr. Urvin himself " 
 
 She would not admit the painful suggestion that pressed 
 upon her thoughts. It was not very long before Frank ap- 
 proached her, arm in arm with the beautiful stranger. It is 
 seldom, on a first introduction, especially in a buzzing crowd, 
 that one hears the name distinctly. Perhaps Frank did not 
 articulate as clearly as usual, or her hearing might be a little 
 obtuse. She certainly understood him to say Miss Haymead, 
 and nothing could exceed the cordial politeness of her man- 
 ner. 
 
 Frank had expected a start of amazement, a look of em- 
 barrassment and displeasure. He could not account for the 
 smiling ease and suavity which animated her manner, but he 
 rejoiced in it. H soon, however, was made aware of the
 
 96 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 truth, by her addressing the young lady as Miss Haymead. 
 Whether Rose (for every one must know that it was Rose 
 Mayfield thus suddenly transplanted among the exotics of 
 fashion) did not notice the mistake, or whether she was deter- 
 red from correcting it by the flashing movement of Frank's 
 eye, she suffered it to pass without comment. Mrs. Raymond 
 appeared enchanted by her conversation, and Frank, yielding 
 himself to the joyous influences of the psesent moment, forgot 
 his jealous madness, and his spirits rose and sparkled and 
 effervesced, till Rose caught the contagion and laughed as gayly 
 as Bell had done in her own cottage home. 
 
 Frank was not allowed to monopolize one who was invested 
 with the attractive charm of novelty, and who, rumour said, 
 was a niece of the distinguished host. She was surrounded 
 by admirers, eager to secure her attention, and even the beauti- 
 ful Bell was eclipsed by the blooming cottage maid. 
 
 " Have you ascertained if she is an heiress, Frank ?" asked 
 Mrs. Raymond of her son. 
 
 " Yes, mother ! She has an inheritance richer, by far, than 
 any one in this assembly, and what is more, it is secured by 
 such inalienable rights, that it cannot be taken away from, 
 her." 
 
 " I trust you will profit by the opportunity," cried the 
 worldly, scheming woman. "She's evidently pleased with 
 you, and I have no doubt you will succeed, if you try. You 
 cannot now bestow a thought on the low girl, whom you pre- 
 tended to admire so much." 
 
 " Nevertheless, mother, she is just as pretty and accom- 
 plished as this charming Miss Hayflower." 
 
 "Ridiculous ! Let me hear no more of this folly." 
 " But Mr. Urvin you forget him. How can I contend 
 with such a powerful rival ?" 
 
 " How do you know he is your rival ? I told you before, 
 that the world had given him to your sister, and his attentions 
 have justified the report. Besides, you are much younger and 
 handsomer than he is." 
 
 " Thank you for the compliment, mother ; but she may not 
 see with your eyes." 
 
 Before the company dispersed, she took the most elaborate 
 pains to seek Miss Haymead and inquire her address, that she 
 and her daughter might have the honour of calling on her. 
 
 " I reside in the country," answered the young girl, looking 
 down, while a smile played upon her lips.
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 97 
 
 " Indeed ! I shall certainly trouble Mr. Urvin to direct us 
 to your residence." 
 
 " Your son has my address, madam," said Rose, with a 
 blush which Mrs. Raymond hailed as the surety of his success. 
 Another circumstance elated her spirits Mr. Urvin accom- 
 panied Bell to the carriage, and wrapped her shawl around her 
 with his own hands an attention she had not seen him bestow 
 upon a lady before. 
 
 " What a charming young lady Miss Haymead is !" ex- 
 claimed she, as the carriage rolled over the pavement. 
 
 " Miss who ?" cried Bell, elevating her voice. Frank gave 
 her arm an admonishing pinch, and whispered, "hush!" 
 
 11 Miss Haymead ! The young lady who created such a 
 sensation to-night. I am sure you must know whom I mean." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! the beautiful stranger. Were you really pleased 
 with her, mother ?" 
 
 " Pleased ! I was charmed and I am glad the scales have 
 fallen from Frank's eyes at last, so that he can perceive what 
 true beauty and gentility is." 
 
 Bell burst into one of her old musical laughs. 
 
 " I am glad to see you in such spirits," said her mother. 
 " Mr. Urvin talked with you a great deal to-night. I hope he 
 said something to the purpose." 
 
 " He never seems to utter an aimless word," was the reply. 
 
 " Precious are the words which the lips of wisdom utter," 
 added she, in a low, soliloquizing voice. 
 
 " They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the islands 
 of the blest, 
 
 Which thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart. 
 
 They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting through the 
 tilth of time, 
 
 Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angels' food. 
 
 They be drops of crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter, 
 
 When on some brighter Sabbath, their plumes quiver most with de- 
 light." 
 
 " Why, Bell, I thought you did not know more than six 
 lines of poetry by heart," said Frank. 
 
 " These are the very six lines I do know." 
 
 " And how came you to remember these ?" 
 
 " I heard Mr. Urvin quote them." 
 
 " I think it was time he was saying something more sub-
 
 98 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 stantial than poetry," interrupted Mrs. Raymond angrily. 
 " Tell me, Bell, has he not spoken to you of marriage yet ?" 
 
 " He has spoken of marriage in general, but not in par- 
 ticular, mother." 
 
 " I think he is old enough to make up his mind. 
 
 " You forget Rose Mayfield, mother, and what Frank told 
 you about her." 
 
 The darkness of night concealed her countenance, and her 
 mother did not notice the tremor of her voice. 
 
 Rose Fiddlestick !" she exclaimed. " Never mention that 
 
 Mrs. Raymond felt as if she could have killed the fatted 
 calf for her repentant prodigal as soon as they arrived at home, 
 so delighted was she with the return of his native aristocracy. 
 
 It was well for her that she was unconscious of the terrible 
 "blow impending, though when it fell, it crushed almost an- 
 nihilated her and she lay a miserable victim beneath the 
 
 ruins of wealth and pride. The Bank, in which all 
 
 her property was invested, failed, and hundreds who were 
 rolling in affluence, were reduced to sudden penury. The 
 brother and sister were at first stunned and dismayed, and 
 then Bell wept and sobbed like a heart-broken child. But 
 after this ebullition of passionate regret, it was astonishing 
 with what calmness and fortitude she looked the future in 
 the face, dark and threatening as it seemed. Her mind, with 
 elastic power, rebounded from the pressure beneath which her 
 mother impotently groaned, and she exulted in the conscious- 
 ness of new-born energies. Frank, too, was grave and thought- 
 ful, but not despairing. It was for Bell he trembled, not for 
 himself; but when he saw her so brave and self-relying, it 
 made him doubly strong. 
 
 " I am not going to shed another tear, Frank," said she. 
 " I feel now, that I shall have an aim for which to live. I 
 remember a remark of Mr. Urvin's, that labour was the great 
 sacrament of life. Is not that a noble sentiment ? I am sure 
 I shall feel happier to be doing something, than leading such 
 a useless, idle, and selfish existence, as I have hitherto done." 
 
 " Yes, it must be very noble to labour. But what can you 
 do ? I can work I can toil I can do either head-work or 
 hand-work, but what can you do with those fair, feeble hands, 
 and that little girlish head ?"
 
 BELL AND ROSE 1 . 99 
 
 "I can do a great deal, sir. I can teach a school, give 
 music or embroidery lessons. Drawing and painting I under- 
 stand. I am willing to do anything but take in sewing. I 
 believe that would kill me." 
 
 " / shall be able to support you and mother both. You 
 shall never toil for a subsistence." 
 
 " We must give up this beautiful house," said Bell. 
 
 " And get some neat little cottage in the country," cried 
 Frank, " with a small farm and a dairy." 
 
 " Oh ! that will be delightful," exclaimed Bell ; "but poor 
 mother ! I fear she will never be happy again. It is dreadful 
 to hear her bewailings and murmurs. What shall we do with 
 her ?" 
 
 Yes, what was to be done with Mrs. Raymond ? That was 
 the question. She was the most refractory and unmanageable 
 being in the world. While her children were bravely wrest- 
 ling with their destiny, in all their youth and inexperience, 
 appealing to her for counsel and encouragement, she gave her- 
 self up to frantic and impatient grief. She would not hear, 
 of giving up the house she inhabited, with its costly and 
 elegant furniture, and live in some little mean hovel, which 
 they, with their grovelling tastes, might be satisfied in. She 
 was not sunk so low as that. Bell should never degrade 
 herself by teaching school or giving private lessons. Frank 
 should never perform a hireling's duty, or accept a hireling's 
 wages. 
 
 " But what shall we live upon, mother ?" asked the son. 
 " How shall we pay our daily expenses ?" 
 
 " How do other people live, who have failed, I should like 
 to know ? I know many a family which has kept up the same 
 style as before, only more elegant and luxurious. We can do 
 as they do." 
 
 " Oh ! mother, how can you speak in this manner to your 
 children, who are willing to do anything for themselves and 
 you ?" cried Frank, his cheek burning with the hue of shame. 
 
 " There is certainly no need of raising all this hue and cry 
 at present. No one is going to turn us out of house and home. 
 A family occupying the rank which ours does, will be treated 
 with more consideration. As for you, you have nothing to 
 do but to address Miss Haymead immediately, and secure her 
 fortune ; and as for you, Bell, a very little manoeuvring will 
 bring Mr. Urvin, cold and haughty as he is, to your feet." 
 
 " Oh ! mother !" it was Bell's turn to exclaim, " will you
 
 100 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 never understand me? When I first saw him of whom you 
 now speak, I was vain and bold enough to meditate the con- 
 quest of his noble heart, willing even to stoop to artifice and 
 manoeuvring, to effect my design. But now, since I know 
 him, and know myself better, I should as soon think of allur- 
 ing the sun from his central throne, as to dream of winning 
 him by those light and meretricious acts his influence has 
 taught me to loathe and to scorn. No, mother," continued 
 she and her blue eye lighted up with the enthusiasm she had 
 long kept down in her bosom, as something too sacred for 
 show, and shed a sudden glory upon her face "were he freely 
 and unsought, to offer me his love, and were I worthy of such 
 a gift, a long life were all too short to prove my gratitude and 
 joy. But never, never speak of it again. It is humiliating 
 to us both." 
 
 Without waiting for her mother to eply, Bell hurried from 
 the room, sighing for the want of that maternal sympathy and 
 support for which her yearning spirit vainly sought. 
 
 Mr. Urvin did not desert them in these darkened moments. 
 He came more frequently, was more kind and assiduous than 
 ever. With equal delicacy and generosity, he offered all the 
 assistance which, as a friend, he felt privileged to bestow. Mrs. 
 Raymond would eagerly have availed herself of his politeness, 
 as she called it, but the children struggled nobly with her 
 selfish resolve. 
 
 " We can never repay him," they said ; " we cannot live 
 under the burthen of obligations so painfully incurred. We 
 must rely on ourselves, and we never shall be younger, stronger, 
 or more able to cope with our destiny." 
 
 In spite of the frowns and reproaches of her mother, Bell 
 unfolded her plans to Mr. Urvin, and frankly asked his advice 
 as to the best course to be adopted. His countenance lighted 
 up with pleasure as she spoke. The glance he bent upon her 
 was full of encouragement and approbation. 
 
 " I know your motives," said he. " I admire your resolution. 
 I thank you warmly for your confidence in my friendship and 
 your appeal to my judgment. I will do anything in the world 
 to assist your noble design. I have no doubt you will find in 
 your accomplishments an ample resource, and your brother's 
 talents will enable him to secure some ofiice of honour and 
 emolument." 
 
 " Do you advise my daughter to advertise as a hireling, for
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 101 
 
 wages?" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, a hot, red flush spreading 
 over her face. 
 
 " I would advise her to follow the noble impulse that urges 
 her to gird herself for the trials and discipline of life, madam." 
 
 " But the disgrace, Mr. Urvin.!" 
 
 " There is no disgrace in the performance of duty. There 
 is honour, there is glory in it. Believe me, madam, your 
 daughter will be far more worthy of admiration, giving lessons 
 in music and drawing, in your present emergency, than as 
 the belle of a brilliant assembly, the cynosure of beauty and 
 fashion." 
 
 Bell looked towards him, her eyes radiant with gratitude. 
 How strong, how hopeful, how happy she felt ! She longed 
 to begin her new life of duty and self-exertion. She talked 
 with animation of the- future, which brightened in the sun- 
 shine of Mr. Urviu's anrroving smile. Never had she seen 
 him smile so benignly. If ever had his voice sounded so gently 
 in her ear. Did he indeed love Rose Mayfield ? 
 
 " Well !" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, as soon as he had de- 
 parted, " it is all over now. If he ever thought, of marrying 
 you, he would never counsel you to take such a course. That 
 is certain. You might have had him if you had followed my 
 advice, instead of turning into such a poor, hum-drum, spirit- 
 less thing. Ah, me ! who would wish to be a mother ?" 
 
 Poor Mrs. Raymond ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blushed with love and virgin shame." COLERIDGE. 
 
 "Hence, bashful cunning! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me." SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 IN spite of the opposition of Mrs. Raymond, the proposed 
 plans were carried into operation. The house was given up 
 for one suited to their altered circumstances. Bell, through 
 the influence of Mr. Urvin, who assumed all the responsibili- 
 ties of her instalment, obtained as many pupils in music and 
 drawing as she desired. Prank accepted the office of clerk in 

 
 102 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 one of the largest mercantile establishments in the city. The 
 merchant had been a friend of his late father, and was anxious 
 to assist the young man who was willing to assist himself. 
 
 Thus the winter months passed away, and they might have 
 been happy were it not for the peevish repinings of Mrs. Ray- 
 mond. It is not probable that Frank had forgotten Rose, or 
 that he did not occasionally visit the farmer's cottage. When 
 his mother persecuted him about Miss Haymead, he always 
 told her that he did visit and pay court to her, and that when 
 he could hold his head a little higher he intended to propose. 
 
 One evening, after Bell had dismissed her pupils, she sat 
 leaning her head on the piano, in a dejected, listless attitude. 
 She felt that sudden subsidence of the spirits, that sinking of 
 the heart which persons of ardent sensibility often experience, 
 and for which they cannot account. The burden of life began 
 to press a little heavier upon her. The excitement of novelty 
 was long since past, and the monotony of her daily task at 
 this moment assumed an aspect of absolute dreariness. She 
 thought how sweet it would be to toil even ten times harder 
 than she was compelled to do, sustained by the love of one 
 whose name, even in thought, made all the pulses of her being 
 thrill. His friendship was the most precious boon of heaven ; 
 but his love Oh ! that would be Heaven itself. 
 
 " Oh ! not for me, not for me !" murmured she to herself, 
 while the tears glided faster and faster down her pale cheeks. 
 
 " In tears, Bell !" exclaimed Mr. Urvin, entering at this 
 moment with unusually gentle tread. " In tears !" repeated 
 he, approaching her, and, sitting down by her, he took one of 
 her trembling hands in his. " What has occurred to sadden 
 this brave, resisting spirit ?" 
 
 " Nothing," replied she, hastily. " I am very foolish 
 very childish but sometimes there is such a balm in tears I" 
 
 11 You are weary. Your life is too monotonous, too seden- 
 tary. Your burthen is greater than you can bear. Lean on 
 me my arm is strong, and my heart is firm. Sympathy, my 
 poor child, is the sweetest privilege of friendship." 
 
 Laying his hand soothingly on her head, which bowed be- 
 neath his light touch, he drew still nearer to her. Then he 
 talked to her in low, gentle, yet earnest accents, of the disci- 
 pline of life ; of the fire by which the gold of the heart must 
 be purified of its dross ; of the clouds of suffering, which, like 
 those that gather round the setting sun, change to golden 
 radiance beneath the rays of the Sun of Righteousness.
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 103 
 
 " Oli !" thought she, " if friendship is so sweet, so con- 
 soling, why should I sigh for love ?" 
 
 " Would you not like to relinquish your present toilsome 
 mode of existence?" he asked. " Have you never dreamed 
 of happiness which cannot be enjoyed alone ? Does your heart 
 feel no dearth, no void, which the consciousness of duties 
 performed, which even the hope of Heaven cannot fill ?" 
 
 Never had he spoken with such thrilling earnestness. Bell 
 lifted her eyes to bow them again before a glance of dazzling, 
 burning power, when the door opened and Mrs. Raymond 
 entered with her usual imposing air. Mr. Urvin rose from 
 his chair with a slight contraction of the brow, indicative of 
 vexation. Bell, who had felt as if the crisis of her destiny 
 were at hand, when her trembling hopes were to be confirmed, 
 or her haunting fears made truths, never had known her 
 mother's presence so oppressive. Frank entered soon after, 
 and under no circumstances could he be an unwelcome guest, 
 there was something so gladdening and care-dispelling, and, . 
 in spite of a little occasional brusqucrie, and don't care for 
 anything kind of manner, so love-creating about him. 
 
 " Frank," said Mr. Urvin, " I want you and your sister to 
 take a ride in the country with me to-morrow. You can go 
 on horseback if you please. Close confinement is wilting the 
 roses of her cheek, and the pure, rustic breeze, fresh from the 
 mountains, will do BO injury to yourself. Would you like it, 
 Bell?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" she replied, with so much eagerness she blushed 
 afterwards, and wished she could school her feelings better. 
 
 " I have promised my young friend, Hose Mayfield, this 
 pleasure long since," said he. " You are mere acquaint- 
 ances now I want you to become friends intimate, lite-long 
 friends." 
 
 " Rose Mayfield !" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, giving hei 
 head one of its old-fashioned tosses. " I assure you, Mr. Ur- 
 vin, that I have no desire that my daughter should form such 
 intimacies. If we have lost our fortune, we can at least re- 
 tain our respectability and self-respect." 
 
 " Far be it from me, madam, to endanger either. On the 
 contrary, they will both be enhanced by the intimacy I have 
 urged on your daughter." 
 
 " Why, she is nothing but a poor farmer's daughter !" 
 
 " Mother !" interrupted Bell, " you forget she is i friend of 
 Mr. Urvin' s the adopted daughter of his sister. Surely you
 
 104 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 would not wound his feelings by disparaging remarks upon 
 one in whom he is so deeply interested." 
 
 " If Mr. Urvin chooses to form such associations," said the 
 lady, exasperated on account of this depth of interest, which 
 she considered an outrageous injury to Bell, " I am sure it is 
 no business of mine. But in my own family, I might expect 
 some little influence and authority. I do not consider Miss 
 Rose Mayfield a proper companion for my children." 
 
 " You appeared to admire her very much, madam, when she 
 had the honour of an introduction to you," observed 'he, with 
 a sarcastic smile. 
 
 "Ill never saw the girl in my life." 
 
 " Pardon me for contradicting you, but you met her under 
 my own roof, where she divided with your daughter the ad- 
 miration of a large and brilliant assembly." 
 
 "I remarked no stranger but Miss Haymead," cried she, 
 beginning to look very red. 
 
 " Excuse me, mother," said Frank, coming forward. " I 
 introduced her to you as Miss Mayfield. The improvement 
 you made upon her name, was an idea of your own. I sup- 
 pose you thought it more aristocratic." 
 
 " If you have all entered into a conspiracy to deceive and 
 make a fool of me," exclaimed his mother, looking from one 
 to the other with inexpressible displeasure, '< I know not which 
 most to admire, the silliness or impertinence of the plot." 
 
 " It was pure accident, mother," said Frank. " I intended 
 to correct the mistake, but you seemed so charmed with her, 
 I feared to break the spell." 
 
 " You said she was the heiress of a rich inheritance. What 
 a base deception !" 
 
 " She is," cried Mr. Urvin, with dignity. " Your son has 
 uttered nothing but the truth. She is the heiress of an inheri- 
 tance ' incorruptible, undefiled, and that passeth not away/ 
 Nor is this all, she has in reversion, a fortune which you will 
 probably deem of far greater worth. As the adopted daughter 
 of my sister, she would have been splendidly endowed, had 
 not treachery robbed her of her rightful dowry. I shall do 
 her that justice myself, which my sister was prevented from 
 doing. Heaven has blessed me with an ample fortune, which. 
 I intend. G-od willing, that Rose Mayfield shall share. She 
 will be no dowerless bride for the man, who, appreciating her 
 matchless excellence, shall bind her to his heart by those ties 
 which only crime or death can sever ; and now, madam," added
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 105 
 
 he, subduing the somewhat commanding tone of his voice, 
 " I shall deem any remarks derogatory to Rose Mayfield, as 
 an insult to myself, who am proud to consider myself her 
 guardian and her friend." 
 
 Mrs. Raymond was too much awed hy his manner, and the 
 dark fire that flashed from his eye, to attempt a reply. Un- 
 able to suppress her mortification, she abruptly left the room 
 and retired to her own, where we do not believe any one had 
 the least inclination to follow her. 
 
 " Rose will share his fortune," again and again sighed the 
 throbbing heart of Bell. " It is as his wife, he means. I 
 though I knew yes I knew it would be so." 
 
 " Rose will share his fortune I" repeated Frank, to himself. 
 " Then it is decided, and there is no earthly hope for such a 
 poor fellow as myself. Heaven preserve me from the mean- 
 ness of envy, and bind up the wound which I fear will be in- 
 flicted on the heart of my noble Bell." 
 
 " To-morrow !" said Mr. Urvin in departing. " I trust wo 
 shall have a happy day." 
 
 He looked very happy himself, but he left thoughtful, seri- 
 ous faces behind him. 
 
 It was a bright, blue, vernal morning, and when Bell found 
 herself by Mr. Urvin in an elegant carriage, while Frank rode 
 as a cavalier in advance, she felt, whatever life had in store 
 for her, there was joy, there was. rapture, in the present 
 moment. Mr. Urvin's manner was so kind and tender, his 
 conversation so fascinating how could she think of any- 
 thing else ? Then the air was so balmy with the incense 
 of opening flowers, so full of the sweet music of singing waters 
 and warbling birds and rustling leaves, her young heart, 
 liberated from the restraint of daily discipline, throbbed in 
 unison with the great, glad heart of nature. The ride seemed 
 all too short, when they stopped at a large white gate, in 
 front of a handsome new house, built in the cottage style, in 
 the midst of a beautiful green yard, shaded by acacia trees. 
 Bell cast an inquiring glance towards her companion, who, 
 smiling at her bewildered expression, sprang from the carriage, 
 and assisted her to descend. 
 
 " Our hostess stands at the door to welcome us," said he. 
 " Do you recognise her ?" 
 
 Bell looked, but the hostess was not standing in the door ; 
 she was running down the steps to meet them, and Bell was 
 sure, from her dress and manner, that they were expected 
 124
 
 106 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 guests. A glow, bright as the morning, dawned on her face. 
 She ushered them into a little parlour, newly and handsomely 
 furnished, containing nothing to remind one of the old room 
 in the cabin, but the hour-glass, which now stood on the 
 mantelpiece, and the boughs of the acacia trees, that shaded 
 the windows. 
 
 '" You miss the old cabin," said Rose, " do you not ? 
 Yonder it is, in the back-ground, and there Hannah presides, 
 the happiest of human beings. Can you imagine what modern 
 Aladdin has built this palace for our abode, leaving us almost 
 without a wish, certainly without a want ?" 
 
 She cast a grateful, Bell thought an adoring, glance at Mr. 
 Urvin, whose countenance beamed with joy. Yes, the shelves 
 of books were there also, hanging on the wall. Frank, who 
 thought himself armed with sufficient philosophy to think of 
 Rose as a friend, felt his panoply falling away from him, 
 leaving him unhelmed, unshielded, and weaponless. Finding 
 it difficult to talk with ease, he turned to the book shelves, 
 and pretended to be absorbed by their contents. He took up 
 his own Shakespeare. He could not help perceiving that 
 every passage he had read and admired was marked, and as 
 he opened the leaves, rose petals, carefully pressed, dropped 
 at his feet. 
 
 " Take care !" said Rose, stooping to gather the faded bls- 
 soms. As she lifted her head, their eyes met with mutual 
 embarrassment, and as she dropped the rose leaves between 
 the pages, her hand, which accidentally touched his, trembled. 
 This did not seem like indifference. Frank looked involun- 
 tarily at Mr. Urvin, expecting to see a jealous frown, but on 
 the contrary, he wore a remarkably benignant expression, 
 though he was gazing on them. 
 
 _ " He does not seem to be jealous," thought Frank. " I'll try 
 him a little more. I'll ask her to go to the spring, and drink 
 perchance the last pure draught of happiness that will ever 
 refresh my thirsty spirit." 
 
 The serene expression of Mr. Urvin's countenance did not 
 change, as they passed out together, unless it beamed with 
 greater satisfaction. Bell was vexed with herself at the em- 
 barrassment she experienced, on finding herself alone with Mr. 
 Urvin. She thought it hardly polite in Rose to leave her, 
 and wondered if Rose would have been pleased, if she had 
 gone with Mr. Urvin in the same manner. 
 , " How very lovely Rose is !" said she, following with her
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 107 
 
 eyes, her retreating figure. " I thought her merely pretty 
 when I first saw her now, she is really beautiful." 
 
 " She is lovely, and what is more, she is good and true," 
 replied Mr. Urvin. " She is worthy of the heart, she has 
 won." 
 
 " I believe so. I have always thought, always said so," 
 cried Bell, speaking with warmth, though cold shivers crept 
 through her frame. " I congratulate you on the treasure you 
 have gained. I hope I trust " 
 
 She thought she would make an eloquent speech, but her 
 voice grew husky, then faltered and died away. Ashamed of 
 her emotion, and terrified at the construction he might put 
 upon it, she rose precipitately to leave the room, when he in- 
 tercepted her flight. 
 
 " Why do you congratulate me ?" he cried, taking her hand 
 and leading her back to her seat, while a triumphant smile 
 played upon his lips. " Look at me, Bell, read the language 
 of my countenance truly and honestly, and then, if you have 
 faith in my integrity, tell me if you believe that I love Rose 
 Mayfield ; that it is of my own heart I was speaking ; that I 
 have, even in thought, ever rivalled your brother ?" 
 
 Bell looked up one moment the next, her head was bowed, 
 and her cheeks, forehead and neck, were suffused with crimson. 
 Even the hand which he held, caught a roseate tinge, from 
 the sun-burst of happiness that illumined her heart. 
 
 " I have never intended to trifle with your feelings, Bell," 
 added he, after a pause of deep emotion, for he actually 
 trembled to perceive the extent of his own overmastering 
 influence. " I have withheld the expression of my own, in 
 spite of almost irresistible temptations, while adversity has 
 been testing and time confirming your long latent virtues. 
 fCven from the first, I was charmed by your beauty, and 
 fascinated by the strange minglitog of artlessnoss and affecta- 
 tion, of simplicity and coquetry, visible in /our character. 
 But I have passed the heyday of youthful romance, and could 
 not choose as the wife of my bosom, a mere daughter of fashion, 
 a devotee of the world. I resisted the spell, though I still 
 kept within the sphere of the enchantress. It was not till 
 your sudden reverse of fortune, that I knew the extent of my 
 infatuation. Ah ! little did you imagine, when I coldly 
 counselled, and cautiously directed your course of action, 
 urging you with the sternness of a stoic, to gird yourself for 
 the battle of life, without offering to guard you in the day of
 
 108 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 conflict, how I longed to fold you in my protecting arms, and 
 make my bosom your shield in danger, your pillow in peace. 
 But I saw that God had taken you by the hand, to lead you 
 through the refiner's fire, and I followed His steps, trembling, 
 lest you should sink in the flames kindled to purify your soul. 
 Many a time have I been tempted to speak and shorten your 
 day of trial ; but so nobly, so heroically did you bear yourself, 
 it seemed sacrilege to wish to turn you into a different path, 
 though the one you were treading might be strewed with 
 thorns. Bell, I am no young, boyish wooer, raving of love 
 and rapture. I am a man, much older than yourself, and 
 made of far sterner materials; but such as I am, I love you, 
 with a love, strong, and deep, and boundless and enduring." 
 
 It is doubtful whether any one ever felt happier than Bell, 
 while listening to this manly avowal of all she ever wished to 
 inspire. But the fervour of his manner was so chastened by 
 solemnity, so subdued by tenderness, that she wept, even 
 while her heart was aching from the oppression of its joy we 
 should rather say, because of that strange fullness and oppres- 
 sion. 
 
 In the mean time, Frank and Kose stood by the spring, 
 shaded by the prettiest little arbour in the world. 
 
 " Rose !" exclaimed Frank, with all the straightforwardness 
 and impetuosity of his nature, "only tell me one thing. 
 Don't trifle with me. Don't keep me in suspense for I can- 
 not bear it. Are you going to marry Mr. Urvin ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, unless he asks me," she replied, with a 
 provoking smile, " but tell me by what right you presume to 
 ask me such unwarrantable questions?" When, seeing the 
 tragic expression of his countenance, she added, with a gentle, 
 earnest gravity 
 
 " I love Mr. Urvin as my elder brother, esteem him as my 
 best friend, and revere him as my generous, my noble bene- 
 factor. He regards me with a kind of parental interest, as 
 the adopted child of his sister, whom he most dearly loved. 
 You see what he has done for my father. This beautiful cot- 
 tage, with all the comforts and luxuries it contains, he pre- 
 sented to me, that my father might receive as my gift, what 
 he would not accept from another hand. I should be the 
 most ungrateful of human beings, if I did not revere him 
 
 next to my God. ^ But as for love " She paused, smiled, 
 
 and stooping down, scooped some of the gushing water in the
 
 BELL AND ROSE. 109 
 
 hollow of her hand, and scattered it in diamonds over his 
 head. 
 
 This playful, graceful act did more to put Frank a.t his ease, 
 than a multitude of words could do. 
 
 " One question more," cried he, emboldened by her gayety. 
 " Could you, do you, will you, love such a poor, good-for- 
 nothing fellow as myself? A little while ago I could have 
 laid a fortune at your feet now I am poor. I dare not ask 
 you to share my poverty, but if you could only love me one 
 millionth part as much as I love you, I should be inspired to 
 do the work of a thousand giants. I would be a second Midas, 
 and transmute everything into gold, by the divine alchemy of 
 love. I would wait and serve like another Jacob, thinking 
 the days hours, and the hours minutes, for the exceeding love 
 I bear you." 
 
 " But, supposing, as we are both poor, we should labour 
 hand in hand, and not wait as long as Jacob did !" cried Hose, 
 with a most beautiful blush. 
 
 " Do you say that, Rose ?" exclaimed Frank. " Heaven 
 bless you, Rose. I don't deserve I can hardly bear so much 
 happiness I" 
 
 In the ecstasy of his joy, he was about to throw his arms 
 around her, when a fresh shower of diamonds sparkled in his 
 face and blinded his eyes. 
 
 " If you would have peace, there must be space between 
 us," said she, laughing at the twinkling of his eyes, as he shook 
 the bright drops from his hair. " Come, let us go back to the 
 house. It is rude in me to leave your sister so long." 
 
 "Tell me first, if I must be a farmer, Rose." 
 
 11 What are you now ?" 
 
 " A lawyer by profession, a clerk by necessity." 
 
 " You had better consult Mr. Urvin." 
 
 "But," exclaimed Frank suddenly, with a clouded counte- 
 nance, " I forgot one thing you are rich you are an heiress. 
 Mr. Urvin said he intended to settle half his fortune on you." 
 
 " I desire no fortune," interrupted Rose, " I would not accept 
 it if it were offered. I am richer now than my hopes, as afflu- 
 ent as my wishes. I am only poor in words to speak my 
 heart's immeasurable content." 
 
 And she yielded her hand with charming grace to Frank, 
 whose usually merry eyes actually glistened as he received it. 
 
 Does any one care to hear how well Farmer May field looked, 
 in his Sunday clothes, presiding at the dinner table, and
 
 110 BELL AND ROSE. 
 
 carving the roasted turkey with his strong brown hands? 
 What delicious curds and cream were served by the fair hands 
 of Rose, and what happy faces shone around that simple, 
 hospitable board ? Perhaps the farmer did most of the eating 
 himself, as labour creates appetite and sentiment destroys it, 
 but no one cares for that. 
 
 Does any one care to know how Mrs. Raymond became 
 reconciled to the marriage of her son with the farmer's 
 daughter? and how she exulted in securing, at last, the rich 
 and distinguished Mr. Urvin as her son-in-law ? 
 
 There is something so repulsive in her character, we would 
 rather say nothing more about her, regretting that the'paradise 
 of Bell's happy home should be marred by so ungenial an 
 inmate. 
 
 Mr. Urvin, with a delicacy only equalled by his munificence, 
 settled the fortune on Frank he had intended for Rose, thus 
 enabling him to return to the profession for which nature had 
 most eminently qualified him. 
 
 There is one circumstance connected with Mrs. Raymond 
 which we forgot to mention, or we would not refer to her 
 again. 
 
 Every Sunday, Mr. Urvin invited Farmer Mayfield to dine 
 with him, and had he been the Chief Magistrate of the land, 
 he could not have treated him with more respectful attention. 
 On this day, Frank and Rose were also regularly invited guests. 
 It was a happy family meeting, but the farmer's presence 
 always gave Mrs. Raymond a sick headache, and she was 
 generally obliged to keep her room, and this necessity never 
 seemed to damp the spirits of the household. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Raymond !
 
 THE 
 
 LITTLE BKOOM BOY. 
 
 ..H 
 
 is years but young, but his experience old, 
 His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe ; 
 And in a word (for far behind his worth, 
 Come all the praises that I now bestow), 
 He is complete in feature, and in mind, 
 With all good grace to grace a gentleman." SHAKSPEARK. 
 
 " Innocence unmoved 
 At a false accusation, doth the more 
 Confirm itself ; and guilt is best discovered 
 By its own fears." NABB. 
 
 " You seem a very smart little boy," said Mr. Campbell, 
 to a child of about seven years of age, who stood on the steps 
 before him, with a bundle of hearth-brooms, much larger than 
 himself, swung over his shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am smart ; I made these brooms myself," 
 replied the boy, with such downright simplicity and truth of 
 expression, that the gentleman found it difficult to retain his 
 gravity. He bent down, took one of the brooms from the 
 bundle, and examined it with benevolent attention. It was 
 made of straw simply bound together with twine but so 
 neatly and compactly, it would not have disgraced the craft 
 of an older and more experienced workman. 
 
 " I must have one of these," said Mr. Campbell, putting 
 some bright pieces of silver in the hand of the little boy. 
 
 " This is too much, sir," replied the child, lifting his clear 
 questioning eyes to the face of Mr. Campbell. " They are 
 only a dime apiece." 
 
 " Keep the whole," cried the gentleman. " I would not 
 make one for twice what I have given you." 
 
 " Oh ! it's so easy," cried the child, with animation. "You 
 just put the straws so, and make the twine go in and out, and 
 in and out, all the time." 
 
 (Ill)
 
 112 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 The chUd was very coarsely, but cleanly dressed. His little 
 blue jacket was patched in the sleeves, and his short checked 
 apron made "maist as good as new," by the addition of sundry 
 brighter coloured morceaus to the worn and faded original. 
 His dress bespoke extreme indigence, but it was respectable 
 indigence, unaccompanied by misery or degradation. His hair 
 was parted smoothly on his ingenuous brow, and his oval- 
 formed face looked fresh and fair from a recent ablution. But 
 what particularly attracted the attention of Mr. Campbell, was 
 the beaming intelligence and remarkable candour of the boy's 
 countenance. It was perfectly radiant with good humour, and 
 indicated a disposition so affectionate and confiding, it was im- 
 possible to look upon him, without wishing to pass the hand 
 caressingly over his shining dark hair, or patting his clean, 
 rosy, dimpled cheek. 
 
 It was a serene, quiet, golden hour. The business of the 
 day was over, and the spirit participated in the sweet repose 
 of the mellow sunset. Had the child accosted Mr. Campbell 
 at a time when he was occupied with the duties of his profes- 
 sion, he might have given him a very different reception ; but 
 just then, he had nothing to do. He was seated in the balcony, 
 enjoying the coolness of the twilight breeze, and gazing with 
 dreamy delight on the rosy clouds, fringed with ermine, that 
 seemed dipping in an ocean of liquid gold, as they slowly de- 
 scended towards the horizon. The little apparition, that sud- 
 denly presented itself in the midst of such gracious, glorious 
 influences, was greeted with a benignant welcome. Mr. Camp- 
 bell was fond of children, and his manners were kind and 
 courteous. The boy lingered, as if unwilling to leave one 
 whom he did not hesitate to consider his friend, when a vision 
 appeared, which bound him to the spot, as by the spell of 
 fascination. A little girl, some two or three years younger 
 than himself, came bounding over the threshold, and running 
 up to Mr. Campbell, jumped into his lap, and entwined her 
 arms round his neck. 
 
 " Oh, papa," cried she, nestling her cherub face in his bosom, 
 " I am so glad you are come 1" 
 
 It was the first time the boy had had an opportunity of 
 satisfying his love of the beautiful, in animated being. Ever 
 since he was conscious of perception, the beauties of nature 
 had been silently but powerfully working on his imagination ; 
 but here was the beauty of life, of congenial childhood, so 
 fair, so bright, so pure, that he sighed with a strange feeling
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 113 
 
 of oppression and wonder. He remembered a little sister of 
 bis own, who bud died about two years previous, but, like him- 
 self, she had always been clothed in coarse and unbecoming 
 garments, and being sickly and emaciated, she lacked those 
 childish graces, which sometimes, as in his own case, triumph 
 over the most adverse circumstances. This little girl, in her 
 white muslin robe, fastened at the shoulder with knots of 
 azure ribbon, coral necklace and bracelets, soft, lustrous, un- 
 shorn, curling hair, pearly white complexion, tinged with the 
 faintest rose colour, and sweet, hazel eyes, sparkling like dew- 
 drops in the starbeams, seemed the realization of all his dreams 
 of God's angels. It was as if the young rose he had seen 
 blushing silently on the stalk, had suddenly become instinct 
 with soul, and breathed forth its perfume, in a voice of ex- 
 quisite music. 
 
 At length the beautiful eyes of the child turned from her 
 father's face, and rested on the boy, who was gazing on her 
 with such an intensity of admiration. After looking at him 
 steadily a few moments, through her long, falling ringlets, 
 she slid from her father's lap, and went up close to the spot 
 where he stood. 
 
 " Little boy," she said, leaning forward and surveying him 
 gravely and earnestly from head to foot, "you are pretty, but 
 your coat is ugly. I'll ask papa to buy you a new one." 
 
 A bright blush burned on the cheek of the boy, as she thus 
 addressed him ; but he did not hang his head, or look ashamed 
 of the uyly coat, her little ladyship so frankly condemned. 
 
 " I shall buy one myself," he answered, " when I've sold 
 brooms enough." 
 
 " That's right, my little fellow," cried Mr. Campbell, laugh- 
 ing. " I like your spirit. How would you like to come and 
 live with me, and let me make a gentleman of you?" 
 
 " I should like it very much, indeed, sir," answered the 
 boy, unhesitatingly, his eye flashing up with surprising intel- 
 ligence. " I'll go home and ask mother if I may come." 
 
 " Well," continued Mr. Campbell, laughing still more 
 heartily at this singular little specimen of humanity, "you 
 must not forget it." 
 
 " No, sir," said the child, raising his bundle of brooms 
 again to his shoulder and. warned by the gathering shadows, 
 he turned to depart. "No, sir; I shan't forget it." 
 
 With a low bow, and a flourish of his poor little battered 
 straw hat (an accomplishment his mother had carefullly taught
 
 114 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 him), he departed, casting many a lingering look towards the 
 little girl, whose eye followed him down the steps and into 
 the street with an expression of mingled admiration and pity. 
 
 The careless words of the gentleman, forgotten almost as 
 soon as uttered, thrilled through the spirit of the boy, pro- 
 ducing, on its high-toned chords, a long and deep vibration. 
 They were received in joy and hope and faith, and acted upon 
 in simplicity, godly confidence, and religious faith. 
 
 About a fortnight after this incident, which had passed 
 away from the mind of Mr. Campbell, just about the same 
 hour, while he was seated as usual in the shaded balcony, the 
 figure of the little broom-boy was seen trudging along the side- 
 walk, entering the gate, and ascendiag the steps eagerly and 
 pantingly, as if bent on some important business. He was 
 dressed in a new suit of marine blue, his old straw hat was 
 replaced by one fresh from the hands of the manufacturer, and 
 a little bundle, tied up in a neat checked handkerchief, was 
 suspended on his left arm. Walking straight up to Mr. Camp- 
 bell, taking off his hat, and, making his little scrape of a bow, 
 he looked at him with a smiling, triumphant countenance, 
 saying : 
 
 " I've come, sir." 
 
 " So I see, my little fellow," cried Mr. Campbell, receiving 
 him with a kind smile. " What articles have you for sale now 
 in that nice bundle ?" 
 
 " These are my clothes, sir," replied the boy. " My mother 
 has been making new clothes for me, besides these I have on." 
 
 " Why, how could she afford to fit you out so smartly ? I 
 thought you had to make brooms for a living." 
 
 " So I do, sir. There's nay broom money, you know, that 
 I've been saving. Then she sold some hens and chickens 
 and little sister's crib, besides. She's dead, and don't sleep 
 in it any more." 
 
 The boy passed the back of his hand over his eyes, and 
 coughed, to clear away a rising huskiness in his throat. 
 
 " But what makes you bring your clothes with you ?" asked 
 Mr. Campbell, excessively amused and interested by his little 
 companion, " W T hat are you going to do with them ?" 
 
 " Wear them while you are making a gentleman of me. 
 You told me to come and live with you, sir, and I've come." 
 
 Mr. Campbell started. His light, unmeaning w^rds, came 
 back to his remembrance, and filled him with strange embar- 
 rassment. The confiding innocence of the child affected him.
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 115 
 
 The trusting faith of the mother rebuked the levity which had 
 prompted the thoughtless remark. As the mother of Moses 
 had committed her boy, in a frail osier cradle, to the waters 
 of the Nile, trusting in the God of Israel, so this humble, un- 
 suspecting woman, had intrusted her child to a stranger's 
 keeping, relying, with Scripture simplicity, on his honour and 
 truth. She had probably expended all her scanty means to 
 purchase his new apparel. He could imagine with what 
 trembling hands she had tied up his little bundle how she 
 smoothed his hair, and shaded it back from his fair, bold 
 brow how she kissed his blooming check, leaving a tear 
 where every kiss was pressed and with what a quivering lip 
 she had God blessed him, and told him to be a good boy. He 
 could not bear to say to the earnest, honest, truthful child, 
 looking so eagerly and hopefully in his face, to go back to his 
 mother and tell her it was all nonsense he had only spoken 
 in jest. He had no son of his own, and he had often yearned 
 for one. His darling Gabriella was lonely, and wanted a play- 
 mate and companion. There was nothing coarse or vulgar 
 about the boy. He would not disgrace a gentleman's house- 
 hold. But his wife! Ah! there was the obstacle. What 
 would his elegant, fashionable, and aristocratic wife say to the 
 adoption of this plebeian child? And what could he do if 
 she opposed it ? While she appeared soft, indolent, and pas- 
 sive, she ruled him with Eastern despotism. He was proud 
 of her beauty, proud of her high position in the world of 
 fashion, and would have " coined his blood to drachmas" 
 sooner than have refused her most extravagant demands. Not 
 knowing what to say, he suddenly asked the boy his name 
 
 " Ellery Gray, sir; but everybody calls me the Little Broom 
 Boy." 
 
 " Why, Ellery Gray is a very good name, indeed," said 
 Mr. Campbell, glad that he did not belong to the tribe of Ben- 
 jamin or Levi. The voice of Gabriella, sweet as a singing 
 bird's, now warbled on the ear. With her graceful, bounding 
 step for she never walked she came in sight, all in white, 
 adorned with the blue of the sky, and the glowing coral of the 
 ocean. She stopped just before she reached her father, and 
 gazed with delighted countenance on Ellery, whose new suit 
 of clothes wonderfully beautified his appearance. 
 
 " Here, Gabriella," said her father, " let me introduce you 
 to Master Ellery Gray. How would you like to have him stay 
 and live with us, and be a brother of yours ?"
 
 116 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 " Like ! Oh, papa !" cried she, clapping her hands, with a 
 sweet, wild burst of laughter, " you don't know how much I 
 would like it !" 
 
 " Stay here, then, and entertain him, while I go and talk 
 with your mother." 
 
 What passed during this interview it is unnecessary to 
 relate, as we are only interested in the result. When Mr. 
 Campbell returned his brow was somewhat clouded ; but taking 
 Ellery by one hand, while G-abriella held him protectingly by 
 the other, he led him into the drawing-room, where a tall and 
 beautiful lady, very richly and fashionably attired, half reclined 
 in a lanquid, yet graceful manner, on a luxurious velvet sofa. 
 Nothing could be more elegant or indolent than her whole 
 appearance, and had little Ellery ever heard or read of Sultanas 
 or Enchantresses, he would have imagined that he was now 
 gazing on one. His unaccustomed eyes were actually dazzled 
 by the jewels that gleamed amid the white cloud of lace around 
 her neck, and sparkled on her snowy-white hand. He looked 
 as if suddenly brought face to face with the noon-day sun. 
 Never were admiration and awe more vividly expressed than 
 iu the honest, ingenuous eyes, fixed so unrecedingly upon her. 
 
 "What do you think of this lady, Ellery?'' asked Mr. 
 Campbell, reading his admiring countenance, and anticipating 
 the reply he would make. 
 
 "Think!" repeated Ellery, with a bright blush, "I don't 
 know what to think. I didn't know there was any lady in the 
 world so pretty." 
 
 This well-timed and perfectly truthful expression, sealed the 
 destiny of Ellery Gray. The vanity of the lady was not proof 
 against this simple homage. The superb arch of her brows 
 was instantaneously lowered, and a smile wreathed her lip. 
 
 "Mamma," said Gabriella, looking patronizingly at the 
 young protege; "This is Ellery Ellery Gray. Isn't he 
 pretty, mamma ? and doesn't he look nice ? May he not stay 
 and live with us, and play with me when I'm tired of being 
 alone?" 
 
 Mrs. Campbell was vain and worldly, but not haughty or 
 overbearing. Constitutionally indolent, she seldom troubled 
 herself about the conduct of others, if it did not interfere 
 with her own. When her husband described the dilemma in 
 which he found himself, and endeavoured to argue away her 
 aristocratic prejudices against the child, she was 3 as much dis- 
 pleased as she thought it becoming to be, for she expected to
 
 TEE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 117 
 
 see a coarse, ill-bred, overgrown young monster, whose vul- 
 garity would shock her refinement. The contrast of the real 
 with the ideal, pleased her; the dazzling effects of her own 
 charms gratified her vanity, and it was always less trouble to 
 yield than to resist. To Mr. Campbell's unspeakable joy 
 for his heart was drawn more and more towards the Little 
 Broom Boy she gave a languid consent, and Ellery Gray was 
 admitted into the family of Mr. Campbell. 
 
 Mrs. Gray, the mother of Ellery, was a woman of strong, 
 good sense, genuine piety, and child-like dependence on the 
 especial Providence of God. She believed it was the will of 
 the Almighty, that Ellery should be a gentleman, and obedient 
 to that will, she was ready to sacrifice every selfish considera- 
 tion to his future interest. She knew Mr. Campbell well by 
 reputation so it was not with blind trust that she had yielded 
 up her son. With firm resolution, she resisted the pleadings 
 of affection, which urged her to seek her little boy in his new 
 and comparatively magnificent home. He was permitted to 
 visit her, but, with rare judgment, she forebore to obtrude her- 
 self into the presence of the elegant Mrs. Campbell, whose 
 pride was thus spared a shock, which would have been fatal to 
 the growing interests of Ellery. 
 
 Years passed on. The boy grew into adolescence. A hardy 
 plant, transplanted from the wilderness of life, to one of its 
 green, sunny bowers, he had a vitality, a moral vigour, that 
 resisted the enervating influences around him. The early prin- 
 ciples of piety instilled into his heart by his strong-minded 
 mother, formed a basis of rock to his character, which the 
 winds of temptation in vain assailed. And temptation did 
 beset him, on every side, not less dangerous because lurking 
 in flowery ambush. His gratitude to his benefactor was only 
 equalled by his affection, yet with all his gratitude and affec- 
 tion, he could not feel that respect and veneration, that confi- 
 dence in the firmness of his principles, which he longed to 
 cherish. He saw that he was kind, gentle, and affectionate; 
 but there was a weakness and indecision about him, that kept 
 one trembling for his integrity and honour. He condemned 
 the extravagance of his wife, yet yielded to it without a strug- 
 gle. He condemned the system of vanity and indulgence in 
 which she educated the young Gabriella, yet he had not the 
 moral courage to place her under a purer, healthier discipline. 
 Young as Ellery was, he felt a constant struggle with judg- 
 ment and imagination, principle and feeling. With his exqui-
 
 ""118 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 site perception of the beautiful, he could not but admire the taste 
 and splendour that floated like a golden drapery over the house- 
 hold arrangements, and gave such an air of enchantment to the 
 elegant mistress of the establishment. With his remarkable 
 simplicity and love of truth and virtue, he could not but be 
 pained at witnessing a life of such meretricious display and 
 selfish luxury. Gabriella sweet, lovely, fascinating child as 
 she was was made to form a part of the glittering show-pic- 
 ture. Ellery loved to gaze upon it, for it was beautiful and 
 fair to look upon, but vanity of vanities was written upon the 
 margin, and there were moments when all its brightness van- 
 ished. We are speaking of the inner thoughts those thoughts 
 which lie fathoms deep in the heart seldom drawn up to the 
 surface, but keeping the fountain fresh and pure. In the 
 family, in society, Ellery appeared a bright, ingenuous, intel- 
 ligent boy modest, without being humble, self-reliant, with- 
 out being presumptuous, remembering the indigence from 
 which he had been raised, only to bless the hand which had 
 elevated him. 
 
 Mr. Campbell gave him every advantage of education short 
 of a college life. He was himself Cashier of a Bank in the 
 city in which he dwelt an office which he had held for many 
 years and when Ellery was old enough, he gave him the 
 situation of clerk in the institution. This was not the position 
 to which his boyish ambition had aspired. % He had associated 
 from his earliest remembrance with his idea of a gentleman, 
 something great and glorious influence, command, eloquence, 
 and the full expansion of intellect. He did not like a business 
 life. His taste shrank from all dry details all mere matter-of- 
 fact occupations. He felt the flutter of his growing wings, and 
 longed to unfurl them in the sunlight that rested like a glory- 
 crown on the hill top which he panted to ascend. But Mr. 
 Campbell told him that he needed his services ; that he wished 
 to keep him near his person ; that he felt as if he had a sheet 
 anchor of integrity and truth in him, on which he could lean, 
 and he submitted his neck to the yoke with graceful submission. 
 He had a conviction that his benefactor did need him, and he 
 kept down his proud aspirations, and hushed all selfish re- 
 pinings, glad to make an acceptable offaring on the altar of 
 gratitude. 
 
 Gabriella, who had been for several years at a fashionable 
 boarding school, that she might receive all the graces of educa- 
 tion, now returned in the full, sweet, fresh bloom of girlhood.
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 119 
 
 When a child, she had treated Ellery with the endearing 
 familiarity of a sister, and one word from his truthful lips, 
 cue glance from his rebuking eye, would arrest her on the 
 verge of temptation and turn her into the path of right, no 
 matter how passion might misguide or folly betray. But four 
 years of absence had wrought a wonderful change. The child 
 was grown into womanhood the boy into manhood. The 
 young clerk was proud, and stood aloof from the lovely, but 
 now capricious and flattered beauty. He sighed over the 
 sweet remembrances of boyhood, but he could now no more 
 approach with brotherly endearments the beautiful Gabriella, 
 than if she were surrounded by silver bars, to guard her from 
 intrusion. Though still of the same household, he seemed at 
 an immeasurable distance from her, and the atmosphere around 
 her seemed to him to partake of the dazzling splendour and 
 dullness of a polar night. It is true, he would sometimes catch 
 a glance from her dark, hazel eyes, full of gentle, childish 
 memories, which would instantaneously melt the icy incrusta- 
 tions of formality, and his heart would leap in his bosom like a 
 vernal fountain. But if, perchance, he again sought that soft, 
 subduing eye-beam, the light of memory appeared quenched, 
 and the orbs it so beautifully illumined, shone with a colder 
 and more distant radiance. 
 
 One evening, he remained in the drawing-room, after the 
 guests had departed, and the family retired. He was seated 
 in a recess which looked into the garden, and whose entrance 
 was shaded by flowering shrubs. He had found a book 
 which he had last seen in the hand of Gabriella, and whose 
 margin bore the traces of her pencil. His attention became 
 so riveted to its contents, that he was not aware he was left 
 sole occupant of the still brilliantly illuminated apartment. A 
 very light footstep entered, but he did not hear it. The slight 
 shiver of the rose leaves, whose shadow played upon his brow, 
 did not disturb his deep abstraction ; but when a sweet voice 
 uttered the name of " Ellery," in tones resembling the well 
 remembered music of childhood, he started so suddenly that 
 the book fell from his hand. He looked up. Gabriella stood 
 just within the recess, putting back with one hand the flowers, 
 which sent out a cloud of fragrance at her gentle touch. She 
 was dressed in white muslin, with blue sash and ribbons, and 
 he thought 'of the moment when she first beamed upon his 
 childish vision, in the same celestial-looking costume. He 
 tin ught of himself as the little broom boy, whose person she
 
 120 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 had approved, while she had condemned his ugly coat. Then 
 he recollected how they had played together as children, and 
 how gently she had borne his mentorship, and how often she 
 had been influenced by his counsels. The immeasurable space 
 which had appeared lately to separate them, seemed suddenly 
 annihilated, and they stood together on the green margin of 
 youth, watching the sunbeams, as they sparkled on the stream 
 of life. 
 
 " Gabriella!" he exclaimed, rising, with a blush of delighted 
 surprise, " dear Gabriella !" 
 
 It was the first time he had seen her alone since her return ; 
 the first time he had dared to use the endearing epithet once 
 BO familiar to his lips. She did not appear displeased with the 
 freedom, nor did she immediately withdraw the hand he had 
 involuntarily taken. Her eyes filled with tears, but a lovely, 
 happy smile played upon her lips. 
 
 " I came for my book," said she, blushing at the disin- 
 genuousness of her words j " but you can keep it if you like. 
 And yet I will not say so. The book is rather an excuse than 
 a cause. I wished to speak with you, Ellery, and have vainly 
 sought the opportunity." 
 
 " With me !" he exclaimed. The glow of pleasure that 
 irradiated his countenance, was like the bursting of the sun- 
 light on the water. 
 
 " Yes," said Gabriella, drawing back a few paces, with an 
 air of modest reserve; " but it is not of myself or you, that I 
 came to speak. It is of my father. Ellery, he is so changed. 
 You, that have been with him all the time, may not see the 
 transformation but I do. He must have some cause of care 
 and sorrow unknown to the world. In you, he has unbounded 
 confidence. You are his chosen companion his familiar friend. 
 He has no secret from you I know he has not. Tell me what 
 it is that is making furrows on a brow, as yet unwrinkled by 
 time ?" 
 
 " Believe me, Gabriella I am not in your father's con- 
 fidence," he answered gravely, almost sadly. 
 
 " You are not ? If you assert it, it must be so, for you were 
 always truth itself. But you must have marked the change. 
 You do not accuse me of vain apprehensions." 
 
 " He may have cause of disquietude, but I have never ques- 
 tioned him. My respect has ever guarded my curiosity." 
 
 "Curiosity!" repeated she, with impatience. "You can- 
 not, must not, give so cold a signification to a daughter's
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 121 
 
 trembling fears. Oh ! if you knew half the love I bear him 
 half the affection the tenderness that fills my heart you 
 would not wonder that I suffer at the possibility of misery 
 impending over him." 
 
 "Would you indeed save him from misery, at any sacrifice?" 
 cried Ellery, touched and charmed by this unexpected burst 
 of filial enthusiasm. 
 
 " Would I ?" repeated she, earnestly; " Oh ! that I could be 
 put to the test !" 
 
 " As I said before," he resumed, " I am not in your father's 
 confidence ; but I have seen with pain, au expression of grow- 
 ing care upon his countenance, and a restlessness of manner, 
 indicative of disquietude within. I have sometimes imagined 
 that pecuniary embarrassment might be the cause. I have 
 thought," continued he, looking round him, and colouring at 
 his own boldness, " that the fountain from which so much 
 luxury was flowing, was in danger of being drained." 
 
 "Ah ! is it indeed so?" cried she, giving a rapid glance at 
 the splendid furniture which her mother had recently pur- 
 chased, to gratify a caprice of fashion at the costly pearls 
 which adorned her own neck and arms and recalling the 
 thousand expenditures of the household. " Is it indeed so ? 
 
 Yes, we are too lavish and extravagant. My mother " she 
 
 checked herself suddenly then added, " My father is too 
 liberal, too indulgent, for his own good. He never repressed a 
 generous impulse, never banished a supplicant from his door." 
 
 Ellery could not but remember that he was indebted to one 
 of these generous impulses for his present situation in the 
 world, and, though he knew he was now repaying his bene- 
 factor with the devotion of his whole life, a burning suffusion 
 dyed his face, and the remembrance of the obligation weighed 
 heavy on his heart. The words of Gabriella, though not so 
 intended, sounded as a reproach. 
 
 " Your father is generous," he cried, " too generous and 
 uncalculating for his own interest. I am glad that you are 
 awakened to such a watchfulness over his happiness. Be hence- 
 forth the guardian angel of his heart and home. All will theu 
 be well. Forgive me, Grabriella, that I thought you were 
 becoming vain and heartless, spoiled by indulgence, and in- 
 toxicated by adulation. I see you have a heart a true and 
 noble one too true, too noble, to be sacrificed at the golden, 
 shrine of wealth and fashion. How is it, with such feelings, 
 such genuine sensibility and excellence of character, you can 
 125
 
 122 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 ever do yourself so much injustice as to appear, even for a 
 moment, to be the artificial and worldly being you really, 
 though secretly, scorn ?" 
 
 " There spoke Ellery Gray," said she, with a laugh, that 
 grated a little on his excited nerves " the boy-mentor of my 
 childhood. I cannot answer you, for I do not know myself. 
 I believe," she exclaimed, her eye flashing with an expression 
 difficult to define, " that I am a two-fold being, the lover of 
 nature and the votary of art. When with you or my father, 
 I am a little child once more, such as you first saw me, when 
 I knew no higher joy than to be cradled in his arms. When 
 in the world, as the gay circle which surrounds me is called, 
 vanity and pride luxuriate, and throw into shade the blossom- 
 ings of my better nature. I wish I had never been taught to 
 
 Gabriella sighed and looked down. Oh ! that sigh spoke 
 volumes. It told of a world-weary spirit ; weary, though its 
 young plumes had so lately been unfurled. It told of heart- 
 yearnings that must seek repression of " immortal longings," 
 held down by a cold, mortal pressure. Without speaking 
 again she turned and left the room ; but she saw the look with 
 which Ellery followed her, and it made her sigh again. 
 
 The next morning she resolved to speak to her father before 
 he left home for the business of the day, and learn from him, 
 if they, the luxuries she was enjoying, were purchased at so 
 dear a price as his tranquillity. She would far rather clothe 
 herself in sackcloth and ashes, and live on bread and water, 
 than fare sumptuously, and be arrayed in purple and fine 
 linen, at the expense of his honour and peace. So she told 
 him, with tearful eyes and embracing arms. 
 
 " Foolish, foolish girl !" he cried, looking more vexed and 
 angry than she had ever seen him before. " Who put such 
 wild thoughts into your head ? I was never more cheerful, 
 more happy. Never allude to the possibility of such a state 
 of things to me or to any one. Never, I say, on penalty of 
 my displeasure. No, no, Gabriella, it is not in the morning 
 of your womanhood that I would abridge you of one pleasure, 
 or wish you to deny yourself one luxury that affection can 
 suggest or wealth can purchase." 
 
 To convince her of the truth of his words, he brought her 
 that evening a new set of jewels, and, if one did not call him 
 cheerful, it was because he was gay. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Ellery," said Gabriella, as she glittered
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 123 
 
 before him, a moment, in her new ornaments. " My father's 
 coffers are far from being drained. Never again allude to such 
 a thing, I pray you, if you would not give him pain and dis- 
 pleasure. The cloud, if my misgiving heart has not altogether 
 created it, must have another origin. Oh ! be watchful, 
 Ellery ; guard every avenue to evil. Be to my father what I 
 would have been had heaven made me a boy." 
 
 It was very sweet to have Gabriella thus address him by the 
 familiar name of Ellery, to confide to him her filial apprehen- 
 sions, to smile upon him. so kindly, so gratefully, when he 
 promised all and more than she asked ; and he wondered that 
 he could ever have thought her cold and capricious ; but when 
 he again saw her the centre of a crowd of flatterers, inhaling 
 the incense of adulation, or bestowing on others that enchant- 
 ing smile, which almost maddened him to behold, he wondered 
 equally at the illusion he had not the power to dispel, and 
 could only explain the seeming Consistencies of her character 
 by believing her own words, that she was a two-fold being, 
 whose nature his single-heartedness and simplicity could never 
 fathom. He never dreamed that she smiled on others, lest 
 the world should believe she only cared to smile on him that 
 she appeared capricious, to conceal her constancy cold, to 
 hide the central warmth of her heart. 
 
 The promise he had given to watch over her father he faith- 
 fully kept, but in Mr. Campbell he found another enigma 
 more painful and equally perplexing. The temper, once so 
 mild and uniform, was becoming irritable and uncertain. The 
 affectionate confidence he had always exhibited to Ellery, 
 gradually changed to distance and reserve; so imperceptible 
 in its advances that he felt the dullness before he perceived 
 the twilight shadow stealing over his heart. 
 
 " He fears the poor boy whom he has elevated to the posi- 
 tion of a gentleman," said Ellery to himself, " may dare to 
 raise his eyes to the daughter of his benefactor. His coldness 
 is intended as a rebuke to my presumption." 
 
 These thoughts goaded the proud, ingenuous heart of the 
 young man, and the consciousness of possessing feelings it was 
 his duty to crush, darkened the sunshine of his conscience 
 He avoided, more and more, the lovely, capricious being, 
 whose fascinations he felt every day more irresistible, but one 
 glance of her eye, one word of her lip, would destroy the stern 
 resolutions which he had passed wakeful hours in forming. 
 
 He was roused from this state of morbid sensibility, by a
 
 124 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 thunder-stroke, as sudden and terrible as the lightning's bolt 
 darting from the cloudless bosom of noonday. 
 
 When the directors of the bank made their annual exami- 
 nation, there was a deficiency of nearly ten thousand dollars, 
 entered on the books, of which the young clerk could render 
 no account. The character of Mr. Campbell for integrity and 
 honour, had been so long established, it seemed impossible 
 that suspicion should rest upon him. Ellery Gray was young 
 and had his reputation yet to make. The story of his child- 
 hood, the manner of his introduction to Mr. Campbell, the 
 kindness, the munificence of that gentleman towards him, 
 were well known to the public. At the time of his adoption 
 the name of the little broom boy was on everybody's lips, 
 and many laughed at Mr. Campbell for his quixotic benevo- 
 lence. That a youth raised from indigence and obscurity, and 
 exposed to great temptations, in a situation so responsible as 
 the one in which he was pl^|d, should fall, was the natural 
 and fatal consequence of a false position. 
 
 " 'Tis dangerous to take one from the dregs of life," said 
 one. " Education may polish the exterior, but the internal 
 corruption will still remain." 
 
 " Gentle born as well as gentle bred, for me," said another. 
 " No chemic art can remove a hereditary taint from the blood. 
 I never liked the boy's lofty air and independent manners. 
 Well ; he has a trade ready for the penitentiary. I suppose 
 he has not forgotten how to make brooms." 
 
 There were some who bore testimony to the excellence and 
 piety of his mother's character, to the purity and nobleness of 
 his own but to the astonishment of many, Mr. (Campbell did 
 not attempt to vindicate his adopted son from the foul crime 
 imputed to him. 
 
 " I did love and trust him, as my own son," he exclaimed, 
 in grief, rather than surprise and anger, " but I acknowledge 
 that I have been cruelly, ungratefully deceived. I have lately 
 had some sad misgivings, but I never dreamed of the extent 
 of the fraud. I should not have exposed him to temptations. 
 But alas, whom can we trust ? I once believed him the very 
 embodiment of truth and honour." 
 
 Ellery heard this jesntence as it fell from the lips of his 
 benefactor, and there were those present who saw the look 
 which answered it, who said they never should forget it till 
 their dying day. 
 
 That night, when Mr. Campbell entered the chamber of
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 125 
 
 Ellery, he found him with his face bowed upon his hands, 
 and his hands resting on the table, immovable as stone. He 
 went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder 
 
 " Ellery," said he, in a sorrowful voice, " this is a grievous 
 affair; I am sorry for you, sorry for myself, sorry for your 
 poor mother." 
 
 Ellery gave a convulsive start, and shook off, with a writh- 
 ing gesture, the hand that rested on his shoulder. Then 
 raising his head, he fixed his inflamed eyes on the face of Mr. 
 Campbell. No word issued from his wan and quivering lips, 
 but there was many a one written in that burning, steadfast 
 gaze. The cheek of Mr. Campbell turned of ashy paleness, 
 beneath its scorching beam. 
 
 " Are you indeed sorry, sir ?" at length uttered the youth, 
 his countenance kindling with an expression of lofty disdain ; 
 " You, who, instead of being my champion, confirm the igno- 
 minious charge ! You, who, iiQtead of vindicating the inno- 
 cence so foully wronged, join the ranks of my accusers, and 
 strike with your own hand the cruellest, deadliest blow to my 
 reputation !" 
 
 " What mean you ?" exclaimed Mr. Campbell, recoiling and 
 knitting his brows fiercely. " What would you dare to in- 
 sinuate ?" 
 
 " I insinuate nothing," replied Ellery. " I assert my inno- 
 cence I assert my conviction that it is known to yourself and 
 ought to be proclaimed to the whole world I assert that I am 
 the victim of an unjust accusation that I am made the shield 
 of an unsuspected criminal." 
 
 " I understand you, young man," cried Mr. Campbell, the 
 purple hue of repressed passion settling round his mouth. " I 
 understand your covert meaning. Is this the return for all 
 my favours, this the gratitude I receive for long years of 
 paternal tenderness and care ? Yes ! I see it all. You would 
 roll the burthen of your guilt on me, your benefactor and 
 friend. You would destroy the peace of my family ; the 
 happiness of my wife. You would break, with ruthless hand, 
 the heart of my daughter." 
 
 The dark fire that gleamed in the young man's eye was 
 suddenly quenched. Again he bowed his head upon his hands, 
 and the table shook with the paroxysm of his agony. Low, 
 deep sobs, such as heave the breast of childhood, but seldom 
 rend the bosom of man, burst forth, mingled with ejaculations 
 to heaven. 

 
 126 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 "God forgive me if I wrong another," he exclaimed. "I 
 care not for myself; I would willingly sacrifice myself for her 
 peace ; but my mother ! It will crush; it will kill her. Well ! 
 it is better that she die ; better to wear the crown of glory, 
 than bear the cross of shame. From the height of Paradise 
 she can look down on the dungeon of her son." 
 
 Mr. Campbell appeared greatly affected by this outbreak of 
 filial emotion. He covered his face and seemed to weep. All 
 traces of anger had fled. 
 
 "I would willingly give this right hand," said he, "if this 
 had not happened. If I had the means to pay this sum, I 
 would do it in one moment, to save you from disgrace. There 
 is one thing, however, I can do I can assist your flight. You 
 can go beyond the limits of pursuit, and establish, in a new 
 country, the reputation you have forfeited here." 
 
 " Never," exclaimed the young man, and a haughty flush 
 swept over his cheek and brow, " never will I thus set the 
 seal to my infamy. I will not fly for I am innocent and 
 the world will one day know it. I believe there are justice 
 and retribution even on earth. God is righteous, and will not 
 forsake those who put their trust in him. I will trust him. I 
 yielded for one moment to the weakness of nature, but I am 
 strong now. My mother will not believe that I am guilty. I 
 said this blow would kill her but it will not. Christianity 
 will support her." He paused a moment, then added, as if 
 speaking to himself rather than to Mr. Campbell : 
 
 " If Gabriella should doubt my integrity ! If her confidence 
 should be shaken ! Can she resist the terrible force of circum- 
 stances, and preserve her esteem ?" 
 
 " And what is my daughter to you, young man ?" inter- 
 rupted the father, sternly, "that you dare to talk of her 
 confidence and esteem at a moment when her very name should 
 be a stranger to your lips ?" 
 
 " She is what you have made her to me the companion of 
 my childhood ; the sister of my soul ; the inspiration of my 
 thoughts ; the idol of my affections. I speak of her now as 
 the dying man speaks of the treasure he is about to leave for 
 ever, in the freedom and honesty of the death-hour. I loved 
 her as a child I loved, her as a boy I adore her as a man. In 
 the midst of vanity and frivolity, I have seen the glory-gleams 
 of an angelic nature struggling through the mists with which 
 folly and pride have sought to envelop her. I never pre- 
 sumed on her affection ; never forgot that she was to be offered 

 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 127 
 
 at the shrine of Mammon. I should have carried the secret 
 to my grave had not this unmerited obloquy forced the reve- 
 lation from me for know, sir, it is for her sake that I yield 
 myself a passive victim to the fate now darkly closing around 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Campbell listened in silence to this bold confession, and 
 its singular close. His hand was pressed upon his eyes, his 
 lips firmly closed, and the veins on his temples dark and full. 
 
 " Have you ever told Gabriella that you loved her ?" said 
 he, rising and turning towards the door. 
 
 " Never, sir." 
 
 " It is well." 
 
 The door slowly opened, closed again, the echo of retreating 
 footsteps died away, and Ellery Gray was left alone with his 
 God. 
 
 Mr. Campbell passed on to his chamber by a back passage, 
 with hurried steps, driven along by wild, stormy, maddening 
 thoughts. He held the lamp in his left hand, while his right 
 clenched his forehead, in the vain attempt to still its strong 
 irregular beatings. He entered his room and threw himself 
 on a sofa, groaning from the very depths of his soul. 
 
 " My God !" he cried, " I cannot bear this. I cannot. I 
 shall turn a maniac, and then and then good Heavens ! 
 what then ?" 
 
 "Who's there?" he exclaimed, starting up as the door sud- 
 denly burst open, and Gabriella, with her hair loose and dis- 
 hevelled, her cheek white as alabaster, and a dark shadow 
 under her wildly-flashing eyes, rushed in, and, casting herself 
 at her father's feet, wrapped her arms round his knees. 
 
 " What is this they tell me, father ?" she cried, resisting 
 his efforts to release himself " that Ellery Gray is a villain 
 that he has committed a dreadful crime that he must suffer 
 the felon's doom ? Oh, father ! you know that this is false 
 you know this cannot be. Oh ! father, save him save him 
 from ignominy and punishment. Bear witness to his good 
 and noble character. Bear witness to his truth and integrity. 
 You can you ought to do it. Father, you turn away your 
 face you frown you struggle to shake me from you. You 
 do not believe him guilty. Look at me and tell me if you 
 doubt, for one moment, the worth and honour of Ellery Gray Y' 
 
 Thus wildly pleading, and closely clinging, Gabriella lay at 
 her father's feet, unconscious of the energy of her language, 
 the abandonment of her-attitude. All artificial coldness and
 
 128 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 conventional restraint was swept away by the whirlwind of 
 excited feeling. She would as soon have doubted the immu- 
 tability of the word of God as the excellence of Ellery Gray. 
 This faith, born in childhood, had strengthened with every 
 passing year. In all her caprices and follies it had been a 
 talisman to preserve her from absolute evil. His dark, clear, 
 serious eye, was to her spirit what the glowing pillar was to 
 the children of Israel an emblem of the presence of God 
 and it guided her, even when she seemed most devious in her 
 course, through the moral wilderness in which she was wander- 
 ing. A silent, but powerful influence, was always resting 
 upon her, unacknowledged, but still deeply felt. No one 
 dreamed that the young clerk was to her anything but an ob- 
 ject of occasional condescension and kindness ; but conviction 
 now flashed upon the father's mind, and he felt the error he 
 had committed in placing this highly endowed and singularly 
 attractive young man in such close juxtaposition with his 
 daughter. 
 
 " Father, you do not speak," continued she, with more im- 
 passioned emphasis. " Tell me if you believe him guilty ?" 
 
 " Gabriella," cried her father, goaded to frenzy by her re- 
 iterated appeals, and seizing both her hands in his with a force 
 that made them ache, " Gabriella, if he be proved innocent, 
 the world may believe your father guilty. The shame, the 
 ignominy, that now rest on him, will then, doubtless, fall on me ; 
 but I swear before the God that made me," added he, raising 
 his eyes with a look that made her shudder, " I will not one 
 moment survive the loss of my honour ! Good Heavens ! 
 what have I done ! Gabriella, Gabriella, look up ! Almighty 
 Father ! I do believe I have killed her." 
 
 She had fallen to the floor with leaden weight, and lay still 
 and white as marble. Her eyes were closed, and her face, 
 partly covered by masses of dark-brown hair, was like the face 
 of the dead. Raising her in his arms, he bore her to a win- 
 dow, and, throwing up the sash, suffered the night air to blow 
 in upon her brow. The moon was just rising above the hill- 
 tops, grand, serene, holy, magnificent. It rose, and the dark 
 outline above which it beamed turned to glistening silver. It 
 rose, and the waters of the majestic Ohio, gliding and gleaming 
 through the distant foliage, shone and sparkled and spread 
 out into a glassy mirror, in which another moon looked up and 
 smiled upon the moon above ; and, just over his head, a faint 
 beam, struggling through the curtained window of Ellery's
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 129 
 
 room, mingled with the splendour of the firmament. The 
 white glory of the moonlight, and the dim, reddish ray, issuing 
 from that window, fell together on the pallid face of Gabriella 
 as she reclined in her father's arms. He trembled as he looked 
 upward, almost expecting to see the Deity rending those beau- 
 -teous heavens and coming down ; those dark, silver-edged hills, 
 flowing down at his presence. He held her closely to his 
 breast, and prayed that she might never again unclose those 
 eyes never look upon his face again. But she did unclose 
 them did look up to him and, as the mists cleared away 
 from her vision, she read that in his countenance, which made 
 cold shudders run through her frame. A horrible fear took 
 possession of her a fear that could not be expressed but 
 from whose haunting presence she could never be free. Her 
 mind seemed endowed with a sudden and terrible clairvoyance. 
 A thousand circumstances, which made but little impression 
 at the time, came back to her memory with the distinctness 
 and vividness of letters of fire. The experience of years waa 
 condensed in that moment of time, and the wither of age 
 struck her youug and blooming heart. 
 
 As the father and daughter thus looked into each other's 
 faces, in the clear, pale moonlight, with the stilly night sigh- 
 ing around them, there was a mutual revelation of thought 
 which both would have given worlds never to have made. But 
 eyes are the windows of the soul, and are sometimes transpa- 
 rent as crystal. Gabriella rose from her father's arms, and, 
 as she did so, the clasp of her bracelet caught in the sleeve of 
 his coat, arresting her motions. He stooped to release it, but, 
 tearing the jewel from her wrist, she cast it at his feet. Then, 
 with a sudden reaction of feeling, she gathered up the gem, 
 and gazed earnestly upon it. 
 
 " .Father," she suddenly exclaimed, " what's the value of 
 this ? and this, too ?" extending the other beautiful arm, on 
 which a golden circlet was shining. " Oh ! I have jewels 
 without number cannot they ransom him ?" 
 
 " Alas ! they would be but drops spilled in the ocean." 
 
 " But my mother ! I will go to my mother. She has jewels 
 enough to ransom a king. She will not, cannot withhold 
 them." 
 
 "All your mother's gems added to your own would avail 
 nothing. Trouble her not. It would be worse than useless. 
 You cannot save Ellery, and let me tell you, Gabriella, this 
 strong interest in the young man is uumaidenly and unbe- 

 
 130 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 coming. It will expose you to censure, and me to reproach. 
 Retire, and learn more modesty and self-control." 
 
 He spoke bitterly, severely. It was with a great effort he 
 did so, but, after the first cold, measured words, the others 
 came with more ease and arbitrariness of tone. 
 
 " Retire," repeated he ; "I would be alone." 
 
 She obeyed him in silence, and he was left alone. 
 
 Ellery had not moved since Mr. Campbell quitted him. He 
 sat in the chair by the table, his head resting on his hands, in 
 the dim and quivering lamp-light. He knew not how long he 
 had thus remained. So deep was his abstraction, he was not 
 conscious of his own existence. He knew not whether he was 
 waking or dreaming, present or absent. When the door opened 
 he did not move, though his spirit sprang forward to meet the 
 unseen visitant. He felt its approach, though the footsteps 
 were noiseless, and, through his covered eyes, he seemed to 
 recognise the features of a dream-angel, such as often beamed 
 upon his nightly visions. A warm life-breath floated over his 
 cheek ; a tear, a warm, gliding, crystal drop, stole slowly over 
 its surface, but it fell not from his own eyes. 
 
 " Ellery," whispered a sad, tremulous voice, " I believe in 
 your innocence. My faith in you shall never waver. Fare- 
 well. May God sustain us both." 
 
 The dream-angel vanished, but the tear remained on his 
 cheek the balm in his heart. He felt gentle and submissive 
 as a weaned child they might carry him to prison they 
 might immure him in the dungeons of the penitentiary but 
 they could not shut out the light of his innocence, the glory 
 of her faith and trust. He might die, and fill a felon's dis- 
 honourable grave, but that innocence would cast a halo round 
 its darkness, that faith and trust shed their glory on his 
 memory. 
 
 We will not linger on these painful scenes in the life of 
 Eilery Gray. He was tried, condemned on circumstantial 
 evidence, and sentenced to ten years' solitary imprisonment 
 within the walls of the Penitentiary. His place became vacant 
 in the office, and in the household his name a forbidden sound. 
 Another clerk filled the station he was supposed to have dis- 
 honoured. Mr. Campbell, after receiving the sympathy and 
 condqjence of his friends, for the ingratitude and turpitude of 
 his unworthy protege, pursued his accustomed course. If it 
 was remarked that his face was pale, and his brow more fur- 
 rowed, it was imputed to the anguish of betrayed confidence
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 131 
 
 and outraged affection. Mrs. Campbell continued her course 
 of vanity and extravagance, becoming, if possible, more vain 
 and extravagant than before. The disgrace and imprisonment 
 of Ellery Gray, disturbed the stream of her life about as long 
 as the pebble ruffles the current into which it fulls. The loss 
 of a bracelet or a ring would have affected her far more. 
 
 And Gabriella did she resume her place in the circles of 
 fashion, forgetful of the youth who, she fully believed, was 
 suffering the penalty of another's crime? Did she smile, as 
 she had too often done, on the flattering worldlings who sur- 
 rounded her ? ' No ! She was never seen to smile, and from 
 the night when she had torn the bracelet from her arm, and 
 dashed it at her father's feet, she had never worn jewelry or 
 ornament. She dressed with the simplicity of a nun, and no 
 persuasion or reproaches could induce her to change her attire. 
 Mrs. Campbell was too vain and too beautiful herself, not to 
 become reconciled to a course which threw into shade the 
 dazzling youthful .charms, which threatened to eclipse her 
 matured loveliness. Society wondered at the transformation, 
 and avenged its slighted attractions by secret slander, or open 
 animadversion. 
 
 There was but one place in the world that now possessed a 
 charm for the saddened spirit of Gabriella and that was the 
 humble home of Ellery Gray. She had made a vow to her- 
 self to minister, with a daughter's tenderness, to his heart- 
 stricken mother, and she, who went to impart consolation, re- 
 ceived it in her own bosom. Mrs. Gray was a Christian. 
 Gabriella, though the daughter of a Christian land, was as 
 ignorant of the true principles of Christianity, as though born 
 on the banks of the Ganges. Mrs. Gray, though ignorant in 
 modern literature, was " mighty in the Scriptures," and it was 
 astonishing with what eloquence and power this humble, un- 
 lettered woman, explained the mystic scroll of revelation, 
 which seemed now for the first time unrolled to the eyes of 
 the young Gabriella. It was not alone the thought of Ellery 
 languishing, an innocent victim, in the dungeon's loneliness 
 and gloom it was not the blighting of her heart's first love 
 that had frozen the smile on the lips of the young girl, and 
 changed to the lily's whiteness the roses of her cheek. It was 
 a secret that never could be revealed a cloud that never apuld 
 be rolled away a horror of thick darkness, that never could 
 be illumined with one ray of hope. She stood trembling on 
 the brink of a precipice, without one arm to sustain, one pil- 

 
 132 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 lar on which to lean, looking down into an abyss of shame and 
 sorrow, the more deep and dark, because an impenetrable cur- 
 tain concealed it from the world. In this indescribable deso- 
 lation of the soul, religion found her, and throwing arouud 
 her a divine arm, bore her along the margin of the gulf with 
 an unfaltering step, directing her gaze to the green fields and 
 flowery plains beyond. 
 
 The first year of Ellery's imprisonment drew to a close. 
 Mr. Campbell, who had never been prostrated by a day's sick- 
 ness, was attacked by strange paroxysms, which alarmed his 
 family, but for which he positively refused medical advice or 
 assistance. He shrank, too, from the filial cares of Gabriella, 
 preferring to remain alone, in a darkened chamber, far from 
 the sad and gentle eyes that so mournfully regarded him. 
 
 When the next annual examination of the Bank was made, 
 the astounding report was again circulated, that there was a 
 deficiency of a sum even greater than that of the preceding 
 year. That another clerk as unprincipled as Ellery should 
 supply his place, seemed a strange coincidence. This young 
 man belonged to a highly respectable family, and had influen- 
 tial friends in the city. The irreproachable character of Mr. 
 Campbell could not now exempt him from suspicion, though 
 its birth seemed sacrilege. The unbounded extravagance of 
 his wife had long been a subject of censure and curiosity, for 
 speculation was busy as to the source whence it was supplied. 
 
 On the day of the investigation, Mr. Campbell was too ill 
 to leave his room too ill to admit any one to his apartment. 
 Messengers were despatched with the promise of attending to 
 business on the morrow the morrow which he must await in 
 fear and trembling. Night came on. He would allow no 
 lamp to illumine his apartment, avowing that darkness was 
 more tranquillizing to the nerves. The moon shone in with a 
 struggling beam, just as it had done a year before. The bed 
 stood close to the window, so that by leaning towards it, he 
 could gather the curtains in his hand, and folding them on one 
 side, let in a flood of radiance. The shadows he had sought 
 began to be appalling. 
 
 " Once more," he cried, shading his eyes from the insuffera- 
 -"*ble splendour, "once more I am passing a terrible, an awful 
 crisif Another victim may be sacrificed, but what is that to 
 the preservation of an unblemished reputation? After the 
 sacrifice of Ellery, what if a hecatomb be offered up ? Him 
 I have destroyed, but have I not destroyed my own soul also ?
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY 133 
 
 If I have doomed him to the torture of imprisonment, have I 
 not suffered the agonies of the damned as an atonement ? Is 
 he not far happier in his lonely cell, than I, stretched on the 
 burning coals of remorse ? But suppose I am detected, dis- 
 graced, undone ?" 
 
 He paused, and clenched his hands, till the nails cut into 
 the shrinking flesh. 
 
 " I was not always a villain," he continued. " I had a 
 kind, loving heart. I loved that boy, when I adopted him for 
 my own. I loved him till I wronged him, and then I hated 
 him for the very injuries I inflicted. I never intended to de- 
 fraud. I never thought of stealing. I meant to return the 
 money, but the woman whom God gave me as a curse, kept 
 tempting me, by demanding means to satisfy her insatiable 
 desires. Step by step, I have been plunging deeper and deeper 
 in sin and iniquity, till I must go down, down, into the bot- 
 tomless pit. I meant to stop after the ruin of Ellery, but 
 retrenchment would have excited suspicion. I was .already 
 lost beyond redemption. For one crime, the son of the morn- 
 ing was banished from heaven. Oh ! avenging Deity, can 
 there be a deeper hell, than that which burns iu the abyss of 
 a guilty, remorseless soul ?" 
 
 While he thus held communion with his tortured, self-up- 
 braiding spirit, Gabriella entered, and came and stood at hia 
 bed-side. 
 
 "Leave me," cried he sternly. "Did I not forbid all in- 
 trusion ?" 
 
 " Send me not from you, father, at a moment like this. 
 Close not your heart to sympathy and affection, for you will 
 have need of them to comfort and sustain. Oh ! my father, 
 if the whole world forsake you, I will cling to you even in 
 dishonour and shame I will remember that I am your daughter 
 still." 
 
 " Speak, and tell me what you mean ?" exclaimed he, grasp- 
 ing the bed-post with both hands, a cold perspiration bedewing 
 his forehead. 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" she cried, wringing her hands, " I thought 
 I was very calm but I sink on the threshold of duty. I have 
 heard words not intended for my ear words which I came to 
 repeat, but theytlie upon my lips. Father, the doom which 
 has fallen on JEUery Gray, hangs over you. They say you 
 cannot escape i Oh, how long have I seen its shadow 
 coming!"
 
 IS4 
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 " They !" he cried. " Who dares to impeach my honour ? 
 My character is above reproach. You, who never doubted the 
 innocence of Ellery, are you sacrilegious enough to suspect 
 your own father of crime ?" 
 
 " Oh ! it is in vain to contend with the Almighty/' cried 
 Gabriella, sinking on her knees, and clasping her hands on 
 her bosoin. " His hand is upon you, father, and you must 
 submit. Just one year ago, in this very room, when I knelt 
 at your feet in the agony of a breaking heart, by your words, 
 your looks, I discovered your terrible secret. The evidence 
 was as strong to me, as if the thunders of Heaven revealed it. 
 Oh ! I have greatly sinned in hiding it so long in my own 
 soul. I ought never to have risen from your feet, till you 
 promised to do justice to the innocent, suffering in your stead. 
 By righteous boldness, I might have arrested you in your dark 
 path. Nay, my father, tear not your hands from my clinging 
 grasp. Turn not away in frantic passion. I love you still 
 in spite of the past and the present in view of the dreadful 
 future I love you still. You have been tempted, you have 
 sinned; but though man may condemn, God will forgive. 
 Oh ! my poor, poor father resist no longer confess your 
 guilt before man and God. Humble yourself in dust and 
 ashes at the foot of the cross, lie there till drenched in a 
 Saviour's blood, die there pleading for mercy but live n6 
 longer in sin and misery ; tempt not the wrath of the Lamb 
 of God." 
 
 Mr. Campbell, who had at first writhed under her glance, 
 and struggled to free himself from the slender hand that 
 grasped his own, felt himself under an influence too mighty 
 to resist. He gazed upon his young daughter, with her pale, 
 beautiful face, lighted up with such a holy lustre, transformed 
 as it were to an accusiag angel, bearing in one hand the 
 broken canons of the God he had defied, and pointing with 
 the other to the blood-stained mount where mercy sat en- 
 throned. Even in that moment of agony and shame, he felt 
 a sensation of relief that his crime was known ; that there 
 was no more necessity of struggling to conceal it; that the 
 terrible battle between conscience and temptation was at an 
 end. He never thought of denying the charge those pale, 
 pure, fearless lips had uttered; never thought of breathing 
 one word of vindication, or in extenuation of his guilt. But he 
 had sworn never to survive detection, and resolved to embrace 
 death, rather than ignominy.
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 135 
 
 " Enough, enough, Gabriella," he cried, in a hollow, altered 
 voice. " I yield to the fate I can no longer contend with. 
 But leave me now ! I would prepare myself to meet it as a 
 man." 
 
 As he raised his hand, in the act of speaking, the pillow 
 moved, and Gabriella caught a glimpse of a pistol beneath it. 
 She remembered the vow he had made, not to survive de- 
 tection, and divined the nature of the preparation to which he 
 alluded. With a shriek, she snatched the pistol and dashed 
 it through the window to the ground, shivering the glass and 
 scattering it like diamonds in the moonlight, It exploded as 
 it fell, and at the same moment, Gabriella, faint and sick, 
 threw her arms round her father's neck and burst into tears. 
 
 " You will not put yourself beyond the reach of pardon ?" 
 she sobbed. " You will not inflict so awful a curse on your 
 child?" 
 
 " Oh, my God !" exclaimed the father, folding his arms round 
 his weeping daughter; ' ; Is there, can there be pardon for a 
 wretch like me?" 
 
 Scalding tears gushed from his eyes, and rained on Ga- 
 briella' s cheek. Long and bitterly he wept, and it seemed as 
 if every tear softened the iron pressure of despair, girdling his 
 heart, The awful thought of self-murder melted away. He 
 would surrender himself to the justice of man, he would bow 
 before the vengeance of the Almighty. He deserved to suffer 
 all that Omnipotence could inflict, or an immortal nature 
 endure. 
 
 The morning found him nerved for the ordeal through which 
 he was doomed to pass. When he presented himself before 
 his judges, and made a full and voluntary confession of his 
 guilt, indignation for his crime was mitigated by the depth of 
 his penitence, the greatness of his remorse. Even justice 
 hesitated to crush the man, who laid his body beneath its 
 chariot wheels, a waiting victim. But the confession once 
 made, the strength which had sustained him suddenly failed. 
 A hot, purple flush, dyed the deadly pallor of his cheek and 
 brow and, pressing his hand to his head, he fell back in a 
 violent spasm. For hours he passed from paroxysm to pa- 
 roxysm, such as only attacks the strong frame and wrestling 
 spirit. When they subsided he seemed weak as an infant, and 
 the grave, instead of the prison, seemed waiting to receive 
 him. But, it is said that a strong will can make death itself 
 its vassal.
 
 136 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 
 
 Mr. Campbell, who had always appeared to be a yielding 
 man, only too easily swayed by the will of others, was resolved 
 to put into execution one design. As a dying man he could 
 claim exemption from the immediate execution of justice; but, 
 before passing to the tribunal of the eternal judgment, he would 
 drain to the dregs the cup of earthly humiliation. He would 
 die in prison. The same bed of straw on which Ellery had so 
 long groaned, should receive his failing limbs. Through the 
 gloomy grates, which had barely admitted the faint sunbeams 
 to the darkened eye of the young man, his guilty spirit should 
 struggle upwards to the great Omniscient Judge. 
 
 It was vain to oppose his determination, and, as strength 
 returned to him in a miraculous manner, even the physicians 
 thought it best to yield to his wishes. He was placed in a 
 carriage, with Gabriella by his side, who was resolved that 
 neither imprisonment nor death should separate her from him. 
 Mrs. Campbell, at the first intimation of their disgrace, had 
 sought refuge with some wealthy relatives, never dreaming 
 that, like the first of woman-kind, she had yielded herself to 
 the delusions of the arch-tempter, and then dragged her hus- 
 band into transgression. 
 
 They arrived at the prison at an hour when the convicts 
 were all separate in their solitary cells. Ellery Gray raised 
 his head as the heavy bolt was undrawn, and the dark, sunken 
 eye, in which the light of hope and joy had long been quenched, 
 turned slowly and languidly towards the door. His graceful 
 form was disfigured by the felon's dress and badge of shame, 
 his luxuriant locks were all shorn, and his complexion white 
 and wan as the flower of a sunless soil. He caught a glimpse 
 of a black, flowing robe, a pale, fair, sad face, such as had 
 often in dreams illumined his dungeon's gloom and he passed 
 his hand over his eyes, believing himself the sport of an optical 
 illusion. Again he looked, and beheld another well-remem- 
 bered figure, not firm and erect, as he had last seen it, but 
 bowed, weak and tottering, with haggard features, and dim, 
 death-like countenance. Mr. Campbell staggered forward, and 
 would have fallen had not Ellery thrown his arms around him. 
 He laid him gently on his pallet of straw, while Gabriella 
 supported his head on her bosom. 
 
 g3' Ellery," cried he, extending his trembling hand, " this 
 bed of straw is mine this grated dungeon is mine the guilt, 
 the ignominy are mine. I have dragged myself hither, a dying
 
 THE LITTLE BROOM BOY. 137 
 
 man, to acknowledge my transgressions at your feet, and pray 
 you to forgive me, in the name of a merciful Redeemer." 
 
 Ellery bowed his head over the dying man and wept. No 
 words could be so expressive as those silent tears. The peni- 
 tent felt them to his heart's core. 
 
 " Oh ! my son," he cried, " son of my adoption and early 
 love ! Do you indeed weep for me ? Am I ever to be for- 
 given ? Ah ! if man can forgive, may not the great God have 
 mercy ? Go forth, Ellery ; go from this prison-house to a 
 world waiting to redress your wrongs. Go in the glory of 
 martyrdom, and wear the crown of honour. You are young. 
 Long years of happiness are in store for you for you and 
 Gabriella. But oh, my children, try not to curse my memory." 
 
 He paused, exhausted by the efforts he had made, and his 
 heavy eyelids closed. He had accomplished the purpose for 
 which he had exerted himself with superhuman strength, the 
 energies of life subsided, and nature yielded without further 
 struggle. His mind began to wander, his pulse to fail, and 
 after a few hours of alternate delirium and stupor, his spirit 
 passed away. 
 
 Ellery Gray was restored to freedom and honour \ the pub- 
 lic, anxious to make restitution for the unmerited sufferings 
 he had endured, pressed upon his acceptance offices of emolu- 
 ment and distinction. The directors of the bank insisted 
 upon paying him the year's salary he had lost in prison and 
 this he accepted as an act of justice ; all other pecuniary gifts 
 he declined, though offered in the most munificent manner. 
 
 It was long before Gabriella recovered from the terrible 
 shock she had received. But it was her father's guilt she de- 
 plored more than its consequences, and believing that he died 
 repentant, she bowed to the cross and endured the shame, in 
 the spirit of her divine Master. If sympathy and tenderness 
 could embalm a wounded heart, hers would have been healed. 
 And it was healed. Life shared with Ellery must be happy, 
 for he was one of those sons of God not often linked with the 
 daughters of men. They were happier for their past suffer- 
 ings, for they were better, and happiness is always commensu- 
 rate with goodness. 
 
 The early days of their married life were passed in retire- 
 ment, for Gabriella shrunk from a world over which the mem- 
 ory of her father's guilt hung a darkening shadow, but her 
 nature was too noble not to discard this morbid sensibility. 
 She urged her husband to return to society, to rekindle the 
 126
 
 138 THE LITTLE BROOM EOT. 
 
 glorious ambition of his youth, and give to mankind the influ- 
 ence of his talents and his virtues. 
 
 So they removed to the Queen City of the "West, rising in 
 grace and magnificence on their Ohio's native stream. With 
 her own mother Gabriella had no longer any association, for 
 their paths too widely diverged but the mother of Ellery 
 shared their home her piety, the rainbow of the household, 
 reminding them of the unfailing promise of God. 
 
 Though Ellery Gray gained influence and honour, it was by 
 the exercise of domestic and social virtues, rather than the 
 splendour of his public acts. He never would accept any 
 office of civil or political distinction, never allow himself to be 
 made the idol of the populace. " He would not give to party 
 what was meant for mankind." 
 
 And Gabriella walked by his side, in holy simplicity and 
 godly sincerity, wearing no ornament but that of a " meek and 
 quiet spirit," no gem but the " pearl of great price" that 
 pearl, which she had found under the ocean waves of a great 
 
 
 
 
 fe ^'
 
 SELIM: 
 
 AN ORIENTAL TALE. 
 
 THE events recorded in the following tale, may be found in 
 the annals of a reign memorable for splendour and oppression, 
 the reign of Amurath, one of the most powerful Sultans of 
 the East. The usurper and not the inheritor of another's 
 throne, he ruled with iron despotism over the subjects to whose 
 obedience he felt that he had no legitimate claim ; yet, while 
 others crouched beneath his tyranny and trembled at his frown, 
 his own heart was secretly a prey to inquietude and distrust. 
 There are no pangs more intense than those occasioned by a 
 consciousness of crime and a dread of its consequences. Ainu- 
 rath knew that he was no common usurper that the path 
 which led to his present grandeur had been deluged with royal 
 blood and in the midst of all his magnificence, a voice was 
 ever sounding in his ears, that royal blood would one day cry 
 aloud for vengeance, and be heard. 
 
 Superstition, which usually holds dark companionship with 
 guilt, and which, in that age and clime, maintained a powerful 
 sway over the purest minds, added to the depth and intensity 
 of these emotions. One of those wild dwellers of the moun- 
 tains, who believe themselves gifted with inspiration from 
 Heaven, or who impose that belief on the credulity of others, 
 had first kindled the fire of ambition in the cold breast of Amu- 
 rath, by dim prophecies of his future greatness. The cloud 
 which obscured the brilliant unveiling of his destiny, was the 
 assertion of the prophet, that while the remotest branch of the 
 royal family existed, his power was without base and his life 
 without security. He believed that he had exterminated that 
 ill-fated race, but the jewels with which he encircled his brow 
 were as so many points of living fire to his brain. The fear 
 that some scion from the ancient stock still nourished, protected 
 
 (139)
 
 140 SELIM. 
 
 from his power, flitted like a phantom in his path and shadowed 
 the possession 1 of his glory. 
 
 He was seated one evening on his magnificent divan, with 
 a countenance darkened by more than its wonted expression 
 of care and apprehension. Selim, his favourite and prime 
 minister, stood before him, holding in his hand an unfolded 
 letter, whose contents he had just perused, and upon which he 
 still bent a stern and steadfast gaze. 
 
 " Kuowest thou whose hand has traced those characters ?" 
 exclaimed the Sultan, breaking the ominous silence while he 
 in vain endeavoured to master its inquietude. 
 
 Selim lifted his head from the bending position it had as- 
 sumed, and met the keen, searching glance of the Sultan, with 
 one irresolute and troubled. At length his eye became steady, 
 while it kindled into an expression of moral sublimity, and 
 though his lips quivered with indefinable emotion, he answered 
 in unfaltering accents, 
 
 "I do." 
 
 For a moment, Amurath was silent, for there is a power in 
 intellect proudly resting on its strength for support, unaided 
 and alone, to whose sovereignty the haughtiest despot is com- 
 pelled to bow. But the momentary awe was succeeded by a 
 gust of stormy passion. 
 
 " Ha ! darest thou thus avow thy league with treachery ? 
 Thou, whom I have taken to my bosom, whom I have drawn 
 near my throne, and exalted even to my right hand ? Tell me 
 the name of him who has penned this seditious scrawl, or by 
 the sword of the prophet, every drop of thy false heart's blood 
 shall be spilled to expiate thy crime." 
 
 " I have formed no league with treason," exclaimed the un- 
 daunted Selirn. " Still true in my allegiance to my royal 
 master, I boldly assert my right to that confidence which I 
 have never justly forfeited. Drain the last drop, if it be thy 
 sovereign will, from this faithful heart, and in my dying agoniea 
 I will only remember that thou wert once just to thyself and 
 me." 
 
 " I demand the proof of thy fidelity," repeated the Sultan 
 in a calmer tone, his wrath beginning to yield to the over- 
 mastering influence of his favourite. " Tell me the author of 
 those fatal lines." 
 
 Selim answered not, but bending one knee to the ground, 
 bowed his head in the attitude of oriental humility. 
 
 " Commander of the faithful ! Bid me not expose an un-
 
 SELIM. 141 
 
 fortunate and misguided being to the fate which he merits. I 
 once knew him who has thus clandestinely intruded himself 
 on thy notice, but years have passed since we have met, and 
 every bond which once united us has long been broken. Be- 
 lieve me, sire, it is not the discovery of an obscure individual, 
 that can insure safety to thyself or security to thy power. 
 There is a powerful existing party in favour of the fallen dy- 
 nasty, and were it once known that an offspring of that race 
 was still left behind, it would be the signal for anarchy and 
 blood. Destroy this letter; its contents are safe in my bosom. 
 My life shall be the pledge of my fidelity. It is in thy hands. 
 I will not redeem it by the sacrifice of another, even to obey 
 the mandate of my sovereign." 
 
 " Take back thy pledge," replied the Sultan, " and hug thy 
 secret to thy breast, but never shall thy nuptials be celebrated 
 with the beautiful daughter of Ibrahim, till thou hast un- 
 ravelled this dark conspiracy, and discovered the pretended 
 offspring of that fallen race, which was created only to serve 
 as the footstool of my glory. The morrow was to have been 
 gilded by the pomp of thy espousals, but never shall that sun 
 rise which shall illuminate the hymeneal rite, till thou hast 
 rolled away this shadow from thy name, and fulfilled the com- 
 mands of thy insulted lord." 
 
 Selim found himself alone. But before we penetrate into 
 the recesses of his soul, agitated as it now is with contending 
 passions, we will give an explanation of the preceding scene. 
 
 Amurath had intercepted an anonymous letter to Selim, 
 whose contents were calculated to awaken the strangest sus- 
 picions and the darkest forebodings. The language of this 
 epistle was bold and eloquent. It called upon Selim to unite 
 himself to a band which was leagued to restore the ancient 
 honours of the throne. It spoke of the existence of a princess, 
 a daughter of the murdered Sultan, who had been sheltered 
 since infancy from the power of the usurper, and whom they 
 had sworn to protect with their blood. Selim recogrfised in 
 this daring appeal the characters of his eldest brother, who, 
 scorning the restraints of the paternal roof, and obeying the 
 impulses of bis own wild spirit, had for many years been an 
 alien from his home. He had cherished for this brother an 
 affection more than fraternal. It was romantic, enthusiastic, 
 and in proportion to the ardour of his attachment was the 
 bitterness of sorrow which he felt for his desertion. No 
 longer interested in the scenes of his youth, he sought the 

 
 142 SELIM. 
 
 precincts of the court, and the favourite of nature soon became 
 the idol of fortune. He obtained the unbounded confidence 
 of the Sultan, the highest honours royal favour could bestow, 
 and, more than all, the love of Zerah, the beautiful daughter 
 of Ibrahim. He had that evening entered the presence of 
 his sovereign, rich in the possession of all that grandeur can 
 impart, and in the reversion of all that hope can offer. He 
 now stood desolate and alone, conscious of the abyss which 
 yawned before him, for he knew but too well, that the wrath 
 of sovereignty succeeding its smile, was the thunderbolt dart- 
 ing from the noonday sky. 
 
 He might have denied all knowledge of the bold conspirator, 
 who had perilled his life and fame ; but his truth-telling lips 
 refused to sanction even an implied deceit. He had pledged 
 his fidelity to Amurath, he was bound to him by every tie 
 of gratitude and honour ties indissolubly strong. He was 
 united to his brother by the holy bond of fraternity to Zerah, 
 the fond, the faithful, the confiding Zerah, by all those hallowed 
 and imperishable sympathies which God and Nature have created 
 and entwined with the very life-chords of our existence. Could 
 he throw off his allegiance to the ruthless usurper, yet liberal 
 benefactor, who had elevated him to his present altitude of 
 greatness, and brand himself with the name of traitor and in- 
 grate ? Never ! Better to die with an unblemished fame, than 
 live to bear a stigma so degrading. Could he sacrifice his 
 brother to the excited vengeance of Amurath, who would 
 search through his kingdom to discover the place of his retreat, 
 were he once assured of his rebellious purposes ? Never ! Nature 
 would disown the monster who thus violated her sacred law. 
 Could he persist in his present course, and wound by his de- 
 sertion that tender and innocent heart which beat to adore 
 him ? To this there was but one reply, involving life or death. 
 
 These reflections pursued him at the midnight hour, while 
 he wandered in a garden, which the liberality of nature and 
 the splendour of art had embellished with every charm. Groves 
 of orange trees, covered with their sweet, waxen, white blos- 
 soms, filled the air with that sweet, delicious fragrance, which 
 reminds one of all that is lovely in the moral and spiritual 
 world. Fountains of the purest water tossed their silvery 
 foam to the moon's glancing rays, or flowed on in marble 
 channels, with low murmuring melody, through bowers of dark 
 luxuriance, till their sound died away in music on the ear. 
 It was a night of indescribable splendour. The moon shone
 
 SELIM. 143 
 
 with that soft, pearl-like lustre which is only known in oriental 
 climes, while, remote from the halo of light which surrounded 
 her throne, and over the deep dark blue of a midnight firma- 
 ment, the stars were scattered like so many living diamonds, 
 concentrating their rays in one flood of light, yet each shining 
 distinctly in its own individual glory. Selim felt, for a moment, 
 calmed and solemnized before the majesty of creation. Who 
 has not felt the influence of night? Night! grand, silent, 
 religious night ! It is invested with an unapproachable mag- 
 nificence, a shadoVed splendour, more beautiful and sublime 
 than the unveiled blaze of day. We feel as if we had entered 
 the inner temple of Nature, and shared in the mystery of the 
 divine repose. The soul, disturbed by earth-born cares, 
 agonized by earthly conflicts, discards its cares and forgets its 
 sonflicts before the altar of Omnipotence, and, conscious of its 
 own immortality, identifies itself with the Divinity breathing 
 around. Such thoughts as these awed the tempestuous passions 
 which raged in the breast of Selim, into rest. He threw him- 
 self upon a flight of marble steps, and, reclining his burning 
 temples against the cold, smooth surface, remained as motion- 
 less as the pillar upon which he leaned. He lay, with his eyes 
 intensely fixed upon the illimitable vault above, unconscious 
 of everything in the external world, when he perceived the 
 light darkening around him, though no cloud floated over the 
 ethereal blue. Half rising from his recumbent position, he 
 beheld a majestic figure standing before him in dark relief 
 against the heavens on which its lineaments were defined. 
 Selim stood erect, and grasping his scimitar with one hand, 
 he repelled with the other the approach of the mysterious 
 visitant. 
 
 " Selim !" exclaimed the stranger, in the deep tones of sup- 
 pressed emotion, and in an instant the hand which grasped the 
 scimitar relaxed its hold. Time may dim the recollection of 
 familiar features, or change the form whose traits we have 
 hoarded in our memory, but the voice there is a magic in 
 the voice. It steals over our souls as the wind floats over the 
 chords of some neglected instrument, and the music of remem- 
 brance awakens as it breathes. The stranger opened his arms, 
 and Selim fell upon his brother's neck and wept. Forgotten 
 were desertion and wrongs, danger and fears. Every other 
 feeling was absorbed in that of fraternal love. He saw only 
 the long-estranged companion of his childhood he felt only 
 the tears of a brother bedewing his cheeks. But the tears of
 
 : " : * : 
 
 144 SELIM. 
 
 man are few, and pride soon conquers the weakness of nature. 
 Solyman, such was the name of the wanderer, unfolded to his 
 brother the purposes to which all his energies were devoted, 
 adjured him to break the gilded chains which linked him to 
 a tyrant's destiny, and asserted the claims of the orphan 
 princess to loyalty and protection. Selim was immovable. 
 Amurath cruel, ambitious, and despotic was still his gene- 
 rous, and, till now, confiding master. He vowed never to 
 betray his brother, but that he would devote his life to the 
 service of his sovereign. 
 
 "But where," he cried, "is the unfortunate princess who 
 survives the ruin of her race ?" 
 
 " The secret is buried in my bosom," replied Solyman, 
 " close as the gems in the casket which contains the testimonies 
 of her birth. That casket was committed to my care by the 
 dying loyalist, who snatched her, an infant, from destruction, 
 and placed her where the hand of the destroyer reached her 
 not. Even he, who fosters her in his arms, and shields her 
 with parental care, knows not the treasure he wears in his 
 bosom. Selim, I have that in my power which thou wilt value 
 more than all that Amurath in the prodigality of his favours 
 can bestow. Join but our faithful and devoted band, aid us 
 in protecting this last remnant of the imperial line, and thou 
 shalt be rewarded by the possession of the royal beauty." 
 
 " Talk not of love and beauty," exclaimed Selim, sternly. 
 " Thou knowest not what thou utterest." 
 
 " 1 know not !" repeated the wanderer. " Thinkest thou 
 that my heart, because it scorned the cold restraints of the 
 world, is dead to human feeling ? I roamed from scenes of 
 heartless splendour, but another was the companion of my 
 wanderings. An angel spirit in woman's form has ever fol- 
 lowed my devious path, smoothed its roughness, and gilded its 
 gloom. Go with me to yon mountain cave and see the fair 
 flower which is sheltered there, blooming in loveliness alone 
 for me, and then tell me, if thou canst, that I know not of 
 love and beauty." 
 
 " Thou dost not understand me," replied Selim, with bitter- 
 ness; "my dreams of bliss are vanished; the paradise of 
 love will never cheer this isolated heart. But I would not 
 upbraid thee." 
 
 He related to Solyman the history of his betrothal, his 
 anticipated marriage, and the fatal denunciation which had 
 blasted his hopes. He trusted to the generosity of his brother,
 
 SELIM. 145 
 
 and appealed to him, by all that was dear and holy, to relin- 
 quish a design which was not only endangering his own life, 
 but destroying the happiness of a brother. 
 
 Sblyman listened in breathless anxiety, but Selim marked 
 with indignant surprise, that his eye kindled in the moonlight 
 with a fierce delight, which seemed to mock the calm radiance 
 it reflected. He gazed on the majestic features, which shone 
 with a corresponding illumination, and almost imagined some 
 malignant spirit had animated them. That Solyman should 
 exult in the ruin he had caused, was as incredible as it was 
 maddening. 
 
 "Fear not," exclaimed Solyman exultingly, "she shall yet 
 be thine. No fraternal blood shall bedew the hymeneal altar. 
 Meet me to-morrow, at early dawn, at the foot of yon moun- 
 tain which stretches its dark outline on the right, and I will 
 show you credentials which shall prove the power of my 
 words." 
 
 They parted, to meet again at the appointed hour. They 
 met in secret at the foot of the mountain, whose summit was 
 just gilded by the breaking light. 
 
 Selim earnestly perused the face of his brother, that he 
 might penetrate the depths of his soul and learn his latent 
 intentions but he could not fathom them. He saw only the 
 bold, unquiet eye, the proud, curling lip and haughty mien, 
 which had distinguished him in early years, and gained him 
 the appellation of Solyman the Proud. 
 
 The spot which had been selected, was one which nature 
 had guarded from intrusion with the most jealous care. On 
 one side, a cluster of trees, clothed in the densest foliage, 
 presented a wall of living verdure impervious to the eye ; on 
 the other, a broad stream, darkened by the boughs which 
 overshadowed its banks, poured its tributary stream into the 
 Euphrates' distant waves. Selim impatiently demanded of 
 his brother the credentials which he* had promised to deliver. 
 Solyman drew from beneath the foldings of his robe a casket, 
 and, touching a secret spring, displayed its brilliant contents. 
 It was filled with the richest gems, but there were papers 
 concealed in this magnificent bed of diamonds, which Selim 
 gathered up, regardless of the splendour which surrounded 
 them. From these papers he discovered that Zerah, his be- 
 trothed bride, the supposed daughter of Ibrahim, was the 
 orphan princess, who had been rescued in infancy from the 
 power of Amurath. He, whose attachment to his murdered
 
 146 SELIM. 
 
 sovereign had led him to protect this lone blossom from the 
 storm which had uprooted the parent stein, placed her in the 
 arms of Ibrahim's gentle wife, who was watching by the cradle 
 of her own slumbering babe. Ibrahim was then absent, but 
 she vowed to cherish, with a mother's tenderness, the innocent 
 being committed to her care. In the mean time, by a mys- 
 terious dispensation of Heaven, her own child sickened and 
 died, and when Ibrahim, who had attached himself to the new 
 dynasty, returned, he received to his bosom, with unconscious 
 loyalty, the lovely offspring of a kingly line. There was an 
 inexplicable resemblance between the two infants, and the 
 wife of Ibrahim justly deemed that her husband would be 
 secured from much solicitude and danger, if he remained 
 ignorant of the hazardous charge she had received. She was 
 now no more, and they, who now stood side by side, in the 
 solitude we have described, were the sole possessors of this 
 interesting secret. 
 
 Selim grasped the casket as if it contained his salvation, and 
 exclaimed, " Mine be the bosom to guard these sacred testi- 
 monies. I dare not hazard their safety, even in your hands. 
 Should Amurath but, dream of her identity with the object of 
 his fears, her life would be the instantaneous sacrifice. Even 
 now his emissaries are on the watch, sent to every part of his 
 kingdom, to discover the victim of his ambition." 
 
 " No they shall be a pledge between thee and me," ex- 
 claimed Solyman. " Thou hast sworn not to betray me, but 
 thou art human. My life and that of my brave band are in 
 thy power. I have revealed to thee our most secret designs 
 thee, the favourite of a tyrant. What surety hast thou given ? 
 Nothing but breath, already melted in air. Shouldst thou 
 yield to the weakness of passion, and deliver us into the hands 
 of him by whom thou art thyself enslaved, thy Zerah's life shall 
 be the sacrifice of thy broken faith. I brought thee here, that 
 thou mightst learn the secret of Zerah's birth, but never, 
 never, will I relinquish to the friend of tyranny, the treasure 
 which expiring loyalty committed to my trust." 
 
 He ceased, and, suddenly snatching the casket from the hand 
 of Selim, turned and plunged into the stream that rolled near 
 the spot where they stood. The action was so sudden and 
 impetuous that Selim was hardly conscious of the deed, till 
 he beheld his brother severing the waters with one hand, while 
 he held in the other the glittering prize. Soon springing upon 
 the opposite bank, he waved a parting sign and disappeared in
 
 SELIM. 147 
 
 the obscurity of tbe thicket. Selim gazed after this wild and 
 singular being with feelings it would be difficult to define; 
 but the conviction that Solyman despised the species of honour 
 which bound him to Amurath, stung him to the soul. 
 
 " He knows me not," he bitterly cried; but the recollection 
 of Zerah and the dangers which surrounded her, soon banished 
 every other reflection. The sun was just beginning to gild 
 the mist which curled around the mountain's brow, that sun, 
 which was to have shone upon their nuptial vows. The fear 
 that Amurath might discover the secret of her birth deepened 
 to maddening certainty, as he thought of the almost illimitable 
 power which the Sultan exercised over the sordid minions 
 which surrounded his throne. He could not believe that the 
 knowledge of so important a fact was confined to the bosom 
 of one individual. He determined to seek the dwelling of 
 Ibrahim, and warning him of some impending calamity, urge 
 him to leave the country and bear his daughter to some distant 
 region, where they might remain in security till the appre- 
 hended danger was past. 
 
 Ibrahim beheld, with astonishment, the clouded brow and 
 troubled mien of Selim; not such the mien that bridegrooms 
 are wont to wear. The pride of the father rose high in his 
 heart, for the beautiful Zerah was the fairest flower of oriental 
 climes, and he deemed her a gift richer than all the gems of 
 the East. To Selim's impassioned representations of unknown 
 peril which awaited them, and entreaties for their immediate 
 departure, he lent a doubting ear. He was one of the most 
 magnificent grandees of the kingdom, and he felt that he pos- 
 sessed sufficient power in himself to guard against any evils 
 which might threaten him. With proud integrity of purpose, 
 he resolved to stand firm in the strength of conscious rectitude. 
 Selim was unprepared for this resistance, and marked, with 
 anguish, the suspicions which had entered the breast of Ibra- 
 him. He dared not avow the secret which oppressed him ; he 
 could not prove, by the necessary credentials, the almost in- 
 credible tale, and he feared that ambition, which held lordly 
 sway over Ibrahim's minor passions, would lead him to sacri- 
 fice the innocence and beauty he had protected while ignorant 
 of its imperial origin. Ibrahim summoned his daughter, and, 
 commanding her to fathom the mystery of her lover's con- 
 duct, or to withdraw the pledge she had given, left the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Selim had not, till this moment, experienced the overwhelm-
 
 148 SELIM. 
 
 ing embarrassment of his situation. He stood pale and irreso- 
 lute in the presence of her, whom he was to have claimed that 
 day as a triumphant bridegroom. The pride which sustained 
 him before his fellow man, was now annihilated by a stronger 
 emotion. He did not speak, but throwing himself prostrate 
 at her feet, buried his face in the foldings of her robe. And 
 surely, if aught in woman's form could justify the adoration 
 of the heart, this daughter of a kingly race might vindicate 
 the worship she inspired. With eyes of celestial glory; a 
 brow on which the regality of nature was enthroned ; a cheek 
 on which the rich blooin of the pomegranate was mellowed to 
 the softness of the virgin rose; tresses of dark redundance, 
 that wreathed as they fell, forming a native veil around her 
 she moved amid the maidens of that eastern land, fair and 
 transcendent as the moon, when, attended by her starry hand- 
 maids, she walks the palace of the skies. The temple was 
 worthy of the divinity which it enshrined. Thus clothed with 
 the light of material and spiritual loveliness, she seemed born 
 to feel and to create a passion, refined above the grossness 
 of mortality. Unlike the proud and jealous Ibrahim, she 
 doubted not the faith of her lover. When, in broken accents, 
 he told her of the interdiction to their nuptials, of the cloud 
 that was darkening over their destiny, she wept ovr their 
 blighted hopes, but, instead of withdrawing, she renewed her 
 vows of love and fidelity. Oh ! pure and trusting is the 
 tenderness of woman's uncorrupted heart ! A ray emanating 
 from the fountain of all purity and light, shining on with un- 
 wavering brightness, undimmed by the gloom of sorrow, un- 
 extinguished by the darkness of despair. The darker and 
 closer the clouds gather around, the clearer and brighter its 
 divine effulgence the sunshine resting on the coming tem- 
 pest, the rainbow gilding its retiring shades. 
 
 Selim felt, in this moment, more than indemnified for all he 
 had endured. The conviction of her unalterable love, restored 
 to him the energy and eloquence which had ever rendered him 
 an irresistible pleader. Zerah yielded to the entreaties which 
 Ibrahim had resisted, and, ere they parted, consented to fly 
 with him to some far and lone retreat, where, like the desert 
 flower which blossoms unseen, save by the All-seeing eye, she 
 would be content to bloom alone for him. 
 
 Selim sought the palace of Amurath. He had one of the 
 hardest tasks for a noble and an ingenuous mind to perform. 
 He was compelled to mask his purpose, to appear with deep 
 
 **.
 
 SELIM. 149 
 
 submission before the sovereign, whose resentment he had in- 
 curred. The day must be devoted to the revolting task of 
 deception the succeeding night to his secret flight. He was 
 retracing, with slow steps, the path which led to the mountain 
 stream, that he might avoid the guards of the Sultan, when 
 he suddenly encountered Solyman, who was hurrying along 
 with breathless speed, his countenance indicative of the most 
 violent emotion. 
 
 " Fly !" exclaimed Solyman, in a voice which sounded, in 
 Selim's startled ear, loud as the tec-bir shout. "Fly the 
 minions of tyranny are abroad they rushed upon me, cowards 
 as they are, they wrested the casket from my unguarded 
 hand, their scimitars were flashing around me. I fled, but 
 not in fear. I fled in search of vengeance. See," he con- 
 tinued, lifting on high his bleeding hand, " for every drop of blood 
 a thousand streams shall flow. Fly through yon secret path, 
 intercept the wretch who robbed me of my treasure. He 
 left his comrades far behind. Fear not the power of Amurath. 
 I swear to redeem thee or perish by thy side." 
 
 Swift as the lightning's flash he vanished, and swift as the 
 same electric messenger of wrath, Selim pursued the path 
 which Solyman had indicated. That fatal casket ! Had he 
 ten thousand lives, he would have perilled them all for the 
 possession of that priceless treasure. Zerah, expiring under 
 the hands of the assassin, rose, an embodied vision, before him. 
 So powerful was the illusion, that when he caught a glimpse 
 of a mantle fluttering amid the foliage of the trees, he called 
 out with the energy of despair 
 
 " Save her ! All-gracious Allah ! save her I" 
 
 It was the guard, who was hastening to the Sultan with the 
 casket he had stolen. He turned at the sudden adjuration. 
 The powerful grasp of Selim impeded his flight. He was a 
 man of towering stature and athletic limbs, noted for physical 
 strength, and one of the chosen guards of the Sultan. He 
 met the stern embrace of Selim, with one which might have 
 crushed a feebler frame. They grappled long and fiercely, and 
 it was only with the life-blood of his antagonist, that Selim 
 redeemed the prize for which he would freely have poured out 
 his own. Burying the casket in his bosom, he mantled over 
 it the folds of his robe ; but the conviction of Zerah's safety 
 was immediately followed by the consciousness of his own 
 danger. He was surrounded by the Janizzaries, who had over- 
 taken the flying steps of their comrade, and who had been sent
 
 150 SELIM. 
 
 as spies to watch the secret movements of Selim. He saw 
 that it was in vain to contend with an armed band, but lifting 
 his blade aloft, still dripping with the blood of his adversary, 
 with that majesty of look and gesture which always had such 
 an overawing influence on inferior minds, he commanded them 
 to forbear. 
 
 " Stand back/' he cried; "what would ye dare to do ? Go 
 o the Sultan say that ye saw me wing yon felon's soul to 
 Paradise. Ay, tell him, too, that ye saw me fling into the 
 oblivious waves, what I would not barter for all the riches of 
 his kingdom." 
 
 Then opening his blood-stained robe, he drew forth the 
 casket of Zerah, and raising it high over their unsheathed 
 weapons, dashed it into the waters of the mountain stream, 
 then rushing on in a downward and swollen current, forming 
 a deep and unsearchable grave. The deed was instantaneous. 
 Selim drew a deep inspiration, as if his bosom were relieved 
 from some oppressive burden. The secret was now safe in his 
 own heart, and no tyrant's power could penetrate that inner 
 sanctuary. Turning to the astonished guards, he signed them 
 to advance. Accustomed to obey the princely Selim, they 
 involuntarily yielded to his sway, and though they marched 
 on either side, with naked blades, precluding the possibility 
 of escape, he had more the air of a sovereign with his attend- 
 ant vassals, than a victim to be arraigned before the tribunal 
 of offended majesty. 
 
 With a dauntless mien and unfaltering step, Selim entered 
 the presence of Amurath. He knew the doom that awaited 
 him, but, as the bark which is about to be swallowed by the 
 ocean wave is borne up over the stormy billows, rising with 
 the rising tempest, bis spirit rose above the perils which 
 threatened to overwhelm him. He stood in immovable silence 
 while the guards related the scene which we have described, 
 and met with an unquailing eye, the withering glance of the 
 Sultan. 
 
 The wrath of Amurath was, at first, too deep for words. 
 In spite of his denunciations, he had felt, till this moment, a 
 confidence in the fidelity of Selim which he deemed it im- 
 possible to abandon. The conviction of his perfidy brought 
 with it the most exquisite pang. Selirn was the only being 
 whom he had ever really loved and trusted, and a tear actually 
 glistened in his haughty eye, as one by one he gathered up 
 the proofs of his favourite's treachery and ingratitude. Selim 
 
 ,',. 
 
 '*. fr *
 
 SELIM. 151 
 
 marked the unwonted sign of human tenderness, and his pride 
 molted at the sight. He saw once more the trusting friend, 
 the munificent benefactor, and casting down his scimitar at 
 the foot of the throne, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Commander of the Faithful ! take back thy gift take 
 even the life which Allah has given but leave me yet the 
 consciousness of my integrity. I am no traitor, sire ; though 
 stained with the blood of thy subject, I am guiltless of treason, 
 and with my expiring breath I will proclaim my innocence." 
 
 " Prove then thy innocence," cried Amurath. " I swear 
 by the golden buckle of the Prophet, if thou wilt reveal the 
 name of the supposed offspring of sovereignty, and place her 
 in our power, I will freely pardon thy past offences, restore 
 thy forfeited honours, and give thee, even this day, thy 
 plighted bride." 
 
 Selim folded his arms resolutely over his breast. 
 
 " The secret is buried here !" he cried, " and shall perish 
 with me ! No commands can force, no tortures compel me to 
 reveal it. I offer thee my life thou mayst devote it to bond- 
 age, to death but thou hast not, canst not have control over 
 my free spirit's will." 
 
 " Away then to the darkest dungeon away till the traitor's 
 death is prepared for thee ! My slighted mercy shall turn to 
 vengeance now! The hour of relenting is past. Thy fate 
 shall tell to after ages of the ingratitude of favourites and the 
 justice of kings." 
 
 Selim bent his head in token of submission. Amurath 
 ordered him to be shackled in his presence, that the scene of 
 his glory might also be that of his degradation. Then, after 
 a fresh ebullition of rage, he commanded the guards to bear 
 him to his cell. 
 
 A damp and noisome dungeon, feebly lighted by the rays 
 which struggled through the grated walls, was now the abode 
 of the late magnificent Selim sad proof of the evanescent 
 nature of all earthly glory. But there is a moral brightness, 
 transcending the noonday beams, which can throw over the 
 darkest hour of human suffering the radiance of heaven. He 
 who is willing to sacrifice his existence for another, is sup- 
 ported by the spirit of martyrdom, and that spirit will bear 
 him up, as on angel wings, over the gloomy valley of despair. 
 But the exaltation of feeling which attends the performance 
 of a magnanimous deed, and which sustains the sufferer in the 
 moment of physical agony, gradually subsided as he recalled 

 
 152 SELIM. 
 
 the appalling circumstances which accompanied the sacrifice 
 he was making. To lay down his life for Zerah, and leave 
 behind him an unblemished name a memory which the brave 
 might honour, and the true-hearted mourn would have seemed 
 a trifling effort for a love like his. But to go down to the grave 
 in ignominy and shame; to be branded with the name of 
 traitor that withering, deathless curse while even she for 
 whom he died, might learn to scorn his memory, and place 
 another on the shrine where once his image dwelt, in the pure 
 consecration of her virgin thoughts; the very idea was mad- 
 dening. He lifted his shackled hands to heaven, and prayed 
 Allah to send down a pitying bolt, to destroy at once the 
 wretched being he had made ; then let the waters of oblivion 
 roll over his remembrance and obliterate it from the records 
 of the living. He poured out the bitterness of his soul into 
 the all-hearing ear of the Most High, till in the stillness of 
 awe, the troubled billows of passion sunk to rest. At last, 
 the feeble light of his cell darkened and disappeared. Con- 
 scious of the return of night, he wondered that Amurath 
 should delay the execution of his wrath. Every moment he 
 expected to hear the bolts undraw and to see the ministers of 
 death approach, but he had wrestled with the indwelling 
 enemy and coine off victorious; and thowing himself down 
 on the cold floor of his dungeon, he slept more calmly than 
 Amurath on his bed of luxury. 
 
 He slept but his dreams assumed the dark colour of his 
 destiny. He wandered in an interminable desert, where no 
 oasis refreshed the eye with its emerald beauty no fountain 
 bathed the thirsty lip with its life-giving waters. Languid, 
 despairing, he threw himself on the hot, arid waste, praying 
 for dissolution, when suddenly the gates of Paradise unfolded, 
 a flood of radiance annihilated the gloom, and the "dark 
 heaven of Houris' eyes" beamed with flashing brightness on 
 his vision. The dazzling contrast broke his slumbers. He 
 started and gazed around him. His dream was fled, but the 
 illumination remained. A celestial figure, clothed in white, 
 bearing a lamp in one fair hand, while she veiled with the 
 other her dazzled eyes, stood by the side of the slumbering 
 victim. It stood with pallid brow, and dark, resplendent 
 locks, beautiful as the angel who is sent to bear the liberated 
 soul to the bowers of immortality. But it was no spirit of 
 heaven that thus severed the dungeon's gloom. It was a 
 daughter of earth, young, loving and beloved full of earth's
 
 SELIM. 153 
 
 warmest affections, yet sharing earth's bitterest woes. It was 
 Zerah who stood by her doomed lover, and met his waking 
 glance. Almost doubting in what world he existed, he started 
 from his recumbent position, while the clanking of his chains 
 sent a thrill of horror through the tender bosom that soon 
 throbbed wildly against his own. She, who in the hour of 
 prosperity and joy repelled with bashful pride the ardour of 
 her lover, as the flower which turns from the sun's meridian 
 rays, now threw her pure arms around him and moistened his 
 fetters with her tears. 
 
 " Hast thou come," he cried, " to travel with me to the en- 
 trance of the dark valley, and to receive from my dying lips 
 the vows of imperishable love ?" 
 
 " I come/' said Zerah, in low, faltering accents, " as a mes- 
 senger of mercy and pardon. I come in Amurath's name to 
 bid thee live." 
 
 " Live I" exclaimed Selim and every drop of blood was 
 quickened in his veins. " And live for thee !" 
 
 Zerah paused, as if irresolute in what words to utter the 
 commission with which she was charged. Bending her head 
 till her brow was veiled with her mantling locks, she con- 
 tinued 
 
 " The Sultan demands of thee the name of the unfortunate 
 princess, who lives unknown to all but thee and thy secret ac- 
 complice. It is his last offer of mercy. He commissioned 
 me, thy plighted bride, to offer thee again the alternative of 
 life and death, that love might move the heart inflexible to the 
 pleadings of royalty." 
 
 "Would Zerah counsel dishonour?" cried Selim, almost 
 sternly, his warm hopes chilled to ice as she spoke. " Would 
 she purchase my life with the blood of innocence ?" 
 
 " I would purchase thy life with the blood of thousands," 
 she wildly exclaimed and, sinking on her knees before him, 
 she locked her hands in the agony of supplication. " I pray 
 thee but to live ; what is the world to me ? He claims not 
 blood; 'tis but a name he asks ; and yet that simple word thou 
 wilt withhold, even at the sacrifice of Zerah's life !" 
 
 " Zerah !" he cried, " in Allah's name forbear ! Thou 
 knowest not what thou askest." 
 
 Zerah gazed earnestly for a moment in her lover's face, 
 then rising from her kneeling attitude, every feature of her 
 face changed in its expression. The look of intense anguish 
 and entreaty resolved into that of cold, settled despair. 
 127
 
 154 SELIM. 
 
 "The truth has entered my heart," she said, and her late 
 faltering voice was firm and distinct. " Thou lovest this orphan 
 daughter of a kingly race. Thou hast pledged thy false vows 
 to Zerah, while thy heart is given to her who dwells in thy 
 secret bower. And I, insulted and betrayed, I have knelt at 
 thy feet in vain, while thou art sacrificing thy life and soul for 
 another I" 
 
 " Oh ! cruel and unjust !" exclaimed Selim, in an agony of 
 uncontrollable emotion. " Dear, unhappy Zerah ! thou hast 
 added the bitterest drop to my cup of misery ! For thee to 
 doubt my faith ! Oh ! mayst thou never know how fearfully 
 this ill-requited faith is proved." 
 
 The sound of footsteps was heard in the passage. 
 
 " They come," cried Zerah, " to bear me from thy cell. The 
 allotted moments are past. For the last time, oh ! inexorable 
 Selim, wilt thou destroy thyself and me ?" 
 
 The grating of the heavy bolt was heard. The paleness of 
 death overspread her face, and the cold dew of mortal anguish 
 gathered on her brow. Selim felt that the tortures his sup- 
 posed perfidy inflicted, were keener than those which the 
 cruelty of Amurath could invent. Must then the sacrifice be 
 vain ? While he was offering himself for the salvation of her 
 life, must she believe his perfidious hand was stabbing, with 
 deliberate treachery, her too fond, too trusting heart? The 
 guards entered the cell. 
 
 "All-Gracious Allah !" he cried, "let us die together." 
 
 As the words of this deep prayer fell from the lips of her 
 ill-fated lover, Zerah fell back, fainting, in the arms of the 
 guard, who sprang forward to receive her before Selim could 
 oppose his advance. 
 
 " The bitterness of death is past !" he cried, as he saw her 
 borne from his sight, her long hair sweeping the dungeon's 
 floor, her eyes closed, and her cheeks white as the folds of her 
 snowy robe. 
 
 He heard the bolts re-drawn, and the groan which then burst 
 from his tortured heart, was the first and the last which the 
 vindictive Amurath extorted from his victim. 
 
 There was the clashing of arms, the neighing of steeds, the 
 shouts of a multitude heard that night, near the royal palace. 
 The tumult deepened and swelled. The name of Selim re- 
 sounded through the midnight air, and thrilled in the ear of 
 Amurath, loud as the notes of the Archangel's trump. It 
 was Solyman at the head of the insurgent band. Thousands
 
 ,r~ 
 
 SELIM. 155 
 
 who were groaning under the rod of despotism, yet waiting for 
 some master spirit to give the momentum to them, rushed forth 
 with gleaming scimitars and joined the war-cry which thundered 
 on the gale. They pierced into the dark recesses of cruelty. 
 They reached the dungeon of Selim. There, extended on the 
 ground, with his face buried in his arms, which were stretched 
 listlessly on the damp earth, and his mantle thrown over him 
 like a pall, lay the princely Selim. 
 
 "Almighty Allah ! we have come too late !" exclaimed Soly- 
 man, throwing himself by the body of his brother, and strain- 
 ing to his own that now insensible heart. " Where is the 
 imperial murderer?" he cried, springing from the earth, with 
 eyes in which the tear-drops of agony were quenched by the 
 blaze of vengeance. " Where is the accursed Amurath ? By 
 the Angel of Death, he shall meet his martyred victim, soul 
 to soul, before the lightning's bolt could compass the world. 
 Follow me let the cry of ' Selim and Vengeance' rend the 
 heavens and echo to the ears of the Prophet's God." 
 
 Soon the avenging shout was heard in the walls of the 
 palace, followed by the shrieks and wailings of despair. 
 
 Vengeance was sated the usurper slain. 
 
 Solyman raised his smoking blade and beheld, with a terri- 
 ble smile, the blood dripping drop by drop from its shining 
 surface. 
 
 " Selim !" he groaned ; " my noble, matchless brother ! Ac- 
 cept the oblation I offer to thee !" 
 
 " He lives !" cried one of the insurgents, rushing through 
 the crowd. " He is not dead, they are bearing him even 
 now to the palace with acclamations of joy." 
 
 Yes ! Selim lived. He had fainted under the crushing 
 weight of his destiny but his spirit returned to find life, 
 freedom, triumph, joy, and love. A throne, too ! Thousands 
 hailed him as the successor of the fallen Amurath. 
 
 " No !" said he, turning to his brave brother " there is 
 your true liberator and rightful sovereign." 
 
 " The wilderness is my empire !" replied Solyman " the 
 heavens my canopy, and the rock my throne. I would not 
 exchange my sovereignty for the diadem of the East." 
 
 Selim saw him depart to his mountain home, with feelings 
 of admiration and regret. There was a fascination in the wild 
 majesty of his character, and the intensity of his fraternal 
 love bound him to his heart with strong and holy ties. He
 
 156 SELIM. 
 
 never forgot that he owed his present happiness and grandeur 
 to his magnanimous spirit and powerful arm. 
 
 United to the beautiful Zerah, now the acknowledged re- 
 presentative of a race of kings, he ruled with a golden scep- 
 tre over the hearts of his subjects, who gave him the glorious 
 title of " Selim the Just the Magnificent." 
 

 
 HOWARD, 
 THE APPKENTICE BOY. 
 
 IN the vicinity of the metropolis of New England, there 
 resided a poor boy. Ignorant of his parentage without one 
 acknowledged relation he was thrown for care and protection 
 upon the family of a tanner. Fortunately for him, this family 
 was kind and good; and the delicate and lonely child was 
 cherished with parental tenderness. But his benefactors were 
 poor, and the wants of a growing family impeded the exercise 
 of their loving kindness and Christian charity. The sensitive 
 boy often felt as if he were a burden on their care, and sought 
 by every means in his power to prove his gratitude and devotion. 
 As he was of slender frame, no rough manual labour was im- 
 posed upon him ; but with most mistaken tenderness, the office 
 of nurse was allotted to him, as congenial to his strength and 
 loving disposition. Howard (the friends of the nameless boy 
 had given him a name which every lover of mankind cherishes 
 with reverence) used to wander abroad with the infant, his 
 foster sister, in his arms, and a book in his pocket, and seek- 
 ing the shade of some natural arbour, seat the infant gently on 
 the grass, and taking his book in his hand, alternately scan 
 the well-thumbed page and caress the gentle child who would 
 gaze up into the deep blue sky, or down into the clear blue 
 stream, with smiling earnestness, as if holding communion, 
 with kindred cherubs there. His extraordinary powers of 
 mind, and exquisite tenderness of heart, were thus early and 
 simultaneously developed. 
 
 One beautiful summer afternoon, he thus sat in a little 
 bower, near the tannery and not far from the roadside. It 
 
 (157)
 
 158 HOWARD. 
 
 was one of the most wildly beautiful, picturesque spots in 
 New England, and the young dreamer drank in draughts of 
 beauty and sublimity almost maddening, for he had no one to 
 whom he could breathe his enthusiastic emotions his aspirings 
 after the destiny to which, even then, he felt conscious that he 
 was born. This evening he was roused from his reveries, by 
 the approach of a gentleman on horseback. The gentleman 
 rode leisurely, with the reins hanging loosely on the horse's 
 neck, as if he were taking in the whole loveliness of a land- 
 scape shining with the glory-hues of meridian summer. 
 
 He was attracted by the student boy, and the quiet, musing 
 infant at his feet. Dismounting and suffering his weary horse 
 to browse on the grass by the wayside, he walked towards the 
 boy, who threw his book on the ground and rose with natural 
 politeness, as the distinguished-looking stranger approached. 
 He had never seen a man with so imposing an appearance. 
 He was richly and elegantly dressed, and the unmistakable 
 stamp of a proud intellect was on his brow. He fixed upon 
 the boy an eye keen as a falcon's, and gazed upon him a few 
 moments without speaking. There was something magnetic 
 in the glance, and Howard felt its influence to his spirit's core. 
 Why should the stranger look on him so steadfastly ? He 
 was not a beautiful boy, though thought and sensibility often 
 made him appear so. He was dressed in a suit of brown 
 homespun, and his shirt-collar, though white, was of the 
 coarsest domestic. 
 
 " What is your name, my boy ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " Howard, sir." 
 
 " Does your father live here, at the tannery ?" 
 
 " No, sir I never had any father." The stranger smiled. 
 
 " And your mother where does she live ?" 
 
 " She's dead ; she died when I was a baby. Mrs. Mason 
 took me home, and I've lived with her ever since." 
 
 The gentleman kept his unreceding gaze upon the boy. 
 whose naturally pale cheeks at length grew crimson under his 
 scrutiny. 
 
 " Are you fond of reading?" he asked, pointing to the book 
 lying on the grass. 
 
 " Yes, sir I love it better than anything else in the 
 world." 
 
 " What book is that ?" 
 
 " It is the Life of Franklin, sir. I almost know it by heart. 
 I love to read of great men who were once poor boys; be-
 
 HOWARD. 159 
 
 cause " he stopped and blushed, and began to pull the 
 
 leaves from the low branches sweeping over him. 
 
 " Because what, my boy ? Do not be afraid to speak." 
 
 " Because, though I am a poor boy now, I think I could be 
 a great man some day, if I tried hard." 
 
 " Do you go to school?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I have to stay at home and take care of the baby." 
 
 A scornful smile played for a moment on the lips of the 
 stranger, followed almost instantaneously by a dark frown. 
 
 " A pretty employment for a boy like you !" 
 
 Howard shrank from the expression of that haughty, hand- 
 some face looking down upon him. An irresistible repulsion 
 made him draw back as far as possible from him. 
 
 "It's all I can do for them," answered the boy "and if 
 it hadn't been for them, I should have been a beggar." 
 
 " Well, I shall be back in a few days, and will call and see 
 Mr. Mason ; perhaps I can do something for you. You are 
 too smart a boy to spend your time watching such little brats 
 as these." 
 
 The gentle little baby, who had apparently listened with 
 quiet interest to the conversation thus far, here suddenly put 
 it* chubby sun-browned arms round one of the stranger's ankles, 
 and looked up smilingly in his face. 
 
 " Let go," he exclaimed, in a stern voice, drawing back so 
 suddenly that the little creature, rudely loosened from its 
 hold, was thrown upon the ground, to the great indignation 
 of Howard, and probably much to its own astonishment. 
 Howard sprang forward, raised his protege" in his arms, and 
 giving a rebuking glance at the stranger, exclaimed 
 
 " You are not a kind gentleman, sir, or you wouldn't hurt 
 a baby. I don't wish you to do anything for me, I thank you, 
 sir." 
 
 The stranger laughed, touched the boy's head lightly with 
 his whip handle, told him he was a boy of spirit and bid fair 
 to be a hero ; then sauntering back to his horse, he mounted 
 him and rode away. 
 
 " I do not like him," said the boy ; " he is not good ; he 
 is cruel and wicked, I know. If I cannot be a great man with- 
 out his help, I don't want to be one at all. Poor little Alice !" 
 continued he, kissing away the tears that stood on the baby's 

 
 160 HOWARD. 
 
 velvet cheeks. " How could he call you a brat, when you are 
 so sweet !" 
 
 About a week after this incident, the stranger called on Mr. 
 Mason, and had a long conversation respecting the boy, the 
 result of which was communicated to him after his departure. 
 
 " Come here, Howard," said Mr. Mason, taking the boy's 
 hand and drawing him between his knees. " There's been a 
 gentleman here, who says he has taken a fancy to you. He's 
 going to take you home, send you to school, and make a man 
 of you." 
 
 " Is he ?" cried Howard, an expression of unconquerable 
 repugnance settling on his countenance. 
 
 " You are to leave us," continued Mr. Mason, his voice 
 growing rather husky in its tone, " and forget that you have 
 ever been with us. He is a rich, proud man, and it would be 
 a disgrace to him to have it known that a tanner's boy was in 
 his house." 
 
 " I'll never live with him I'll never leave you for him, 
 sir," answered Howard, emphatically ; " I cannot tell the rea- 
 son, but I hate him." 
 
 It was strange to hear so gentle a boy speak in such bitter 
 terms, especially of one who had made him so munificent an 
 offer. But an unconquerable aversion to the stranger, made 
 him recoil with loathing from a proposition which promised 
 him all the intellectual advantages for which his young and 
 ardent mind was earnestly pauting. The moral principle 
 triumphed over ambitious desire, and he resolutely refused 
 to leave his benefactor, for the protection of the haughty 
 stranger. 
 
 " He refuses !" exclaimed the gentleman, when informed 
 by Mr. Mason of the boy's obstinate determination. " The 
 ungrateful little wretch ! well, let him stay and be a tanner, if 
 he will. I would have done something for him, but now " 
 
 Here he uttered a blistering oath, and departed. 
 
 Years passed on. The self-education of Howard continued, 
 marked by the most astonishing results. The little Alice 
 was grown to be a lovely, affectionate child, no longer requir- 
 ing of him the cares of a nurse, though still clinging to him 
 with more than sisterly affection. Nothing more was heard 
 of the stranger, who had so singularly crossed his path. There 
 were times when the boy felt the "strong necessity" of acquir- 
 ing knowledge urging him so powerfully, that he looked back 
 with keen regret upon the unaccountable moral antipathy,
 
 HOWARD. 161 
 
 that had led him to reject an offer which would have placed 
 him in that station of life, an inner voice told him he was 
 born to fill. As he grew older, the difference between his 
 own nature and those around him became more and more ap- 
 parent, and discontent, which he deemed ingratitude, prayed 
 upon his heart. He assisted Mr. Mason in the labours of the 
 tannery, with all the zeal of which he was possessed, but his 
 frame was slender, and what little strength he had was con- 
 sumed by an insatiable thirst for knowledge a mental fever, 
 that became more and more burning and intense. A number 
 of literary gentlemen, who heard of the extraordinary appren- 
 tice boy of the tanner, at length came to see him, and through 
 their influence, he obtained admission into one of the collegiate 
 institutions of New England. 
 
 He left the humble home, where he had been so kindly 
 sheltered, with many tears, but kindling hopes. Alice, the 
 pretty and affectionate Alice, was inconsolable at his departure, 
 but he promised to return every vacation and teach her all he 
 learned. 
 
 Poor, poor boy ! how little he knew the future which 
 stretched out before him, a green, enchanted land. The home 
 he left was a Paradise to the one which now received him. 
 He knew not the conditions on which he was permitted to 
 receive the droppings of this sanctuary of leaning, where he 
 hailed with rapture the dawh of his literary Millennium. He 
 was compelled to perform the most servile offices for the other 
 students, as the wages of his own instruction. He carried 
 wood and water up the high and winding stairs, usually found 
 in such buildings, till his frame, which, as we have said before, 
 was anything but robust, bowed beneath the burden, and his 
 spirit groaned under the Egyptian bondage of his destiny. 
 Still he toiled over his scholastic duties, till he distanced all 
 his competitors in the literary career on which he had entered 
 with such soaring ambition. 
 
 At last, in an auspicious moment, he became acquainted 
 with some students of Harvard University, and learned with 
 rapture, that he might there be received into the cherishing 
 arras of the Alma Mater, freely and unconditionally, without 
 any of those depressing circumstances which weighed him 
 down with a consciousness of degradation. He sought those 
 groves sacred to science, and he was welcomed as the child 
 of genius and want is ever welcomed there as a son and a
 
 162 HOWARD. 
 
 brother. Here his heart was warmed, his mind expanded, his 
 views elevated. 
 
 He became the candidate for the highest collegiate honours, 
 and so great was the love and admiration of his classmates, 
 they would gladly have woven with their own hands, the 
 laurels which were soon to decorate his brow. 
 
 But while thus gaining friends and admirers among the 
 wealthy and noble, he did not forget his early benefactors, his 
 sweet foster sister. Most of his vacations were passed at the 
 humble home of his childhood, and he fulfilled his promise to 
 Alice of imparting to her, as far as possible, the information 
 he acquired. In summer, he would lead her to the green 
 bowers, where he used to sit with her, when, an unconscious 
 infant, she lay upon the grass or nestled in his arms, and read 
 with her the pages where genius had impressed its burning 
 lines. Child as she was, he never looked forward into life, 
 without associating her with all its hopes and all its joys. 
 Should he become distinguished in any of the great paths 
 opened to the sons of ambition, she should be his companion, 
 sister, or something dearer still and the child, though she 
 dreamed not of his future visions, read, studied, thought, and 
 felt, with reference only to him. 
 
 But poor Howard did not always find his path strewed with 
 roses. In spite of the most rigid economy, he could not help 
 running in debt. He had no means to meet the demands 
 against him, and he knew not where to turn for assistance. 
 He could not drain the purse of the good tanner, the father 
 of Alice. He shrank from the thought of taxing the kind- 
 ness of his classmates for he was proud because he was 
 poor. 
 
 One evening he sat down in the loneliness of his chamber, 
 with a heavy heart. His head ached with the burden of great 
 thoughts, his spirit with the burden of destiny. 
 
 He thought of the past with bitterness, of the future with 
 despair. He remembered the apparently munificent, but 
 haughty stranger. As he had grown older, something had 
 whispered to him the secret of the stranger's interest. He 
 had an instinctive conviction that he was his own father, who, 
 having left his infancy to destitution, refusing him even the 
 dignity of a name, perhaps urged by an importunate conscience, 
 was willing to receive as a dependent on his bounty, one whom 
 fehame prevented from acknowledging as his son. Never had 
 be felt so deeply the wrong and injustice inflicted upon him
 
 HOWARD. 163 
 
 by being defrauded of the holiest rights of nature ; never had 
 he felt such inappeasable heart-yearnings. 
 
 Oh ! for a mother's bosom on which to pillow his aching 
 heart a sister's fond arms to twine him with one dear caress ! 
 What was literature, fame, honour, to him ? Who would exult 
 in his success, or glory in his renown ? A gentle child 
 appeared to glide before him ; a child in the first, tender bloom 
 of girlhood; and fixing on him her soft, loving eyes, seemed 
 to say " Have you forgotten Alice ?" 
 
 At the remembrance of Alice, his poverty pressed upon him 
 with a crushing weight. He tried to banish her from his 
 thoughts. 
 
 At length he remembered Him, who feedeth the young 
 ravens when they cry, and took up his Bible, which lay before 
 him, and on which he had just pillowed his aching temples. 
 He turned to the forty-second Psalin ; and when he came to 
 the fifth verse, 
 
 "Why art thou cast down, my soul? and why art thou 
 disquieted within me ? Hope thou in God ! for I shall yet 
 praise him, who is the help of my countenance and my God !" 
 he read it aloud, in devout and trembling accents. 
 
 " Forgive me, my God," he cried, lifting the Bible up- 
 ward, as if he would make it the wings of his soul, when a 
 shower of bank notes fell from the fluttering leaves, as if the 
 divine pages were suddenly animated by a living spirit of bene- 
 volence. The collegians, conscious of his necessities, and know- 
 ing too his evening custom of reading the word of God, had 
 adopted this method of relieving his wants, without wounding 
 his pride. Sinking on his knees, in an ecstasy of gratitude, 
 he accepted the bounty as from the hand of Providence, 
 and the dark cloud of despondency passed away from his 
 soul. 
 
 So onward he urged his course upward and onward 
 cheered by friendship, inspired by hope, warmed by zeal, lifted 
 by ambition, and more than all, sustained and sanctified by 
 religion. From the bright promises of such a youth, what a 
 glorious manhood might not be anticipated ! But alas ! the 
 scourge of New-England came on the wings of the chill eastern 
 blast, and marked him as its victim. The eyes, which had 
 been the lamps of science, now burned with consumption's 
 wasting fire its dry, hectic cough checked the clear, impas- 
 sioned utterance, and its slow agonies arrested the elastic and 
 buoyant step. It was hard to die thus in the day-spring of his
 
 164 HOWARD. 
 
 fame. He had just reached that height from which he could look 
 down and back upon the rough ascent he had climbed, and see 
 the green fields and magnificent plains stretching beyond. He 
 could hear the music of the distant waters as they gushed and 
 sparkled in the sun. As Moses gazed from the summit of 
 Mount Pisgah, on that promised land he must never be per- 
 mitted to enter, be cast his yearning eyes upon the scene, over 
 which the curtain of death was slowly, darkly descending. 
 Still he bowed his head and exclaimed: "Even so, Father; 
 for so it seemeth good in thy sight." 
 
 He was borne to his early home. Alice, his child-love, sat 
 by him, as of old, and he talked to her of heaven and heavenly 
 things. 
 
 Just before he died, he learned that a rich and proud gen- 
 tleman of the city of Boston, had left him the heir of all his 
 fortune, acknowledging him to be his son, with his last breath. 
 
 " It is too late," cried the dying youth. " What are riches 
 and honours to one on the threshold of the eternal world ?" 
 
 Yes, it was too late for him, but the child of his benefactors 
 was made the recipient of his wealth, and he was thus enabled 
 to pay the debt of gratitude. His spirit still walked the earth 
 in the gentle form of Alice, who was indeed one of the minister- 
 ing angels sent by God, to let mankind see of whom the king- 
 dom of Heaven is made. 
 
 Howard died but his memory is immortal. His name is 
 hallowed in Harvard's venerable walls. It is associated with 
 all that is best and brightest and most worthy of emulation. 
 His monument is a shrine where pale genius comes to worship 
 and gather strength, from example, to struggle with the ills of 
 destiny and the will to be victor in the conflict. For Howard 
 was victorious, though he died, at last, a victim to the life- 
 battle which he had undauntedly fought. He gained immor- 
 tality he left a name a pure, a glorious name and the great 
 purposes of his being were accomplished. 
 
 'Tis not where wealth uprears its pillared dome, 
 That pilgrim genius finds its favourite home 
 'Tis not where grandeur dwells, rolls the deep tide 
 By which the springs of science are supplied. 
 The mind on its sublimest pinions soars, 
 When clouds are heaviest, and the tempest lowers ; 
 And from its eagle eyrie, in the skies, 
 Smiles on the dark storms that below it rise.
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 "No, I will not go to-night," exclaimed Blanche, taking 
 from her head a bandeau of pearls and tossing it into the 
 hands of her attendant. " No, I will not go I am weary 
 most of all of talking and listening to nonsense. I will stay 
 at home, and enjoy the supreme luxuries of simplicity, quiet, 
 and solitude. Yes ! solitude ! for dear Mrs. Channing is gone 
 to an old-fashioned tea-party, and you. Elsie, are not to disturb 
 me, after I have once composed myself to the task of admiring 
 myself, by myself." 
 
 " But this beautiful dress ?" cried her obsequious chamber- 
 maid. 
 
 " Put it back in the wardrobe." 
 
 "These pearls?" 
 
 " In the case." 
 
 " These flowers ?" 
 
 " Ah ! give me the flowers. TJir-y are beautiful, they 
 breathe of nature, and I love them. Here, take this heavy 
 comb from my hair," continued the capricious beauty, and 
 then shaking her hair loosely over her shoulders and untying 
 the bouquet, she twisted the flowers into a careless garland and 
 twined it round her head. 
 
 " And now, Elsie, give me that simple white robe, fastened 
 with blue ribbons. You must confess it is ten thousand tinus 
 prettier than the one you have just put aside. Ah, me ! 1 
 wish I were nothing but a plain country lassie, left to wander 
 about at my own sweet will." 
 
 " I think somebody has her own sweet will now," said Elsie 
 to herself, vexed to think that her young and beautiful mis- 
 tress was going to shut herself up at home, instead of exhibit 
 ing herself to the admiring crowd. 
 
 (165)
 
 166 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 "But what shall I say to Mr. One, when he calls to attend 
 you ?" 
 
 " Tell him I cannot, will not go to-night." 
 
 " He will be angry." 
 
 " I care not but he is too stupid to be angry. Beside, he 
 has no cause, for I gave no promise to accompany him." 
 
 Elsie, who was accustomed to the varying moods of Blanche, 
 sighed as she put away the beautiful paraphernalia of fashion 
 with which she had hoped to adorn her mistress for the even- 
 ing's fete, while Blanche, telling her she had no further need 
 of her services, descended to the little room she called her 
 boudoir. And a charming little room it was a perfect bijou 
 of a room fitting palace for a fairy queen. It is no wonder 
 that she liked sometimes to rest on that soft, blue-cushioned 
 sofa, and look around on all the exquisite adornments her owu 
 taste had selected. Curtains of blue damask, her favourite 
 colour, shaded the window ; the glass doors of her cabinet were 
 lined with the same cerulean hue j and even the figure's of the 
 carpet were blue, melting oft" in a background of white. Little 
 Cupids, painted in fresco, on the ceiling, seemed to fan her 
 with their wings, and Cupids still smaller, fashioned of marble, 
 supported the lamps that glittered on the mantel-piece. There 
 were ever so many Cupids, little, less, least, bronze, porcelain, 
 and glass, on the shelves of the etagere, which looked like a 
 royal baby-house, with its magical toys and indescribable cu- 
 riosities. The only thing of use on which the eye could rest 
 was a magnificent harp, supported by a lazy-looking Cupid, 
 lurking in the corner of the apartment, thus throwing the 
 illusion of mythology and poetry over an instrument in itself 
 most poetical and romantic. Blanche gathered back the azure 
 folds of the curtains into the gilded hands that issued from the 
 walls, ready to grasp them, drew the light sofa near the win- 
 dow, and seating herself upon it, looked admirably in keeping 
 with all surrounding objects. She, too, wore the livery of 
 white and blue, and soft and bright sparkled her bright blue 
 eyes beneath her white brow. Her heart, moreover, was 
 clothed with the whiteness of innocence, and the blue of hope 
 fluttered gayly as a silken ribbon over a spotless surface. 
 Though the child of wealth, and the idol of fashion, she was 
 yet unspoiled by their influence. Her caprices were white, 
 fleecy clouds, floating over the clear blue of an April morning. 
 One thing more completed the livery. Blanche, sweet, charm- 
 ing, capricious, blue-eyed Blanche, with sorrow we confess it,
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 167 
 
 had a tinge of the "blues. Listen to her thoughts, as they 
 move with their low whispers the folds of her muslin robe : 
 
 " I want to be alone, and yet I want some one near to whom 
 I can say ' How sweet it is to be alone/ The pleasures of 
 society how I panted for them when I was a foolish little 
 school girl, pining for liberty that I cannot now enjoy ! And 
 for a while, I did enjoy them vividly, wildly. It was enrap- 
 turing to be thought beautiful, to be admired and caressed and 
 loved. Loved? No. I have never yet been really loved. 
 Love disdains flattery and adulation. My own heart will bear 
 witness when it is true and honest. 'Yes/ added she, laying 
 her hand on its gentle, uniform throbbing, ' the voice has 
 never yet breathed into my ears that can quicken the pulsa- 
 tions of this heart of mine. I look in vain among the cold, 
 vapid devotees of fashion for one touch of nature, one flash 
 of passion. I shall mingle with them till I become as cold, 
 as vain, as vapid myself. I shall live and die, and the world 
 will never know what I might have been, from what I am, 
 and what I shall be." 
 
 " And yet," added the ennuyee, " I am wrong to say I have 
 never yet been loved. There is one I know, who, I believe, 
 loves me well, and whom I have sometimes thought I might 
 love in return, did I meet him anywhere save in the cold halls 
 of fashion. Could he throw any romance, any mystery around 
 him, I might possibly become interested in him. There 
 would be nothing heroic or self-sacrificing in my loving him, 
 for fortune smiles upon him, and friends are zealous to pro- 
 mote his cause. Were he poor, I could enrich him with my 
 wealth. Were he lowly, I could ennoble him with my con- 
 nexions ; or were / poor and lowly, he could prove the disin- 
 terestedness of his attachment. I cannot bear this common- 
 place kind of wooing, this dull, matter-of-fact kind of existence. 
 I could envy the wild love of O'Connor's child, ' the bud of 
 Erin's royal tree of glory,' though thrice-dyed in blood was 
 the tissue of her mournful story." 
 
 If the remarks of Blanche seem incoherent, let it be re- 
 membered that she is conversing with herself, and every one 
 knows how wildly the thoughts may run, when imagination is 
 let loose. 
 
 " Lot me see," said the romantic damsel ; " cannot I do 
 something to charm the solitude that already begins to weary 
 me ? Ah, there is my harp ; I do love its sounding strains. 
 How charming it would be to have some young hero bending
 
 168 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 over me as I play, while I drank in inspiration from his kin- 
 dling eyes !" 
 
 Drawing the harp near her, she passed her hand over its 
 golden chords, and made a sweet wild medley of strains, caught 
 up from many a remembered song. Her hair, as it swept over 
 her white arms, against the glittering wires, resembled the 
 golden locks of the maiden whose ringlets were twined into 
 the chords, from which such exquisite music has been drawn. 
 Long she played and sang, till the little Cupids on the walls 
 looked as if they were flying about inspired by her thrilling 
 notes. She did not hear the sound of entering footsteps ; but 
 a shadow fell upon the harp, and she looked up. A tall dark 
 figure stood before her, black from head to foot. Supposing 
 it a negro who had thus boldly intruded into her presence, 
 she uttered an exclamation of terror, and sprang towards the 
 door. 
 
 " Pardon this intrusion," said the stranger, in a gentle voice, 
 bowing gracefully as he spoke ; " I did not mean to terrify, 
 and if you will grant me a few moments' audience, you will 
 find you have no cause of fear." 
 
 She observed with astonishment, that the hand which be 
 slightly extended in speaking was almost as fair as her own, 
 while his face was as black as night. Still trembling with ter- 
 ror, though somewhat re-assured by the sweetness of his voice, 
 she ventured to look on him more steadfastly, and disco vered 
 that he wore a mask of black enamel, above which his raven 
 black hair clustered, making of the head one ebon mass. 
 
 " How did you gain admittance ?" she asked, tremulously. 
 " And what is your errand with me ?" 
 
 " Will you forgive me," he answered, " when I gay, that, 
 attracted by the sweetness of your voice, as it was borne 
 through the open windows, by the breath of night, I have 
 dared to present myself before you, believing that the same 
 instinct which caused my presumption will plead for iny pardon, 
 and secure my welcome." 
 
 " Indeed, sir," exclaimed Blanche, her cheek glowing with 
 anger, " this is an intrusion I consider unpardonable. As 
 neither pardon nor welcome awaits you here, I trust you will 
 leave me immediately. To a gentleman, the request of a lady 
 has the authority of a command." 
 
 Blanche was astonished at her own courage in thus daring 
 to address the masked and mysterious stranger. Though 
 angry at his presumption, she could not repress a keen delight
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 169 
 
 at an adventure so singular and romantic. The indescribable 
 charm of his voice ha& disarmed her terror, and the grace and 
 dignity of his mien spoke the polished and high-bred gentle- 
 man. But the black mask the sudden entrance the lonely 
 hour the stillness of the night these things pressed upou 
 her heart, and its throbbings became quick and loud. 
 
 " Permit me," said the stranger, " before I depart, to repay 
 you, if possible, for the soothing pleasure your music has im- 
 parted. I, too, am a son of song, and like the bards of Os- 
 sian, I love to wake the breezy melody of the harp-string." 
 
 While he was speaking, he approached the instrument from 
 which she had retreated at his entrance, and kneeling on one 
 knee, he swept his hands over the chords, making a prelude 
 of such surpassing sweetness, she held her breath to listen 
 Then mingling with the diapason the rich tones of his voice, 
 he began a song whose words seemed the improvisation of 
 genius, for they applied to herself, the hour, the meeting, in 
 strains of such wondrous melody, she felt under the dominion 
 of enchantment. Never before had she heard such music as 
 came gushing through that ebon mask, filling the room with 
 a flood of harmony which almost drowned her sinking spirit. 
 Unable to bear up under the new and overpowering emotions 
 that were oppressing her, she sunk back on the sofa, and tears 
 stole from her downcast eyes. 
 
 The stranger paused, and rising, leaned gracefully on the 
 harp from which he had been calling forth such celestial 
 notes. 
 
 " You weep," said he ; " but they are not tears of sorrow. 
 You would not exchange those tears for the false smiles which 
 would have gilded your face had you mingled in the crowd, 
 an instinct of your heart led you this night to avoid. You 
 shunned the giddy throng. You sought the solitude of this 
 delicious apartment only that you might meet a kindred spirit 
 here. Farewell! we shall meet again. No earthly barrier 
 could now keep us asunder." 
 
 Stooping down and picking up a rose that had fallen from 
 her hair, and putting it in his bosom, he added 
 
 " This flower shall be sent to you as a token when I am again 
 near." 
 
 He turned, and was about to leave the apartment, when, 
 urged by irresistible curiosity, she exclaimed 
 
 " Before you depart, let me behold the face of my mysteri- 
 
 128
 
 170 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 ous friend, and tell me why you wear so strange and solemn a 
 disguise." 
 
 " I cannot break a vow that I have imposed on myself," re- 
 plied the black-masked stranger. " It is only at the nuptial 
 altar that I can lift the dark visor which conceals my features. 
 The woman who can love me well enough to unite her fate 
 r with mine, unknowing what this mask conceals, whether it be 
 matchless beauty or unequalled deformity, will alone have 
 power to remove the disguise whose midnight shadow now 
 darkens the moonlight of your beauty. Do you believe that 
 spiritual, high-souled, trusting woman exists ? Do you believe 
 such love can be found ?" 
 
 " I know nothing of love," she answered, endeavouring to 
 speak coldly; but her voice unconsciously obeyed the spell 
 that was upon her, and its modulations were soft as the breath- 
 ings of her own dulcet harp. 
 
 " Happy is he who will teach thee its divine lore," said the 
 stranger, again seating himself by her side. "0, maiden, 
 more beautiful than the dream of the poet, more pure than 
 the vision of infancy," continued he, in a strain of romantic 
 enthusiasm, such as she never had expected to hear from mor- 
 tal lips, " be it mine to instil this wisdom into the heart that 
 is even now sighing to receive it. Mine be the master hand 
 that will touch the golden chords of sympathy, and awaken 
 all your slumbering being to the music of love." 
 
 " 0, that I dared to believe, that I dared to listen I" cried 
 Blanche, carried out of herself by an influence that seemed 
 electric ; " but this interview, so sudden, so mysterious, your 
 strange vow, your dark eclipse, the commanding power you 
 exert over my will ah, leave me. I cannot bear the oppres- 
 sion that is weighing down my heart." 
 
 " I obey you," he cried, again rising. " For worlds, I would 
 not encroach on the goodness that has forgiven my presump- 
 tion, or the gentleness and sensibility that plead even now, 
 with eloquent tongue, the cause of your mysterious friend. 
 Farewell. For the rose of which I have robbed you, accept 
 this diamond ring." 
 
 Taking her hand and encircling her finger with the brilliant 
 token, he passed through the door like a vision of night, leav- 
 ing her speechless and spell-bound. So startling, so thrilling 
 was the pressure, she sat like one in a nightmare. She had 
 almost imagined herself in a dream, in the presence of her 
 mysterious guest ; but the warm, soft pressure of that ungloved
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 171 
 
 hand assured her of the reality of the scene. Then the ring 
 that glittered on her finger with such surpassing brightness, 
 the golden circle with its starlike gein that seemed to burn into 
 her flesh, so strongly did it warm and accelerate the current 
 that was glowing and rushing through her veins ! Astonished, 
 bewildered, terrified, but charmed at a romance so exceeding 
 her wildest hopes, she flew up stairs to her dressing-room, 
 where Elsie sat slumbering in an easy chair, thus beguiling 
 the time of her mistress's absence. Blanche had always made 
 a confidant of Elsie, and now her heart would have burst with 
 its strange secret if she could not have confided it to another. 
 She awoke the slumbering girl, and related the astonishing, 
 the almost incredible incident. 
 
 " Impossible !" cried Elsie ; " it must have been a delusion 
 of the senses." 
 
 " But this ring this surely is a reality. Did you ever 
 see anything so surpassingly brilliant ?" and she turned the 
 radiant token till it flashed back the lamplight dazzlingly into 
 the wondering eyes of the girl. 
 
 " 0, for the love of the blessed Virgin I" she exclaimed 
 (Elsie was a devout Catholic,) " for the love of your own sweet 
 soul, don't wear it. It is a magic ring, I am sure, and the 
 black man that put it there may be Lucifer himself, for aught 
 you know." 
 
 " My good Elsie, how can you be so foolish and superstitious ? 
 Even if I could believe in the incarnation of an evil spirit, it 
 never could assume a form so gracious, or speak in a voice so 
 sweet. 0, never did I hear such a voice of music ! Though 
 I could not see his face, his eyes beamed resplendentljr 
 through his mask, and his hand is the fairest I ever beheld." 
 
 " But why should he put on that ugly mask, unless he has 
 some evil purpose ?" 
 
 " He is under a vow to wear it till" 
 
 Blanche paused and blushed, and then blushed more pain- 
 fully, because she was so foolish as to blush at all. 
 
 " I have no doubt he wears it to cover some horrible mark, 1 ' 
 cried Elsie, shuddering and crossing herself. 
 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " I dare say he has the face of a skeleton underneath. I 
 have heard of such things." 
 
 " Silence, Elsie ; it is sacrilege to talk as you do." 
 
 Bat though Elsie bridled her tongue, the disagreeable im- 
 pression her words had produced still remained. The possibility
 
 172 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 of their truth chilled the glowing romance of Blanche's feelinars, 
 and checked the enthusiasm with which remembrance dwelt 
 on her mysterious visiter. Blanche bound Elsie by a promise 
 not to mention the incident to Mrs. Channing, the lady who 
 acted as maternal guardian to the orphan Blanche, and pre- 
 sided over the mansion of her youthful charge. All the next 
 day Blanche remained in a kind of dreamy abstraction, the 
 colour coming and going on her beautiful cheek, and her soft 
 blue eyes suffused with a misty languor. Sometimes she de- 
 lighted herself in picturing the features that the shrouding 
 mask concealed as the ideal of manly beauty; then again the 
 horrible suggestions of Elsie would recur to her and fill her 
 with nameless apprehensions. She thought of the veiled 
 Prophet of Khorassan, the doom of the helpless Zelica, and 
 the unutterable horrors concealed by the silver veil. Ske re- 
 membered the beautiful Leonora, and the phantom horseman, 
 whose skeleton visage was hidden by the tlosed bars of his 
 visor, and who bore his confiding bride to the ghastly church- 
 yard and the yawning grave. She remembered that his form 
 wore the semblance of manly grace, and that his voice had a 
 tone of more than earthly sweetness. 
 
 tl How foolish, how childish I am !" thought she, smiling at 
 th<> superstitious images on which she had been dwelling. 
 "The silver-veiled Mokanna and the Phantom Husband of 
 Leonora were beings existing only in the imagination of the 
 poet, whom the genius of the painter has also delineated. 
 But the black-masked stranger is a living, breathing actuality, 
 of whose existence and presence I have a dazzling token." 
 
 Another idea disturbed her excited brain. Perhaps she 
 was the sport of some bold youth, who, knowing her romantic 
 temperament, had thus sought to play upon her credulity 
 aud expose her to the ridicule of the world. So strong be- 
 came this conviction that when evening came on, and she wag 
 summoned, as usual, to entertain her admiring visiters, she 
 fancied she could trace in many forms a similitude to the linea- 
 ments of the graceful stranger. But no. It was an illusion 
 of the imagination. No figure half so graceful, no voice half 
 so sweet as his. Never had the conversation of her companions 
 seemed half so uninteresting and commonplace, never had the 
 hours appeared so long and leaden. She played upon her harp, 
 but her own strains recalled the ravishing melody of his, and 
 her hands trembled as they swept the sounding strings. She 
 talked and smiled, and tried to chain her wandering thoughts,
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 173 
 
 but they would stray far out into the moonlight night, where 
 fancy followed the dark form of the stranger. As her white 
 hands threaded the golden wires, the diamond ring flashed 
 upon her eye its ominous splendours and filled her with wild 
 emotions. 
 
 " St. Cecilia called down an angel from the skies," said one 
 of her guests, gazing upon the gem that confiscated upon her 
 finger, " but you seem to have drawn one of the stars of heaven 
 from its home in the skies, to sparkle upon your hand. There 
 must be a magic in that ring, for never did your harp discourse 
 such witching music." 
 
 Blanche turned away her face to hide her conscious blushes, 
 and at the same time the words of Elsie, foolish and supersti- 
 tious as they were, occurred to her, and the roseate cloud 
 melted away in the whiteness of snow. 
 
 One by one her guests departed, and she was left alone. 
 She listened to the echo of their departing footsteps, till the 
 stillness of death pervaded the apartment. She could dis- 
 tinctly hear the quick beatings of her heart, and her robe 
 fluttered as visibly over its palpitations as the azure curtains 
 rustling in the soft breath of night. 
 
 " Why do I linger here ?" said she, looking out into the 
 calm majesty and loveliness of a cloudless evening. "I will 
 not remain, as if seeking an interview with one whose fascina- 
 tions, I feel, I never could resist. Where there is mystery, 
 there is always danger. I thank my guardian angel for whis- 
 pering this caution to my heart." 
 
 At this moment, something flew like a light-winged bird by 
 her cheek, and fell rustling at her feet. It was something 
 enveloped in a soft, white tissue. She opened it and beheld 
 her own faded rose ; while she gazed with mingled shame and 
 delight on the sweet but wilted token, the soft sound of enter- 
 ing footsteps met her ear, and the tall, black-masked stranger 
 stood before her. 
 
 She no longer feared him. She even welcomed his approach 
 with a strange rapture, that sent the warm blood bounding 
 through her veins and eddying in her cheeks. He sat down 
 by her side, and his low, sweet, mellow voice uttered words of 
 wondrous fascination. She listened like one entranced, forget- 
 ting the fate of Zelica and the doom of Leonora. Indeed, had she 
 known that the same dark destiny awaited her, she could not 
 have broken the spell that enthralled her. For hours he lin- 
 gered at her side, while his eyes, like stars shining through
 
 174 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 a midnight cloud, were beaming with mysterious spendour upon, 
 her brow. Her will bowed before his mighty will, and, ere 
 she was aware of the act, she had sealed her heart's warrant 
 for life or death. She had consented to follow him to the altar, 
 and unveil with her rash and daring hand the brow now covered 
 with so dark an eclipse. 
 
 " You love me," cried the stranger, while his voice trembled 
 with ecstasy; "you love me, with that pure, spiritual love, 
 which, born on earth, is but a type of an immortal wedlock. 
 You will love me still, whatever be the features this gloomy 
 mask conceals. Be they those of a fiend, you will not love 
 me less. Be they those of an angel, you will not love me 
 more." 
 
 And Blanche bowed her fair head on his shoulder, and was 
 constrained to utter 
 
 "Angel or fiend, I must love thee still." 
 
 "To-morrow, then, at this hour, I shall come and claim 
 thee for my bride. Nay, speak not of delay, for my destiny 
 must be fulfilled. You shall know when I am near, but not 
 by this faded token. The pledge of my couiiug shall breathe 
 of life, and joy, and hope." 
 
 Pressing her hand gracefully to his heart, he disappeared, 
 while Blanche trembled and wept at the remembrance of the 
 vow she had plighted. Released from the magic of his pre- 
 sence, she saw her rashness, her madness and infatuation, in 
 their true light. She felt she was rushing blindfold to 
 the verge of perdition. She was terrified at the intensity of 
 her emotions. Better were it for her heart to remain in the 
 torpor over which it had been mourning, than awake to a sense 
 of life so keen as almost to amount to agony. She was like 
 the blind, suddenly restored to sicht, with a flood of noonday 
 glory pouring on the lately darkened vision. She was faint- 
 ing from excess of light. 
 
 Softly she ascended to her chamber, so as not to arouse the 
 sleeping Elsie, whose remarks she now dreaded to hear ; but 
 so light were her slumbers, they vanished at the soft rustle of 
 Blanche's muslin robe. 
 
 " I saw him," she cried, dispersing the mist of sleep from 
 her eyelids ; " I saw him from the window as he entered, and 
 I have been praying the blessed Virgin ever since to shield you 
 from harm." 
 
 " You must have been praying in your sleep, then," said 
 Blanche.
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 175 
 
 " 0, dear mistress, do not see him again. You will find he 
 is some murderer, who has a brand on his forehead" 
 
 " Stop, Elsie," cried the shuddering Blanche. "It is 
 slander. I will not permit it." 
 
 " And, besides," continued the persevering girl, " I dare 
 say the barbarians have cut off his nose and cropped his ears 
 into the bargain. People never hide their beauty under a 
 mask." 
 
 "Elsie, leave my room, if you cannot be silent," said 
 Blanche, with rising courage. 
 
 Elsie obeyed her, but muttered something about sulphur 
 and hoofs, as she closed the door behind her. 
 
 " How very impertinent Elsie is growing !" cried Blanche, 
 throwing herself weeping upon the bed. "But how can I 
 expect to retain the respect of a maid, when I have forfeited 
 my own self-esteem ? Alas ! what if her surmises be true ! 
 What if the brand of indelible disgrace be stamped upon that 
 brow where I have imagined more than mortal beauty dwells ! 
 What if, instead of a nose which Phidias might have taken as 
 a model for one of the gods of Greece, there should be only a 
 frightful cavity, a horrible disfigurement !" 
 
 Recoiling at the awful picture Elsie's fertile imagination had 
 conjured, she spread her hands before her face to shut out a 
 vision so appalling. It was strange in his presence she had 
 a perfect conviction that his mask concealed the face of an 
 angel, while in his absence the conviction faded, and the most 
 terrific fancies usurped its place ! 
 
 " O, that I could recall my fatal pledge !" she cried to 
 herself, as she tossed upon her restless couch. " But it is 
 given, and be it for weal or woe, I must abide by the result." 
 
 The next evening, Mrs. Channing, the kind, maternal 
 friend, whom Blanche had so dearly loved, remained by her, 
 as if drawn towards her by some unusual attraction. Never 
 had she been so tender, so affectionate. Blanche gazed upon 
 her with bitter self-reproach, thinking how ill she was about 
 to requite her guardian cares. She longed to throw her arms 
 around her neck, reveal her secret, and pray her to save her 
 from the delusions of her own heart. 
 
 " I fear you are not well, my sweet child," said the lady, 
 in soothing accents. " Indeed, I have noticed, all day, that 
 you have looked feverish and ill. Do not sit in the night air, 
 in that thin dress, too. Why, my dear, you are dressed like 
 a bride. I did not know that you were going abroad to-
 
 176 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 night. I fear this life of pleasure will wilt the roses of your 
 youth" 
 
 " I have promised to go," she said, avoiding the glance of 
 her friend, " and I cannot break my word. But it is the last 
 time indeed, it is the last." 
 
 While she was speaking a white rose-bud fell at her feet. 
 
 " See," said Mrs. Channing, smiling, " see what the breeze 
 has blown to you. It must be a token of happiness fit em- 
 blem of your beauty and innocence." 
 
 " Do you think it a token of happiness ?" cried Blanche, 
 eagerly gathering up the well-known signal. " Thank you for 
 the words. I go with a lighter heart. Farewell, kindest and 
 best of friends. Heaven bless you for ever and ever." 
 
 Pressing her quivering lips on the placid forehead she might 
 never again behold, she glided from the room. She dreaded 
 meeting Elsie, but was compelled to go to her chamber for her 
 mantle and veil, and there she encountered her faithful and 
 remonstrating friend. When Blanche, with a face as pale as 
 marble, threw her mantle over her shoulders, and cast a light 
 veil over her golden locks, Elsie seemed to divine her purpose, 
 and entreated her to remain. 
 
 " 0, it is like a bride you are dressed," she cried, " with 
 those pearls on your neck and arms, and that beautiful white 
 rose-bud on your bosom." 
 
 Blanche could not leave her faithful attendant without some 
 memorial of her love. Opening her jewel case, she took out 
 a costly necklace and ring. 
 
 " Take these," she said, " as a memento of my attachment, 
 and as a reward for your fidelity. Betray me not, on your 
 soul's life, and may the blessed Virgin you worship be propi- 
 tious to you as you are true to me." 
 
 Elsie suffered the jewels to fall from her hand, and casting 
 herself at the feet of Blanche, she wrapped her arms about her 
 knees, and implored her, with tears and sobs, not to go with 
 that dreadful man. 
 
 " Release me," cried Blanche, ready to faint with conflicting 
 emotions. " Delay me not a moment longer." Then snatch- 
 ing her mantle from her grasp, and leaving her prostrate and 
 weeping on the floor, she flew down stairs, through the open 
 door, and found herself in the arms of that dark and nameless 
 being, to whom she was about to confide herself for ever. He 
 bore her, almost fainting, into a carriage that was waiting at 
 the gate, and the horses, black as night, started off at a furious
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 177 
 
 speed. They left the crowded city far behind them, and rode 
 out into the open fields, where the moonbeams, unobstructed 
 by high granite walls, shone resplendently on her pallid face 
 and the polished surface of his enamel mask. 
 
 "Whither are you bearing me ?" she faintly asked, as the 
 small pebbles flashed fire beneath the horses' flying hoofs. 
 
 " To a second Eden, where love immortal blooms," he an- 
 swered, folding her close to his heart. Forward they went, 
 with the same bewildering speed. The trees swept by them, 
 like dark-green spirits in a rushing dance. Tall monuments, 
 gleaming white and ghostly, ghastly and cold, shot swiftly by 
 them in the quivering moonshine. 
 
 " ! whither are you bearing me ?" again she asked, almost 
 expecting him to answer : 
 
 " See there, see here, the moon shines clear 
 Hurrah, how swiftly speeds the dead ?" 
 
 " I am bearing you to the gate of Heaven," he replied ; " for 
 surely the house of God is such. Far away in the deep woods 
 there is a Gothic church, where a holy priest is waiting to 
 crown with his blessing the purest, deepest love that ever 
 bound two trusting hearts in one." 
 
 " 0, mine is all the trust !" she cried, " and if I be deceived, 
 mine will be all the woe." 
 
 " As never woman thus loved and trusted," he passionately 
 exclaimed, "so never woman was so supremely blest as thou, 
 my soul's beloved, shalt be I" 
 
 With soothing words and tender protestations and impas- 
 sioned vows he sustained her spirits, and beguiled the length 
 of their moonlight journey. At last they beheld the white 
 walls of the sacred edifice glimmering through the dark, silver- 
 edged foliage of the trees that embosomed it. The illuminated 
 arches of the lofty windows told that his words were true, and 
 that the holy father there awaited for the bridegroom and the 
 bride. 
 
 " Courage, my beloved," he cried, supporting her steps into 
 the vestibule, " your sublime confidence shall soon be rewarded. 
 If it wearies, even now, I will restore you to the friends you 
 have quitted for the stranger's love. But if you still cling to 
 me with undoubting faith and triumphant affection, come, and 
 the powers of earth cannot rend us asunder." 
 
 Blanche placed her cold hand in his. Throwing his arm
 
 178 THE BLACK MASK. 
 
 around her, he led her towards the illuminated altar, where, 
 clothed in his white robes, with the crucifix suspended on his 
 breast, the man of God was standing. Blanche sank upon her 
 knees and bowed her head, till it touched the marble steps of 
 the altar. At this moment, as if touched by invisible hands, 
 the deep notes of the organ swelled grandly and solemnly on 
 the ear. They gradually rose to the full altitude of the lofty 
 dome, when, rolling along the arch, gathering volume as they 
 rolled, they burst over the altar in a thunder-peal of melody, 
 then murmured softly away, only to swell again in the same 
 magnificent epithalamium. The illuminated church, the holy 
 priest, the consecrated altar, and the grand and solemn music, 
 filled the soul of Blanche with devout enthusiasm. Her con- 
 fidence in her mysterious bridegroom deepened and strength- 
 ened. He knelt at her side, with her throbbing hand clasped 
 in his. The last notes of the organ reverberated on the ear, 
 and the priest commenced the solemn ceremony. So intense 
 was her agitation, that she did not even hear the name of the 
 unknown being that name that was to be henceforth her own. 
 She did not know when the rite was ended, but continued with 
 her head bowed and her loosened hair sweeping the consecrated 
 marble. 
 
 "And now, my beloved/' said the divine voice that had 
 with its first accent captivated her soul, " the hour is come 
 which releases me from the vow breathed in the presence of 
 this man of God. Remove the mask, and behold the features 
 which, whatever form they bear, are beaming with immortal 
 love for thee." 
 
 Slowly and tremblingly Blanche raised her head, and turned 
 towards him, as be knelt on the lower steps of the altar, and 
 bent till his sable locks waved against her snowy dress. 
 
 And now the moment was arrived to which she had looked 
 forward with such wild curiosity, with such unutterable hope 
 and dread. Her hand refused to obey the impulse of her pant- 
 ing heart. It fell almost lifeless on his shoulder, and a thick 
 mist darkened her sight. 
 
 " Fear not, my daughter," said the deep voice of the priest. 
 
 Put your trust in Heaven, and shrink not from the destiny 
 
 tbou hast chosen, whatever it may be. As faith is the most 
 
 ublime of Christian virtues, so it is the most glorious proof of 
 
 love." 
 
 These words issuing from the sacerdotal lips, that had so 
 lately blessed her as a bride, gave her a momentary strength
 
 THE BLACK MASK. 179 
 
 Her fingers passed with lingering touch through the luxuriant 
 locks that waved over the ribbon which confined the mask. 
 As she unloosed the knot and he gradually began to raise his 
 bending head, before she had caught one glimpse of those 
 mysterious features, overcome by the weight of concentrated 
 emotions, she fell lifeless on his bosom. 
 
 When she recovered her senses, she found herself lying 
 quietly on the carpet of her boudoir, by the side of her over- 
 turned harp, whose strings were yet vibrating from the sudden 
 fall. Elsie was standing over her with a lamp in her hand, in 
 convulsions of laughter. 
 
 '*' I would not be laughing if you were hurt," she cried, 
 setting down her lamp and assisting the prostrate beauty, as 
 well as her shaking muscles would allow, to resume an upright 
 position. "You have had a pleasant nap of it, leaning against 
 your harp. It tumbled before I could catch you, or you would 
 not be lying here." 
 
 "0!" cried Blanche, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, "if I 
 had only had one glimpse of his face !"
 
 
 
 
 A TALE OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 "Oh, seldom have we heard a tale, 
 So sad, so tender, yet so true." 
 
 THE incidents we are about to. relate are true, but feelings 
 of delicacy induce us to throw a veil around them, by substitu- 
 ting fictitious names. This is all the fiction connected with 
 the sketch. , 
 
 Emma and Lelia Wayne were two lovely, fair-haired, blue- 
 eyed girls, just blooming into womanhood. They seemed the 
 favourites of nature and of fortune. Their father, a wealthy 
 merchant, was one of the most affectionate and indulgent 
 parents in the world. He was proud of his fair, sweet-faced 
 daughters, and they were proud of him. He was a remark- 
 ably handsome man, and the generous qualities % of his soul 
 diffused their glow and lustre over his countenance. Their 
 mother was an invalid, and constantly confined to her room, 
 but her gentleness and piety made her chamber seem nearer 
 Heaven, than any other apartment in the house. Wherever 
 they moved, these two young girls breathed an atmosphere of 
 love, and diffused it around them as they moved. 
 
 Emma, the eldest, had a brighter eye and a deeper bloom 
 than her sister. Her smile was more joyous, her step more 
 elastic, and her voice had a gayer tone. Lelia had one of 
 those haunting countenances which once seen is remembered 
 for ever, with a thrill of sadness, too. It is said that every 
 
 (180)
 
 A TALE OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 181 
 
 face is either a history or a prophecy. Lelia's was a prophecy. 
 She had large, languishing, mournful, loving, melting eyes, 
 that looked up wistfully through long lashes, darker than her 
 hair, then suddenly drooped, as if fearful they revealed too 
 much of what was passing in her heart. Her mouth was very 
 lovely, but a shade of melancholy hovered round its roses. A 
 redundance of flaxen hair, always simply and gracefully ar- 
 ranged, softened the outline of her painfully interesting face. 
 The expression may seem strange, but no one could look upon 
 Lelia without feeling that she was born to love and to suffer 
 too deeply. As yet her capacities for love and suffering were 
 undeveloped, and while so tenderly shielded by parental care, 
 it seemed impossible for sorrow or disappointment to approach 
 with blighting influence. 
 
 Mr. Wayne did not wish or expect to keep his daughters 
 from marriage, but he said he could not be parted from them. 
 Their mother's health was too delicate to bear the shock of 
 separation. Whoever should win the treasure of their affec- 
 tions must consent to live near the shadow of the paternal roof. 
 It was not long before Emma married a promising young law- 
 yer, and was established in an elegant mansion contiguous to 
 her home. She was happy, and her parents were happy in 
 this union, and Lelia tried to be happy, too, but she felt as if 
 a stranger had come between her and the bosom companion of 
 her childhood and youth. Her sister could never be to her 
 what she was before, and she sighed at the thought that Emma 
 loved another better than herself. 
 
 Just at this time she 'became acquainted with a young and 
 gallant officer, with laurels gathered in the " land of flowers," 
 blooming on his youthful brow. There was a grace, a gal- 
 lantry, a chivalry in his manners that charmed the imagination 
 of the romantic and tender Lelia. We will call him Clifford, 
 not wishing to make use of his real name. He was returning 
 to his post on the frontiers, where, with numbers of his brave 
 countrymen, he was engaged in defending the borders from the 
 depredations of the red man dangerous and protracted war- 
 fare ! 
 
 Young Clifford conceived for Lelia Wayne one of those deep 
 and impassioned attachments which once in a while break in 
 on the dull routine of everyday life. The military character 
 is invested with a peculiar charm. The military gentleman is 
 generally graced with peculiarly attractive manners. Lelia 
 yielded to their seductive influence. Her large, melancholy
 
 182 A TALE OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 
 
 blue eyeg were now illuminated with the light of love. It was 
 like the moonbeams shining on the mist of the valley, and trans- 
 forming it to a silvery glory. 
 
 Clifford pressed his suit with characteristic ardour. With 
 the frankness of a soldier, he declared his sentiments to Mr. 
 Wayne, and asked him for his daughter, assuring him that his 
 love was returned, and that Lelia had authorized him to entreat 
 his sanction to their immediate union. Mr. Wayne turned 
 pale as he listened. He liked, he admired the young man, 
 but he could not consent that his daughter should leave him 
 for the dark and stormy scenes to which his duty called him 
 to return. No ! it was impossible. It would kill her mother 
 it would make himself unspeakably wretched. It must not 
 be. Lelia had been nurtured in the lap of luxury. She had 
 never known privation or care. She was too delicate a flower 
 to bloom in the camp, too frail to be exposed to the unspeak- 
 able horrors of Indian warfare. With tenderness and feeling, 
 yet firmness and decision, he told the young man he never, 
 never could consent to their union, and begged him, as he 
 valued the happiness of Lelia, never to seek her presence 
 again. He demanded the sacrifice of him, but Clifford would 
 not promise what he felt he had not the power to perform. 
 He could ^not go without seeing Lelia once more and that 
 meeting sealed her destiny. Borne down by the weight of 
 her love and sorrow, she rashly consented to a clandestine 
 union. At the house of a mutual friend, who imprudently 
 promised secrecy and aid, the ill-starred marriage was con- 
 summated, which made the loving and affectionate Lelia an 
 alien from her father's roof. Mr. Wayne, justly incensed, re- 
 fused to see his disobedient child, but the invalid mother 
 yearned over her lost darling. In her husband's absence, she 
 sent for her daughter, who wept in agony on her bosom, when 
 she saw how much her desertion had added to the ravages of 
 disease, on that pale and gentle face. Mrs. Wayne forgave 
 and blessed her, committed her to the care and mercy of her 
 Heavenly Father, and suffered her to depart. Never more 
 was she to behold that fair, young, pensive countenance. The 
 prophecy written on her brow was about to be fulfilled. 
 
 The parting with her sister was another bitter trial. She 
 began to realize the strength of the ties she was sundering. 
 She understood for the first time the metaphor of the bleeding 
 heart. Could she but see her father, only see him, herself 
 unseen, she thought she would feel comparatively happy, and
 
 A TALE OP THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 183 
 
 she did see him thus. But instead of feeling happier, her 
 anguish was increased by her remorse. He looked so pale, so 
 sad, so stern looked as if he could never smile again. What 
 an ungrateful return she had made for his tender, his guardian 
 cares ! She had forsaken him for the stranger of a day. She 
 had left the guide of her youth. Yet even in the midst of her 
 sorrow and remorse, she exulted in the mighty sacrifice she was 
 making on the altar of love. It was for Clifford she was en- 
 during a father's just resentment it was for Clifford she was 
 leaving a loving mother and tender sister home, fortune, 
 friends and she loved him the dearer for the costly price she 
 paid for his love. 
 
 It was the first time she had ever been a traveller. Born 
 amid the magnificent scenery of the West, she had a vivid per- 
 ception of the beautiful and the sublime. At first she was 
 incapable of doing anything but look back, through blinding 
 tears, on her native city and its picturesque surroundings, as 
 the boat glided down the noble river, on whose glassy waves 
 she had looked down so many years, little dreaming she would 
 float over its azure bosom a discarded daughter, a clandestine 
 bride. For a time she could think only of all she was resign- 
 ing, but youthful feelings are transilient, and she soon gave 
 herself up to the joy of the present moment, while hope spanned 
 with its arc-en-ciel the clouds of the future. Arrived at her 
 new home, the charm of novelty threw an illusion over every 
 object. The fort which her husband commanded, had a 
 sublime aspect in her eyes, with the star-bangled banner float- 
 ing from its walls. The martial music, how inspiring it was ! 
 The soldiers, with their measured tread and respectful bearing, 
 she loved to gaze upon, especially when they gave the graceful 
 military salute to her gallant husband. She loved the morn- 
 ing reveille and the evening serenade, and in her enthusiasm, 
 thought she never could grow weary of a military life. 
 
 She saw nothing of the wild Indians who infested the 
 borders, and, grown fearless by unmolested tranquillity, en- 
 treated her husband to let her roam in the woods for the wild 
 flowers, which had given name to the luxurious region in 
 which she now dwelt. This, however, he constantly refused, 
 never allowing her to go beyond the limits of the fort, unpro- 
 tected by his presence. 
 
 It was strange to see this young and lovely female in a rude 
 fort, surrounded by officers and soldiers, and all the rough 
 paraphernalia of war. She moved amid the groups like an
 
 184 A TALE OP THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 
 
 angel, sent to minister to their ruder natures, and had danger 
 threatened her, not a man but would have died in her defence. 
 Alas ! alas ! that danger was so near ! 
 
 One morning, preparations were making to send a quantity 
 of ammunition to another fort. Lieutenant Willard, a very 
 young and interesting officer, commanded the expedition. About 
 thirty soldiers were to escort him. 
 
 The morning was clear and resplendent, the air bland and 
 elastic, receiving tone from the sea-born breezes that were 
 wafted from the coast. Lelia stood on the ramparts, her cheeks 
 glowing with unusual excitement. 
 
 " Let me go/' cried she to her husband, whose arm was linked 
 with hers. " Let us go on horseback and accompany them. 
 It is such a charming morning." 
 
 " I cannot go," he answered. " I am obliged to remain at 
 the fort. I wish I could, for your sake, my Lelia. You must 
 weary of your confined and lonely life." 
 
 " Oh, no !" she eagerly replied. " I never should be 
 weary where you are. It was a childish wish. It is past 
 already." 
 
 The young lieutenant approached, with his plumed hat in 
 his hand, and addressed his commander 
 
 " Let me escort your wife," said he. " I shall be proud of 
 the honour, and will insure her safe return." 
 
 " Shall it be so, Lelia ?" said Clifford, looking into her now 
 animated blue eyes, and reading her answer there. " Go, then, 
 and make ready with all possible haste, for the morning hours 
 are wasting." 
 
 Lelia flew away with the joyous step of youth, while Clifford 
 commanded his riding horse to be caparisoned and brought 
 near. Lelia soon returned in a riding costume, whose dark 
 blue colour set off to peculiar advantage her blonde complexion 
 and fair hair. A small black hat, with black, drooping feathers, 
 was placed carelessly on her head, and heightened by contrast 
 her transcendent fairness and roseate bloom. Never had the 
 dark eye of Clifford rested on her so lovingly, so admiringly, 
 as it did after placing her on the back of the spirited animal, 
 adjusting the stirrups and placing the bridle in her slender 
 hand, which he pressed, ere he relinquished it, with all a 
 lover's ardour. 
 
 " Lieutenant," srid he, before giving the ^gral for their 
 departure, " remember you have a precious charge nnmitted 
 to your cars guard it with all a soldier's vigilance/'
 
 A TALE OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 185 
 
 "I will guard it with my life," said the young soldier, with 
 a bright blush and a beaming smile, little dreaming that he 
 was uttering the words of prophecy. 
 
 Captain Clifford stood watching the party as long as it was 
 in sight. Lelia was mounted on a milk-white horse, Lieuten- 
 ant Willard on a coal-black one. Again and again Lelia looked 
 back, kissing her hand to her husband and gayly smiling. 
 When he could no longer catch a glimpse of her black plumes 
 waving in the breeze of morn, he turned away with a sigh. 
 
 "Should any evil befall her," thought he, "I never 
 should forgive myself for suffering her to depart. But impos- 
 sible the Indians are driven from this vicinity, and she is 
 nobly guarded." 
 
 In the mean time, Lelia went on her way rejoicing, thought- 
 less of danger, and exhilarated by exercise. The young lieu- 
 tenant charmed her by dwelling on her husband's praises, which 
 were music to her ear. Then he talked to her of his mother 
 and sisters, till her eyes overflowed at the remembrance of her 
 own. 
 
 All at once, young Willard drew his horse nearer to hers, 
 and bent his ear in a listening attitude. They were passing a 
 dense thicket; and he heard a kind of hissing sound, which 
 was immediately followed by a fierce, savage whoop. 
 
 Lelia, struck with deadly fainting, threw her arms round 
 the horse's neck, and buried her face in the flowing mane. 
 Young Willard sprang to the ground with the speed of light- 
 ning, and, taking Lelia from the saddle, tried to place her in 
 the ammunition wagon, where she could be sheltered from the 
 ambushed fire of the Indians, who were now rattling their shot 
 from the thicket. She had fainted from terror, and lay a help- 
 less weight in his arms. Before he could reach the wagon, 
 she received a death-wound in her bosom, and he fell wounded 
 and gasping by her side. 
 
 The soldiers, in the mean time, discharged a volley on the 
 sheltered savages, which probably sent them to a deeper covert; 
 for they ceased their firing, leaving behind two youthful vie 
 tirns to their indiscriminate vengeance. Thank Heaven that, 
 intimidated by the fierce defence of the soldiers, they had fled 
 without daring to approach with the terrible scalping-knife ! 
 The remains of the lovely Lelia were spared this awful desecra- 
 tion. She was insensible when she received the death-wound, 
 and passed unconsciously the shadowy confines of the spirit 
 world. She suffered all the agonies of death when the horrible 
 129 

 
 186 A TALfc OP T^E LANt OF FLOWERS. 
 
 yell first burst upon her ear. In that moment, father, mother 
 sister, native home, dearly-loved, remembered scenes, all rose, 
 before her with lifelike vividness; then her husband, standing 
 on the ramparts, waving his hand in token of adieu, with a 
 beaming smile; then the dreadful conviction that it was the 
 last glimpse of life and love that would ever be hers ; then 
 all was darkness. 
 
 The horses which had borne Lelia and Willard, dispossessed 
 of their riders, rushed back to the fort. Clifford read a tale 
 of horror in their empty saddles and loose, flowing bridles. 
 Mounting one, he rode with the speed of an eagle to the fatal 
 spot. The unfortunate Willard still lived, though life was fust 
 ebbing away. He was supported in the arms of the soldiers, 
 who gazed alternately on his pale and altering features, and 
 the beauteous body reclining near. What a spectacle for a 
 young and adoring husband ! There she lay his fair young 
 bride whom he had lured from her happy home only to be 
 the victim of the red man's wrath. No mark of violence was 
 visible; no blood oozed from the wound, which closed as soon 
 as it was made. Her hat had fallen from her head, and lay, 
 with broken feathers, on the ground. Her long, fair hair, 
 loosened and flowing, streamed around her in bands of paly 
 gold, and glistened with mournful lustre on her dark riding- 
 dress. The glow of life still lingered on her cheek ; but her 
 eyes, those large, loving, pensive blue eyes, now half-closed, 
 were fixed and glassy. 
 
 " Captain," murmured the expiring lieutenant, " I would 
 die happy, could I have saved your wife. Oh, my captain, 
 it is you who die !" 
 
 Clifford, who stood as if transfixed, gazing on his slaughtered 
 wife and dying friend, here uttered a loud and bitter cry, and 
 threw himself by the side of her whom he would have died to 
 ransom from death. He folded his arms around her, and 
 covered her cold lips and cheeks with kisses such as "joy ne'er 
 knew." He called upon her, by every fond and endearing 
 name, to look at him, to speak, and tell him that she lived. 
 In the midst of his frantic adjurations, the soul of the brave 
 young Willard passed into the presence of its God. Oh ! for 
 a mother's bosom, on which he could have pillowed his faint- 
 ing head ! Oh ! for a sister's arms, to support his sinking 
 frame ! But the soldier's death-pillow is the cold ground, and 
 his last sigh is breathed up to the heavens bending above him. 
 It is well. 

 
 A TALE OP THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 187 
 
 We will not attempt to describe the anguish of the unhappy 
 Clifford. For a time, it threatened to unthrone his reason, 
 heightened as it was by the bitterest remorse. A dreadful 
 task awaited him : to write to her parents and inform them 
 of the mournful tragedy. This being done, he felt as the 
 criminal does while the doom he dreads is impending over 
 him. He expected to be looked upon in the light of a mur- 
 derer; for, had it not been for him, Lelia might still be warm 
 with life, and youth, and joy. With trembling hands he broke 
 the letter which came in reply to his, communicating the fatal 
 tidings. It contained no word of reproach, no language of 
 bitterness. It entreated him to come back, bearing with him 
 all that was left of the ill-fated Lelia ; to come and take a 
 eon's place in their darkened home and sorrowing hearts. 
 
 Captain Clifford obtained a furlough, and fulfilled the wishes 
 of the mourning parents. It was a sad meeting j but recon- 
 ciliation, born of sorrow, made it hallowed. 
 
 Embalmed by the tears of her young companions, the re- 
 mains of the murdered Lelia were deposited in her native 
 soil. Remembrance of her fault was lost in pity for her un- 
 timely doom. They could not speak harshly of one who had 
 expiated her disobedience by her life. 
 
 "Had I only forgiven her!" was the burden of the father's 
 heart. " Oh ! had I only forgiven !" 
 
 Yes ! fallible and erring beings that we are, let us forgive, 
 as we pray to be forgiven by our Father in heaven. Let not 
 pardon be delayed till the heart it would have gladdened is 
 cold beneath the clods of the valley. The relenting voice can- 
 not penetrate the deep, dark abyss of the grave. No one ever 
 mourned for having followed the example of Him who forgave 
 even his murderers with his expiring breath ; but how many 
 have sorrowed, when too late, over the inexorable will and the 
 severe, though just decree ! 
 
 Let the young maiden who perchance may read this sad but 
 true history tremble at the consequences of filial disobedience. 
 God, sooner or later, avenges the violation of his sacred laws. 
 She may not, like Lelia, perish by the death-shot of the Indian, 
 but she may be reserved for a fate more mournful still, the 
 slow wasting away of the heart, under the blighting influence 
 of unkindness or perfidy. As she has forsaken her parents, 
 she may be herself forsaken and betrayed. Lelia was sweet, 
 lovely, gentle, and guileless ; but she yielded to the dictates of
 
 
 188 A TALE OF THE LAND OF FLOWERS. 
 
 passnn, and exposed herself to the terrible doom we have 
 rer .rded. 
 
 Yes, she was indeed lovely. Never shall we forget the soft, 
 beseeching, pensive expression of her prophetic eyes, the tones 
 of her sweet, plaintive voice. We are reminded of the words 
 of Ossian : " Sweet is the memory of departed friends. Like 
 the mellow rays of the setting sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, 
 on the soul." 
 

 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 (189)

 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE MAGNOLIA is the pride of the South. Its magnificent 
 white blossoms shine like stars in the midst of the deep green 
 woods, their fragrance embalms the whole atmosphere where 
 they bloom, and the deep perennial verdure of the leaves gives 
 beauty and richness to the wintry landscape. But it was not 
 these splendid attributes that suggested the name given to the 
 following pages. Its waxen petals serve as tablets, on which 
 friend may transmit to friend some glowing thought, which 
 might otherwise fade away, without leaving any record of its 
 existence. In wandering through the woods in the season of 
 flowers, these tablets can always be obtained, and a splinter 
 torn from the bark will serve as a stylus, with which the senti- 
 ments of love and friendship may be easily traced. 
 
 The name seemed appropriate for these leaflets of the heart, 
 which we here present in a garland to the reader. Though 
 the growth of a southern soil, may they bloom also in a north- 
 ern cliine. 
 
 Would that we had the power to encircle with flowery bonds 
 the North and the South, and draw them together in sweeter, 
 closer union ! 
 
 C. L. H. 
 
 COLUMBUS, May 1st, 1853. 
 
 (191)
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 QUINCY, FLA., May 15, 1852. 
 
 IN looking abroad at this moment, the eye meets the two 
 most beautiful colours in nature, green and blue the green 
 of the earth, and the blue of the sky. The horizon presents a 
 uniform, scarcely undulating line, broken by the lofty top 
 boughs of the forest trees, or the sharp roof of an occasional 
 dwelling-house. But nearer than the horizon's edge, there is 
 a grove of young oaks, so thick, so green, so cool and refresh- 
 ing, we have no doubt the Dryads hold many a moonlight 
 revel in its virgin shades. The Fairies, too, flit about on the 
 dewy sward, at their nightly rendezvous, after wandering 
 
 " Over hill, over dale, 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier 
 
 Over park, over pale, 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire." 
 
 The other evening, and a true fairy evening it was, all 
 moonlight and dew, as we sat listening to the sweet duet, com- 
 mencing with 
 
 "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 
 Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grow," 
 
 and as we looked out into the deep shades of this grove, all 
 sprinkled with silver as it was, the spell of the Midsummer 
 Night's Dream was upon us, and we could see Titania sleeping 
 there, in all her elfin beauty, while cruel and mischievous 
 Oberon squeezed on the fringed curtains of her eyes, the juice 
 of the milk-white flower, made purple by love's wound, yclept 
 by young maidens, Love in idleness. 
 
 (193)
 
 194 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 How beautiful is the poetry which peoples nature with the 
 glorious creations of imagination ! What a charm has it given 
 to the lonely wood, the silent rock, and the voiceless stream ! 
 The poetry of mythology, too, how exquisite is it! What 
 beauty and interest it imparts to inanimate objects ! The im- 
 prisoned Dryad moans amid the leafy boughs. The Naiad 
 murmurs in the gurgling fountain. In the plaintive notes of 
 Echo, we hear the accents of the love-lorn nymph, the victim 
 of the self-adoring Narcissus ; and in the beautiful wind-flower, 
 born of the blood of Adonis, we read the history of the ena- 
 moured Venus, and the beautiful, but scornful, hunter youth. 
 
 Take away all poetical, mythological, and historical associa- 
 tions from nature, and it becomes a body without a soul " all 
 coldly sweet, all deadly fair." Even the child, untaught in 
 mystic lore, finds a charm in inanimate nature, independent of 
 its own loveliness. The soft wind-breath that lingers on its 
 cheek reminds it of a mother's kiss ; the gentle murmur of 
 the violet, of the music of her voice ; the summer rain-drops, 
 of her tears ; the autumn gusts, of her solemn chidings. 
 
 Take away all Scriptural associations from Nature what a 
 blank is left ! Yea, what grandeur yea, what glory are an- 
 nihilated ! 
 
 The hills, what are they? Piles of granite and rough 
 masses of rock and soil inequalities on the surface of the 
 broad earth. Let mythology invest them with its poetic charm : 
 They become the dwelling-places of the heathen divinities, the 
 thrones of Olympian gods and goddesses, the fabled hierarchy 
 of Greece and Rome. Let Christianity come forward, and we 
 feel an influence more holy than poetry, more mighty than 
 superstition. God himself is enthroned on the mountains, in 
 " light inaccessible and full of glory." We see Him in the 
 thunders and lightnings and thick smoke of Sinai ; in the flow- 
 ing blood and darkened summit of Mount Calvary. W T herever 
 the sacred mountains rise, whether baptized by water, fire, or 
 blood, they are the thrones of invisible or incarnate Deity, and 
 we think of them as magnificent temples, typical of those 
 temples not made with hands, " eternal in the heavens." So 
 it is with the waters. The rivers, what are they ? The rains 
 descend they fall on the hill-tops they penetrate the fissures 
 of the earth, wind through its subterranean cavities, gush out 
 through rocky portals, and, meeting congenial springs, swell 
 into volume, and roll on through guarding shores roll on to 
 sea or ocean, a tributary formed of thousand tributaries. 

 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 195 
 
 Mythology gives life to this cold element. The virgin, Are- 
 thusa, animates the gliding fountain the divine Alpheus 
 moves to love the hearts of the river nymphs, who gaze upon 
 his beauty. The sea-green mantle of Neptune floats over the 
 bosom of ocean his fiery steeds flake with foam its azure 
 surface. How beautiful, how sublime are these associations ! 
 Yet how infinitely short in beauty and sublimity are they, of 
 chose awakened by the bards of the Bible ! The prophets 
 stand on the margin of Jordan. On the opposite bank smiles 
 the promised land. One sweep of Elijah's mantle, and the 
 waters flow back, as at the mandate of a God. The Israelites 
 tremble on the shores of the Eed Sea. They fly from Pharaoh's 
 royal hosts. At the bidding of a God, the waves rise up in 
 crystal walls, making a path for the chosen children of the 
 Most High. We are told that the Almighty holds the seas 
 in the hollow of his hand, that the mountains flow down at 
 His presence, that the deep lifts up its hands on high, that the 
 perpetual hills do bow. 
 
 Surely this is a suggestive grove. We had promised you a 
 sketch from this place ; but after saying it is beautiful, rural, 
 sweet and tranquil, we feel as if we had said all that it becomes 
 us to utter, at this early period of our sojourn in it. We have 
 tried to collect some legendary lore to transmit to you, but in 
 vain. We are told of some hoary seer, who could give us 
 most thrilling accounts of Indian life and warfare, but alas ! 
 he is far from us, and we can derive no benefit from his storied 
 memory. 
 
 There are the ruins of an old Spanish fort, about ten miles 
 from here, that must be interesting, from their antiquity so 
 moss-grown are they, so old. A gentleman, who was describ- 
 ing them, and who visited the spot about nine years since, 
 says, that then it had been so long deserted that large trees 
 were growing up in the midst of the four roads which diverged 
 from the old fort. There is said to be a still more interesting 
 ruin near Tallahassee. If we should chance to visit it, we will 
 endeavour to enrich ourselves with the traditionary gems which 
 adorn the place. There is a gentleman residing there, who is 
 said to be a living Indian Encyclopedia, if we may call him 
 so. A son of the forest, whose raven locks were bleached by 
 the sun and wind of one hundred and forty years, told him 
 all he knew of his fast vanishing race. Would it not be worth 
 a pilgrimage to beg some of these treasures, which may bo
 
 196 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 buried with the possessor, give them the golden setting of 
 imagination, and then exhibit them to the world ? 
 
 Why is it that we admire light and shade, so much more 
 than light without a shadow ? Look at the shadow of the 
 lattice-work thrown wide across the street. You can see the 
 foliage of the trees playing among the checkers. Xow and 
 then, the figure of a pedestrian glides over the alternate bars 
 of silver and ebony. Beyond, where all is brightness, it is not 
 half so lovely. Is it not so with life ? The lights and shades 
 of feeling checker the surface of the soul. Fancy flutters over 
 it like the play of the wind-stirred foliage, and memory, like 
 the gliding figure of the pedestrian, throws a long dark shadow, 
 which we fain would keep from fading away. 
 
 Did you ever read the German story of the Man without a 
 Shadow ? Tempted by an inexhaustible purse of gold, he sold 
 his shadow to the Evil Spirit. What cared he for his shadow 
 that useless, haunting ghost of matter ? But the boys, when 
 they saw him intercept the sunshine, yet leave no more shadow 
 than a crystal, fled from him in terror. He walked in the 
 moonlight, with the lady of his heart, and whispered soft 
 words of love ; but when she saw on the wall, a lonely shadow, 
 while she felt the warm clasp of his hand, she turned from 
 him in speechless horror. Even the mendicant, whose wants 
 his gold relieved, shuddered at his unshadowed presence, and 
 refused his unblest gifts. He would have given a kingdom 
 ten thousand kingdoms, were they his to win back the haunt- 
 ing shadow he had so thoughtlessly bartered. So it is with 
 man : when he would utterly free himself from sorrow the 
 shadow of life he is divorced from the sympathies of his 
 kind, the fellowship of humanity. He walks alone, in the soli- 
 tary glare of his destiny. Oh ! who would not prefer walking 
 in shadow, side by side with friendship and love, to the lonely 
 brilliancy of the German student's lot ! 
 
 We would escape from Death, the great shadow rolling 
 behind the steps of humanity ; yet what corse so fearful as 
 that denounced upon the Wandering Jew immortal roauier 
 on Time's deserted shore doomed to gaze upon the successive 
 wrecks of joy and love praying for the shadow that never 
 falls on the burning sands of his existence ! 
 
 No ! children of sunshine and shade, of joy and sorrow, of 
 life and death heirs of a two-fold being let us avoid all 
 unholy league with the Spirit of Darkness. Let us never dare 
 to barter our divine birth-right, lest, like Esau, we find we have
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 197 
 
 only a miserable mess of pottage in exchange, while we expose 
 ourselves to the retributions of Eternity. 
 
 How strange it is, that the reflection of a slight curtain of 
 woven wood-work, on the moon-lighted road, should call up 
 ideas like these ! Yet every object in nature may be made a 
 round in the ladder, on which the angels of thought mount up 
 to heaven. 
 
 Morning. How different an aspect everything wears by 
 sunlight! No more fairies; no more deep, poetic musings. 
 Reality reigns, and the gilding tints of imagination fade like 
 the phantasmagoria of a dream. 
 
 If you turn to the left, another grove greets the eye, luxuriant 
 and beautiful, though less romantic than the one we have 
 described. Man has appropriated it to the business of life. A 
 handsome Court House, built of a kind of limestone, stands in 
 the centre, and the green lawn is surrounded by a railing, once 
 white, probably, but now looking rather dim and discoloured. 
 The morning is excessively sultry. You would know it by 
 looking at the horses tied along by the railing, under the cool 
 spreading shade, lazily sweeping away the flies from their shin- 
 ing sides with the brushes that nature has provided them 
 with, and lifting up first one foot, then the other, to assist in 
 the operation, sometimes they suddenly wrinkle their smooth 
 skins, turning their heads simultaneously, to see the effect of 
 their muscular construction. 
 
 That building a little beyond, gleaming white through the 
 trees, is the Methodist Church, and a little further, the Pres- 
 byterian Church stands, in front of a green common, where 
 the cattle love to browse in the shade. There are Episcopalian 
 and Baptist Churches also though, at present, the flocks seem 
 scattered for want of shepherds. 
 
 It cannot be said that there is any architectual magnificence 
 here though there are many handsome dwelling-houses, 
 adorned with shrubbery, having beautiful flower gardens, in- 
 dicative of the taste and refinement of the inmates. 
 
 There is a large Academy, where the youth of both sexes 
 are taught in distinct departments. They celebrated the com- 
 ing of May by a large party, which, though unaccompanied 
 by coronation rites, was undoubtedly not wanting in youthful 
 hilarity. The association of childhood and youth with the sea- 
 son of bloom and flowers is charming, and many a garland is 
 twined at these sweet eras, which bloom when the blossoms 
 of May are faded and gone. We remember some fair young
 
 198 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 faces blushing among the flowers, emblematical of the fleeting 
 glow of youth, and we sigh to think that the dust of the grave 
 has dimmed the brightness that seemed destined for perennial 
 bloom. 
 
 Oh ! if such hues of beauty shone 
 
 For ever fadeless in our path 
 If never o'er the heaven's bright blue 
 
 There floated darkening clouds of wrath 
 Our spirits would too fondly cling 
 
 To this too fair, deluding earth ; 
 The soul that flutters for the skies, 
 
 Would sink regardless of its birth. 
 
 And now, methinks you will say, " this is a paper filled with 
 heterogeneous matter." And so it is we have called it a 
 Magnolia leaf- on which we have traced the passing impres- 
 sions of the moment. At first, it might seem like vanity, to 
 borrow a name so exquisite and fair ; but who, that has seen 
 these lovely blossoms, or who, after their surface has received 
 even the most delicate touch, has marked the dingy brown 
 stains which deepen on the petals, disfiguring their fairness, 
 and rendering dim and illegible the characters traced upon 
 them, but must read a lesson of lowliness and humility ? Soon, 
 also, will the shade gather over these lines ; but if, while fad- 
 ing, they give forth the faintest breath of the fragrance that 
 gushes from every pore of the Magnolia petals, they ask no 
 longer lease of life or fame. 
 
 NO. n. 
 
 QUINCY, FLA., May 20, 1852. 
 
 OLD letters ! leaflets of memory ! Yes, they are indeed so. 
 Did you ever sit down, on the eve of a journey, or a change of 
 residence, and, untying packet after packet, prepare to consign 
 them to the flames ? and, as you unfolded the papers one by 
 one, have not words arrested your eye, so full of vitality, that 
 it seemed they would writhe in agony when exposed to the 
 wrath of the burning element ? 
 
 A short time since we prepared for a similar holocaust, with
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 199 
 
 a sad and self-upbraiding heart. We deemed the act a duty, 
 and yet it seemed little less than sacrilege. Seating ourselves 
 by the side of an open trunk, overflowing with the accumula- 
 ting stream of written thought, we began to separate the chaff 
 from the wheat, the wine from the lees, the gold from the 
 dross. This appeared at first an easy task, but we were soon 
 convinced of our error: as Dominie Samson stood on the 
 steps of the library, holding in his hands the huge folios he 
 was to dust and arrange ; forgetful of time or place, we bent 
 over the trunk, absorbed, abstracted, while 
 
 " The soul of other days came rushing in." 
 
 Shall I write down some of the reminiscences awakened by 
 this review ? Shall memory be the Magnolia tree, green and 
 beautiful, and its tablets the blossom leaves, on which the hand 
 )f affection has traced deep and abiding characters ? 
 
 Here is a packet, superscribed in a fine, easy, yet decided 
 hand, more than usually slanting, somewhat careless, as the 
 uridotted i's and uncrossed t's indicate. The downsweeping 
 lines are all single; no folding back of the y's and g's; all 
 straight like p's and q's. Time is too precious to allow of such 
 superfluities. One flash of the mind one dash of the pen 
 apd it is done. 
 
 At sight of this handwriting, a fair-haired, blue-eyed figure 
 appears, with joyous smile, and frank, sunshiny countenance. 
 No one would dream that under this girlish, almost childish 
 exterior, there resided a powerful intellect, a strong will, and 
 indomitable energy of character. A thorough disregard of the 
 airy graces of her sex a lofty scorn of its foibles and faults 
 individualize and set her apart from the circle in which she 
 dwells. She has a noble, self-sacrificing, generous spirit a 
 mind thirsting for knowledge a soul glowing with enthusiasm, 
 which no disappointments can chill, no difficulties repress. 
 Here is an extract from one of her letters, written in a moment 
 of haste and excitement : 
 
 " I cannot help recurring to the feelings with which I wrote 
 to you, when I last dated . It was then, when de- 
 pressed as low as a human being can be, except by crime, that 
 I wrote you a transcript of my heart. Did I complain ? Did 
 I express want of faith? If I did, I should now repent, for 
 at this moment I feel that my original plans are all more than 
 accomplished. You sympathized with me then. Will you
 
 200 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 not do so now ? Learn from my experience that the darkest 
 day may be the precursor of a glorious morn. I now feel that 
 the night was necessary, in order that its tears might prepare 
 the soul for the genial influences of a happier sun. There is 
 a view of the subject of suffering, whence springs the sweetest 
 flowers of enjoyment. It is when we consider it as developing 
 the soul's capacities of feeling. When we suffer deeply, we 
 feel as if our souls' boundaries were enlarged ; we begin to 
 conceive of what is true; that our spirits spread an infinite 
 surface to the influence of the universe, and its Creator. 
 Hence comes a more realizing sense of that Creator's bound- 
 lessness. We look to His revealed will for more truth more 
 comfort deeper sentiments and we find it there. It almost 
 seems a new revelation." 
 
 She sometimes spreads the wings of imagination, and rises 
 into the regions of poetry and romance. She thus apostro- 
 phizes a river, flowing through a lovely valley, consecrated by 
 holy remembrances : 
 
 " Thy river images 
 The very piety I love. Those waves 
 Which clear, and deep, and rapidly roll on, 
 Protected from the glare of noonday sun 
 And from the public gaze, by banks adorned 
 With trees itself has nourished into life. 
 Those sparkling waves not on the eye obtrude, 
 Of him who at a distance views. Yet who 
 Can gaze upon the vale, nor know a stream 
 Of living water flows there ? So fragrant, 
 And so fresh, the landscape glows and see 
 The graceful drapery of silver, purple, 
 Gold, and every other rainbow tint, 
 That twilight and Aurora spread o'er all, 
 Betrays the modest benefactor, source 
 And presence too, of all this valley's 
 Beauty." 
 
 And so she goes on, taking in the mountains and the vales, 
 and the mists that float over them, and the friends, who 
 
 " Made every dear scene of enchantment more dear." 
 
 Here is another packet, written in a more delicate, careful, 
 and measured manner. We can read the beatitudes here. 
 One of the ministering spirits sent to bind up the wounds of 
 the bleeding heart, and to pour upon them the oil and balm of 

 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 201 
 
 consolation, traced these pale, religious-looking characters. 
 Yes ! they all have a Bible look, for they were all dictated by 
 the same Holy Spirit that inspired the sacred Scriptures, a ad 
 prepares the heart for their benign and purifying influence. 
 The life of the writer has been one of self-sacrifice. Year 
 after year she watched the waning health of a beloved mother, 
 scattering the blossoms of filial affection over the pillow of 
 disease, and making the passage to the tomb, a beautiful and 
 love-lighted pathway. And soon the grave closed over this 
 dearest object of her earthly cares. She has gi,n3 on her 
 heavenly mission, among the sick and the csorruwing, relin- 
 quishing social pleasures which no one was ever more formed 
 to enjoy, whenever they interfered with the duties of friend- 
 ship and humanity. Will it be considered a breach of confi- 
 dence to extract a few sentiments from these letters, with 
 which to enrich my own ? The world will never know whose 
 unobtrusive worth has won this spontaneous tribute, and 
 should the passing breeze waft this fee// over intervening spnce 
 to her, she will forgive the transgression, for the sake of the 
 love that causes it. 
 
 " Yes, you would find that I was indeed as ready to enter 
 into your joys and sorrows, as in those bright days when the 
 world lay green and untrodden before us. You, without a 
 thought of coming change I, experienced more, but still 
 leaning upon the little varying influences around for weal or 
 woe. Your pathway has been more varied with the flowers 
 and garlands of life, than mine, and though I have lived many 
 more years, yet you have had many more thoughts than have 
 passed through my mind. Circumstances have brought out 
 worlds of interest in you, and you have found that the more 
 you were taxed, the greater your resources showed them- 
 selves." 
 
 The following remarks, written several years since, were a 
 powerful stimulus to the mind they addressed. Shall we 
 transcribe them ? 
 
 "I wish you would write a novel, with taste, elegance, and 
 wit, that shall show forth in the highest degree, the superiority 
 of moral worth. Let your hero or heroine bring every feeling 
 and thought into subjection, and let every power and oppor- 
 tunity be improved to the greatest extent, from the grand 
 Christian stimulus, and yet, let it not be called a religious 
 novel. How well, in fancy, we can portray a sublime faith, 
 130
 
 202 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 guiding every thought, and yet the interests and the refine- 
 ments of polished life spreading over the whole, as a halo, to 
 give a softness to the dazzling light ! 
 
 " With such a work, the spirit which wit and talent produce, 
 may do a vast deal of good ; and if you find that your power 
 is ready and your success encouraging, you must try what 
 moral miracles you can work with your pen." 
 
 " Ah !" you exclaim, " how much easier to dictate, than to 
 effect; how much easier to judge, than to create !" 
 
 Shall we commit such thoughts as these to the flames? 
 Shall we destroy the record of faith and affection, which have 
 been incitements to action and encouragements to success ? 
 No! They are immortal, and cannot, but by annihilating, 
 die. Should the fire apparently consume them, should the 
 ashes be given to the four winds of heaven, they would reap- 
 pear in some form of beauty and purity ; perchance the Mag- 
 nolia's blossoms or the lily's petals. 
 
 Here is a packet bearing the impress of a bolder hand. It 
 is what is called a back-hand, very graceful and regular in its 
 irregularities. Let us rescue these from the general doom, 
 for alas ! the writer sleeps the grea*t sleep in Cuba's beauteous 
 isle. With everything to enrich and adorn life wealth, ge- 
 nius, friendship, and reputation he died in the meridian of 
 manhood, a victim to the destroying angel of the Northern 
 clime, who, borne on the eastern blast, slays its thousands and 
 ten thousands with remorseless cruelty. His was the ardent 
 temperament of Burns, united with the passionate depth and 
 strength of Byron. His memory was stored with the most 
 exquisite poetry of both, which received an added charm from 
 his gentle-toned, melodious voice. An impassioned lover of 
 Nature, he loved best of all its moonlight loveliness. His 
 spirit then revelled in poetic dreams, and breathed itself in 
 high-wrought and excited language. In early youth, exposed 
 to the temptations of wealth and the fascinations of pleasure, 
 the world allured and example betrayed, but his aberrations 
 were short and though he sometimes strayed beyond the 
 limits of virtue, he was never seen in the known haunts of 
 vice. Once, he uttered a passionate wish that he were what 
 Byron was, willing to barter all present good, all future weal, 
 for the possession of such genius and fame. This wild wish 
 elicited the following thoughts, which, at his request, were 
 clothed in a poetic garb :
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 203 
 
 Thou wouldst have been that wondrous man, 
 
 Whose mighty mind no mind could scan 
 
 Who, dark, sublime, magnificent, 
 
 Seemed from another region sent, 
 
 To give the soul's imaginings 
 
 The form and look of breathing things. 
 
 And thou, in manhood's glorious bloom, 
 
 Whose life such brilliant hopes illume, 
 
 Wouldst barter faith and joy and love, 
 
 All peace below, all heaven above, 
 
 To be that splendid, reckless thing, 
 
 Who dared his shafts at God to fling ! 
 
 The crown of fire on yEtna's brow 
 
 Afar its dazzling light may throw, 
 
 Till starry Heaven's resplendent host 
 
 In the superior blaze is lost ; 
 
 But where's the eye that would not turn 
 
 From where its wasting splendours burn, 
 
 To the pure silvery light that shines 
 
 Where love its myrtle garland twiiies ? 
 
 Happy was it for him, that his aspirations were directed to 
 a holier object ; that a greater than Byron became the model 
 after which his soul fashioned itself. It was as a disciple of 
 Jesus he died and the angel of Christianity 
 
 " With his silver wing o'ershades 
 The ground now sacred by his relics made. 
 
 Let the winds bear the flame far from these hallowed me- 
 mentoes of one who now belongs to memory alone. Cold is 
 now that warm, impulsive heart quenched the light of that 
 once flashing and expressive eye. Cherished then be the 
 traces he has left of the genius, and talents, and sensibilities, 
 which once brightened and gladdened the circle in which he 
 moved. 
 
 Thanks be to God for the invention of letters ! How many 
 dreary blanks they fill how many warm affections they per- 
 petuate how many glowing thoughts they invest with im- 
 mortality ! Without them, absence would be death, and 
 space a grave. With them, friends may separate in body, yet 
 cling to each other in soul. They are an electric chain, on 
 which the lightning rays of thought dart from mind to mind, 
 clearing away the vapours which time has formed. Spoken 
 sentiments mingle with air and pass away. When written, 
 they remain a source of repeated joy and consolation. There 
 are certain characters, which, though invisible to the eye,
 
 204 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 when exposed to the influence of heat, become dark and 
 legible. So when the lines grow faint in remembrance, we 
 have only to draw them within the burning focus of intense 
 thought, and they appear strong and distinct. No matter 
 how widely friends may be sundered, their mingling spirits 
 still may meet, triumphant over mountain, ocean, wilderness, 
 or plain. Who have not felt their hearts throb with quickened 
 pulsations, as the sound of rushing wheels announces the 
 coming of the mail ? Who have not felt the glow of delight 
 pervade their whole being, when the eagerly desired letters 
 were placed in the hand, or the chill of disappointment when 
 the precious communications were withheld '/ 
 
 Thanks be to God for letters ! Not only over absence and 
 space they triumph, but death itself. In vain the tomb closes 
 its marble portals over the form we love. In vain an hermetic 
 seal is placed on the dumb and pallid lips 
 
 " They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, 
 Warm from the soul and faithful to its fires." 
 
 No. III. 
 
 A PACKET tied with black ! pause, ere you unloosen the 
 band ! The knocker is muffled, and death has put its seal on 
 every paper. With solemn touch release them from the sable 
 ligament that confines them. On the first which meets the 
 
 eye is written in faint, pencilled lines, " The last letter of ." 
 
 The last ! The hand which traced the characters, is for ever 
 paralyzed. The spirit which guided it, has risen where the 
 boldest flight of imagination cannot follow. " Farewell !" 
 seems to breathe from the sacred folds " farewell !" to echo 
 from the broken seals. A solemnity is diffused from this little 
 packet, that fills the whole apartment a shade a chillness 
 a twilight of the heart deepening into the gloom of sorrow. 
 We remember a beautiful picture in the Dusseldorf Academy, 
 at New York. It is the offering of the Eastern Magi to the 
 infant Saviour. The divine child is lying on the lap of its 
 virgin mother, while the wise men are prostrated before it, 
 with their faces prone to the earth. Triune bands of angels, 
 hovering above, look down upon the adoring sages. A flood
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 205 
 
 of glorious light flows over the whole picture, and it all seems 
 to emanate from the body of the divine child, sweetly slumber- 
 ing in the dawn of its incarnation. We know not by what 
 miracle of art the illusion was produced, but it was there. 
 As the light on that picture, so the shade from these letters 
 falls, wide and diffusive, solemn and heart-sinking. 
 
 In unfastening the black ribbon, two separate parcels dis- 
 unite, and fall into the lap, both consecrated by the great 
 High Priest of nature Death. It is no wonder a solemn 
 mist dims the brightness of the present hour. The memories 
 of two radiant minds, two warm, noble hearts, are floating 
 around us. The mist condenses into dew the dew falls in 
 tears. They were brothers. 
 
 " Oh ! breathe not their name let it sleep iu the shade, 
 
 * # * * * * * 
 
 Sad, silent and pure, be the tear that we shed, 
 As the night-dew that falls on the turf o'er their heads. 
 But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weep. 
 Shall brighten with verdure the graves where they sleep ; 
 And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
 Shall long keep their memory green in our souls." 
 
 Let us pause one moment, to pay a passing tribute to their 
 virtues. What matters it that others know not on whose tomb 
 we hang the funeral garland of love ? When we wander 
 through a church-yard, our sensibilities are not chilled because 
 the dust of strangers heaves the soil beneath our feet. All 
 the common sympathies of humanity are stirred within our 
 bosom, and we feel as if every monument rising around us, 
 consecrated the ashes of a brother or a sister. Then, let a few 
 Magnolia leaves, pure as when first they unfold their white 
 blossoms to the light, mingle with the cypress wreath of me- 
 mory. They are not inappropriate. There is something sad 
 in their deep fragrance, and the great moral of life may be 
 read in their fleeting bloom. 
 
 They were brothers. In their early youth their father died, 
 leaving them the inheritance of an honoured name, a noble, 
 irreproachable example. A widowed mother, and young orphan 
 sisters, were a sacred legacy to their filial and fraternal love, 
 which they watched and guarded as tenderly and diligently, 
 as the Hebrews did the Ark of the Covenant. Inspired by 
 the same patriotic spirit which animated their father's breast, 
 they adopted his profession, and enrolled themselves under the 
 banner of their country. It is said that the army is a school
 
 206 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 of vice and immorality, a dangerous place for inexperienced 
 youth ; but these brothers were distinguished for their irre- 
 proachable morality, their habits of sobriety and temperance, 
 and their lovely affection for each other. They were never 
 heard to take the name of their God in vain never known to 
 taste of the intoxicating bowl and the narcotic weed, whose 
 fifmes are the incense of the camp, never approached their lips. 
 The memory of their father, was the pillar of cloud by day, 
 the pillar of fire by night, reminding them of the Holy One 
 of Israel. Their minds were enriched by historic treasures, 
 the elegancies of literature, and adorned with the flowers of 
 poetry. Their manners were graceful, polished, and winning; 
 their bearing marked the soldier and the gentleman. The 
 younger was the less tall and more robustly formed, with a 
 more decided and martial tread. He had a rich, deep-toned 
 voice, which discoursed most excellent music; a fluent, eloquent 
 tongue, which could lend a charm and a power to every vary- 
 ing theme, from the thunder of war to the music of love. 
 His countenance expressed the restlessness and enthusiasm of 
 his character the sensibility, the passion, of his heart. Of 
 him it might well have been said : 
 
 " He is a noble gentleman; withal 
 Happy in 's endeavours ; the general voice 
 Sounds him for courtesy, behaviour, language, 
 And every fair demeanor, an example. 
 Titles of honour add not to his worth, 
 Who is himself an honour to his title." 
 
 The elder was distinguished for the dignity and grace of 
 his person, the symmetry and beauty of his features. In 
 silence, the repose and tranquillity of his countenance, reminded 
 one of the divine quietude of the chiselled marble. But if 
 there was beauty in this repose, how much deeper was the 
 charm, when, speaking, it kindled into animation ! when, in 
 smiling, it was gilded with such inner light, and joy, and peace! 
 It has been said that his smile was heavenly, sweet, and win 
 n ing as ever parted a woman's lips. His voice was singularly 
 melodious, and fell on the ear like the strains from a sweet- 
 toned instrument. None that heard it, could ever forget its 
 accents. None that beheld it, can forget the radiance of that 
 smile. And there are some to wfeom its remembrance will 
 come like the dream of au angel, like the morning twilight of 
 Leaven's eternal day.
 
 - MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 207 
 
 "We will give a brief sketch of the brother-soldiers, begin- 
 ning with the younger, who first passed away, " in manhood's 
 noble prime." Yet it is difficult to separate them, for, till their 
 marriage, the history of one was so mingled with the other, 
 it formed a web, whose unravelling would destroy its beauty 
 and finish. They were alike in their affection for the home of 
 their childhood, in their devotion to its interests. When they 
 returned to its luxuriant shades, they were welcomed as angel 
 visitants, and to them it was a domestic Eden. They loved 
 to watch beneath the kingly elms twin monarchs of the 
 homestead whose lofty boughs had spread their leafy honours 
 over a father's brow, and where the gorgeous oriole, year after 
 year, wove its pensile nest. They loved to wander by the 
 winding stream, whose clear, blue waters fertilized many a 
 green plain and cultivated field, and whose gurgling voice wa^ 
 sweeter to their ears than the clarion's blast, or the resounding 
 drum. Thus, ever and anon, they turned aside from the 
 thoroughfare of life, to bathe their spirits in the dewy fresh- 
 ness of its early remembrances. Thus they kept their hearts 
 unpolluted in the midst of temptation warm and true, though 
 exposed to chilling contact with worldliness and experience. 
 A friend, whose Muse has breathed a charm over the lovely 
 valley of their birth, alludes to them in a poem, which, though 
 it has never passed beyond the eyes of intimate friends, ia 
 treasured in their remembrance among things dear and precious 
 She describes their native home : 
 
 "A soldier's widow lives there one on whom 
 My heart pours out a portion of the love that springs 
 From patriotic sentiment. 
 For long she cherished with a wife's kind care, 
 And kept in all the genial warmth of youth, 
 A heart which beat but for his country's glory 
 And she has watched with tender care, the growth 
 Of sons, inheriting their father's spirit. 
 
 " Oh ! sure the minds that grew in this fair spot 
 Have pictures painted on their memory, 
 Which, whereso'er they be, when leisure hours 
 Wake up the spirit to sweet retrospection, 
 Will rise to shame each mean, ignoble thought, 
 Each sordid purpose, each unworthy aim, 
 And in the keenest hour of suffering, 
 Will pour sweet consolation. The remembered beams 
 Of moonlight, such as this remembered harmonies 
 Of scenes uncounted, irresistible 
 As this we gaze oil lulling us to peace."
 
 208 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 And it was so. With unpolluted spirits, they passed through 
 the temptations of youth and entered the portals of manhood. 
 They married and made themselves homes, over which the star- 
 spangled banner waved, and where the guardian ramparts rose. 
 And now we will follow the steps of the younger, till they 
 disappear in those trackless regions the living never travelled. 
 
 He had command of a fort, and his martial spirit revelled 
 in the scenes that surrounded him. He was in the same scenes, 
 where, a beardless stripling, he entered his country's service, 
 burning with military ardour. Now, in the possession of the 
 purest domestic happiness; in the full realization of his bright- 
 est dreams of love and joy; in the dignity of an advancing 
 reputation, he trod those ramparts with stately steps and kin- 
 dling eye, the commander of those gallant soldiers, who were 
 oen issuing from their white-walled bulwarks, at the morning 
 reveille, or the evening parade. Oh ! it was a beautiful, beauti- 
 ful spot! We never can forget the moment when we first be- 
 beld it, glimmering in the pallid moonlight, when we passed 
 under the portcullis, and beheld the sentry, with measured 
 tread and folded arms, walking " his lonely round." We could 
 Bee pyramids of cannon balls glittering on the ramparts ; we 
 could see the starry flag fluttering in the breeze of night. It 
 was the first time we had ever gazed on the glittering para- 
 phernalia of war, and we felt hereditary fire kindling in our 
 bosom. It seemed an earthly paradise that beautiful fort 
 with its gravel walks, clean and level as a lady's drawing-room, 
 its warlike decorations, the sublime cannon-peal of the morn- 
 ing, the inspiring music of the evening, the pomp, the cir- 
 cumstance, the glory of military display, the graceful hospita- 
 lity of the commander and his charming wife, the gayety. the 
 brightness, the novelty of the scene all combined to imprint it 
 on the memory in indelible colours. Among the papers scattered 
 before us, we see some lines written while the impression was 
 warm on the imagination. Shall we transcribe them here ? for 
 one can paint a picture so much better in poetry than in prose. 
 It. was written after a sail on the moonlight waters. Such a 
 glorious night it was ! So calm, so bland, so bright, one could 
 scarcely tell where the sky and water met, only the silvery 
 blue of the latter had a quivering motion, and the former was 
 still as glass. The deep, rich voice of the commander, singing 
 some martial song, floated over the rippling wake of the barge, 
 and blended with the sound of the dipping oars. It was rowed 
 by eight soldiers, in uniform apparel, all fine-looking dark-
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 209 
 
 browed men, whose motions, as they bowed over their oars, 
 were as regular and graceful, as the wings of a bird flapping 
 the air. There were no stars visible the moon was shining 
 too resplendently but the revolving gleam of the light-house 
 reflected in the waters, 
 
 / 
 
 "Looked lovely as Hope, 
 
 That star on Eternity's ocean." 
 
 There was inspiration in the scene at least we felt so, whon 
 we composed the stanzas below with which we will fold thies 
 Magnolia leaf, and send it abroad, ere it becomes withered and 
 defaced : 
 
 Know ye the place where the white walls rise, 
 
 Mid the waves of ocean gleaming ? 
 Where the guardian ramparts meet the eyes, 
 
 And the starry flag is streaming ? 
 
 Know ye the spot where at evening's close, 
 
 And at morning's early breaking, 
 The music of battle inspiringly flows, 
 
 The rock-born echoes waking ? 
 
 Oh ! fair is that place, where the sunbeams rest 
 
 In their glory on the billows ; 
 Or the moon on her native ocean's breast, 
 
 Her silvery forehead pillows. 
 
 And fair are those walls with the banner that floats, 
 
 To the waves our triumphs telling ; 
 And sweet are those clear and warlike notes, 
 
 On the ocean breezes swelling. 
 
 But fairer still are the glance and smile, 
 
 That beamed there a kindly greeting ; 
 And sweeter the heart-born tones the while, 
 
 Our own glad accents meeting. 
 
 In the fortress of war, the home of the bold, 
 
 The spirit of love is residing ; 
 And dove-wings furl, with a downy fold, 
 
 Where the eagle in power is presiding. 
 
 We stood on the ramparts, and saw the white surge 
 
 Roll onward, then hoarsely retreating; 
 Or the Indian his bark o'er the blue waters urge, 
 Some forest descant repeating.
 
 210 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 When evening in raiments of silver came on, 
 How calm was the current that bore us ; 
 
 Around us, like diamonds, the clear ripples shone, 
 While the heavens bent glistening o'er us. 
 
 But the ray we loved was flashing afar, 
 
 In fitful, revolving glory ; 
 It welcomed us back, like a beacon star, 
 
 That watched o'er the battlements hoary. 
 
 Oh ! when, lonely sentinel, when wilt thou beam 
 On our path to that gem of the ocean ; 
 
 Where life wore the brightness that visits our dream, 
 And time had of snow-flakes the motion ! 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 SINCE sending you the last Magnolia Leaf, we discovered 
 some lines, written upon the beautiful gem of the ocean we 
 have endeavoured to describe, in the handwriting of him whose 
 character adorns this sketch. They were addressed to a friend, 
 and appear to be impromptu: 
 
 " The rugged isle, the embattled walls, 
 
 Where erst our lives in concert fell, 
 Till Time from hence my spirit calls, 
 
 On memory's fairest page will dwell. 
 Along the strand, so bleak and wild, 
 
 Though winds and waves tempestuous came, 
 Our martial home serenely smiled, 
 
 Illumed by friendship's vestal flame. 
 Affections there, attuned to thine, 
 
 With social charms would gild the hours, 
 The heart subdue, the soul refine, 
 
 And strew the soldier's path with flowers." 
 
 The remaining verses are personal, and may be omitted 
 here. They were composed in the wintry season, when the 
 wild blasts raved around the embattled walls, as if angry with 
 the dashing waves that beat in foam against them. 
 
 We saw him again at another home, a fortress still, but 
 more magnificent than the other. Fort Monroe, at Old Point 
 Comfort, is said to be the largest, most commanding isolated
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 211 
 
 fort in the world. Situated on the noble Chesapeake Bay, it 
 looks down on its grand expanse of water, ready to launch its 
 thunderbolts on the foe that would invade its walls. Close by 
 are the Rip Raps, or Castle Calhoun, as it is also called, a 
 fort constructed of rock, on a foundation of stone, sunk deep 
 into the Bay. JNjothing can look more bleak and isolated than 
 this rocky hermitage, which was destined to rise in castellated 
 grandeur above the element whose dominions it had invaded ; , 
 but, owing to the incalculable amount of labour required for 
 its completion, it remains unfinished, and, at a little distance, 
 looks like a huge rock, heaved up from the bed of the ocean. 
 Parties of pleasure from the Fortress, in barges and sail-boats, 
 resort to this lonely retreat ; and the weary statesman often 
 escapes from the halls of Congress, to spend a few days there 
 in solitude and meditation. We might have called it a modern 
 Delos, thus born in the ocean by the creating power of man ; 
 but where were the emerald carpet and glowing flowers of the 
 Grecian isle ? 
 
 Nothing was more frequent, in the depth of winter, when 
 the Bay was lashed by the storm-spirit, than for vessels to be 
 wrecked within sight of the Fort. Agiiin and again, with 
 dauntless chivalry, had the gallant soldier, gathering round 
 him a baud of comrades, gone out to the rescue, and won the 
 blessing of the drowning mariner. One dark, tempestuous 
 night, when the earth was covered with snow and ice, the 
 signal of distress was heard, and a ship was seen, drifted by 
 the wind, and tossing on the wrathful billows. Regardless of 
 the roaring elements, drenched, chilled, benumbed, he passed 
 the whole night in the work of preservation. In returning to 
 the Fort, his foot slipped on the frozen ground, and he fell, 
 apparently without injury. Inflammatory fever was the con- 
 sequence of the night's exposure; and when he rose from his 
 sick-bed, a slight lameness of the knee reminded him of the 
 forgotten fall. Strange as it may seem, it was a death-stroke ; 
 for, from that moment, slowly, but certainly, began to fail one 
 of the most glorious constitutions God ever bestowed on man. 
 What a terrible infliction to one of his stately mien, his firm 
 and martial tread ! Yet no one dreamed of its being a per- 
 manent injury, and his elastic spirit never yielded to despond- 
 ency. It was about this time that he accompanied us in a 
 journey over the Alloghany; and never shall we forget the 
 glowing enthusiasm with which he would indicate the sublime 
 and magnificent features of that mountain highway, the fasci-
 
 212 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 nation of his conversation, the play of his fancy, and the vivid- 
 ness of his intellect. Weariness was forgotten, and apprehen- 
 sion beguiled. Whether passing through some rocky gorge, 
 that threatened to enclose us in its narrow and rugged passage, 
 winding round the steep, dizzy verge of the mountain-top, 
 high as the eagle's eyrie, or poised on the brink of the Hau-k's 
 Nest, above the murmuring Kanawa, which flows eiyht hundred 
 feet below, he was still the same bright, mastering spirit. 
 What a difference in travellers ! What a difference in human 
 beings ! There was a gentleman, who was our fellow-traveller, 
 who scarcely uttered a syllable the whole way; who seemed 
 perfectly unmoved while, bathed in sunshine, he looked down 
 on clouds rolling and lightnings darting below, or when the 
 mountain-side was covered with one broad sheet of rainbow. 
 In passing through Charlotteville, we beheld the summit of 
 Monticello, leaning on the golden bosom of sunset. He, our 
 military companion, was an impassioned admirer of the genius 
 of Jefferson, and proposed a visit to the former residence of 
 this great statesman. 
 
 The day was one of the fairest the sun ever made with his 
 autumnal beams. The air was so clear and refreshing, it 
 seemed to give one wings to waft them to the mountain's top. 
 Arrived there, what a prospect unfolded to the eye ! what a 
 glorious panorama ! On one side, the Blue Ridge hung its 
 undulating and heaven-sweeping drapery of mist ; on the other, 
 the majestic Rotunda of the University, with its classic build- 
 ings, specimens of the different orders of architecture, 
 brought the refinements of Art in beautiful contrast with the 
 freedom and magnificence of Nature. The morning breeze 
 sighed through the branches of the forest trees which surrounded 
 the dwelling, and seemed breathing a requiem over departed 
 greatness. The sage of Monticello had planted those trees 
 with his own hand, gathering together in one brotherhood all 
 that are natives of the forests of Virginia, thus leaving a 
 monument grander than marble, and more worthy of his fame. 
 We sat down on the long grass beneath those rustling trees, 
 and gazed around in silence. The oppression of great feeling 
 was upon us, and speech is not for such moments. If the 
 episode will be pardoned in this brief and unpretending life- 
 sketch, we will give a few lines to the description of the 
 mansion Jefferson once occupied; for Monticello, like Mount 
 Vernon, is our country's classic ground. 
 
 The house is built in the form of a rotunda, and has some-
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 213 
 
 thing of the air of a Grecian temple. The architecture is 
 beautiful, but the proportions are too small for the magnificence 
 of the design. The windows of the dome are skylights, which 
 let in a flood of sunshine, that must be oppressive in sultry 
 seasons. As you enter the vestibule, the eye is arrested by a 
 bust of the statesman, placed on a colossal pedestal of black 
 ingrained marble, presiding in lonely majesty over the entrance 
 of the dwelling. The floors are of tesselated wood, giving a 
 peculiar and foreign aspect to the rooms. But the impress of 
 other hands is there, and destroys in a measure the interest 
 of association. The mount itself was his dwelling-place and 
 there his memory will remain, though his mansion be converted 
 to purposes of utility and shorn of its original brightness. Wo 
 would gladly linger on every incident of that journey, which 
 developed the noble, self-sacrificing character of our soldier- 
 companion ; but if we did, volumes would be written, and we 
 fear to blend too much egotism with a record, intended as an 
 example of social grace and moral excellence. 
 
 From this time the shadow deepened. The active duties 
 of life were suspended alas ! never to be resumed again. It 
 was hard to leave a station endeared by domestic associations, 
 at a time too, when the honours of promotion rested upon him ; 
 but he was advised to seek medical advice in a northern clime, 
 and returned a drooping invalid to the home of his boyhood. 
 There, amid the love scenes of his nativity, surrounded by 
 idolizing kindred, devoted friends, and cheered by that loving 
 smile, which " no cloud could o'ercast," the soldier's last tent 
 was made. 
 
 In a letter dated at this time, he says : 
 
 " I am grateful to Heaven for the opportunities with which 
 I have been blessed of seeing you at our martial home in Vir- 
 ginia, and during our memorable, never to be forgotten jour- 
 ney over the cloud-capped Alleghany. These are among the 
 dearest recollections of my life, and I cherish them the more 
 fondly, as I am now bereft of that health, vigour, and buoyancy 
 of spirit, those qualifications as a traveller, in which I once 
 exulted. I must now sustain the weary, stale, flat, and unpro- 
 fitable character of a broken soldier. The inspiring music of 
 the war-band, the rustling of the star-spangled banner, will 
 never more call me to the ramparts, which I once loved to 
 tread. ' Othello's occupation's gone.' " 
 
 Everything which affection could suggest, or ingenuity exe- 
 cute, was done to relieve the monotony of his life. Iluilinga
 
 214 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 were put up along the smooth green sward, on either side of 
 the dwelling-house, to support his steps as he walked, and 
 rustic seats erected under the luxuriant shade trees, where he 
 could sit and enjoy the sweet influences of nature. He would 
 sit for hours in the moonlight, gazing in silence on that calm, 
 beauteous orb, that reflected its lustre on his pale, placid face, 
 and to those who remembered his restless, energetic movements 
 in health, this deep tranquillity and meditation was sad and 
 touching. It seemed as if the ebbing tide of his life, as it 
 rolled beneath the trembling rays, was subsiding into a peace- 
 ful equilibrium. Nature brooded lovingly and mournfully over 
 her languishing votary, while her stilly dews wept around 
 him. 
 
 And so he passed away. The brave, the noble, the gene- 
 rous, and the gifted. It was when the twilight shades were 
 beginning to fall, that they turned from the grave where he was 
 laid, and the moon that moon which he had so much loved to 
 gaze upon came forth, as if on purpose to illumine the spot, 
 and to light the mourners on their sad homeward path. What 
 were now its beams to him, who had gone to that world where 
 there is no sun nor moon, but where the Lord God is the light ? 
 "What were they to those whose weeping hearts were folded in 
 the darkness of sorrow, which the Sun of Righteousness alone 
 could disperse ? 
 
 Rest, soldier, rest. The spot where thou reposest is holy 
 ground. Rest beside the mother once a saint on earth, now 
 an angel in Heaven rest beside her, whose widowed breast 
 thy filial tenderness had embalmed and gladdened by the 
 sister, whose memory was a holy incense burning in the heart's 
 censer by the kindred dust of earlier generations. It is 
 glorious to die on the battle-field, with the oriflamme of our 
 country for a winding-sheet but it is sweet to sleep on the 
 native soil, surrounded by the graves of a homestead. 
 
 No. V. 
 
 WE wish the breeze that wafts our frail leaves away from 
 us, would bring us back a token that they have been gathered 
 by some friendly hand, and preserved in some herbarium,
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 215 
 
 where heart-blossoms and leaflets are tenderly cherished. Our 
 thoughts, like the Arctic dove, go forth, in search of some 
 green pledge of sunshine, and oft come back, without finding 
 rest or the blooming olive. Why this feeling comes over us, 
 we cannot tell ; perhaps our task is too saddening. We fear 
 we make others sad, and yet there is a fascination in it, that 
 binds us down to the spot, where stands the open trunk with 
 the packets scattered around. We were here weeks ago, and 
 here we linger still. We can realize the charm which led Old 
 Mortality to the burial-ground of the covenanters, that he 
 might clear away the mossy veil which covered their monu- 
 ments, and lift up the daisy and the harebell, that drooped 
 beneath its shade. It is true, the memories awakened here 
 are of recent date. The moss and rank growth of time have 
 not obscured the traces on the tablet ; but when we look back 
 to the past, the irrevocable, even if the glance has only months 
 or days to travel over, the view seems receding, and we turn 
 to memory's lamp and feed it with the oil of meditation. Here 
 are some fugitive poems, written by the soldier poet, the elder 
 brother of the one who formed the subject of our last sketch. 
 He was accustomed to twine with the laurels of war, the 
 flowers of fancy and the myrtle of love. They were like 
 other flowers, mostly ephemeral; but some of them are too 
 sweet to wither away, like the grass of the field, unnoticed 
 and unregretted. These stanzas were written on the eve of 
 battle, and are descriptive of the character of the writer, who, 
 through the densest smoke of carnage, could feel some gleam 
 of sunshine in his heart : 
 
 When far from his friends and his dear native home, 
 The soldier to fight for his country doth roam ; 
 How sweet the reflection, though far he has strayed, 
 That still he is dear to some beautiful maid, 
 Whose fears fondly follow his steps to the field 
 Whose prayers ask of Heaven his bosom to shield. 
 
 At night, when encamped on the dewy cold ground, 
 He dreams that her spirit is hovering around ; 
 Her image, which fancy delights to portray, 
 Enlivens his march through the wearisome day 
 And even in battle he thinks of the fair, 
 Whose hand for his brow shall the laurel prepare. 
 
 His love for music was a passion. It filled him with divine 
 emotions. At the close of a short poem, we find the following 
 heart-gushing strain, after speaking of the influence of music :
 
 216 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 If e'er I live to see the day 
 
 When age hath made me hoar 
 When pleasures gliding swift away 
 
 Delight my heart no more 
 Oh ! may I have a daughter fair, 
 
 A slave to music's power, 
 Whose art shall blunt the edge of care, 
 
 And soothe my dying hour 
 And when she strikes the harmonious strings, 
 
 To sweet delusion given, 
 My soul shall mount on music's wing, 
 
 And fancied soar to Heaven. 
 
 Many such gems as these lie hid in the casket, hoarded by 
 affection and considered as sacred relics. Some have been 
 given to the world. It was his destiny as a soldier, to be 
 stationed far from all social privileges and enjoyments, his 
 only companions being the soldiers of his camp, and the red 
 warriors of the wilderness. 
 
 " I write," he says, " by the roar of the cataract, and the 
 murmurs of the forest." 
 
 He who had been accustomed to shine in the circles of 
 fashion, a bright, ascendant star, the "observed of all ob- 
 servers," the gayest of the gay, as the most graceful, elegant 
 and fascinating of men, strung his lyre on the wild banks of 
 the Mississippi, and sighed not, though there were none to 
 listen to its numbers. He found a charm in intellectual pur- 
 suits, which beguiled solitude of its weariness, and made hiui 
 independent of circumstance and place. In the long and 
 bloody Mexican campaign, they were his solace and recrea- 
 tion. Aud here he attained a prouder distinction than he 
 had won in earlier years, as the star of fashion and flower 
 of chivalry. He was known throughout the camp as the 
 Christian soldier, for the crowning glory of religion was now 
 added to his virtues and graces, and tbd cloud which rested 
 over the tents of Israel hovered over his own. We feel con- 
 strained to record a beautiful incident which occurred during 
 the battle of Monterey, where for three days he fought by the 
 side of the gallant Taylor. Towards the close of the terrible 
 strife, while the dead and the dying strewed the ensanguined 
 earth, through the cannon's breath, his glance fell upon a little 
 delicate flower, a Morning Glory, blooming by the wayside, and 
 lifting up its sweet and fearless brow to the God of battles. At 
 sight of this little flower, a vision of home, of pure, home-born 
 joys and affections, passed instantaneously before him The
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 217 
 
 brave heart which had been so dauntlessly opposed to a vin- 
 dictive foe, melted to all a woman's tenderness, and tears 
 gathered in the soldier's flashing eye. His thoughts flowed, 
 without any volition of his own, into the melody of poetry, and 
 that night, when he, retired to his tent, after unbuckling his 
 weary sword, he committed to paper a poem, called the 
 " Morning Grlory of the fields of Monterey." We look in 
 vain among these papers for the beautiful lines for this 
 flower, born of blood and carnage this Picciola of the battle- 
 field. Oh, brave and tender, pure and holy heart, art thou 
 indeed still and pulseless? Has the indwelling Deity departed, 
 leaving the noble temple to crumble into dust? Yes! Ho 
 who had passed unscathed through the lightnings of war. was 
 suddenly smitten by the angel of Death on a peaceful home- 
 ward journey. Instantaneously as the electric flash, the bolt 
 descended, and the warrior bowed to man's last enemy. He 
 fell, as the oak of the forest falls, firm and stately to the las.t 
 fell as the tree falls, when a strong wind sweeps over it, or 
 the lightning blasts it. Is not such a glorious death to die ? 
 To be spared the humiliating process of dependence and decay, 
 the gloomy passage through the valley of the shadow of death, 
 the cold wading of the waters of Jordan; the pains, the agonies, 
 the expiring conflict; to be one moment on earth, the next in 
 heaven ; to gaze one moment on the mild features of a beloved 
 wife the next upon that glory of glories, whose very thought 
 annihilates the faint reaching spirit ? He was prepared for 
 the conqueror's coming. Though the joys of earth were sweet, 
 heaven was sweeter still, and with it he had long held close 
 and divine communion. There were loved ones there, who had 
 gone before, whom his spirit longed to embrace. The parents 
 whom next to his Grod he reverenced, the children who were 
 taken from him in the innocency and beauty of early child- 
 hood, and the brother he had so much loved. Not till the 
 dark, dark hour, had he deferred the work of preparation. 
 There was a daily sanctity in his life, that anointed him for 
 the sacrifice of death. 
 
 Man has been compared to a ruined temple, whose pillars 
 of original beauty and symmetry are broken and defaced, 
 stamped with the genius of the Divine Architect, but incapable 
 of being restored to their pristine grandeur. But he seemed 
 a temple with all its fair proportions unmarred and unchanged ; 
 no trace of ruin was there. Firmness, dignity, simplicity, and 
 truth, were the Doric columns that supported it tenderness, 
 131
 
 218 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 sensibility, and grace, its Corinthian ornaments and religion, 
 the sun-gilt dome that crowned and perfected the noble fabric. 
 There was an altar within that temple, where the incense of 
 prayer and praise were ever ascending, and the threshold was 
 sprinkled with the blood of the Eternal Sacrifice. 
 
 He is gone. His memory is honoured among men. He 
 had attained the highest military honours, the most enviable 
 social distinctions. But others will fill the high military 
 station made vacant by his death, and it is easy for society to 
 find new idols in place of those it has lost. But there are 
 hearts which feel a vacuum which must for ever ache places, 
 which, knowing him no more, wear the sadness and desolation 
 of the tomb. His death is the shadow which rests upon the 
 homestead. How deep the chill upon its warm, affectionate 
 hearts ! The aspect of nature is changed. The wind, which 
 made an anthem of praise among the boughs of the elm trees, 
 now wails with dirge-like melancholy through the foliage, and 
 the moon itself shines with a sickly lustre, as if mourning for 
 a departed worshipper. 
 
 Ah ! how true it is, that the more love, the more sorrow ! 
 It is a fearful thing to love intensely, when our hold on those 
 we love is more slender than the silk-worm's thread. Yet who 
 would live unloving, that they may live unsorrowing ? Who, 
 even after time has assuaged the first agonies of bereavement, 
 would exchange the memory for the hope of joy ? Joys 
 remembered, are still our own dearer in retrospect than in 
 possession ours by a security the future cannot know, and a 
 holy seal that belongs only to the past. " Lord, keep my 
 memory green," is the deep prayer of humanity. " Blot out, 
 if it must be, the remembrance of pleasure, but let that of 
 happiness remain ; and if that, too, must fade away, sweep not 
 away the recollection of suffering, the purifier and glorifier of 
 the soul." 
 
 It is by contemplating the character of departed friends, that 
 we keep " their memory green in our souls." It is by dwelling 
 on their virtues, that their image becomes indelibly imprinted 
 on our hearts. The mere act of recording the feelings awaken- 
 ed by these letters, deepens and strengthens them. What ! 
 burn these papers, mementoes of the noblest, best, and purest 
 of human beings these breathings of affection and these over- 
 flowings of intellect ! Mingle them with the rubbish and 
 waste things of life consign them to ashes and oblivion ! No 1 
 if we could give them to the flames, it would be as the Komans
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 219 
 
 committed their dead to the burning pyre sacredly, reli- 
 giously and after having seen them pass through the fiery 
 process, collect the dust into an urn, and clasp it to our hearts 
 as a holy deposit. 
 
 We pity those who have never felt the thrill which pene- 
 trates the whole be'ing, when brought into sudden communion 
 with the spirit of departed friends. It is an earnest of future, 
 unending intercourse, of immortality, of eternity. When we 
 write, the thought that the characters we are drawing will 
 survive the hand that traced them, should make us rejoice and 
 tremble rejoice, that the gcho of our souls may be heard 
 through distant years to come tremble, lest it repeat what 
 may give us immortal regret. 
 
 Lord Littleton bestowed on Thomson the greatest praise 
 ever given to man, when he said, his works contained " no line 
 which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 No. VI. 
 
 WE will pluck some fresh and blooming leaves. We will 
 lay an offering on the altar of hope, instead of memory. We 
 will look on the sunny side of life, instead of its shadows. 
 
 The letters of a young and happy wife must contain passages 
 of interest. We will loosen the packet, perfumed with gera- 
 nium and verbena, which, though faded and dry, give a fra- 
 grance to the papers congenial to the sweetness of their contents. 
 The writer is one of those bright, gentle, lovely beings, that 
 win the love and admiration of all. There is something in 
 her soft, smiling eyes that seems to say, " Do you love me ? 
 Will you love me ? I can love you most dearly in return." 
 Her voice is low and sweet, her motions graceful and womanly. 
 Before her marriage, she was the idol of her father's family, 
 " the youngest, most beloved of all." Her brothers, two 
 of whom were candidates for collegiate honours, treated her 
 with a kind of chivalrous courtesy, seldom exhibited to a 
 sister, however beautiful and affectionate. When she played 
 and sung, they would stand by her side, in silent attention, 
 turning the leaves of her music-book, and rewarding her with 
 approving smiles. Natural affection, thus fed by daily, hourly
 
 220 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 gifts, became purer and stronger with every passing day. " I 
 never shall marry," she would often say, " for I never can 
 love any one as well as my own dear brothers. I feel as if I 
 would be perfectly happy to remain as I am, all my life, pro- 
 vided they should form no dearer ties. I fear their love has 
 made me selfish and exacting ; for the thought of ever being 
 supplanted in their affections gives me exquisite pain." 
 
 \0ne of these beloved brothers died in college, of an inflam 
 mation of the brain, brought on by excessive application to his 
 studies. He was a delicate, slender, sweet-voiced youth, too 
 sensitive and refined to come in collision with common, every- 
 day mortals. The dew of piety gemmed the flower of his 
 youth. 
 
 " He sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven." 
 
 Death was a blessing to him, for life would have been filled 
 with suffering. He had tasted only its vernal sweets, and 
 passed away before the mildew and the frost had fallen. We 
 saw her when in mourning for this idol of her sisterly heart, 
 and never beheld a more interesting object. Her sable dress 
 formed a striking relief for the pearly whiteness of her com- 
 plexion, and a misty veil seemed resting on her smiling, hazel 
 eyes. We felt, in a moment, she had been looking on death 
 since last we met. She spoke of him as an angel in heaven, 
 as one who was beckoning her to follow. 
 
 " He was too good, too pure for earth," she said, " and God 
 took him to himself. But if ever departed spirits are per- 
 mitted to minister to those they loved on earth, I know his 
 guardian wings will hover round my head." 
 
 Several years passed away, when a letter came, announcing 
 her marriage with a young lawyer of rising reputation. She 
 had gone far from the home of her youth, the scenes of her 
 childhood, to be a stranger in a strange land; that gentle, 
 yielding creature, who had breathed only an atmosphere of 
 love, who had never learned one lesson of self-dependence or 
 self-denial. The energies of her character had never been 
 called forth; they had remained in a state of quiescence, 
 gathering strength from repose. Here is an extract from one 
 of her first letters, written in the warm glow of bridal happi- 
 ness, under the excitement of novelty and the awakening 
 influences of new connexions : 
 
 " Rejoice with me, my own dear friend, for I am happy 
 beyond my sex's charter. I once thought my capacities of 

 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 221 
 
 happiness were all filled; but I was mistaken. I find the 
 more I enjoy, the more I am capable of enjoying; the more I 
 love, the more I am capable of loving. There was a deep 
 chamber in my heart that had never known an inmate ; now 
 it has a royal guest, to whom I am proud to pay kingly 
 homage ! Ah ! I find there is a love dearer than that of 
 brother, tenderer than that of friend. I look back upon the 
 visions of felicity which formerly passed before me, and smile 
 at the retrospect. I used to think that to accompany my 
 beloved Edmund (this was the brother who died in college) 
 to India's sultry clime, as a missionary to the benighted 
 heathen, would be the crown of my hopes and rejoicing. I 
 thought while he was preaching I would teach, and prepare 
 the darkened minds of those poor children for the celestial 
 seed his hand would plant. Then, again, I would dream of 
 quiet domestic enjoyment in my sweet sister's family, as the 
 good Aunt Alice of her darling children. To sit down at twi- 
 light in her snug, pleasant parlour, and gather round me the 
 little golden-pated cherubs, while I increased the circumference 
 of their large blue eyes by telling them wondrous tales of the 
 Genii, or drew forth the crystalline drops by relating the 
 pathetic history of the Babes of the Woods, or the mournful 
 death of Cock-Robin. By and by, I would become venerable, 
 and they would call me ' Mistress Alice ;' and I would mount 
 spectacles on my nose, and fill my pockets with sugar-plums 
 and chestnuts for my great-nieces and nephews. Ah ! my 
 chateaux en Expagne are all demolished or blown down by the 
 breath of love. I have built me a bower of roses, where 
 singing birds make their nests, and the wild vines hang in 
 beautiful festoons. Will you not come and share it with me ? 
 "Let me describe the magnificent scenery on which, by 
 merely lifting my eyes from the paper, I can gaze till it is 
 daguerreotyped on my mind. In front is a green, green lawn, 
 shaded by locust trees, which are now in full bloom, and actually 
 burden the air with their fragrance. A grove of mulberries 
 is on the right, the Morus Multicaulis, planted, probably, 
 when the silk-worm fever was at its height, and every one 
 expected to walk in silken attire. On the left is an ample 
 garden, adorned with every variety of flower and flowering 
 shrubs. You, who so worship flowers, shall have a bouquet 
 every morning, before the sunbeams have kissed off the dew 
 Do you see a green hillock, not very far off, rising on the 
 north-east ? It is an Indian mound, and is remarkable for the
 
 222 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 symmetry of its form and the luxuriant shrubbery at its base. 
 Look still farther, at the blue outline of the distant hills, and 
 listen to the musical murmurs that come with such a cool, 
 dreamy, lulling sound to the ear, telling of many things which 
 every one does not understand. 'Tis the voice of the deep- 
 rolling Tennessee, that winds majestically on the left, through 
 one of the loveliest valleys in the world. 
 
 " ' You write too long letters !' cries my husband, who is 
 looking over my shoulder at this moment. ( Very rude, is it 
 not?) ' I shall be jealous of your absent friends. Come and 
 let us walk to the Indian mound, and gather some of the 
 beautiful wild flowers that embroider it. You know you pro- 
 mised to make an herbarium for our excellent friend, Doctor 
 
 . Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone, come and 
 
 wander awhile among your floral sisters.' 
 
 " I cannot resist that charming, poetic appeal. I know not 
 which I love best, praise or poetry ; but there is one thing I 
 love better than both, and that is the husband who can so 
 gracefully quote the one and so affectionately administer the 
 other. Lord and master of my heart, I obey thy summons. 
 I throw down the pen ; I spring to follow thee. Adieu, dear 
 friend ; when I return, I will resume my letter ; and, I doubt 
 not, my ideas will be vivified by the western breeze and the 
 glorious prospect of the setting sun." 
 
 When the pen is again resumed, we can see, by the greater 
 emphasis of the letters, the freer, more dashing, strokes, that 
 her spirits have gained elasticity, and her mind force, from 
 her evening walk to the red man's green-swarded mound. 
 
 " Oh I" she continues, " I have had such a charming walk ! 
 you would envy me if you knew how charming. How I 
 wish you knew my husband; I think, I know, you would 
 appreciate the beauty and excellence of his character. I do 
 not think I can feel perfectly happy till you come and see me, 
 and give me an opportunity of introducing to each other two 
 friends so precious to my soul. Let me describe him. He is 
 not very handsome, perhaps, but he has a most expressive and 
 engaging countenance. He is very dark, has very dark and 
 glossy hair, and eyes so black, so bright, yet soft, you wonder 
 that such brightness and softness should not neutralize each 
 other. Then he has such a sweet-toned voice, so sweet, yet 
 manly, that it lends a charm to everything he utters. I wish 
 you could hear him recite poetry. I always was passionately 
 fond of poetry. You know I have sometimes tried to rhyme
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 223 
 
 myself; but I never knew its full and perfect melody till I 
 beard it from his lips. I should not omit in this description 
 the uncommon beauty of his mouth and teeth, ivory gates, 
 from which nothing ever issues but pure, and gentle, and 
 endearing words. 
 
 " Oh, my friend, what am I, that I should be so blest above 
 women ? that I should have won the undivided, the first 
 affection of so exalted, so amiable a being ? It is with deep 
 and unaffected humility that I give expression to these feelings. 
 I do not depreciate myself that others may praise ; but true 
 love, I believe, is always humble; I humble myself that he 
 may be exalted. 
 
 " ' Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, 
 Brags of his substance, not of ornament ; 
 They are but beggars that can count their worth ; 
 But my true love is grown to such excess, 
 I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.' 
 
 "You know I have been an indulged and petted child, 
 cradled in the lap of affluence and ease ; that I have known 
 but two trials; one, the loss of my angel brother, the other, 
 separation from my kindred and friends ; the last no infliction 
 of the Almighty, but imposed by my own free will and choice. 
 Since the awakening of my heart, I feel as if it had powers of 
 endurance of which previously I had never dreamed. I almost 
 wish that want were our portion, that I might show my hus- 
 band how willingly, how bravely I could toil, and share the 
 heat and burden of his day of care ; how freely these hands, 
 which have never yet been hardened by labour, should minister 
 to his necessities and increase his comforts. 
 
 " You may say it is very easy to sit securely in the harbour 
 and tell how you would brave the tempest and battle with the 
 thunder; but I do think, were I exposed to the storms and 
 billows of life, my spirit would rise with the rising surges, 
 possessed of too much vitality to sink below them. Do not 
 laugh at me ; for, of all things, I dread the shaft of ridicule, 
 especially when wrought up to the enthusiasm of the present 
 moment. No ; I do not fear your laughter. You may smile, 
 for the smiles of a friend are the sunshine of the soul. Fare- 
 well." 
 
 My next leaf shall bear on its surface another letter from 
 my charming friend. One glance into the inner chamber of 
 a pure and loving heart is worth a panoramic view of the mere
 
 224 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 purface of society. We all love to know what is passing in the 
 hearts of others, and letters are the transcript of the heart; if 
 not, shame to the spirit that dictates, and the hand that writes. 
 
 No. VII. 
 
 ANOTHER LETTER FROM THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. 
 
 THE silver crescent of the honey-moon has waxed into the 
 full-orbed mellow lustre of wedded tenderness. Our sweet 
 enthusiast has tasted a mingled cup since last we met her by 
 the Magnolia's blossoms. She has felt the joy and sorrow of 
 a mother's heart. She has been supremely blest and severely 
 smitten, and she has known the 
 
 " Soothing thoughts which spring 
 From the depths of human suffering. " 
 
 Her feet no longer turn, at the sunset hour, towards the 
 Indian mound. There is a smaller, newer mound, covered 
 with fresh, green turf, to which her footsteps bend. There 
 she carries her offerings of flowers, gemmed with other dew 
 than the tears of night. There she sits, beneath the mulber- 
 ry's shade, by the side of her husband, holding sweet com- 
 munion with the spirit of her infant, in the hush of the balmy 
 twilight. 
 
 " One month ago," she writes, " I felt as if my hand were 
 paralyzed and my heart turned to stone. I would willingly 
 have lain down in the cold ground by my baby's side and died, 
 had it pleased God to seal my eyelids with the last great sleep. 
 But now, if not glad, I am happy; if not joyous, I am re- 
 signed. I will go back and tell you my life's experience since 
 last I wrote. It is what thousands and tens of thousands of 
 my sex have experienced before, and yet it seems as if there 
 was no joy like unto my joy; no sorrow, like unto my sorrow; 
 no submission like what I now feel. Strange ! we are less, far 
 less in the great mass of human life, than the fallen leaf of 
 the forest, or the sand grain of the sea-shore ; and yet, we are 
 such vast worlds to ourselves all infinitude sinks into insig- 

 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 225 
 
 nificance in comparison to ourselves. Am I more selfish than 
 others ? Tell me, for I shudder to think how the whole uni- 
 verse was darkened by the veil that was drawn over my single, 
 sorrowing heart. 
 
 " About a year ago, God placed a little blue-eyed cherub in 
 my arms, and baptized me by the sacred name of mother. I 
 felt the consecration in my inmost soul, and made a vow unto 
 the Lord, to dedicate myself anew to his service, that I might 
 offer my child with unpolluted hands the firstling of the flock 
 a lamb without spot or blemish, on his holy altar. What 
 capacities of happiness and usefulness were born within me ! 
 How enlarged seemed my sphere of action ! How sublime 
 the career opening to my view ! 
 
 " l What a consequential little body you have become !' said 
 my husband, smilingly, after listening patiently to a long ora- 
 tion of mine, on a mother's duties and cares. ' But alas ! for 
 poor me I see I am dwindling away into a nonentity. If ] 
 have any positive existence, it is only as the father of this 
 child.' 
 
 " ' Ingrate !' I exclaimed, while my spirit literally basked 
 in the tender light of those dark, brilliant eyes. ' Have you not 
 told me a hundred times, that my only fault was loving you too 
 well ? that you were obliged to repress your own love, to check 
 the idolatry of mine ? If I adore this child, it is because it 
 is yours a heavenly link, drawing me closer, nearer to your 
 heart.' 
 
 " But why weary you with a description of scenes which 
 may seem very foolish to all save ourselves ? For six months, 
 I was the happiest of human beings. I cannot give you the 
 faintest idea of the exceeding beauty of our little darling. So 
 exquisitely fair, such dove-like eyes, shaded by such long lashes, 
 and such a sweet, rose-bud mouth. Every day she grew more 
 lovely, every hour I loved her more. Yet I trembled all the 
 time in the midst of my new-born happiness. There was 
 something about her so different from other children, so 
 gentle, so quiet, and dream-like, she would look up in my 
 face so wistfully, and with such startling intelligence, the 
 tears would spring into my eyes as I would press her closer to 
 iy heart, that ached with its excess of tenderness. Something 
 whispered, ' She is only lent thee, for a little while. Think 
 her not thine own. Be ready to resign, her, when He who 
 gave her, calls her back to himself.'
 
 226 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 " I can hardly tell when I noticed the first symptoms of 
 disease it came on so gradually, so insidiously giving a 
 touching languor to the blue eye, a waxen whiteness to the 
 delicate skin, and a sinking and relaxation to the late bounding 
 limbs. At first, she only languished and faded like a vernal 
 flower beautiful, oh ! so beautiful still ! but then came emacia- 
 tion and suffering suffering, that agonized me to behold. 
 Never, till this moment, had I realized the awful nature of sin, 
 for it was for sin, that my innocent babe was thus doomed to 
 suffer. I pray God to forgive me the impious thoughts that 
 struggled for the mastery in my bosom. I dared to question 
 His justice as well as His mercy. I said it was right that I 
 should suffer, for I had sinned, but ' What/ I exclaimed, lift- 
 ing up my streaming eyes and deprecating hands to Heaven, 
 ' what has this sinless being done, that thou shouldst thus 
 heavily lay thy chastening hand on her ? on me, on me, let the 
 burden fall.' 
 
 " How exquisitely she suffered, you may know, since I tell 
 you I prayed that she might die that she might only be at 
 rest. When they told me that she was dead, I would not have 
 called her back for the universe the world seemed a wide 
 graveyard to me ; but I rejoiced that the feet of my little one 
 were not doomed to walk among the gloomy memorials of 
 buried hearts. She was happy, though I was for ever wretched. 
 So I then felt, but now I can bless God not only for the gift, 
 but the withdrawal. I needed the chastisement I deserved 
 the stroke. From the moment when I saw her in her white 
 muslin shroud, with white rose-buds and geranium leaves 
 scattered among its transparent folds, and saw the mysterious, 
 solemn signs of death upon her face, the smile of more than 
 earthly placidity and peace upon her cherub lips, I felt as sure 
 that she was gone to Heaven, as though I saw its golden por- 
 tals opened and her admitted into its celestial mansions. I 
 know that she is in the bosom of her Saviour and her God, 
 and I can rejoice that I was permitted to give another cherub, 
 to swell the orchestra of Heaven. Death is now divested of 
 all its terror. I love to meditate upon it. I love to visit the 
 grave of my darling, and there I realize the truth of that 
 beautiful saying, ' that the graves of infants are the footprints 
 of angels.' Do you remember Mrs. Hemans's sweet lines on 
 the death of an infant ? Some of them steal over me as I 
 write.
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 227 
 
 ' Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
 Adorned with nature's brightest wreath ; 
 Each glowing season shall combine 
 Its incense there to breathe. 
 And oft upon the midnight air, 
 Shall viewless harps be murmuring there ; 
 And oh! sometimes in visions blest, 
 Sweet spirit ! visit our repose. 
 And bear from thine own world of rest 
 Some balm for human woes. 
 What form more lovely could be given 
 Than thine, to messenger of Heaven 9> 
 
 " Oh ! what a friend, what a comforter do I possess in my 
 husband ! Never till now, did I know the full measure of 
 his immeasurable worth, if I may thus speak. While he ia 
 spared, I must be happy. Even in the hour of deepest agony, 
 I felt grateful to heaven that I had his heart to lean upon, 
 his arm to enfold me. Great is the mystery of love. It is 
 the halcyon of the tempests of life, and yet, the power that 
 lashes its billows into the wildest commotion." 
 
 After an interval of a year, she again takes up the pen, and 
 see how lightly, how playfully it moves ! 
 
 " Friend of my heart, I greet thee. Flower that I have 
 planted in the garden of my affections, I have not suffered 
 one petal to fade, one hue to grow dim through neglect. 
 You do not know what an admirable housekeeper I am be- 
 coming to be. Behold a sketch illustrative of my new accom- 
 plishments : 
 
 "The other evening I was thrown entirely on my own 
 resources, for my servants were all sick, and cook and waiter 
 I had none to assist me. The supper hour drew nigh, and 
 I knew there was neither bread nor cake in the pantry. 
 There was plenty of flour and butter, eggs and lard, and I 
 resolved ' to screw my courage to the sticking place/ and 
 plunge at once into the mysteries of kneading, rolling, and 
 baking. I determined to immortalize myself, and make a 
 repast for my husband, such as his imagination had never 
 even conceived. I went into the kitchen, and after obtaining 
 some minute directions from the sick cook, I took possession 
 of a large wooden tray, into which I sifted the flour, giving 
 myself a fine powdering during the process. Just as I had 
 rolled up my sleeves above my elbows, and pinned up the 
 skirt of my silk dress behind, to keep it out of the way of 
 the pots and kettles, I saw three or four elegantly dressed
 
 228 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 ladies sweeping up the front steps, one of whom I knew must 
 be the fashionable stranger, of whom I had heard very much 
 said. Oh dear ! what was I to do ? The spider was heating 
 over the fire, the dough was sticking to my unpractised hands, 
 the flour was adhering to the flounces of my dress, which I 
 had too late thought of tucking up. But as there was no one 
 else to play the lady, I drew my hands out of the tray, washed 
 them till they looked as red as lobsters, smoothed my rumpled 
 flounces, but as there was no looking-glass in the kitchen, I 
 was not aware that my dark hair was powdered in the fashion 
 of the last century, giving me quite a Lady Washington sem- 
 blance. I observed that the ladies looked very frequently at 
 my head, but alas for human vanity ! I thought they were 
 admiring the glossiness and tasteful arrangement of my hair. 
 The moment my guests departed, I flew into the kitchen and 
 eagerly spatting out my dough, put it at once into the spider, 
 without thinking how immensely hot it must be, remaining so 
 long over the burning coals. I had made the paste so short 
 with butter, I could not turn it, so I placed the utensil in a 
 perpendicular position, by putting a smoothing iron behind 
 it, and soon saw, with rapture, its surface become a glowing 
 brown. It was in vain, however, that I tried to take out the 
 cake, when I supposed it sufficiently baked. It would stick, 
 and I was obliged to rend it from the spider, leaving a goodly 
 portion behind. I was just ready to burst into tears of vexa- 
 tion, when my husband, not finding me in the parlour, sought 
 me in my new province, and patting me affectionately on the 
 shoulder, praised me into perfect good humour. He even 
 passed many eulogiums on my short cake, which proved very 
 long, as no one could eat more than a mouthful, telling me he 
 intended sending a receipt to Miss Leslie, to insert in her 
 Cookery Book. I laughed as heartily as he did over my 
 failure, and when he began to sing, in his own sweet, winning 
 voice, ' Hop light, your cake's all dough/ I joined merrily in 
 the song. 
 
 " Since then I have been taking daily lessons in cookery, 
 and am really becoming an adept in the art. I have a linen 
 apron, with long sleeves, which my husband declares is the 
 most becoming thing I ever donned. I can make light rolls 
 that/oam, and batter cakes that melt. I wish I could enclose 
 some specimens in my letter, lest you should think me guilty 
 of vain boasting. Perhaps you may think I am degenerating 
 iuto a mere household drudge. No, indeed, I never enjoyed
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 229 
 
 reading and music so much in my life. An hour or two in 
 the morning devoted to active duties, gives a glow to the 
 spirits that does not fade away the livelong day. The con- 
 sciousness that if the hour of emergency again arrives, I shall 
 not be obliged to give my dear, kind, uncomplaining husband, 
 such a horrible dough-cake as I once placed before him, exalts 
 me in my own estimation. I feel that I have buckled on my 
 armour, and am ready for the conflict of circumstances, how- 
 ever hostile they may be. 
 
 "Think not because I thus lightly skim over the paper, 
 that I have forgotten the past and its solemn teachings. 
 There is not a day scarcely an hour that the memory of 
 my angel child does not come to me, imparting a glory to my 
 thoughts and lifting them up to heaven, her dwelling-place. 
 Sorrow never leaves us as it found us. It either indurates or 
 softens the heart; either crushes it to the dust, or exalts it to 
 the skies. I trust its influence on mine, has been salutary and 
 ennobling." 
 
 Yes, it has been ennobling. The light-hearted, loving girl, 
 is now the thoughtful, Christian woman. Tupper, in his great 
 thought-book, Proverbial Philosophy, says, " that it is impos- 
 sible for one to be both glad and good." This is a wide, 
 sweeping assertion, but there is much truth in it. Pearls are 
 found under the waves, gold in the dark mine, and diamonds 
 in the burying sand. The treasures of earth lie not on the 
 surface. The soul that travaileth in tribulation and sorrow, 
 finds these hidden, buried gems, reserved for the co-labourer 
 with God, in the sublime work for which we were created. 
 
 But it is growing late. The brief but beautiful twilight 
 of Southern climes is deepening into night-shades. Let us tie 
 up the packet and close the trunk. A delicious breeze is 
 fanning the Magnolia's boughs and shaking out fragrance 
 from its dewy blossoms ; one has fallen, and the gale is bear- 
 ing it on its wings a missionary of the heart to the place 
 where it is destined to rest. 
 QUINCT, June 27. 
 
 No. VIII. 
 
 IN opening the leaves of an album, a beautiful picture meets 
 the eye coloured with the warm hues of nature and, on the
 
 230 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 following pages, there is a poem descriptive of that charming 
 spot. Ten thousand recollections come gushing up as from a 
 living fountain, at the sight of this fair image. There it is 
 that modest, yet elegant mansion situated on the brow of a 
 swelling hill, like a pearly gem on a monarch's forehead. 
 With its walls and pillars of snowy white its spreading wings 
 and ample yard surrounded by a white railing its luxuriant 
 shade trees and handsome out-buildings it looks down on the 
 harbour of Boston, and witnesses the ebbing and flowing of the 
 tide the coming and going of the white-winged eagles of the 
 ocean and all the changes and wonders of the deep blue sea. 
 Crowning that long flight of steps, and at the base of those 
 white columns, are vases of blossoming plants, resembling' 
 Corinthian ornaments to the Doric pillars. Those two tall 
 trees directly in front of the building, with the branches sweep- 
 ing upward, are larches, and by their side stands the graceful 
 sycamore. The gate is open, as if some guest had just 
 arrived. One can almost hear the rolling of the carriage 
 wheels over the circular gravel walk the letting down of the 
 steps the glad sounds of greeting for that is the palace of 
 hospitality, and every day is a gala-day of life. 
 
 When we first entered that mansion, there was a figure 
 standing by one of those columns, which made an ineffaceable 
 impression ; there was something so remarkable in its whole 
 appearance. It was a gentleman, dressed in black, who would 
 have seemed in the meridian of life, were it not that his hair 
 was as white as flakes of new-fallen snow. It was not thin and 
 weak like the hair of age, but thick, waving, and silky as the 
 locks of youth. It looked like snow, fallen, by chance, on a 
 green hill, for his form was erect and his complexion wore a 
 ruddy glow. A benignant smile of welcome lighted up his 
 face, made so beautiful by that rich silvery crown ! We never 
 remember experiencing a more sudden and intense feeling of 
 admiration, for, from our earliest childhood, we have paid 
 homage to the hoary honours of age, and considered them in- 
 deed a crown of glory, when found in the way of righteousness. 
 But here was the beauty of age and manhood combined the 
 softness of one and the strength of the other. - We have seen 
 magnificent hair of every gradation of colour, from the purplish 
 0" raven black, the deep auburn and golden brown, to the 
 pale, lint-white tresses, but never have we beheld anything so 
 exquisitely beautiful as these locks of living snow. As we
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 231 
 
 gaze upon the picture open before us, we imagine we see them 
 softly waving in the seaborn breeze that comes flowing towards 
 them; we can see the smile of radiant kindness that greets 
 the coming guest. There arei other figures, too, walking on 
 that pillared piaeza happy, joyous ones and some that 
 never could be forgotten. Seated at the open window of the 
 saloon, and leaning against a statue of Pallas, which is placed 
 in the corner, there is the loveliest young female we ever saw 
 It is a face such as is very seldom seen, save in the dreams of 
 imagination so fair, so bright, so soft, so languishingly beau- 
 tiful. The Parian marble against which she leans is scarcely 
 whiter or smoother than her brow ; nor are the features of the 
 Goddess more symmetrical or expressive than her own. She 
 has one of those winning, heart-attracting faces, which inspire 
 love at first sight, and it is indicative of all those qualities 
 which retain it while existence lasts. That face had a history, 
 but it may not be given here. 
 
 It might have been that disappointment had cast a blight 
 upon the rose of her youth, or, perchance, a constitutional 
 delicacy and fragility, that soon wilted this beautiful flower. 
 Perhaps such angelic beauty must be doomed to an early decay, 
 for there was something in the languishing lustre of her eyes 
 that belonged not to this world. All that love or affection 
 could do was done to rekindle the fading beams of life but in 
 vain. They bore her where healing waters flow : 
 
 "She bowed to taste the wave, and died." 
 
 And yet there she is seated, seen by the spirit's eye, leaning 
 against the statue of Pallas, smiling with such bewitching 
 sweetness, that one is involuntarily drawn towards her, nearer, 
 and still more near. Oh ! how warm, and living, and loving, 
 she looks ! There is life in the soft rose of her cheek ; life in 
 the beam of her eye of Creolian darkness ; life in the beatings 
 of her gently heaving heart. Can that heart have ceased to 
 beat? that cheek to glow? that eye to kindle and to shine? 
 There were other statues in that saloon besides the one that 
 supported her graceful head. There was the Apollo Belvidere 
 his lips quivering with the divine indignation of a God 
 and Diana, in all her virgin majesty ; and there were pictures, 
 on which the eye lingered, riveted by the magic spell of genius. 
 On one side was a magnificent copy of Titian's adoration of the 
 Magi ; on the other, a landscape of Claude Loraine's so calm,
 
 232 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 so serene, it diffuses a kind of sunset tranquillity over the soul 
 that gazes upon it. You can hardly turn the eye without be- 
 holding a picture or a statue some embodied fable some 
 realization of the poet's dream. Yet almost all those paintings 
 are the work of a daughter of the family, whose fine classic 
 .taste, cultivated by European masters, has embellished her 
 paternal abode. 
 
 The owner of the mansion had passed nine years in Europe, 
 during the youth of his children, where they had every oppor- 
 tunity of improvement in mind and manners which wealth could 
 furnish. The court dresses, which were preserved as memen- 
 toes of this period, were magnificent, and in looking at the 
 gorgeous folds of silk velvet, fringed with gold and bordered 
 with ermine, one might forget for a moment their republican 
 simplicity. Often, in an evening frolic, were those costly 
 robes assumed, and the drawing-room converted into a mimic 
 palace. Once, the handsome white-locked gentleman, on the 
 occasion of a village ball, was persuaded to wear a court-dress 
 of black silk velvet by a trio of gay young girls, who considered 
 him their beau-ideal of perfection. 
 
 " You have made a fool of me," he said, laughingly j " but 
 if I impart pleasure to you, I am satisfied I am willing to be 
 laughed at." 
 
 Laughed at ! Who ever thought of associating the idea of 
 ridicule with one, whose perfect simplicity and benignity of 
 manners entirely eclipsed the splendour of his dress ? for it 
 did look splendid, with its crown of spotless ermine ! He was 
 the most unostentatious of human beings, and every one knew 
 that it was to give innocent gratification to others, not to ag- 
 grandize himself, that he departed from his usual republican 
 habits. He had the purest tastes in the world. He was 
 remarkably fond of flowers which grew in richest profu- 
 sion in his garden and he made a rule that all the young 
 girls that were guests of the household (and there was usually 
 a band of them) should wear a garland of flowers upon their 
 heads before appearing at the dinner table. He would often 
 come and sit beside them and assist them in weaving their 
 fragrant wreaths, and they would almost quarrel for the privi- 
 lege of twisting one of these floral crowns on the snow-flakes 
 of his brow. 
 
 There was a rustic seat at the end of the garden, under a 
 noble chestnut tree, where these chaplets were twined, and that 
 tree was a cynosure, which attracted all that was lovely and
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 233 
 
 bright around it. Many a gallant knight would recline on the 
 soft grass, or tread the green sward, throwing the charm of 
 chivalry over the rural scene. 
 
 Oh ! that garden ! What) clusters of roses what wealth 
 of fruit adorned and enriched it ! On one side was a circular 
 brick wall, facing the south, against which peach and pear 
 trees were trained to clamber like vines, producing the richest 
 and most delicious fruit. Such beds of strawberries such 
 hedges of raspberries and such arbours of grape vines, wore 
 enough to tempt the taste of an anchorite. And yet, lovely 
 as the scenery was in the back-ground, it was still lovelier iu 
 the front of the dwelling-house, for the sea was there ; the 
 gray, the grand old sea, which, whether sparkling in sunlight 
 or silvering in moonlight, reposing in tranquillity or lashed 
 into billows, was still the most magnificent image of the 
 Creator's infinitude. There was Fort Independence, with its 
 star-spangled banner and revolving light-house, and, beyond, 
 the rocky promontory of Nahant, against whose rugged coast 
 the waves dash themselves into foam. 
 
 Oh ! thou beautiful picture ! thou fair leaf from the Mag- 
 nolia tree of memory, unfolded by the hand of accident ! how 
 many excursive thoughts have received an irresistible mo- 
 mentum from thee ? Our eyes glance upon the poem, and we 
 are tempted to transcribe it as explanatory of the painted 
 sketch. It was intended only for the glance of friendship ; 
 but were it more studied, it might have less heart in it, and 
 we will attempt no corrections. As travellers often paused on 
 the brow of the hill, arrested by the beauty of the prospect 
 swelling on the view, the poet has endeavoured to describe the 
 impressions of the stranger, and imagines the enthusiastic ad- 
 miration that must fill his bosom. 
 
 CLIFTON HILL. 
 
 'Twas summer, and the western skies 
 Were gilt with sunset's gorgeous dyes, 
 While every beam of glory given 
 To gild the sultry brow of Heaven, 
 Reflected in the waves below, 
 Lent back a broader, deeper glow. 
 The traveller checked his onward way, 
 Amid the pomp of closing day 
 The voice of Nature filled the air, 
 And bade him pause and worship there. 
 132
 
 
 234 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 Before him the calm ocean rolled, 
 Now fringed with broad resplendent gold, 
 Where many an eagle of the sea 
 Spread its proud wings triumphantly, 
 And seemed to dash with conscious pride 
 The glittering foam from either side. 
 Almost beneath his eye, amid 
 Wild rocks and clustering foliage hid, 
 A village rose, with modest charms, 
 Enclosed in Nature's guardian arms. 
 Beyond, he saw the azure shade 
 Of hills, in robes of mist arrayed, 
 On whose dim blue the sunset beam 
 Had cast a rich empurpled gleam. 
 
 The stranger long admiring stood, 
 Gazing on mountain, sea, and wood 
 On flowery field and sparkling rill, 
 And moss-crowned rock, till rapture's thrill 
 Confessed the charms of CLIFTOX HILL 
 Where all that's fair and wild and sweet, 
 In one harmonious union meet. 
 
 Stranger ! behold that roof appearing 
 Through trees their lofty branches rearing, 
 AB if to brave the tempest's wrath, 
 Or dare the lightning in its path 
 No gaudy pomp the eye repelling, 
 Is lavished on that lovely dwelling 
 But classic elegance and taste 
 Have every fair proportion graced. 
 Those pure white columns meet the eye, 
 In Doric, chaste simplicity, 
 Around whose base, the fragrant vine 
 Frolics with many a graceful twine. 
 But look within. There art displays 
 Its fairest works to tempt thy praise 
 The forms of ancient Gods behold 
 Imaged in each majestic mould 
 The pale translucent marble lives, 
 And life to vanished glory gives. 
 Those breathing walls, where beauty beams, 
 Bright as in Fancy's brightest dreams ; 
 Those walls no foreign hand adorned, 
 Its aid creative genius scorned. 
 A female artist, whose fair fame 
 Has thrown a halo round her name, 
 Has left her pencil's magic trace, 
 Her home, her parent's halls to grace. 
 
 But linger not, for fading light 
 Will melt ere long in shades of night ;
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 235 
 
 And still, while day's last splendours burn, 
 
 Once more to Nature's beauties turn ; 
 
 She calls thee to her bowers of balm, 
 
 More passing sweet in twilight's calm ; 
 
 She calls thee, where her roses bloom, 
 
 Breathing their soft, divine perfume, 
 
 Twining their green and flowering stalks 
 
 Round yonder garden's ample walks. 
 
 She calls thee where her fruitage glows, 
 
 Hanging upon the weary boughs 
 
 She calls thee to yon shaded seat, 
 
 Young love's and friendship's sweet retreat. 
 
 But vain the eloquence of song, 
 
 To paint these scenes beloved so long. 
 
 I've sat within those sheltered bowers, 
 
 I've woven in wreaths those blooming flowers ; 
 
 I've stood for hours, as if my soul 
 
 The eternal ocean could control, 
 
 And, lost in awe, beheld the surge 
 
 Onward its restless waters urge. 
 
 But recollections dearer still 
 
 Than nature gives my bosom fill ; 
 
 Here, oft my heart has found its home, 
 
 Nor felt one vagrant wish to roam ; 
 
 For kind affection ever pressed 
 
 Its welcome on the grateful guest 
 
 The hours in social pleasures past, 
 
 While each seemed happier than the last. 
 
 Here have I seen, in union sweet, 
 
 The charms of youth and manhood meet ; 
 
 The smile of mirth and gladness move 
 
 O'er features I revere and love, 
 
 And rays of feeling warmly glow 
 
 On temples crowned with living snow ! 
 
 How sweet, when moonlight had unfurled 
 Its silver banner o'er the world, 
 To sit, all bathed in heavenly beams, 
 And watch the beacon's fitful gleams I 
 But sweeter still when music's power 
 Gave holier charms to evening's hour. 
 The notes themselves were sweet to hear, 
 And might enchant a stranger's ear, 
 But 'twas & friend, whose minstrel art, 
 Woke the deep echoes of the heart, 
 And every warbling measure stole 
 More sweetly in the listening soul. 
 
 Fair Clifton Hill! the rays that sweep 
 In trembling brightness o'er the deep, 
 Are lovely but o'er thee, the star 
 Of memory rises lovelier far. 

 
 236 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 Strains of harmonious music stealing 
 Along the viewless chords of feeling, 
 Thrill on the ear ; but vanished joys 
 Speak to the heart with sweeter voice. 
 If, when released from bonds of clay, 
 This ardent spirit soars away, 
 'Tis e'er permitted to explore 
 This earth, its dwelling-place no more ; 
 And round some favourite spot to hover 
 That fond remembrance may discover, 
 Its airy wings shall linger still 
 Around thy brow, fair Clifton Hill ! 
 
 If all I loved shall then have passed, 
 Like leaves driven down by Autumn's blast, 
 And time's oblivious torrent dashed 
 O'er scenes where joy's bright sunbeams flashed ; 
 Yet pensive echo, lingering still, 
 Shall softly whisper, " Clifton Hill." 
 
 The following lines bear a later date, and are traced beneath 
 a weeping willow, sketched on the leaf : 
 
 The gales of sorrow, damp and chill, 
 Have swept o'er thee, fair Clifton Hill 
 And in the tomb, now darkly low, 
 Are laid those locks of living snow. 
 Still fair the breast of ocean shines, 
 Gilt by the moonbeams' trembling lines ; 
 Still Nature, prodigal of bloom, 
 Undimmed, unmarred by man's sad doom, 
 Reigns in her wealth of beauty there ; 
 But he, in age benignly fair, 
 Who owned a father's love for me, 
 The kind, the gentle where is he? 
 QUINCT, Aug. 1, 1852. 
 
 No. IX. 
 <f 
 
 IT is in vain to speak of other leaves, under the shadow of 
 these kingly live-oaks that give an air of grand solitude to the 
 place, for they are so large, so far-spreading, appear so deep- 
 rooted, so strong and enduring, they absorb every object around 
 them. We have spoken of these trees before, but words
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 237 
 
 are insufficient to describe the impressions they make upon 
 the mind. They do not surprise one so much by their im- 
 mense height as their magnificent breadth their amplitude, 
 their glorious sweep of branches. Mighty eaglets of the forest, 
 they stretch out their green, sinewy wings, almost to the river's 
 edge, and wave their moss-covered plumes in the twilight 
 breeze. We have a property in those trees they are a part 
 of our inheritance and we would mourn for the stroke that 
 defaced or maimed them, as a personal injury to ourselves. 
 We feel enriched every time we gaze upon them, and pity the 
 poor being who can pass them without a glowing tribute of 
 praise and admiration. 
 
 This is a beautiful spot, on the banks of the Apalachicola, 
 and beautiful is the shrubbery that adorns it on the opposite 
 side. Last night, a blind negro stood very near the water, 
 blowing through a long tin horn, and making some very me- 
 lodious strains. After giving a long continuous blast, he 
 would pause, apparently listening, when a strain, softer, fainter, 
 sweeter, came responsive from the opposite bank, and died 
 away under the boughs of the live-oaks. Again and again, 
 he wound his shining horn, and again the echo answered with 
 sweeter and more lingering melody. We wondered what the 
 blind negro thought of the voice that sung so charming a se- 
 cond to the notes he played. He certainly never has heard 
 of the maiden, who dwells among the rocks and the woods, 
 'the mournful victim of unrequited love;' he knows nothing 
 of the science of Acoustics yet he evidently listens with 
 pleasure to the fairy Bitornella, and probably imagines him- 
 self a great musician. 
 
 When he quitted the bank, and all was again still, we 
 turned to the old oaken Druids, clad in their moss-fringed 
 robes, so gray and grand ; and, remembering a tale connected 
 with a tree, we will try to impress it more deeply on our own 
 memory, by relating it to the ears of others. Though the 
 tree to which we allude was fed by the dews of other climes, 
 it was associated with feelings which, like the bugle blast of 
 the blind negro, will find a responsive echo, that will reach 
 the heart, however remote. 
 
 Not very far from the city of Boston, there is a country 
 village, which owed its chief celebrity to an elm tree of stu- 
 pendous growth, situated just at the foot of a small hill, at the 
 entrance of the town. The road passed through the land of a 
 gentleman, who dwelt on the brow of that hill, and conse-
 
 238 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 quently the tree also was his property. It had been the pro- 
 perty of several generations. Man had come forth " like a 
 flower and been cut down." Yea, the scythe had fallen many 
 a time on the blossoms of life, and still that tree stood unfaded 
 and unblenched, unshorn of its branching honours or its leafy 
 crown. Of all his possessions, Mr. Harrington most prized 
 this old, time-honoured elm. It was a history in itself every 
 leaf was a page on which some family record was written. 
 He loved to sit under its shade, and dwell in spirit with the 
 souls of other generations. He was a benevolent man, and 
 wanted others to enjoy, likewise, a shadow so liberally spread. 
 He had a circular bench constructed all round the tree for the 
 benefit of the weary traveller, and the task-worn school-child. 
 In the warm summer season, that seat was seldom vacant. 
 Travellers, children, and labourers occupied it by day, and 
 lovers by the moonlight night. If that tree had a tongue, like 
 Tennyson's talking oak, what wondrous tales it could have 
 told ! There would be no need of our pen, unless to record 
 the fate of this noble patriarch of nature. 
 
 Mr. Harrington had one son of the name of William, who 
 actually grew up beneath its branches. He had made himself 
 a studying place up in one of the forks of the boughs, where 
 he would perch for hours and look down on the world below 
 and around the world of waving grain, and golden corn, and 
 blossoming buckwheat. The boy drank in inspiration from 
 the scene, and he felt the wings of his spirit growing like the 
 bird, whose nest he had stolen. There he would sit, pelted 
 by the rain and it was a driving rain that reached him in 
 his sheltered nook beaten by the wind, and it was a stormy 
 wind that penetrated to his guarded hollow till the poetry of 
 nature stirred within his bosom. But he never felt so poetical 
 or inspired as when a little fairy figure of a girl went tripping 
 below, with her satchel on her arm and her sun-bonnet on her 
 head (or rather on her shoulders, for she seldom suffered it 
 to cover her face), or paused to rest awhile on the seat around 
 the trunk. Her name was Mary Granite, and her father lived 
 within the neighbourhood of Mr. Harrington. Mary was the 
 little belle of the school-room, the juvenile star of the village, 
 as her name carved on the bark of trees and the surface of 
 rocks declared j and William, though he never carved her 
 name in sight, had it written all over his heart. She was 
 indeed one of the loveliest of the lovely tribe of gentle Marys. 
 So light and airy of step, that
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 239 
 
 "The flower she trod on, dipped ana rose, 
 Then turned to look at her." 
 
 Yet so firm in principle and so excellent in heart, that one 
 might as well attempt to move the elm tree from its base, as 
 to divert her from the path of duty. What made her loveli- 
 ness and excellence more conspicuous, was the contrast be- 
 tween herself and her father, who was one of the most haughty, 
 disagreeable, and hard-hearted men, that ever existed. Gra- 
 nite by name, and granite by nature, as was often said of him, 
 he seemed to glory in those traits of character of which most 
 men would be ashamed. He had quarrelled with almost 
 everybody in town, Mr. Harrington among the number, be- 
 cause he refused to sell him the field through which the road 
 
 As there was no intercourse between the families, William 
 never met Mary at her father's house, but they were always 
 meeting in their walks, perhaps not always accidentally, till 
 their young hearts so grew together, nothing but death could 
 separate them. It is a well known fact, that where there is a 
 William, there must be a Mary near the twin-born soul cre- 
 ated for him. It is as certain that our William and Mary be- 
 lieved they were created for each other, and every one else be- 
 lieved so, but her granite-hearted father, who, as Mary grew 
 into womanhood, forbade her having the slightest intercourse 
 with the son of his enemy, as he called Mr. Harrington, be- 
 cause he presumed to keep his property in his own hands, in 
 preference to selling it. Mary thought it her duty to obey 
 her father's commands, and she no longer sat with William 
 under the great elm tree, when the moonbeams beyond its cir- 
 cumference made the shadow which embosomed them almost 
 impervious to the eye, but if she accidentally met him and he 
 caught her trembling hand one moment in his, or gave her a 
 glance of undying love, she could not help it, and it made her 
 happy long days afterwards. 
 
 At length Mr. Harrington died, and to the astonishment 
 of every one, left his widow and only son absolutely poor. 
 His heart was too large for his purse, and its demands were 
 always encroaching on his prudence. William was left with 
 nothing but his own energies to depend upon, and they were 
 strong enough for an anchor, sure and steadfast. His widowed 
 mother resolved to sell the house which they occupied, and re- 
 side in a small cottage, better suited to the reduction of her 
 fortunes. Mr Granite appeared among the purchasers, and
 
 240 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 as his offers were the most liberal, she did not allow any past 
 animosity on his part to interfere with the advantage of his 
 proposal. William's pride chafed at what might seem like 
 submission to an enemy, but he was the father of Mary, and 
 he caught a golden gleam of reconciliation through the open- 
 ing door of opportunity. 
 
 Having made arrangements for his departure to another 
 State, where a broader field of enterprise was spread out 
 before his young ambition, and having resolved upon what he 
 considered the most honourable course of action, he called on 
 Mr. Granite, and in the most respectful but independent 
 terms declared his immutable love for Mary, his conviction 
 that he was worthy of her, and his determination never to 
 resign the hope of calling her his. Mr. Granite listened with- 
 out the movement of a single muscle, or deigning the least 
 reply. When William, waxing into warmth and indignation, 
 again urged his suit, bis words were clipped in two by this 
 sarcastic, jeering remark : 
 
 " When you are a member of Congress, you may marry my 
 daughter, and not till then." 
 
 " I will be a member of Congress, and then I shall call 
 upon you to fulfil your promise," replied William, with em- 
 phasis. 
 
 " If she is not a wife before that time, her chances will be 
 very poor afterwards." 
 
 " I should sooner expect yon tree to fall from its base, than 
 Mary's constancy to waver," exclaimed William, pointing to 
 the elm tree, whose summit seen from the brow of the hill, 
 looked like an amphitheatre of verdure. 
 
 A cold sneer passed over the hard features of Mr. Granite, 
 and withered away amid the wrinkles. " We shall see, we 
 shall see," he muttered; " time will settle all these things." 
 
 William turned away to leave the apartment, when a sudden 
 impulse drew him back. He could not help saying what he 
 did, though a choking sensation in his throat impeded his 
 utterance. 
 
 " I have one favour to ask, sir, before I quit my native 
 village. That tree, sir, is a sacred thing I pray you to guard 
 : t as such. Let it still be the shelter of weariness, innocence, 
 and age. Some one said that you intended to have the seat 
 removed, and a ban issued against the public use of its shade. 
 Uut I do not believe it ! I do not believe it possible for you 
 or any man to give existence or utterance to such a decree."
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 241 
 
 "Why not?" exclaimed Mr. Granite. "Is not the tree 
 mine ? Have I not a right to do what I please with it ?" 
 
 " No, sir ! That tree was not my father's nor mine, nor is 
 it yours. The mere accident of its growing on that soil did 
 not, does not, make it ours or yours. Heaven never designed 
 such wealth of shade for individual use. It was placed at 
 the foot of that hill that the wayfaring man might rest there- 
 under, after panting under the burden of life. Sir, my father 
 loved that tree, and blessed God for creating it. I love it j 
 every leaf is sacred to my memory, and has a story of its own 
 to tell. I trust you will hold it sacred also, and never allow 
 a sacrilegious touch to deface its ancient majesty." 
 
 " I assure you, young man, I shall not forget that tree." 
 
 And so they parted. He went to mark out his destiny for 
 himself. Mr. Granite remained at home, and, true to his 
 words, did not forget the tree. 
 
 Two or three years passed away, and William, struggling 
 upward all the time, was fast pressing on to the goal of fame 
 and fortune. He had two of the most powerful motives in 
 the world to urge him on love, and what shall we name it 
 that other strong, unsleeping principle, which wrought such 
 wonders within him ? If it was revenge, it was of a noble 
 kind; the desire to triumph over prejudice and wrong, to 
 attain a social height from which he could look down on his 
 enemy and force him to capitulation on his own terms. 
 
 At length, after three years' absence, crowned with unpre- 
 cedented success, he returned to his native town, assured of 
 the constancy of Mary by the unwavering fidelity of his own 
 nature. 
 
 His heart throbbed violently as he approached the shrine 
 of his childhood and youth, the altar where the purest obla- 
 tions of his spirit had been offered. He looked, but he beheld 
 it not ; he rubbed his eyes, thinking a sudden mist had ob- 
 scured his vision ; but where that princely tree had stood, 
 making a grand pavilion, reaching from fence to fence on each 
 side of the way, there was nothing but a dreary blank. Had 
 the earth given way beneath his feet, he could not have felt 
 more appalled. The sacred memories of years were uprooted, 
 the glory of the past for ever defaced. 
 
 Dashing his spurs into his weary horse, he galloped to the 
 spot and looked steadily on what seemed a grave, where the 
 forest patriarch once stood. It had been cut down root and 
 branch the chasm it had left filled up with earth not a leaf
 
 242 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 remaining to tell of the rich garniture once woven there. 
 How long he sat gazing on the desolation of the scene, he 
 knew not, hut seeing a man walking by the wayside, he 
 accosted him : 
 
 " Who cut down this tree ?" asked he, in a hoarse, agitated 
 voice. 
 
 "Mr. Granite had it done, sir, two years ago," answered 
 the stranger, " and brought down curses on his head, enough 
 to wither his soul up. I wouldn't be in his place for millions." 
 
 "Does he still live on the brow of the hill?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And his daughter ?" 
 
 " She lives with him." 
 
 " Unmarried ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. And if it were not for that daughter, he would 
 have had his house burned down over his head, and himself 
 burned in effigy. But she is such an angel of goodness, she 
 stands between her father and the curses of the poor whom he 
 grinds into dust." 
 
 William scarcely waited to hear the concluding words of 
 the man, but shot up the hill like an arrow. There was that 
 burning within him which must find vent a volcanic passion, 
 in which judgment, and prudence, and self-consideration were 
 all fused and merged in the lava of indignation. Mr. Granite 
 was seated in a broad passage running through the house, 
 reading a newspaper, when a young man, all on fire, suddenly 
 stood before him. His face was embrowned by the rays of a 
 warmer sun, and soiled by the dust of travel, but he recognised 
 the noble brow and falcon glance of William Harrington. 
 
 " Sir," said the young man, " you are a murderer, a cold- 
 blooded, deliberate murderer. You are worse than a murderer, 
 for man in a moment of passion may lift his hand against 
 his fellow man with unpremeditated violence, and remorse 
 rushes in to weep out the stains which crimson his conscience. 
 But you, in spilling the life-blood of that tree, cut into the 
 heart of the living, who would have died to defend it. It was 
 a base, cowardly act, for the victim could not lift up one of its 
 hundred arms to parry the blow. It was a deed worthy of a 
 Nero, more wanton than the burning of Rome. It rose again 
 from its ashes, but the pride of centuries is laid low, and never, 
 never can be revived again." 
 
 By this time, Mr. Granite had recovered from the paralysis
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 243 
 
 of amazement, and his wrath burst forth in torrents. He used 
 language we would blush to record. 
 
 " Yes," added he, " I bought this place merely that I might 
 lay the axe to the root of that tree, on which your ancestors 
 have climbed to the height of popularity. I hated it as if it 
 were a living being, and in every blow laid upon its trunk, I 
 shouted as if an enemy had fallen. Leave my house, young 
 man, and,never dare to set foot in it again. Leave it, I say, 
 and if ever my daughter " 
 
 "Oh! father!" exclaimed a sweet, entreating voice, and a 
 fair, fairy form stood in the door, with pale cheeks and tear- 
 ful eyes, repeating the simple, pathetic adjuration, " Oh ! 
 father !" 
 
 William sprang forward and clasped her joined hands in 
 his. 
 
 " Mary," said he, "has he laid the axe too to the root of 
 your affection ? Has it been destroyed like that noble tree ?" 
 
 " Mary," cried Mr. Granite, " he has insulted me. He is 
 an insolent wretch. I forbid your speaking to him. I forbid 
 his ever darkening my door again. I forbid both, on the 
 penalty of my everlasting curse." 
 
 Mary uttered a faint shriek, and would have fallen, had not 
 William thrown one arm around her, and pressed her to his 
 side. 
 
 " Let her go !" cried the exasperated father, " let her go, or 
 by Heaven, 1 will level you to the ground." 
 
 " Strike me if you dare !" exclaimed William, "yea, cut off 
 this right arm, if you dare, and I will sustain her with the 
 other. I am not a passive tree, that you can hew down with 
 impunity." 
 
 By this time the white railing in front of the house was 
 darkened by human figures leaning over it. The man whom 
 William had accosted, followed him, and others returning 
 homeward from their daily work, attracted by the indignant 
 tones of William, and the wrathful accents of Mr. Granite, 
 gathered round the house, hoping that the day of vengeance 
 was come. They only wanted some one to give them a momen- 
 tum, to roll upon him the accumulated burden of their wrongs, 
 and crush him beneath their weight. 
 
 William, as soon as he became aware of their vicinity, dread- 
 ing some scene of violence, released his arm from Mary, whose 
 strength was now partially restored, breathed into her ear a 
 few low, emphatic words, and left the house. Thank Heaven !
 
 244 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 there was one heart and home open to receive him, where 
 the storms of passion were lulled to rest, and temptations 
 entered not. 
 
 About a week after this incident, Mr. Granite left town on 
 urgent business, and did not return till a late hour. It was 
 nearly midnight, but as there was a full moon, the night was 
 like another day, to the traveller. He rode leisurely along, in 
 his one horse carriage, indulging in some very comfortable 
 naps, while rolling over the smooth, safe road. There was a 
 piece of woods, just before the entrance into town, where it 
 was always twilight, in sunshine or moonlight. As he was 
 passing the wood, luxuriating in a light, downy slumber, he 
 was roused by a blast, as of a thousand furies ; sounds so fierce 
 and discordant, rushing pell-mell upon each other, were enough 
 to chase the sleep of the dead. For a moment he thought he 
 had awaked in a lower world, so hideous and unearthly was 
 the noise, when a band of martial figures emerged from the 
 thicket and surrounded the carriage, each one bearing some 
 peculiar and original instrument. Horns, tin pans, drums, 
 joints of stove-pipes, wooden tubes, all served as vehicles for 
 their wrathful spirits. The horse, frightened by the tumult, 
 reared and plunged ; but one, who seemed to be the leader, 
 seized him by the bridle and threw him back on his hauuches. 
 
 " Come on," he cried, in a voice of thunder, " we are ready." 
 
 Two tall men, in masks like the rest, here rushed out of the 
 woods, bearing a rail between them. 
 
 " We'll give you a better carriage to ride on," they cried ; 
 "make haste, and we'll-Kelp you to mount." 
 
 Mr. Granite saw himself at the mercy of an exasperated 
 mob, exposed to the most degrading insult that can be inflicted 
 on a gentleman, and he turned cold as ice. He knew of no 
 means of escape, and gave himself up to despair. He had so 
 long exercised supreme power in the village, by the despotism 
 of an iron will, that he was terrified by this sudden and power- 
 ful insurgency, and cried out in the impotence of fear and 
 rage. 
 
 "On with him," cried the leader; "let him ride by the 
 light of the moon, and the way we'll serenade him shall put 
 life into his wooden horse." 
 
 " William Harrington," cried the wretched man, " I know 
 you; I am in your power; spare me, and my daughter is 
 jours." 
 
 " I am not William Harrington," answered the man, in-
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 245 
 
 dignantly : " but I am his friend, and the man who insults 
 and wrongs him, is my enemy, now and for ever. Yes ! he 
 shall have your daughter, but not until you are humbled and 
 punished as you deserve to be. He knows nothing of this. 
 It is for us to avenge his wrong and ours and we will do it." 
 
 Struggling and calling aloud in frenzied accents for help, 
 the victim was torn from the carriage, and another moment 
 would have seen him elevated on the seat of disgrace, when 
 there was a crashing among the branches, and a young man, 
 without hat or coat, leaped into the road right before them. 
 
 "What is all this?" he cried imperatively. "What are 
 you doing, waking the silence of midnight by such a horrible 
 tumult ?" 
 
 " We are going to give old Granite a moonlight ride that 
 is all," exclaimed a rough voice. 
 
 " Shame !" cried William, " to attack a defenceless man. 
 It is cowardly base. Let him go, my friends. Believe me, 
 you will all blush for this by to-morrow's sun." 
 
 " Let him swear to give you Mary, then," said the leader, 
 who was distinguished by a tall black plume, waving above 
 Lis mask. " It is for your sake we have done this, not our 
 own." 
 
 " Thank you," replied William, "but I desire no extorted 
 promises. I have his word already, that as soon as I am a 
 member of Congress she shall be mine. Will you give me 
 your votes, my friends?" 
 
 Three hearty, vociferous cheers echoed through the woods, 
 and then three times three. 
 
 " Will you release this man, unconditionally, for my sake ?" 
 he asked, with dignity, turning from one to the other of the 
 masked figures. "For my father's sake?" he added, in a 
 softer tone, " for my grandfather's ? for the sake of the old 
 elm tree?" 
 
 "Yes, we will," they answered; "but unless he gives you 
 his daughter, he had better never go three yards from his owu 
 door again." 
 
 Thus saying, they blew another blast of deafening power, 
 and disappeared in the thicket. William was left alone with 
 his enemy, with the moonbeams playing brightly on his un- 
 covered brow. 
 
 " Let me assist you into your carriage, sir," said William, 
 with more respect of manner than he had ever assumed before t
 
 246 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 He pitied him for the degradation from which he had rescued 
 him. 
 
 There is, in every nature, some traces of the original bright- 
 ness left. However long it may be darkened and obscured, 
 it will sometimes break forth like the sunbeam at the close of 
 a fierce, stormy day. The sudden interposition of William in 
 his behalf, his magnanimous appeal and respectful manner, 
 touched the one place in his heart that was capable of feeling. 
 It is true, he was afraid of the mob, and must have yielded 
 through fear of future outrage ; but for the first time a glimpse 
 of William's noble qualities beamed on his vision and a con- 
 trasted view of his own meanness and vindictiveness rose to 
 enhance their beauty. 
 
 " Take my daughter, William," said he, extending his hand, 
 " and let us forget the past." 
 
 William and Mary were wedded and were happy, but it was 
 not possible to forget the past. It was not possible to forget 
 the noble tree, associated with all the sweet memories of 
 childhood and the springing aspirations of youth. " But 
 though cast down, it was not destroyed." It lived in the 
 energies of William's noble heart lived in his pure and holy 
 love of the beautiful and the good. The thoughts born and 
 nurtured within its sheltering boughs were immortal, and could 
 not die. They branched out, like the ramifications of it3 
 giant strength, and became protection to the weak, and shelter 
 to the oppressed. They rose up to heaven like its topmost 
 leaflets, and sunned themselves in a brighter sky and revelled 
 in a purer atmosphere. No the noble elm tree was not 
 destroyed it could not die, for its vitality was infused into 
 another being, and through that being, imparted to a thousand 
 others. 
 
 Mr. Granite lived to see his son-in-law a member of Con- 
 gress, and his eloquence the pride of his native state. When 
 he was elected, the citizens gave him a dinner in the shade 
 of the thicket from which he had rushed to the rescue of 
 Granite, and again three cheers rent the heavens. 
 
 May heaven spare these noble live-oaks from the axe of the 
 tyrant and the hand of the assassin; and may some youth, 
 with the spirit of William, be nurtured 'neath their shades, 
 who shall make the banks of the Apalachicola immortal with 
 his renown ! 
 
 OCIIESSE, August 10, 1852.
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 247 
 
 No. X. 
 REVERIES OF AN INVALID. 
 
 A PHILOSOPHER once resolved to commence with the morn- 
 ing's dawn, and devote the whole day to following the move- 
 ments of a child, hoping to derive great assistance in the study of 
 metaphysics during the process. When twilight came on, he 
 was perfectly wearied and exhausted, and the only conclusion 
 to which he had arrived was, that of all animals, man was the 
 most restless and unreasonable. He had intended to take 
 notes of all that occurred, but he found everything could be 
 included in the compendious word, motion. 
 
 It is as exceedingly difficult to follow the movements of a 
 feverish imagination, and yet there is something in the wild 
 aberrations of mind, with its reins momentarily loosely floating, 
 more interesting than a sober and connected train of reasoning. 
 I will try to describe some of these vague and wandering 
 thoughts, just as they originated, drifting me along here and 
 there, without guide or compass, on the pathless ocean of in- 
 certitude. 
 
 Have you ever felt the throbbings of fever in your veins, in 
 your temples, your brain, till every pulsation resolved itself 
 into a prayer for coolness ? Till there was but one vision of 
 beauty in the whole, wide universe and that was ICK ? 
 
 It was in just such a state as this, the other evening, that 
 the vision passed over me, or rather held me, spell-bouud, in 
 its icy folds. Oh ! it was such a lovely moonlight night ! So 
 icy pure so silvery bright ! The beams, as they floated on 
 the face of the earth, looked like an ocean of quivering water, 
 and I thought I was borne along on the current, without any 
 volition of my own, a burning speck, which all that ocean flood 
 of brightness could not quench. The waves seemed warmed 
 around me, but far away, they glittered so cold, so pure, 
 so clear, if I could only reach one of those sparkling ice 
 islands, I would never more sigh for the forfeit bowers of 
 Eden. Floating onward and ever onward, I could see figures, 
 shaping themselves out of the bright, frosty atmosphere, so 
 beautiful and tantalizing so wooing, so mocking now 
 beckoning with transparent, glittering hands now waving 
 back the approach with forbidding, threatening gestures ! 
 They were the ice spirits abroad on their moonlight revels, 
 and imagination cannot conceive of their resplendent beauty.
 
 48 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 Ah ! let poets rave about mermaids, sitting on the coral cliffs 
 of ocean, braiding their sea-green ringlets of maids enticing 
 the River Gods with their strains of more than mortal melody ; 
 but they cannot compare with the ice spirits, the Aurora 
 Borealis children of a feverish imagination. They rise in 
 clusters above the foam-crested waves. Their hair flows in 
 ringlets of diamonds ; their eyes are the cold, bright northern 
 stars, sparkling under lashes of frozen mist ; their smile, the 
 reflection of moonlight on the polar seas. They come nearer 
 and nearer. I feel their pure, chill breath on my burning 
 cheek; they stretch out their cold, glittering arms, and I 
 feel myself slowly, lingeringly, closely elapsed to their bosom 
 of ice. 
 
 The vision vanishes. The beautiful mocking spirits are 
 gone. There is nothing but the still midnight moonbeams 
 shining in through the lattice-work, silvering the large leaves 
 of the vine, and making bright, gauzy festoons, looped up by 
 beams and fastened by stars against the flower-twined frame- 
 work. The night-breeze rustles through the long trailing 
 tendrils, clambering over the bars, and shakes the crimson 
 blossoms that enrich the deep green of the leaf-work. How 
 like the whisper of invisible spirits it sounds ! Another vision 
 rises. It comes from an icy-cold world, and a feeling of inex- 
 
 fressible repose is diffused over the restless, panting spirit, 
 t comes from the land of coolness and rest. It is not the 
 breeze that sighs through the vine leaves it is the breath of 
 those who have mingled again with the elements from which 
 they were originally created. They never speak but in the. 
 silence of the niyht. They never come forth but in the moon- 
 light hour. 
 
 Thus the vision flows : 
 
 Oh! 'twas a dream a sweet, a dewy dream 
 
 Sent to refresh me in the feverish hour ; 
 The cooling murmur of the forest stream, 
 
 The west-wind whispering to the fainting flower. 
 
 Oh ! blessed mother ! I, once more a child, 
 On thy dear bosom, in thy arms reclined 
 
 Thy lips of love met mine and gently smiled, 
 Thy tender hand my burning one entwined. 
 
 I felt thy fingers on my throbbing brow, 
 
 Thy breath sighed softly on my glowing cheek ; 
 
 Oh! angel ministrant, where art thou now? 
 Speak to me, mother, blessed mother, speak !
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 249 
 
 Thou hast no voice thou turnest on my gaze 
 
 Eyes of immortal depth my spirit quails 
 Beneath their still, unfathomable rays 
 
 Lamps of the tomb ! what mist your brightness veils ? 
 
 Again I seem alone. My head is laid 
 
 On the damp grass, beneath the willow's boughs; 
 
 The pallid moonbeams glimmer through the shade, 
 And the night air in rippling coolness flows. 
 
 I see a marble stone gleam pure and white 
 The dead, my soul, the dead are sleeping near 
 
 My mother's name gleams in that ghostly light, 
 That blessed name ! then, wherefore should I fear ? 
 
 Oft, in my dreams, I've seen that sacred mound : 
 That gleaming marble in the churchyard's gloom : 
 
 There have I knelt and wept, while sweeping round, 
 I've felt the chilling shadows of the tomb. 
 
 Dear, sainted mother ! in the languid hour 
 
 Of pain and sickness, how my heart has thrilled 
 
 O'er childhood's memories, and each bosom flower 
 With more than earthly redolence been filled! 
 
 It was not all a dream. There lingers yet 
 A life, a warmth a deep, immortal glow 
 
 My soul with thine in heavenly trance has met, 
 While dim and cold Time's billows roll below. 
 
 And we shall meet again, my spirit saith, 
 
 Where sorrow, pain, and death can never come : 
 
 Oh ! for the wings of a triumphant Faith ! 
 Oh ! for that land of glory, light, and bloom ! 
 
 With the soft lulling of the midnight gale, the holy vision 
 passeth away, leaving behind a balmness, a coolness, a divine 
 repose, that is not born of this world. If it were possible to 
 describe fully and clearly a revcry like this ! There certainly 
 are moments when the wall that separates us from the spirit 
 land, which sometimes seems of iron darkness and thickness, 
 is thin and clear and brittle as glass when we fear to move, 
 lest it shiver and break and we find ourselves in the unveiled 
 presence of the mystery of mysteries. 
 
 Byron says a change came o'er the spirit of his dream and 
 
 so there came o'er mine. Of all forms of existence, that of 
 
 revery approaches nearest the heavenly. The body is but an 
 
 accident. It might belong to any one else, for any interest 
 
 183
 
 250 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 that we may feel in it. Only let it lie still and feel a breeze 
 stealing over it, and it will trouble no one, unless the demon 
 of fever gains possession of it. Oh ! delightful revery ! Oh ! 
 soothing, vague dream of existence ! quietude succeeding pain- 
 ful excitement subsidence of the stormy waves of thought ? 
 
 There is more of the earth, earthy, in this phase of the 
 dream-picture ; but it is the flowers, the bloom, the sweetness 
 of earth; nothing dark or subterranean about it. The ice 
 spirits no longer come glittering, smiling, in their cold, un- 
 earthly beauty ; the angel spirits no more glide between me 
 and the moonbeams; there are earthly forms and earthly faces, 
 all wearing the stamp of a heavenly mission all mingling so 
 with spiritual dreams, one cannot tell where the ideal and the 
 real meet. 
 
 There is a sweet maiden, of a Saxon name, with blue, loving 
 eyes, and a glad, affectionate smile, who seems formed to be 
 the ministrant of peace and comfort to the suffering children 
 of humanity. How quiet and gentle are her motions ! How 
 calm and tender the accents of her voice ! She conies near 
 she bears in her hand a crystal dish, in which the most beauti- 
 ful crimson blends with the purest white. A cool, refreshing 
 dew gems the crystalline surface of the vessel. Angels of 
 mercy and ministers of consolation ! It is some of Stntppcr's 
 delicious strawberry cream the nectar, the ambrosia of the 
 Gods ! But alas ! the dewy glass vanishes the blushing 
 cream melts into air the loving, blue-eyed maiden disappears, 
 and nothing is left to fill the aching void. Yes another conies 
 another damsel, as kind, as gentle, and as good, with a glad- 
 der smile and a more joyous accent; and the perfume of violets 
 embalms the air through which she moves ; a crystal vase, in 
 which the ice-beams sparkle, glitters in her hands. She ad- 
 ministers the cooling draught, when, just as it is about to touch 
 the thirsty lip, it dries up, leaving nothing but the empty cup 
 of Tantalus the fever of unsatisfied desire. 
 
 " / will not deceive you," exclaimed a mild, sympathizing 
 voice; " for my office is to bind up the wounds of disappoint- 
 ment, and to heal the sorrows that man is born to feel. If 
 there must be suffering, be it mine to relieve. If there must 
 be a shadow, be it mine to gild and soften the edges." 
 
 Ah ! I know that voice, and I know the expression of that 
 gentle, sympathizing countenance, " that seems to love whate'er 
 it looks upon." Often and often has it come, in the night- 
 time of care, and left an impression of hope and brightness
 
 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 251 
 
 behind it. But it will not now remain long. Between it and 
 me the Chattahoochee is now rolling : and it rolls between me 
 and the fair-haired maiden, who wears the name a beauteous 
 Saxon damsel once adorned : and it rolls between me and the 
 maiden embalmed with the violets' sweet perfume, and many 
 another angel spirit, too : and it rolls a watery barrier between 
 me and that well-remembered saloon, where strawberries and 
 ice-cream temper the sultriness of summer's burning heat. It 
 is all a mirage. There is nothing but memory left. Nothing 
 but memory ! Ah ! memory is a great deal. What would 
 life be without it ? 
 
 Reveries ! Well, I suppose reveries are very foolish things ; 
 but Ike Marvel has written a whole book about reveries, which 
 everybody loves to read, from the simple fact that they are 
 idealities, and that there is not a word of truth in them that 
 is, of reality. But realities are sometimes very sweet, and 
 make us cease to sigh for what is beyond our reach. What a 
 delicious cloud of fragrance is floating near ! What a charm- 
 ing bouquet comes, bearing the greetings of friendship, asso- 
 ciated with the charms of refinement 'and taste ! The rich 
 breath of the glowing oleander the sweet and graceful honey- 
 suckle the most beautiful of roses the waxen petals of the 
 cape jasmine unite to grace this token of kindly sympathy. 
 Nor is this all. Green and refreshing clusters of newly 
 gathered grapes, show how beautiful the assemblage of fruit 
 and flowers may be ! 
 
 Yes ! this is a beautiful world ! It is full, overflowing with 
 beauty and kindness, and yet we are often unconscious of it, 
 from its very diffusiveness. Like the air we breathe, it is all 
 round and about us, and we only know how happy it makes us 
 from our wretchedness when it is withdrawn. There is so 
 much to admire and love, we sigh for capacity to take in the 
 full amount of blessedness. How can a single heart take in 
 the boundless circumference of God's mercies ? 
 
 Yet, there ar so many strange people in the world, one 
 knows not what to think of them. They walk along through 
 paths all strewn with flowers, with as much indifference as if 
 they were wading through weeds. 
 
 " What is the use of this fading tinselry ?" they say; " we 
 have not time to gather it ;" and so they hurry along and 
 gather up handfuls of yellow dust instead; and they rush 
 along the shore of life, picking up pebbles and sand, letting 
 the pearls and diamonds go, as too much trouble to gather. 

 
 252 MAGNOLIA LEAVES. 
 
 They must dive for the pearls and filter the sand for diamonds. 
 The pebbles lie smooth on the surface, and they shine in the 
 sunbeams almost as brightly. 
 
 Well, whether we gather pebbles or diamonds, pearls or 
 sand-grains, the great ocean of truth keeps rolling on, and we 
 are borne on with it. Whether we gather flowers or weeds, 
 the great garden of Nature keeps blooming on, and the air of 
 life is laden with the fragrance. 
 
 Life itself is a long, beautiful revery. In the fitful fever 
 and unrest, the strife and turmoil of existence, we dream of 
 the ice spirits that will come with their breath of frost and 
 cool the veins, panting with excitement and throbbing with 
 heat. We dream of the spirit ministrants, fanning us with 
 their wings of love, and tempering with their cool celestial 
 plumage the sultriness of a day of care. We dream of the 
 loved ones, whom space severs and distance divides, but whose 
 hearts are a part of our own identity, and make but one pulse 
 with our own. 
 
 By and by, the fever will pass away the reveries will pass 
 away and who can tell the brightness, the beauty, the glory 
 of the awakening? " Eye hath not seen it, nor hath ear heard 
 it, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive it" 
 But God knows, and it is the office of Faith to wait, and trust, 
 and believe. "-:<. 
 
 QUIXCT, August 31, 1852. 

 
 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 AN intelligent traveller has observed, " that one could judge 
 of the civilization and refinement of a people, by the appear- 
 ance of that silent city, peopled by the dead." If the wild 
 brier and long grass are suffered to grow over the neglected 
 graves ; if the beast of the wayside is suffered to desecrate the 
 hallowed ground, and leave its defacing traces on the sinking 
 mould then we may believe that the hearts of the living are 
 in the same neglected state, and that they are unworthy guar- 
 dians of the most sacred trust committed to mankind. 
 
 The dead ! how solemn, how awful the sound ! We invo- 
 luntarily pause and hold our breath as we utter it. We write 
 the phrase, and it assumes a sad, sepulchral aspect. The liv- 
 ing ! the dead ! write them side by side, and see how different 
 they appear. Hues of beauty and bloom and grace glow 
 around the first pallor and dullness and immobility settle 
 round the last. We shrink from the contemplation. We 
 veil our eyes, we fold the mantle close around our hearts, as 
 if its very pulsations could see, and endeavour to exclude the 
 cold and dread reality. But in vain. The living and the 
 dead are linked together by a chain which cannot be broken, 
 and far better is it to wreathe that chain with flowers and 
 suffer it to fall lightly round our spirits, than writhe under its 
 pressure, till the gall and the wound bear witness to the 
 bondage. 
 
 The dead ! how dear, how sacred the sound ! Where is the 
 eye that does not involuntarily glisten at its utterance ? Where 
 is the ear that does not bend in earnest attention, as it comes 
 slowly, sadly, like a deep-toned bell, on the hearing ? In the 
 moment of hilarity, the hour of happiness, the joys of social 
 
 (253)
 
 254 THE PARADISE OP THE DEAD. 
 
 intercourse, the deep and thrilling communion of kindred 
 hearts, when life wears a glow so soft and bright that it seems 
 coloured with the tints of heaven, suddenly the thought of the 
 loved, the lost, the dead, flashes on the mind, and the present 
 vanishes like a dream. The banquet of the heart is broken 
 up an invisible hand has written upon its walls, and a 
 greater than Daniel has interpreted the mystic characters. We 
 feel our own utter impotence, the uncertainty of every earthly 
 blessing, the frail tenure by which we hold them, and clasping 
 our hands over our aching bosoms, we raise our imploring eyes 
 to heaven, wondering why we are born to love, only to mourn 
 to cherish the sweet flowers of affection, only to see them 
 wither away and die upon the tomb. 
 
 The dead ! how sublime, how glorious is the sound ! If the 
 living and the dead are linked together by a chain that cannot 
 be broken, so are the dead and the immortal. There is but 
 one passage to heaven a dark, subterranean one, winding 
 through sunless regions and mouldering relics and vestiges of 
 corruption through the vast Herculaneum of life but a light 
 gleams in the dim earth-gallery. It grows brighter and 
 brighter and clearer and clearer and when the gates open 
 there is an exceeding blaze of glory. Yes, the gates of the 
 grave are the portals of the skies and the Lord of the skies 
 came down and walked himself through the deep aisles of that 
 subterranean gallery, and left a brightening light for the poor 
 wanderers of earth to follow. 
 
 From earliest antiquity the memory of the dead has been 
 hallowed. 
 
 Abraham, the aged patriarch, "stood up from, before his 
 dead, and spake unto the sons of Keth, saying, 
 
 " I am a stranger and a sojourner with you ; give me a pos- 
 session of a burying-place with you, that I may bury my dead 
 out of my sight." 
 
 The cave of the field of Machpelah became the burying- 
 place of Sarah his wife and when he was gathered to his 
 fathers, he was laid by her side, in man's first purchased rest- 
 ing-place. 
 
 The Scriptures abound in allusions to the sacredness attached 
 to the last home of man. The solid rock was hewn as a re- 
 ceptacle for his remains, and the running brook murmured 
 mournfully by the place of his repose. The wild Indian 
 cherishes, with superstitious reverence, the relics of his ances- 
 tors. If he raises his wigwam in newer hunting-grounds, he
 
 THE PARADISE OP THE DEAD. 255 
 
 bears with him their mouldering bones, that he may chase 
 with them the deer and the buffalo, in the land where the 
 Great Spirit dwells. 
 
 The Romans had a sublime custom of burning their dead, 
 thus purifying them from corruption, and sparing them the 
 sad and humiliating process of slow decay. They gathered 
 the sacred dust in an urn, which they could bear with them, 
 from clime to clime, and, clasping it to their yearning hearts, 
 almost cheat themselves into the belief, that 
 
 " Even in their ashes lived the wonted fires." 
 
 " But where," methinks some voice exclaims, " is the Pa- 
 radise of the Dead, to which our thoughts were directed at the 
 commencement of these lines?" 
 
 Have you ever visited Greenwood Cemetery ? If you have, 
 you will realize the truth of the expression. If you have not, 
 you should make a pilgrimage there at once, and wander amid 
 its green paths and lovely enclosures, till you feel your spirit 
 bathed in the divine repose of the scene, and you long to set 
 up there your everlasting rest. 
 
 This beautiful burying-ground is in Brooklyn, several miles 
 from the city of New York. As you pass along the road that 
 leads to it, with the magnificent Bay on your right, its wide 
 expanse of water glittering in the sunbeams, so calmly and 
 majestically, your mind becomes gradually solemnized, for 
 there is always something solemn in deep beauty combined 
 with great extent. You approach the Gate of Visite.rs. 
 The access to this entrance has an air of seclusion appropriate 
 to the solemn resting-place of the dead. Graceful structures 
 from the masterly designs of Upjohn, guarding this entrance, 
 enhance with their exquisite decorations the beauty of the 
 Cemetery. 
 
 Once admitted into this labyrinth of bloom and verdure, 
 you feel bewildered at its prodigality of loveliness, and hardly 
 know where to turn, in the midst of so many winding alley?. 
 But after walking a short distance, your ear catches the faint 
 murmur of waters, faint and sweet as the echo of a dream. 
 Directed by the sound, you approach the margin of Sylvan 
 Water, a deep, perennial lake, covering at least three acres 
 of ground. In the centre of this lake a fountain throws 
 up its silvery spray, flashing and sparkling through the green 
 shrubbery that shades, and the willows that sweep over its
 
 256 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 banks. The birds make their nests in these marginal boughs, 
 and make these funereal solitudes vocal with the melody of 
 heaven. 
 
 Near the south-western corner of Sylvan Lake, there is a 
 gently undulating mound, crowned by a monument, comme- 
 morative of the death of a beautiful daughter of the forest. 
 Dohumme, the lovely Indian, was the child of a Sachem among 
 the Sac Indians. When a delegation of the Sacs and the lowas 
 visited "Washington and the principal Atlantic cities, the young 
 Dohumme accompanied her father, and in the same band was 
 a brave and youthful Iowa chief. Attracted by the congenial 
 charms of youth and beauty, in the varying scenes of their 
 long and interesting journey, thus constantly associated, these 
 children of the wilderness learned to love each other (if love 
 is ever learned), and in conformity to their own peculiar and 
 simple rites, were united in marriage. In the city of New 
 York this young and handsome couple excited the most un- 
 bounded admiration. The wild grace of their aboriginal 
 costume, mingling with some of the peculiar fashions of the 
 white race, the simplicity of their manners and the originality 
 of their expressions, made them objects of curiosity and social 
 interest. But the simple Indian maid languished amid the 
 splendour of fashionable life. Accustomed to the freedom of 
 her native forest, and the simple diet of the wigwam, she 
 wilted like a mountain flower enclosed in the sultry atmosphere 
 of a hot-house. Her constitution thus enfeebled, she soon 
 became a victim to disease, and died, far from the home of 
 her fathers. On the marble surface of the monument, 
 the figure of her dusky bridegroom appears in bas-relief, 
 mourning over this rose of the wilderness, thus untimely 
 blighted. 
 
 As you continue your wanderings, many a stately obelisk 
 arrests the gaze, but you naturally look for some name that will 
 touch the chords of remembrance, or that is associated in your 
 mind with something dear to the heart or inspiring to the 
 mind. Ah ! here is one rising on a high bank in the sud- 
 den bend of the tour. We are familiar with the name of 
 CATLIN (or at least we ought to be), the celebrated Indian 
 painter, or rather painter of the Indian Gallery of Portraits, 
 which has excited the admiration of the European world. He 
 is not dead he still lives, pursuing his career with all the 
 enthusiasm of genius and all its confidence of success. But 
 Clara, his gentle, lovely wife, rests in Greenwood's classic
 
 THE PARADISE OP THE DEAD. 257 
 
 shades. She died in Paris, but was brought home to sleep in 
 her native soil. We knew her well, and it was with a thrill 
 of mingled delight and pain we saw her memorial among so 
 many stranger graves. Yes ! strange as it may seem, there 
 was an emotion of pleasure in gazing on that beauteous monu- 
 ment, and in recalling in the chiselled features of the angel that 
 appears to guard the shrine, the outlines of a fair, remembered 
 face. Inserted in a head-stone of gray Parisian limestone is a 
 tablet of dazzling whiteness. Upon this the angel form is 
 carved, with outspread wings, holding the stylus in her hand, 
 and supporting the tablet, on which she appears to have writ- 
 ten these words 
 
 " Weep not for me, my friends, but strive through your 
 only Redeemer to come to me." 
 
 This sentence was extracted from the last letter she ever 
 addressed to her friends, and is worthy to be engraven there. 
 
 While lingering near this graceful shrine of female loveliness, 
 we could not but compare the stillness and melancholy beauty 
 of the scene with the one where we last beheld her. Her hus- 
 band was exhibiting, with professional pride and enthusiasm, 
 his magnificent picture-gallery, and exciting the most intense 
 interest by his graphic description of Indian life and manners. 
 She was behind the scenes, assisting him to arrange the por- 
 traits, and to twist his wampum belt with aboriginal grace. 
 After the public exhibition was over, we saw her, with a deer- 
 skin, wrought with brilliant dyes, thrown around her shoul- 
 ders, and some badges of Indian royalty on her brow. She 
 seemed proud, even in sport, to share the trophies of her gifted 
 artist husband. And here she lies so still, so cold, that even 
 the terrible war-whoop, which that night sounded in imitative 
 vengeance in our ears, could never awaken her more. 
 
 We pause before the tomb of Charlotte Candee, the most 
 sumptuous and costly structure in the whole Cemetery. We 
 have so often heard of this, that it seems like a familiar object 
 when it first meets the eye. A more elaborate and exquisite 
 piece of workmanship could scarcely be imagined, and if we 
 were to judge of the depth and strength of the grief, by the 
 costly tribute it has paid, mighty must have been the sorrow 
 that embodied itself in this splendid mausoleum. It is, indeed, 
 the expression of the most fervid parental love, bereaved of the 
 sole object of its idolatry. The circumstances of this bereave- 
 ment are so sad and awful, it will add interest to the monu-
 
 258 THE PARADISE OP THE DEAD. 
 
 ment to bring them before the minds of those who may, per- 
 chance, be strangers to the mournful tragedy. 
 
 Charlotte Candee was the only child of her parents, and if 
 according testimony may be believed, of remarkable accom- 
 plishments, and rare moral excellence. She wrote and spoke, 
 with accuracy and facility, the English, French, Spanish, Italian, 
 and German, and had even acquired a competent knowledge of 
 the Danish language. She excelled both in vocal and instru- 
 mental music, and her taste and skill in drawing were equally 
 admirable. To these brilliant acquirements, she united a dis- 
 position of uncommon sweetness, a heart filled with pure and 
 beautiful affections, and a spirit bearing the impress of its 
 heavenly origin. This sweet disposition, pure heart, and 
 heavenly spirit, diffused over her countenance an indescribable 
 charm, and imparted to her manners that gentle courtesy, 
 which is something than grace or " beauty dearer." She was 
 in the flower of youth, at that charming age when the simpli- 
 city of the child and the intelligence of the woman begin to 
 meet and melt in harmony and grace. It was on her seven- 
 teenth birthday that the sad event occurred, which gave birth 
 to this magnificent demonstration of grief. At a festive enter- 
 tainment, given in honour of this joyous era, she was a pre- 
 siding star alas! soon to set in a dark eclipse! On her 
 return home, accompanied by her father and another young 
 lady, he left her a few moments to attend her companion to 
 her own door, the driver in the mean time dropped the reins, 
 and the horses suddenly started off, throwing the young girl 
 from the carriage to the pavement, causing instantaneous 
 death. It seems that she had a kind of presentiment of her 
 doom, for she shrank, with strange reluctance, from the evening 
 festival, and nothing but the consciousness that it was a birth- 
 day fete, induced her to conquer her nameless misgivings 
 Certainly the coming event did " cast its shadow before," 
 if we may judge by severa.1 touching incidents prior to the 
 casualty. 
 
 In the portfolio which contains most of her drawings, there 
 are two which excite peculiar interest. Every one who has 
 read the life of Cromwell, must remember that awful, thrilling 
 moment, when he gazed upon the shrouded and encoffined form 
 of the unfortunate Charles. She had sketched the figure of 
 the great usurper, but when about to delineate the coffin, the 
 pencil seems to have dropped from her trembling fingers, for 
 below is written very faintly " Je n'ai pu faire le cercueil
 
 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD. 259 
 
 II me glace d'effroi." I could not draw the coffin ! It freezes 
 me with terror. 
 
 The day but one before her death, she again took up the 
 pencil and completed the design or rather gave the whole on 
 another sheet. The coffin was finished, and Cromwell was 
 gazing sternly and sorrowfully on the face of his beheaded 
 king. Below this sketch, these few faint pencilled lines were 
 discovered after her death : " mort ! il faut apprendre 
 t'envisager." Death! I must learn to look tliee in the face I 
 Was not this prophetical of the doom that was even then roll- 
 ing darkly behind her ? 
 
 There is another interesting circumstance connected with 
 this monument. A beloved aunt expired a few months pre- 
 vious to her own death, and she exercised her remarkable 
 taste in drawing, in designing a mausoleum in all the refine- 
 ment of taste and the lavishness of affection. This beloved 
 relative sleeps by her side, protected by the same monumental 
 temple. It is said that a relative in France bequeathed a 
 legacy to this unfortunate^ young girl, which the parents 
 received after death. This" bequest of thirty-five thousand 
 dollars, they have appropriated to the decoration of the spot 
 hallowed by her remains, to the composition of this poem 
 of the affections, this elegy of the heart, written in enduring 
 marble. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 WE conducted you to the tomb of Charlotte Candee. Do 
 you feel sufficient interest in her early doom, to linger near 
 the spot, and examine at your leisure its exquisite workman- 
 ship and symbolical decorations ? 
 
 This monument rises on a graceful mound, between three 
 gently undulating hills, where Greenbough Avenue intersects 
 the Tour. Six rows of marble steps entirely surround an ob- 
 long octagonal platform, whose granite slab forms the base of 
 the magnificent temple of Death. There are two niches. The 
 outer one formed with panels, ornamented with symbolic 
 flowers, fleurs-de-lys, significant of her French extraction, and 
 escutcheons, bearing her alliterative cipher, "C. C." The
 
 260 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 other is formed by two pilasters, their bases and capitals 
 being adorned with roses, lilies and acanthus leaves. All these 
 decorations constitute a splendid frame for the statue of the 
 young girl, which stands in the alcove. It represents her as 
 sinking under the burden of her destiny. Clouds are hover- 
 ing over her head, ready to wrap her, as with a mantle, and a 
 radiant star, piercing through their shade, directs the thoughts 
 to the immortality of which it is the emblem. 
 
 We have said before that she expired on her seventeenth 
 birth-day. This number, made sacred by her death, is pre- 
 served in all the emblems which surround her ashes. Seven- 
 teen marble vases are placed at regular intervals around the 
 tomb. In every vase there are seventeen flowers. Seventeen 
 rose-buds form the cipher of her name, which is surmounted 
 by a crown composed of seventeen stars. On each side of the 
 exterior niche rise two buttresses of the height of seventeen 
 feet above the granite stylobate. 
 
 Upon either side of the platform are two lofty pedestals of 
 granite, each supporting a figure with uplifted brow and prayer- 
 ful eyes, representing angels with outspread wings, guarding 
 the sacred dust of innocence and youth, or waiting to bear the 
 early-enfranchised spirit to its native heaven. It would be 
 impossible to go into a minute detail of all the minor adorn- 
 ments of this tomb. We gaze upon it with admiration, as a 
 costly work of art with sympathy, as the memorial of paren- 
 tal love with pity, as the last home of one young, lovely and 
 beloved. But the pure taste turns sated from such prodigality 
 of ornament and exuberance of expense, and rests upon some 
 simple obelisk or broken shaft, as the eye, dazzled with a gor- 
 geous display of colours, reposes on the soft and refreshing 
 green. The moral sense is pained by the useless expenditure 
 of a liberal legacy. In a few years, the disregarding elements 
 will deface this spotless marble, these Corinthian ornaments 
 will crumble away beneath the iron fingers of Time, and these 
 cold and mocking flowers mingle with the ashes of their frail 
 and lovely prototypes. We sigh at the thought of the coming 
 ruin, and wish a grief so sacred had received a more enduring 
 monument, some asylum for orphan innocence or suffering 
 indigence, whose blessings would have embalmed her memory, 
 whose prayers hallowed the place of her repose. 
 
 There is a beautiful monument on Battle Hill, near High- 
 land Avenue, erected to the memory of two brothers, who, 
 "lovely in their lives, in death were not divided." George
 
 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD. 261 
 
 and Albert Swan, natives of the "West, and inheritors of its 
 glowing energy and noble independence of character. George, 
 the elder, on his way to the University of Cambridge, Massa- 
 chusetts, was lost in the ill-fated Lexington, on that disastrous 
 night when a sudden wave of woe drowned so many hearts in 
 mourning. He went down into the dark water, in all the 
 bright hopes of youth and aspirations of manhood, like a silver 
 arrow shooting across a midnight sky, leaving no trace on the 
 darkness. Albert, the younger, started for the same classic 
 shades, but a deeper shade was waiting to envelope him. Ar- 
 rived at New York, he was arrested by sudden disease, where 
 he languished and died. A carved and massy base supports 
 two graceful fluted columns, which are twined together with a 
 marble garland of wreathing blossoms, a beautiful emblem of 
 the fraternal love which bound them in life and seems still to 
 unite them in death. 
 
 Do you see that stately obelisk, rising from the loftiest crown 
 of Battle Hill, one of the most elevated positions in the Ceme- 
 try, flashing its sun-silvered summit towards the Bay, where 
 the stately vessel and gallant boat are gliding, and the anchored 
 ship is resting, with its sails furled and its ropes dangling 
 around the mast ? 
 
 It is the Pilot's monument a beacon star, to which the 
 wrecking mariners may turn their straining eyes, in the hope 
 that another Freeborn, with generous heart and dauntless 
 spirit, may wrestle with the elements in their behalf and en- 
 deavour to save them from a watery grave. The Pilots of New 
 York reared this monumental structure in memory of Thomas 
 Freeborn, a brave and noble comrade, who perished by the 
 wreck of the John M in turn, which he had undertaken to con- 
 duct into port. Within sight of the Jersey shore, where she 
 was driven by a tremendous gale within sight and hail of a 
 multitude powerless to shield it from the fury of the storm 
 the gallant bark went down. Chilled by the wet, benumbed 
 by the cold, almost all on board perished before the final 
 catastrophe. 
 
 The hardy and self forgetting Pilot stood, in this hour of 
 mortal agony, in the midst of the blinding sleet and icy spray, 
 a sheet anchor, round which feebler frames and weaker spirits 
 clung. There he stood in his shirt sleeves, on which the 
 sleet had hung its glittering but deadly wreathes, covering 
 with his outer garments the shrinking, shivering, expiring, 
 female forms he sought to save by the sacrifice of his own
 
 262 THE PARADISE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 life. But though his "home was on the mountain wave, 
 his path upon the deep" fearless and brave though he was 
 he could not cope with the strength of ocean's God. 
 
 " The billows raged, 
 The Pilot's art was vain 
 
 O'er the tall mast the circling surges closed, 
 # The vessel plunged within a watery plain." 
 
 Hero of the ocean ! well dost thou merit this memorial of 
 gratitude and admiration. When thy bark was tossing upon 
 the waves of Jordan, a heavenly Pilot was at the helm, steer- 
 ing thee to the haven of everlasting repose. Thou art safe 
 from the tempests of life, no stormy winds sweep over the 
 sea of glass that laves the shores of the eternal land. Peace 
 to thee, gallant spirit ! a crown for thee, warrior of the deep ! 
 
 The monument is an embodiment of moral and emblematic 
 ideas. From a massive base there rises a square sarcophagus, 
 on which a ship's capstan is resting, with the cable which is 
 wrapped in winding coils around it, rent in twain. A broken 
 mast rises from the capstan. Hope, leaning on her anchor, 
 points to the blue and smiling skies. On the front of the 
 sarcophagus, the ocean, lashed into billows, bearing on its 
 bosom a shattered and sinking vessel, is represented in bas- 
 relief. 
 
 It is interesting to reflect, that the soil now hallowed by the 
 ashes of the hero, the statesman, and the scholar, whose graves 
 are clustering around us this spot, so peaceful, so solemn, 
 was once a battle-ground. In the valley, which extends from 
 the spot we have just indicated northwestwardly to the Bay, 
 the British forces under General Grant, and those of the 
 Americans commanded by Lord Stirling, first came in contact 
 on the 26th of August, 1776. Many a gallant soldier then 
 moistened with his blood the green sward which pillowed his 
 dying head and enriched the earth with the costliest libation 
 that ever was poured at the altar of liberty. No marble shaft 
 pointing to heaven commemorates their fate, but they have a 
 monument in every American heart, round which the garland 
 of memory blooms with undying verdure. 
 
 Do you observe that pyramidal, magnificent column towering 
 iH-:ir tulip Hill? It is grand ! it is majestic! worthy to be 
 the representative of the mighty element, whose power caused 
 its elevation. It is the Firemen's monument, and a statue of 
 one of these daring sons of fire surmounts the massy pillar,
 
 THE PARADISE OF X THE DEAD. 263 
 
 and looks down on ocean, hill, and plain. One arm encircles 
 a child, just rescued from the flames, still curling behind it, 
 his right hand grasps a trumpet. Around him, the swinging 
 engine-lantern, the wreath-crowned cap, the hook and ladder, 
 may all be seen, implements of relief, which the martyrs to 
 humanity, who slumber below, will never more make sub- 
 servient to their use. The Engineers of the New York Fire 
 Department erected this mausoleum to the memory of several 
 of their companions who perished in the flames, from which 
 they were endeavouring to rescue their fellow beings. Earth 
 hath Us part, the sea hath its part, the fire hath its part but 
 the earth, the sea, and the fire, will one day give up their dead, 
 and death and time be no more. 
 
 We would like to pause by every enclosure which the hand 
 of affection has guarded, by every memorial which love, or 
 memory, or gratitude has reared j but in this vast congregation 
 of tombs this cold and still, but eloquent and beautiful 
 marble band, assembled on the green battle-ground of death, 
 we can only select a few as companions and friends. There 
 is a large space at the right of the entrance appropriated to 
 the graves of the unambitious and lowly. These oblong hil- 
 locks, so green and symmetrical, with just the narrowest path 
 between, seemed to me the footprints of death left on the 
 heaving earth. Some simple and affecting memorials of love 
 marked these velvet-covered beds of clay. A kneeling angel 
 here an innocent lamb there. On one side a dove with 
 spreading pinions on the other a sleeping cherub all making 
 the place of graves beautiful to the eye and touching to the 
 heart. 
 
 How lovely is the morning ! A few white, fleecy clouds 
 are floating near the horizon, so softly, slowly, that even in 
 their very motion there is rest. Blue and radiant as the 
 heavens above, the broad, glorious Bay stretches yonder its 
 voluminous waters, glassing the Empire City in its sparkling 
 mirror. Wandering in this Paradise of the Dead, with its 
 marble spires, heaving upwards their symbolic crowns its 
 luxuriant shrubbery, odoriferous flowers, silver lakes, weeping 
 willows, softly murmuring fountains, melodious birds, and 
 sweetly solemn shades we feel oppressed by the deep loveli- 
 ness, the sublime quietude of the scene, and sigh under the 
 burden of unutterable thoughts. It seems sacrilege to speak 
 where the genius of everlasting silence appears to have lifted 
 up its marble throne. A gentle wind stirs the funereal foliage,
 
 264 THE PARADISE OP THE DEAD. 
 
 and wafts the fragrance of the grave-flowers in incense clouds 
 over the dead. We imagine we can hear the faint rustling of 
 invisible wings, mingling with the voice of the fountains and 
 the sighs of the gale. "We even fancy, as we look upward, 
 that we can see the silver glimmer of angel wings above the 
 white gliding vapours. The spirits of the dead may be hover- 
 ing near, and it seems that the happiness of Heaven itself 
 might be enhanced by the consciousness of the embalming 
 memories of earth. 
 
 We are about to leave these quiet, winding paths, for the 
 crowded thoroughfares of the great city ; but, before the gates 
 are closed, let us look around at that massy tomb on the right. 
 It is called the Reception Tomb, where the bodies of sti-angers 
 are deposited till their distant friends can claim their ashes 
 and bear them to kindred dust. An incident was related to 
 us, connected with this vault, which was thrillingly awful: 
 
 A gentleman brought his bride to this fashionable resort of 
 the Metropolitans. They wandered together through its charm- 
 ing avenues and leafy bowers, and at length passed by the 
 reception-tomb, whose marble doors were unfortunately open, 
 a stranger having just been deposited there. They stood on 
 the threshold, and looked, with mingled curiosity and dread, 
 into its dark and gloomy apartments. Laying his hand lightly 
 on her shoulder, he threatened sportively to enclose her there, 
 and thus rid himself of the new-made shackles that bound him. 
 With childish terror, she sprang from him, caught hold of the 
 door, which had a spring-lock, and which, obeying the impulse 
 she had unconsciously given it, closed suddenly upon her, pre- 
 cipitating her into the vault where the coflmed dead were laid. 
 We- dare not follow her there. By a strange fatality, the key 
 had been carried away by a gentleman who left that morning 
 for Xow York. It was hours before he was overtaken, or she 
 liberated from her awful prison-house. What were the reflec- 
 tions of her husband during this interval may be imagined ; 
 but one who could indulge in a light jest on such solemn 
 ground, and in the presence of such dread mementoes as that 
 open tomb disclosed, could not have the depth of feeling neces- 
 sary for the fulness of suffering. She was found as pallid and 
 nearly as insensible as her ghastly companions; and a long 
 and dangerous illness was the result of this act of conjugal 
 levity on the threshold of the subterranean mansion of death. 
 Whether she forgave her husband for her premature interment,
 
 THE PARADISE OP THE DEAD. 265 
 
 we do not know ; but we should think the cold atmosphere of 
 mortality must have at least chilled the warmth of wedded love. 
 
 Farewell, ye beautiful and solemn shades ! We look back 
 once more upon your sun-gilt monuments with glistening eyes. 
 We almost envy your tranquil inmates, silent city of the dead ! 
 We shrink from returning to the noise and tumult of the world, 
 the restlessness and strife of human passion. De^th, instead of 
 seeming the King of Terrors, wears the guise of an angel of 
 light. We think it would be sweet to lie down in those green 
 beds, near those still waters and flowering shrubs, after having 
 fathomed the great mystery of life. We would wish no proud 
 monument to mark the spot to the stranger's eye, no pompous 
 epitaph or studied elegy, mockeries of the grief that passeth 
 show. Sufficient for us if some hearts that loved us in life 
 should throb with tenderer remembrances at the mention of 
 our name; if some pure drops, not born of the earth-vapours, 
 should mingle with the twilight dews that glittered on our 
 grave. We would not presumptuously ask to be remembered 
 by the world, that wide wilderness, where the single leaf falls 
 unregarded to the ground ; but we would address to the few 
 in whose memory friendship is immortal, the words of one 
 whose lips are now closed with the hermetic seal of death : 
 
 " Oh ! mes amis, rappelez-vous quelquefois mes vers ; mon 
 ame y est empreinte." 
 
 Beautifully has Felicia Hemans breathed forth her yearnings 
 for remembrance in the hearts of her friends. Do not such 
 strains as these find a world-wide echo ? 
 
 " When will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 
 
 When will ye think of me ? 
 When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye, 
 At the sound of some olden melody, 
 When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
 When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream, 
 
 Then let it be. 
 tr 
 
 " Thus let my memory be with you, friends, 
 
 Thus ever think of me ; 
 Kindly and gently, but as of one 
 For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone, 
 As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
 As of a wanderer whose home is found, 
 So let it be." 
 
 134
 
 THE SEX OF THE SOUL. 
 
 THE question respecting the relative intellectual powers of 
 men and women, is one which has been often agitated, hut 
 never fully resolved. Nor can it be, till the laws which bind 
 society together are changed, and both sexes are subject to the 
 same mental discipline. In all ages of the world, there have 
 been instances of women, whose expansive minds have burst 
 through the shackles which prejudice and education have 
 bound around them, and rising above the standard of their 
 sex, have almost shamed by their rapid progress in knowledge, 
 the slower attainments of man. These, however, are only lu- 
 minous points, rendered more dazzling from the surrounding 
 dimness. "We have never read of a nation of women, tran- 
 scending or equalling the masculine sex in intellectual vigour, 
 for the general principles of education have never allowed this 
 equality, and the first rules impressed on the female mind are 
 those which bind it to a more limited and peculiar sphere. 
 
 Man is taught from his early boyhood, that he is the lord 
 of creation, formed to rule and command, not by the exertion 
 of brutal force, but by the powers of a godlike mind. The 
 mighty principle of ambition is awakened within him. The 
 great models of ancient days are placed before him. An un- 
 dying thirst for fame, an unquenchable fire is lighted up in 
 his breast. His eye waxes dim over the classic page, his cheek 
 grows pale over the midnight lamp. Yet his spirit faints 
 not. The dews of Castaly refresh his feverish lips, the gales 
 that are wafted from the groves of Academus fan his burning 
 brow. He comes forth from the shades of his closet, rich in 
 the love of other days, to take his station amid the high places 
 of the earth. 
 
 (266) 

 
 THE SEX OP THE SOUL. 267 
 
 He becomes the healer of disease, and day and night he is 
 called upon to mitigate the ills of suffering humanity, and to 
 arrest the mission of the Angel of Death. 
 
 He is the avenger of wrong, and while guilt trembles as 
 the breath of his eloquence sweeps over a listening throng, in- 
 nocence lifts her fair brow and blesses the vindicator of her 
 injured rights. 
 
 He is the minister of Almighty God : 
 
 1 Through him the violated law speaks out its thunders, 
 And through him, in strains as sweet as angels use, 
 The gospel whispers peace." 
 
 Surely, the mind engaged in such high pursuits, fixed on 
 such noble aims, must have its best and greatest powers called 
 into constant and powerful exercise. It has not time to in- 
 dulge in vanity, or frivolity, or inglorious weakness. Its 
 sphere is too vast, its objects too multiplied, its duties too 
 lofty and too commanding. 
 
 But what are too often the teachings of woman, from the 
 cradle of infancy to the bridal altar ? What motives are pre- 
 sented as the springs of her actions, what goal pointed out as 
 the boundary of her ambition ? Is she not taught to shine 
 and glitter, during the ephemeral season of youth and beauty 
 to devote her irredeemable time to the acquisition of the 
 lightest accomplishments to the costly adornment of her 
 person as if her frame were immortal rather than her mind, 
 her body imperishable instead of her soul ? Is she not educated 
 to consider the admiration of the other sex as the Alpha and 
 Omega of her existence, and that it is best obtained by the 
 possession of those airy graces, which fit her for the halls of 
 fashion, instead of the palaces of Eternity ? 
 V " If you chance to have any mental superiority," says a 
 father, addressing his daughters, in a work devoted to the 
 great principles of education, " be careful to conceal it from 
 the other sex, for Lian seldom forgives the intellectual superi- 
 ority of woman." 
 
 " The heart/' says a celebrated writer, " is the empire of 
 woman to man belongs the kingdom of the mind." 
 
 Thus, so far from having the high faculties of her soul called 
 into exercise, like man, she is even told to hold down the aspi- 
 rations of her intellect, which would spurn the bondage of 
 vanity and folly, rather than repel and alienate the being whom 
 she was created to charm. With such a different system of
 
 268 THE SEX OF THE SOUL. 
 
 education, it is impossible to measure out the exact quantum 
 of mind which belongs by the right of nature to either sex. 
 It is in vain to bring it down to the strict rules of mathema- 
 tical science. Mind, we verily believe, is of no sex. It is 
 the inspiration of the Almighty, the burning breath of incar- 
 nate Deity. 
 
 Mind is strengthened by use. The finest steel wears away 
 in time, under the hand of the artist, but mind is indestruct- 
 ible and defies the laws that govern material substances. It 
 is inexhaustible. The more you draw from the fountain, the 
 deeper and purer are the waters. Within its lowest deep, 
 there is a deep still lower, which no sounding line of thought 
 has ever fathomed. It is elastic, expansive, like the air we 
 breathe. Confine it, in too narrow a compass, it loses its life- 
 giving, life-sustaining principle. Remove the pressure, it 
 rises above the loftiest mountains, and flies beyond the farthest 
 seas. 
 
 Is not the mind of woman bounded by education, and com- 
 pressed by circumstances ? Let her overstep these limits, and 
 see of what she is capable. 
 
 Catharine of Russia, the second imperial Catharine, whose 
 overmastering ambition crushed every obstacle that opposed 
 her path to absolute dominion, completed a work, which even 
 Peter the Great had omitted in the scale of his mighty opera- 
 tions. It was a woman's hand which formed and presented a 
 code of laws for the government of that immense Empire 
 laws celebrated for their wisdom and justice, and preserved in 
 a golden vase, in the Imperial Academy at Petersburgh. 
 While her weak, degraded husband remained plunged in in- 
 glorious excesses, this modern Semiramis held the reins of 
 government with a firm, unshrinking hand, and devoted all 
 her energies to her own aggrandizement and the glory of the 
 nation. We speak not of the crimes that blackened, the shame 
 that crimsoned, her character. The question is the intellectual 
 power, not the moral purity of the sex : t > the last, the very 
 name of Catharine affixed a stain, which all the icy waters of 
 the northern seas could never efface. 
 
 Woman was not born to be a warrior. But when has manly 
 valour wrought more wonderous deeds, than were achieved by 
 Boadicea, Queen of ancient Britain ? Whether we see her 
 standing on an elevated ground, in full view of her oppressed 
 subjects, animating them by prospects of victory and ven- 
 geance, leaning on her spear, her long hair streaming like a 

 
 THE SEX OP THE SOUL. 269 
 
 war banner on the gale, or driving her triumphal chariot over 
 the bodies of the slain, we recognise the same warrior spirit, 
 that directs the whirlwind and rules the storm of destiny. 
 
 Nature never formed woman for the rude scenes of political 
 strife, but where in the bloody records of the French llevolu- 
 tion is there a name more illustrious than the undaunted 
 Roland, who stood boldly at her husband's side, avowing and 
 sustaining his sentiments at the hazard of her life, and when 
 that life was forfeited, willingly poured out her blood at the 
 shrine of that Liberty where she had worshipped with more 
 than Eastern idolatry ? 
 
 Woman was not formed to be the defender of the strong, 
 yet how often has her bosom been the shield of him, who is 
 called her guardian and her lord ? The forests of America are 
 hallowed by the memory of Pocohontas, who sheltered in her 
 arms the gallant Smith, and confronted the death-blow that 
 was destined to lay him low. 
 
 The mind of woman is thought incapable of grasping the 
 mighty volume of the abstract sciences. Among those who 
 might be cited as illustrious contradictions to this remark, the 
 name of Gabrielle de Chatelet is presented to the memory. 
 She was the fellow-student of Voltaire, and travelled with him 
 through the sublime mazes of philosophy, " unwound the 
 eternal dances of the sky," and wrote her name among the 
 stars, in characters of light, by the side of a Newton and a 
 Leibnitz. She studied the works of Newton, which are written 
 in Latin, " and the study of an abstract science in a dead 
 language," says her biographer, " requires no common powers 
 of mind." 
 
 We have brought forward these few examples to prove the 
 mental capabilities of woman, but we would not alter the 
 course marked out by Him, who directs the planets in their 
 brilliant paths, and preserves the eternal harmony of the spheres. 
 "There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the 
 moon," but they are both glorious, and both derive their glory 
 from the exhaustless fountain of uncreated light. Were wo- 
 man to leave her own, for man's more sun-like sphere, what 
 account can she render of her own neglected duties, her own 
 deserted orbit ? It is her hand which God appointed to trace 
 the first characters on man's unwritten mind, and woe be to 
 her, if there be imprinted there, aught that " is not lovely, 
 venerable, or of good report," aught that angels may not read, 
 or the eye of Infinite Purity survey.
 
 270 THE SEX OF THE SOUL. 
 
 The pilgrim, weary and panting beneath the rays of a sultry 
 sun, seats himself under the shade of a majestic oak and re- 
 joices in the shelter of its spreading branches, emblem of the 
 strength of man. The soft gale refreshes his fervid brow, and 
 he drinks of the dew from the flower-cup that blooms protected 
 by that mighty tree. The gale and the dew are emblems of 
 the gentleness and tenderness of woman. Yet in that gale 
 and dew are the elements of the tempest and the ocean, of 
 grandeur and power. But the strong wind and the beating 
 wave would oppress and endanger the weary pilgrim, instead 
 of refreshing and restoring him. 
 
 When the undeluged earth lay cold and still dripping from 
 its awful baptism, God sent forth a wind to dry its surface and 
 prepare it for a new vegetation. God sends forth his own 
 missionaries, and blessed are those who perform the work al- 
 lotted them by the Omniscient Taskmaster. The pilgrim rises 
 and pursues his solitary way, blessing God for the shadow of 
 the mighty oak, for the coolness of the gale and the sweet 
 falling of the dew. They are all the missionaries of Heaven. 
 
 But the robber lurks in the solitary way, and tLe hand of 
 violence is lifted against his life. The arm of the strong and 
 the brave comes between him and destruction, and the wounded 
 but protected is borne to the home of his preserver. There 
 the gentle hand of woman binds up his wounds, her mild 
 voice whispers comfort in his ear, and her soft steps linger 
 around his couch. 
 
 " Oh ! how beautiful," exclaims the pilgrim, " is the arrange- 
 ment of the works of Providence. The same power that 
 spread out the shadowing branches of the forest tree, gave to 
 man the arm of strength to strike down the oppressor in his 
 pride ; and the same mercy that filled with dew the chalice of 
 the forest flower, created woman with the pitying soul and 
 the healing hand, to bind up the wounds of sorrow and of 
 sin, and to smooth the path of the way-faring man through 
 the wilderness of life." 
 
 Is not the way-faring man the emblem of him who is going 
 on in his pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world, and 
 may we not exclaim with him " Oh ! bow beautiful and har- 
 monious is the arrangement of the works of Providence ?" 

 
 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 STEAMER WTNNTON, April 10, 1852. 
 
 THE bell is rung ; the plunging, heavy sound of the engine 
 is heard in the water ; the boat begins to thrill and shiver 
 like the hearts of parting friends, then, gliding out into the 
 river, dashes the spray from its paddle-wheels; white hand- 
 kerchiefs are seen waving from the shore ; the sunbeams are 
 reflected from faces turning with farewell glances toward the 
 receding boat; then the sunbeams fade, the shadow steals 
 over them, and the white gleam of the waving handkerchiefs 
 disappears, like the wing of a bird, cutting the sky. Farewell 
 to Columbus, Queen of the rushing Chattahoochee, home of 
 warm, generous hearts, of true and noble spirits. Strange 
 paradox ! we are leaving thee behind us, and yet bearing thee 
 away with us, an ever present and beloved companion. Thou 
 mayst be invisible to others, but thy image will ever rise before 
 our mental vision. 
 
 With immortality of memory fraught, 
 Space cannot fetter the unshackled will ; 
 High over forest, river, valley, still 
 
 Shall soar the free, untiring wings of thought. 
 
 Beautiful are the banks of the Chattahoochee, clothed it 
 their vernal garniture. The high, gray bluffs, crowned with 
 emerald diadems, with mantles of vine-work sweeping in the 
 breeze, the luxuriant clusters of ivy, giving here and there 
 a bright, delicate glow to the dark green shrubbery, the 
 scarlet woodbine, twining its blossoms of fire round the gray 
 old trunk of some blasted tree, all flashed on the eye, as we 
 hurried along, making us wish we had arms of India-rubber,
 
 272 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 
 
 that they might be stretched to the shore, and gather the wild 
 flowers that greeted us so lovingly with their fragrant breath. 
 The magnolia, fair queen of blossom trees, peeped through the 
 dense foliage, with its waxen white petals, and loaded the 
 river-breeze with its rich, oppressive odours. 
 
 At night, when the boat stopped for a freightage of cotton, 
 we sat on the boiler deck, and watched the massy bales as 
 they came tumbling down the steep bank, like so many huge 
 elephants without their trunks. The scene was wild and pic- 
 turesque. A lantern of light-wood, fastened by a rod to the 
 side of the boat, but appearing as if suspended from the over- 
 hanging pine boughs, threw a red, diffusive glare on the black 
 faces and scarlet-red jackets of the negroes, who were escorting 
 the cotton elephants down the banks, over the planks, and into 
 the vessel, with a roll and a bound that made it pulsate and 
 quake to its heart's core. It was astonishing to see with what 
 mathematical precision all this was done, in the midst of the 
 greatest apparent recklessness of motion, and disregard of dis- 
 tance and directness. Every bale leaped over the planks and 
 sprang into its appointed place, as if anxious to make way fur 
 its successor, which was already tearing through the low boughs 
 and raking over the ground, with another and another just 
 above it. It was not till we missed the lurid reflection of the 
 torch-light on the water, that we joined the party on the stern- 
 deck, where sweet female voices, accompanied by the soft thrill 
 of the guitar, floated over the dark river, and echoed from the 
 bluffs, now scarcely discoverable through the moonless night. 
 An occasional star flashed through the black smoke-wreath 
 coiling overhead, as if listening to the music warbling below. 
 
 Nothing can be more beautiful than the little cascades which 
 gush out from the rocky bluffs so suddenly and so mirthfully, 
 like joyous children rushing to see a pageant sweeping by. 
 There is one called the Roaring Sprint/, that, like a church 
 chi>ir, sings behind a curtain. The curtain is made of green 
 leaves, all lace-work; and the water-fall glances its silver- 
 bright eyes at the traveller, as it sings away, and the words of 
 its song have a chorus that sounds like 
 
 " Cheerily 0, cheerily !" 
 
 Certainly, the party on board was not composed of ice or 
 stone, incapable of perceiving or appreciating the beauties of 
 nature. At every cascade that bounded forward to look at us, 
 overy cluster of wild flowers that sent out its perfume ou the
 
 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 273 
 
 gale, every wild duck that skimmed over the water, or dived 
 sportively beneath it, ejaculations of admiration would pass 
 from lip to lip, and glances of rapture flash from eye to eye. 
 The gallant captain, too, who knows by heart every inch of 
 Chattahoochee's banks, would not suffer any object of interest 
 to pass without directing to it the attention of the admiring 
 traveller. We wish we could remember the Indian names he 
 told us, for they were so sweet and musical. 
 
 We passed one place, near Ochesee, which looked like 
 storied ground. It seemed to be an Indian mound, on which 
 were the ruins of an old hut, and a grave. But it was the 
 grave of a white man, once the solitary dweller of that ruined 
 hut. There was a wild-rose bush clambering round the old 
 frame-work, casting a gleam of bloom and beauty on its deso- 
 lation. That grave ! how sad and lone it looked by the way- 
 side ! how mournfully the water gurgled against the burial- 
 mound ! and how imagination wrote the history of the hermit 
 dead ! Perhaps all romance would die away in the presence 
 of reality, as it too often does. 
 
 The last bluff that beautifies the banks before you reach the 
 Bay is called the Old Woman's Bluff : why, it is difficult to 
 imagine, for it is very beautiful and majestic. No ! we are 
 mistaken; the beautiful and majestic bluff is named Alum 
 Bluff, and the one bearing the venerable feminine appellation 
 is a low, insignificant kind of ledge, that goes shuffling into 
 the level shore. As the shore flattens, the river widens, till 
 it gradually swells into the beautiful glassy bay on which 
 Apalachicola stands. 
 
 There is nothing in the appearance of the town to gratify 
 the eye of the stranger. It never could have possessed much 
 beauty; and the terrible gale of last August has given it a 
 worn and somewhat dilapidated appearance. But as you walk 
 into the town, and see some of the neat and tasteful habitations, 
 and continue your course on the neat walk, made of planks, 
 raised above the white, sparkling sand along the beach, catch- 
 ing glimpses all the time of the blue, serene water, the charm 
 of repose is on you, and you forget the dry, business look 
 which first greeted you. The hospitality and refinement of 
 the Apalachicolians are proverbial; and, short as was our 
 stay, we had abundant opportunity of proving the justice of 
 the reputation. One might have imagined the little cabin of 
 our boat a fashionable drawing-room, from the elegant guests 
 that assembled there.
 
 274 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 
 
 The next day, several young ladies and gentlemen from the 
 Bay accompanied our party to East Pass, distant about thirty 
 miles, where the British vessels lie at anchor, ready to dis- 
 charge their freight. It was a bright, blue, cloudless morning ; 
 and a waveless calm slept upon the face of the waters. We, 
 who had anticipated being tossed on the foaming billows, as 
 we approached the great Gulf, were sadly disappointed at the 
 deep tranquillity of the sea. We wanted to feel the majesty 
 of the sea-green element. We wanted to feel the union of 
 great strength with sublime beauty. But the sea-winds lay 
 with their banners furled, and the Bay smiled in one broad, 
 dazzling pomp of sunlight. A gay, happy party filled a barge, 
 and departed for a sandy island, that looked, in the distance, 
 like glistening silver, the Island of St. John, washed by 
 the mingling waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the Bay of 
 Apalachicola. But alas ! for those who were foolish enough 
 to be made sick by gazing on the unrippling surface of the 
 deep ; they were forced to follow with wistful eyes the grace- 
 fully-receding boat through the green jalousies of their state- 
 room, consoling themselves with the thought that some kind 
 voice might whisper to the listening ear, " I wish they were 
 here." 
 
 Away, away, like a thing of life, the little boat flew over 
 the smooth, glassy water, and the blue veils began to flutter, 
 and a soft yet exhilarating breeze curled the azure face of the 
 lower heaven. It was pleasant to hear the party, after their 
 return, tell of their walk on the silver sands of the beach, of 
 the stately, black pelicans, that looked so grand and Byronian, 
 and the charming conversations that waked the echoes of the 
 lonely isle. 
 
 In our next letter, we will endeavour to describe the crew 
 of the good ship Portland, and how they charmed us with 
 their jovial songs, while heaving their cargo into our rocking 
 boat. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 QUINCY, April 16, 1852. 
 
 SEATED on the boiler-deck, and feeling the exhilarating 
 influence of the rising sea-breeze, we watched the jolly tars
 
 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 275 
 
 of the Portland, while they transferred the sacks of salt with 
 which the ship was freighted to the charge of the Wynnton. 
 One would imagine this must be a very uninteresting process, 
 but music can lend enchantment to any scene and then it 
 was performed with real grace and spirit. There was one 
 man who seemed to direct the operations, short in stature, 
 with a broad, fat, good-natured face, who occupied a central 
 position, and pulled a rope with miyht and main. He wore 
 a white hat, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his 
 elbows, showing scarlet flannel undersleeves. The sailors, by 
 two and two, departing from him, their common centre, tugged 
 at their ropes, singing some wild melody with growing spirit, 
 and by the time they had reached the end of their rope, a 
 huge bag of salt emerged from the hull of the ship, then was 
 swung by one man to receive a strong impulse from another, 
 to pass from him to another, who stood on the very verge of 
 the vessel, and unhooking the sack from the noose that en- 
 circled it, gave it a toss on the inclined plane, on which it slid 
 down into the boat. This continued for hours, and all the 
 time they kept up their wild minstrelsy, and all the time we 
 gazed and listened with unabated interest, while the fresh 
 breeze curled the water and blew inspiringly round us. As the 
 boat departed, the sailors gave three loud, hearty cheers, to 
 which waving handkerchiefs responded, and it was not long 
 before Apalachicola appeared in sight, illuminated by the 
 cloudless rays of the setting sun. 
 
 Another delightful evening there, and homeicard bound, 
 the Wynnton went on its course rejoicing. The next morn- 
 ing there were clouds and heavy falling rains, accompanied 
 by the deep bass of the thunder and the vivid flash of the 
 lightning. But bright and clear was the social spirit within, 
 and music, poetry, and sentiment gave wings to passing hours. 
 We stopped at Ochesee, in " thunder, lightning, and in rain." 
 Ah ! when " shall we all meet again ?" we silently asked, as, 
 after bidding adieu to the delightful party which had accom- 
 panied us on our winding way, we climbed up the steep, wet 
 banks, not forgetting the magnolias and wild flowers which 
 gallant hands had gathered from the fragrant shores, crossed 
 a broad, grassy plain, and, ascending a long flight of steps in 
 front of Mr. G.'s mansion, looked back towards the friends 
 whose figures still lingered on deck, and whose countenances 
 beamed through the clouds and rain, with that sunshine of 
 the soul, brighter than the solar rays. We looked till the
 
 276 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 
 
 black smoke no longer darkened the sky the foaming wake 
 no longer divided the water. 
 
 There is but one house at the Ochesee Landing, owned and 
 occupied by Mr. Gr. one of the most industrious, energetic, 
 and thriving planters of Florida. The dwelling-house is lofty 
 raised so as to avoid the danger arising from an overflow- 
 ing river and its white walls look down comrnandingly on 
 the beautiful water-view in front. The negro cabins are also 
 white, as well as a noble gin-house on the right hand. A 
 rich, grassy-green carpet covers a smooth lawn, stretching 
 down to the river and spreading out on either side of the 
 building. But the glory of the place consists of the grand 
 old live-oaks, that stand side by side, gigantic twins, throwing 
 their mighty shadows far and wide, and extending towards 
 each other their hundred branching arms. What a history 
 might be read in those majestic trees ! Unchanging as the 
 ocean in their perennial verdure, they have witnessed ten 
 thousand mutations, themselves unchanged, and may witness 
 ten thousand more. 
 
 Hail, prophets of nature hail, beacons of time 
 Proud kings of the forest, ye're reigning sublime, 
 
 'Mid beauty, luxuriance, and bloom ; 
 The glories of nature have fled since your birth 
 The mighty been swept from the face of the earth 
 
 And the sun of the conqueror gone down. 
 
 But that Power, to whom nature and empires have bowed, 
 Who has robbed of their glory the mighty and proud, 
 
 Will prostrate your grandeur in dust ; 
 That power, who the changes of nature controls 
 Who can stay the dark ocean of time as it rolls 
 
 Eternal, Almighty, and Just. 
 
 As the ferry-boat at Aspalaga was out of order, we were 
 compelled to cross at Chattahoochee, adding about thirteen 
 miles to the distance between Ochesee and Quincy. Nothing 
 can be more gorgeously beautiful than the scenery on the 
 banks of the river which we followed for several miles. The 
 foliage of the trees was so rich and luxuriant ; such wild, 
 wanton vines clambered round the trunks ; the swamp-flowers 
 bloomed with such superabundant life and fragrance ; and 
 then the bright, yellow weed, that made such a golden carpet 
 for the trees, and the river rolling and glistening, and softly 
 murmuring along one side, with its sweet, glad smile of almost
 
 A TRIP TO THE BAY. 277 
 
 human loveliness; oh! it was magnificent charming, and, 
 to crown the whole, just over a gate which opened into a rich 
 plantation, two lofty trees, bending down, as if burdened by 
 their weight of leaves, interlaced their branches, and formed 
 a graceful and triumphal arch overhead. 
 
 Near the ferry at Chattahoocb.ee is the confluence of the 
 Chattahoochee and the Flint, and you can plainly distinguish 
 the darker, clearer waters of the latter, as they mingle with 
 the more turbid waves of the former. After crossing the 
 river, the ride through the pine woods is lonely and monoto- 
 nous, only at long intervals interrupted by signs of human 
 inhabitancy. At every step the ruins of the tremendous 
 August gale are visible. Les cadavres des arbrcs, as Chateau- 
 briand calls them corpses of trees, of gigantic pine trees, lie 
 piled upon each other, like fallen heroes on a battle plain 
 and the road is constantly making zigzag freaks, to avoid 
 desecrating these forest remains. 
 
 Just as the twilight shadows were beginning to steal over 
 the woods, we entered the beautiful and oak-embowered town 
 of Quincy. We had been told that the summer storm had 
 made fearful ravages here, but in the dense oaken groves and 
 among the magnificent shade trees which adorn and embosom 
 the place, we look in vain for the foot-prints of the angel of 
 the whirlwind. We can see, however, many proofs of its 
 visitation. Under the window by which we are seated, there 
 is an orange tree nearly twenty feet in height. The topmost 
 branches are all blighted and leafless ; only the lower boughs 
 retain their vitality. All the orange trees here are blasted 
 in their bloom, and the cultivation of years destroyed. 
 
 THE END.

 
 B8BKS HIT IBlYTmi Fill IF PISTAGl 
 
 BOOKS FOR EVERYBODY AT GREATLY REDUCED RATES, 
 
 PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE BY 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, 
 
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 [N THIS CATALOGUE WILL BE FOUND THE LATEST 
 
 AND BEST WORKS BY THE MOST POPULAR AND 
 
 CELEBRATED WRITERS IN THE WORLD. 
 
 AMONG WHICH WILL BE FOUND 
 
 fHARLES DICKENS'S, MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S, SIR E. L 
 BULWER'S, G. P. R. JAMES'S, ELLEN PICKERING'S, CAPTAIN 
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 SPECIAL NOTICE TO EVERYBODY. Any person whatever in this 
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 T. 3. PETERSON, 
 
 No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 
 
 HAS JUST PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE, 
 
 STEREOTYPE EDITIONS OF THE FOLLOWING WORKS, 
 
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 MRS, SOITTHWORTH'S Celebrated WORKS. 
 
 With a beautiful Illustration in each volume. 
 
 INDIA. THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. 
 Southworth. This is her new work, and is equal to any of her 
 previous ones. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover. Price 
 One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1,25. 
 
 THE MISSING BRIDE; OR, MIRIAM THE AVENGER. By Mrs. 
 Emn? D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. 
 Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1,25. 
 
 THE LOST HEIRESS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Being a 
 Splendid Picture of American Life. It is a work of powerful interest. 
 It is embellished with a beautiful Portrait and Autograph of the 
 author. Complete in two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or 
 bound in one volume, cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE WIFE'S VICTORY; AND NINE OTHER NOUVELLETTES. By 
 Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper 
 cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1,25. 
 
 THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 
 Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound 
 in one volume, cloth, gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. South- 
 worth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
 or bound in cloth, gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Com- 
 plete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or bound in 
 one volume, cloth, gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE INITIALS. A LOVE STORY OF MODERN LIFE. By a daugh- 
 ter of the celebrated Lord Erskine, formerly Lord High Chancellor 
 of England. This is a celebrated and world-renowned work. It is 
 one of the best works ever published in the English language, and 
 will be read for generations to come, and rank by the side of Sir 
 Walter Scott's celebrated novels. Complete in two volumes, paper 
 cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, gflt, for 
 One Dollar and Twenty-five cents a copy.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 3 
 CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 The best and most popular in the world. Ten different editions. No 
 
 Library can be complete without a Sett of these Works. 
 
 .Reprinted from the Authors last Editions. 
 
 "PETERSON'S" is the only complete and uniform edition of Charles 
 Dickens' works published in America; they are reprinted from the original 
 London editions, and are now the oiily edition published in this country. 
 No library, either public or private, can be complete without having in it 
 a complete sett of the works of this, the greatest of all living authors. 
 Every family should possess a sett of one of the editions. The cheap 
 edition is complete in Twelve Volumes, paper cover; either or all of which 
 can be had separately. Price Fifty cents each. The following are their 
 names. 
 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD, DICKENS' NEW STORIES. Con- 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, taining; The Seven Poor Travellers. 
 
 PICKWICK PAPERS, Nine New Stories by the Christmas 
 
 DOMBEY AND SOX, Fire. Hard Times. Lizzie Leigh. 
 
 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, The Miner's Daughters, etc. 
 
 BARNABY RUDGE, CHRISTMAS STORIES. Contain- 
 
 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, ing A Christmas Carol. The 
 
 SKETCHES BY "BOZ," Chimes. Cricket on the Hearth. 
 
 OLIVER TWIST Battle of Life. Haunted Man, and 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, Pictures from Italy. 
 
 A complete sett of the above edition, twelve volumes in all, will be e-ynt 
 to any one to any place, free of postage, for Five Dollars. 
 
 COMPLETE LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 In FIVE large octavo volumes, with a Portrait, on Steel, of Charles 
 Dickens, containing over Four Thousand very large pages, handsomely 
 printed, and bound in various styles. 
 Volume 1 contains Pickwick Papers and Curiosity Shop. 
 
 " 2 do. Oliver Twist, Sketches by " Boz," and Barnaby Rudge. 
 
 3 do. Nicholas Nickleby and Martin Chuzzlewit 
 
 " 4 do. David Copper-field, Dombey and Son, Christmas Stories, 
 
 and Pictures from Italy. 
 
 " 5 do. Bleak House, and Dickens' New Stories. Containing 
 The Seven Poor Travellers. Nine New Stories 
 by the Christmas Fire. Hard Times. Lizzie 
 Leigh. The Miner's Daughters, and Fortune 
 Wildrod, etc. 
 
 Price of a complete sett. Bound in Black cloth, full gilt back, $7 50 
 " scarlet cloth, extra, 8 50 
 
 library sheep, 9 00 
 
 " half turkey morocco, 11 00 
 
 " half calf, antique, 1* 00 
 
 ^f Ultutrated Edition it deteribed on next page. *8S^ 
 "
 
 4 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 This edition is printed on very thick and fine white paper, and is pro- 
 fusely illustrated, with all the original illustrations by Cruikshank, Alfred 
 Crowquill, Phiz, etc., from the original London edition, on copper, steel, 
 and wood. Each volume contains a novel complete, and may be had in 
 complete setts, beautifully bound in cloth, for Eighteen Dollars for the 
 sett in twelve volumes, or any volume will be sold separately, as follows : 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, Price, $1 50 
 PICKWICK PAPERS, 1 50 
 
 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 1 50 
 OLIVER TWIST, 1 50 
 
 SKETCHES BY "BOZ," 1 50 
 BARNABY RUDGE, 1 50 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, $1 50 
 
 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD, 
 DOMBEY AND SON, 
 CHRISTMAS STORIES, 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES, 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve 
 
 vols., in black cloth, gilt back, $18,00 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve 
 
 vols., in full law library sheep, $24,00 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated edition, in twelve 
 
 Tols., in half turkey Morocco, $27,00 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve 
 
 Tols., in half calf, antique, $36,00 
 
 All subsequent works by Charles Dickens will be issued in uniform style with 
 all the previous ten different editions. 
 
 CAPTAIN MARRYATT'S WORKS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price of all except the four last 
 is 25 cents each. They are printed on the finest white paper, and each 
 forms one large octavo volume, complete in itself. 
 
 PETER SIMPLE. NAVAL OFFICER. 
 
 JACOB FAITHFUL. PIRATE AND THREE CUTTERS. 
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. SNARLEYYOW ; or, the Dog-Fiend. 
 
 MIDSHIPMAN EASY. PERCIVAL KEENE. Price 50 cts. 
 
 KING'S OWN. POOR JACK. Price 50 cents. 
 
 NEWTON FORSTER. SEA KING. 200 pages. Price 50 
 
 JAPHET IN SEARCH OF cents. 
 
 A FATHER. VALERIE. His last Novel. Price 
 
 PACHA OF MANY TALES. 50 cents. 
 
 ELLEN PICKERING'S NOVELS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are 
 printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, 
 complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover. 
 
 THE ORPHAN NIECE. THE HEIRESS. 
 
 KATE WALSINGHAM. PRINCE AND PEDLER. 
 
 THE POOR COUSIN. MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ELLEN WAREHAM. THE FRIGHT. 
 
 THE QUIET HUSBAND. NAN DARRELL. 
 
 WHO SHALL BE HEIR? THE SQUIRE. 
 
 THE SECRET FOE. THE EXPECTANT. 
 
 AGNES SERLE. THE GRUMBLER. 50 cts.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 5 
 MRS, CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS 
 OF AMERICAN LIFE. With a Portrait of the Author. Complete 
 in two large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one 
 volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE. With illustrations. Com- 
 plete in two large volumes, paper cover, 600 pages, price One Dollar, 
 or hound in one volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. Com- 
 plete in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one 
 volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 ROBERT GRAHAM. The Sequel to, and continuation of Linda. Be- 
 ing the last book but one that Mrs. Hentz wrote prior to her death. 
 Complete in two large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or 
 bound in one volume, for cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 EENA ; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life. Complete in two 
 volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, 
 cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 MARCUS WARLAND ; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. A Tale of 
 the South. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, 
 or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE ; and other Stories. Complete in two vol- 
 umes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth 
 gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 EOLINE ; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE. Complete in two volumes, paper 
 cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25. 
 
 THE BANISHED SON; and other Stories. Complete in two volumes, 
 paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25. 
 
 HELEN AND ARTHUR. Comp'ete in two volumes, paper cover, price 
 One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25. 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP BAG, together with large additions to it, 
 written by Mrs. Hentz, prior to her death, and never before published 
 in any other edition of this or any other work than this. Complete in 
 two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, 
 cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 T, S. ARTHUR'S WORKS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are 
 the most moral, popular and entertaining in the world. There are no 
 better books to place in the hands of the young. All will profit by them. 
 
 YEAR AFTER MARRIAGE. TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 THE DIVORCED WIFE. THE ORPHAN CHILDREN. 
 
 THE BANKER'S WIFE. THE DEBTOR'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 PRIDE AND PRUDENCE. INSUBORDINATION. 
 
 CECILIA HOWARD. LUCY SANDFORD. 
 
 MARY MORETON. AGNES, or the Possessed. 
 
 LOVE IN A COTTAGE. THE TWO BRIDES. 
 
 LOVE IN HIGH LIFE. THE IRON RULE. 
 
 THE TWO MERCHANTS. THE OLD ASTROLOGER. 
 
 LADY AT HOME. THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 % .*
 
 6 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 CHARLES LEVER'S NOVELS. 
 
 CHARLES O'MALLEY, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume of 324 pages. Price Fifty cents; or 
 an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One 
 Dollar. 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE. A tale of the time of the Union. By 
 Charles Lever. Complete in one fine octavo volume. Price Fifty 
 cents ; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. 
 Price One Dollar. 
 
 JACK HINTON, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever. Complete in one 
 large octavo volume of 400 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an edition 
 on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 TOM BURKE OF OURS. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large 
 octavo volume of 300 pages. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition on 
 finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 A.RTHUR O'LEARY. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition on finer paper, bound in 
 cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 KATE O'DONOGHUE. A Tale of Ireland. By Charles Lever. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition 
 on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON, By Charles Lever. This is Lever's New 
 Book. Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents ; or 
 an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 HARRY LORREQUER. By Charles Lever, author of the above seven 
 works. Complete in one octavo volume of 402 pages. Price Fifty 
 cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price 
 One Dollar. 
 
 VALENTINE VOX. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF VALENTINE 
 ; VOX, the Ventriloquist. By Henry Cockton. One of the most 
 
 humorous books ever published. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition on 
 
 finer paper, bound in cloth. Price One Dollar. 
 PERCY EFFINGHAM. By Henry Cockton, author of " Valentine Vox, 
 
 the Ventriloquist." One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 
 TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. By Samuel C. Warren. With Portraits 
 
 of Snap, Quirk, Gammon, and Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq. Two large 
 
 octavo vols., of 547 pages. Price One Dollar; or an edition on finer 
 
 paper, bound in cloth, $1,50. 
 
 CHARLES J. PETERSON'S WORKS. 
 
 KATE AYLESFORD. A story of the Refugees. One of the most popu- 
 lar books ever printed. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover. 
 Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, gilt. Price $1 25. 
 
 CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR. A Naval Story ol the War of 1812. 
 
 First and Second Series. Being the complete work, unabridged. By 
 
 Charles J. Peterson. 228 octavo pages. Price 50 cents. 
 GRACE DUDLEY; OR, ARNOLD AT SARATOGA. By Charles J. 
 
 Peterson. Illustrated. Price 25 cents. 
 THE VALLEY FARM; OR, the AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN OR. 
 
 PHAN. A companion to Jane Eyre. Price 25 cents.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 7 
 EUGENE SUE'S NOVELS. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS; AND GEROLSTEIN, the Sequel to it. 
 By Eugene Sue, author of the "Wandering Jew," and the greatest 
 work ever written. With illustrations. Complete in two large volumes 
 octavo. Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATED WANDERING JEW. By Eugene Sue. With 
 87 large illustrations. Two large octavo volumes. Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE FEMALE BLUEBEARD; or, the Woman with many Husbands 
 By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. A Story of the Heart. By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty. 
 five cents. 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. A Novel. By Eugene Sue. Illustrated. Price 
 Twenty-five cents. 
 
 MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN. A Tale of the Sea. By Eugene Sue. Price 
 Twenty-five cents. 
 
 RAOUL DE SURVILLE; or, the Times of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1810. 
 Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 SIR E. L. BULWER'S NOVELS. 
 
 FALKLAND. A Novel. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, author of " The Roue," 
 
 " Oxonians," etc. One volume, octavo. Price 25 cents. 
 THE ROUE; OR THE HAZARDS OF WOMEN. Price 25 cents. 
 THE OXONIANS. A Sequel to the Roue. Price 25 cents. 
 CALDERON, THE COURTIER. By Bulwer. Price 12i cents. 
 
 MRS. GREY'S NOVELS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are 
 printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, 
 complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover. 
 
 DUKE AND THE COUSIN. THE YOUNG PRIMA DONNA. 
 
 GIPSY'S DAUGHTER. THE OLD DOWER HOUSE. 
 
 BELLE OF THE FAMILY. HYACINTHE. 
 
 SYBIL LENNARD. ALICE SEYMOUR. 
 
 THE LITTLE WIFE. HARRY MONK. 
 
 MANOEUVRING MOTHER. MARY SE/ HAM. 250 pages. 
 LENA CAMERON; or, the Four Price 50 cents. 
 
 Sisters. PASSION AND PRINCIPLE 
 THE BARONET'S DAUGHTERS. 200 pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 GEORGE W. M. REYNOLD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE NECROMANCER. A Romance of the times of Henry the Eighth. 
 
 By G. W. M. Reynolds. One large volume. Price 75 cents. 
 THE PARRICIDE ; OR, THE YOUTH'S CAREER IN CRIME. By 
 
 G. W. M. Reynolds. Full of beautiful illustrations. Price 50 cents. 
 LIFE IN PARIS: OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALFRED DE ROSANN 
 
 IN THE METROPOLIS OF FRANCE. By G. W. M. Reynold*. 
 
 Full of Engravings. Price 50 cents. 

 
 8 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 AINSWORTH'S WORKS, 
 
 JACK SHEPPARD. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF 
 JACK SHEPPARD, the most noted burglar, robber, and jail breaker, 
 that ever lived. Embellished with Thirty-nine, full page, spirited 
 Illustrations, designed and engraved in the finest style of art, by 
 George Cruikshank, Esq., of London. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED TOWER OF LONDON. With 100 splendid engravings. 
 This is beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever 
 published in the known world, and can be read and re-read with 
 pleasure and satisfaction by everybody. We advise all persons to 
 get it and read it. Two volumes, octavo. Price One Dollar. 
 
 PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF GUY FAWKES, Th 
 
 Chief of the Gunpowder Treason. The Bloody Tower, etc. Illustrated 
 
 By William Harrison Ainsworth. 200 pages. Price Fifty cents. 
 THE STAR CHAMBER. An Historical Romance. By W. Harrison 
 
 Ainsworth. With 17 large full page illustrations. Price 50 cents. 
 THE PICTORIAL OLD ST. PAUL'S. By William Harrison Ainsworth. 
 
 Full of Illustrations. Price Fifty cents. 
 MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE. By William 
 
 Harrison Ainsworth. Price Fifty cents. 
 MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF THE STUARTS. By Ainsworth. 
 
 Being one of the most interesting Historical Romances ever written. 
 
 One large volume. Price Fifty cents. 
 DICK TURPIN. ILLUSTRATED LIFE OF DICK TURPIN, the 
 
 Highwayman, Burglar, Murderer, etc. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 HKNRY THOMAS. LIFE OF HARRY THOMAS, the Western Burglar 
 
 and Murderer. Full of Engravings. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 DKSPERADOES. ILLUSTRATED LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP 
 
 THE DESPERADOES OF THE NEW WORLD. Full of engravings. 
 
 Price Twenty-five cents. 
 NJSON DE L'ENCLOS. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NINON 
 
 DE L'ENCLOS, with her Letters on Love, Courtship and Marriage. 
 
 Illustrated. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 THE PICTORIAL NEWGATE CALENDAR ; or the Chronicles of Crime. 
 
 Beautifully illustrated with Fifteen Engravings. Price Fifty cents. 
 PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF DAVY CROCKETT. 
 
 Written by himself. Beautifully illustrated. Price Fifty cents. 
 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR SPRING, the murderer of 
 
 Mrs. Ellen Lynch and Mrs. Honora Shaw, with a complete history of 
 
 his life and misdeeds, from the time of his birth until he was hung. 
 
 Illustrated with portraits. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 JACK ADAMS. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK 
 ADAMS; the celebrated Sailor and Mutineer. By Captain Chamier, 
 author of " The Spitfire." Full of illustrations. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 GRACE O'MALLEY. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP 
 GRACE O'MALLEY. By William H. Maxwell, author of " Wild 
 Sports in the West." Price Fifty cents. 
 
 THE PIRATE'S SON. A Sea Novel of great interest Full of beautiful 
 illustration e. Price Twenty-five cents.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 9 
 ALEXANDRE DUMAS' WORKS. 
 
 THE IRON MASK, OR THE FEATS AND ADVENTURES OF 
 EAOULB DE BRAGELONNE. Being the conclusion of "The 
 Three Guardsmen," " Twenty Years After," and ' Bragelonne." By 
 Alexandre Dumas. Complete in two large volumes, of 420 octavo 
 pages, with beautifully Illustrated Covers, Portraits, aud Eugravino-s. 
 Price One Dollar. 
 
 LOUISE LA VALLIERE; OR THE SECOND SERIES AND FINAL 
 END OF THE IRON MASK. By Alexandre Dumas. This work 
 is the final end of ''The Three Guardsmen," " Twenty Years After," 
 " Bragelonne," and "The Iron Mask," and is of far more interesting 
 and absorbing interest, than any of its predecessors. Complete in 
 two large octavo volumes of over 400 pages, printed on the best of 
 paper, beautifully illustrated. It also contains correct Portraits of 
 " Louise La Valliere," and " The Hero of the Iron Mask." Price One 
 Dollar. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN; OR THE SECRET HISTORY OF 
 LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH. By Alexandre Dumas. It is beautifully 
 embellished with thirty engravings, which illustrate the principal 
 scenes and characters of the different heroines throughout the work. 
 Complete in two large octavo volumes. Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE : OR THE SECRET HISTORY OF THK 
 COURT OF LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH. A Sequel to the Memoirs 
 of a Physician. By Alexandre Dumas. It is beautifully illustrated 
 with portraits of the heroines of the work. Complete in two lar b o 
 octavo volumes of over 400 pages. Price One Dollar. 
 
 SIX YEARS LATER; OR THE TAKING OF THE BASTILE. By 
 Alexandre Durnas. Being the continuation of "The Queen's Neck- 
 lace; or the Secret History of the Court of Louis the Sixteenth," and 
 "Memoirs of a Physician." Complete in one large octavo volume. 
 Price Seventy-five cents. 
 
 COUNTESS DE CHARNY; OR THE FALL OF THE FRENCH 
 MONARCHY. By Alexandre Dumas. This work is the final con- 
 clusion of the "Memoirs of a Physician," "The Queen's Necklace," 
 and " Six Years Later, or Taking of the Bastile." All persons who 
 have not read Dumas in this, his greatest and most instructive pro- 
 duction, should begin at once, and no pleasure will bo found so 
 agreeable, and nothing in novel form so useful and absorbing. Com- 
 plete in two volumes, beautifully illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 DIANA OF MERIDOR; THE LADY OF MONSOREAU; or France in 
 the Sixteenth Century. By Alexandre Dumas. An Historical Ro- 
 mance. Complete in two large octavo volumes of 538 pages, witfc 
 numerous illustrative engravings. Price One Dollar. 
 
 ISABEL OF BAVARIA ; or the Chronicles of France for the reign of 
 Charles the Sixth. Complete in one fine octavo volume of 211 pages, 
 printed on the finest white paper. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 EDMOND DANTES. Being the sequel to Dumas' celebrated novel of 
 the Count of Monte Cristo. With elegant illustrations. Complete in 
 one large octavo volume of over 200 pages. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 THE CORSICAN BROTHERS. This work has already been dramatized, 
 and is now played in all the theatres of Europe and in this country, 
 and it is exciting an extraordinary interest. Price Twenty-five cent*.
 
 10 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 ALEXANDRE DUMAS' WORKS. 
 
 SKETCHES IN FRANCE. By Alexandra Dumas. It is as good a 
 book as Thackeray's Sketches in Ireland. Dumas never wrote a 
 better book. It is the most delightful book of the season. Price 
 Fifty cents. 
 
 6ENEVIEVE, OR THE CHEVALIER OF THE MAISON ROUGE. 
 By Alexandre Dumas. An Historical Romance of the French Revo- 
 lution. Complete in one large octavo volume of over 200 pages, 
 with numerous illustrative engravings. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS; or, Legends of the American 
 Revolution. Complete in two large octavo volumes of 638 pages, 
 printed on the finest white paper. Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. A Romance of 
 Philadelphia Life, Mystery and Crime. Illustrated with numerous 
 Engravings. Complete in two large octavo volumes of 500 pages. 
 Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE LADTE OF ALBARONE; or, the Poison Goblet A Romance of 
 the Dark Ages. Lippard's Last Work, and never before published. 
 Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Seventy-five cents. 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM ; the Monk of Wissahiekon. A Romance of the 
 Revolution. Illustrated with numerous engravings. Complete in 
 two large octavo volumes, of nearly 600 pages. Price One Dollar. 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, September the Eleventh, 1777. A 
 Romance of the Poetry, Legends, and History of the Battle of Brandy- 
 wine. It makes a large octavo volume of 350 pages, printed on the 
 finest white paper. Price Seventy-five cents, 
 
 LEGENDS OF MEXICO; or, Battles of General Zachary Taylor, late 
 President of the United States. Complete in one octavo volume of 
 128 pages. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE NAZARENE; or, the Last of the Washington. A Revelation of 
 Philadelphia, New York, and Washington, in the year 1844. Coui- 
 plete in one volume. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 B. DISRAELI'S NOVELS. 
 
 VIVIAN GREY. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. Complete in one large ocUvo 
 volume of 225 pages. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 THE YOUNG DUKE ; or the younger days of George the Fourth. By 
 B. D'Israeli, M. P. One octavo volume. Price Thirty-eight cents. 
 
 VENETIA; or, Lord Byron and his Daughter. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. 
 Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 HENRIETTA TEMPLE. A Love Story. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 CONTARINA FLEMING. An Autobiography. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. 
 
 One volume, octavo. Price Thirty-eight cents. 
 MIRIAM ALROY. A Romance of the Twelfth Century. By B. D'Israeli, 
 
 M. P. One volume octavo. Price Thirty-eight ce'nts.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 11 
 EMERSON BENNETT'S WORKS, 
 
 CLARA MORELAND. This is a powerfully written romance. The 
 characters are boldly drawn, the plot striking, the incidents rcplcto 
 with thrilling interest, and the language and descriptions natural and 
 graphic, as are all of Mr. Bennett's Works. 33ti pages. Price 50 
 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in cloth, gilt. 
 
 VIOLA; OR, ADVENTURES IN THE FAR SOUTH-WEST. Com- 
 plete in one large volume. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents 
 in cloth, gilt. 
 
 THE FORGED WILL. Complete in one large volume, of over 300 
 pages, paper cover, price 50 cents ; or bound in cloth, gilt, price $1 00. 
 
 KATE CLARENDON ; OR, NECROMANCY IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt. 
 
 BRIDE OF THE WILDERNESS. Complete in one large volume. 
 
 Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt. 
 THE PIONEER'S DAUGHTER; and THE UNKNOWN COUNTESS. 
 
 By Emerson Bennett. Price 50 cents. 
 HEIRESS OF BELLEFONTE ; and WALDE-WARREN. A Tale of 
 
 Circumstantial Evidence. By Emerson Bennett. Price 50 cents. 
 
 ELLEN NORBURY; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN ORPHAN. 
 Complete in one large volume, price 50 cents in paper cover, or in 
 cloth gilt, $1 00. 
 
 MISS LESLIE'S NEW COOK BOOK. 
 
 MISS LESLIE'S NEW RECEIPTS FOR COOKING. Comprising new 
 and approved methods of preparing all kinds of soups, fish, oysters, 
 terrapins, turtle, vegetables, meats, poultry, game, sauces, pickles, 
 sweet meats, cakes, pies, puddings, confectionery, rice, Indian meal 
 preparations of all kinds, domestic liquors, perfumery, remedies, 
 laundry-work, needle-work, letters, additional receipts, etc. Also, 
 list of articles suited to go together for breakfasts, dinners, and sup- 
 pers, and much useful information and many miscellaneous subjects 
 connected with general house-wifery. It is an elegantly printed duo- 
 decimo volume of 520 pages; and in it there will be found One Thou- 
 sand and Eleven new Receipts all useful some ornamental and all 
 invaluable to every lady, miss, or family in the world. This work has 
 had a very extensive sale, and many thousand copies have been sold, 
 and the demand is increasing yearly, being the most complete work 
 of the kind published in the world, and also the latest and best, a*, 
 in addition to Cookery, its receipts for making cakes and confec- 
 tionery are unequalled by any other work extant. New edition, en- 
 larged and improved, and handsomely bound. Price One Dollar a 
 copy only. This is the only now Cook Book by Miss Leslie. 
 
 GEORGE SANDS' WORKS. 
 
 FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. A True Love Story. By George Sand, 
 author of ' Consuelo," " Indiana," etc. It is one of the most charm- 
 ing and interesting works ever published. Illustrated. Price 51. cenU. 
 
 INDIANA. By George Sand, author of " First and True Lore." eto. 
 A very bewitching and interesting work. Price 50 ceuta. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. A Venetian Tale. Price 25 cents.
 
 12 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 
 
 WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY BARLEY AND OTHERS, 
 
 AND BEAUTIFULLY ILLUMINATED COVERS. 
 
 We have just published new and beautiful editions of the following 
 HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. They are published in the best 
 possible style, full of original Illustrations, by Barley, descriptive of all the 
 best scenes in each work, with Illuminated Covers, with new and beautiful 
 designs on each, and are printed on the finest and best of white paper. 
 There are no works to compare with them in point of wit and humor, in 
 the whole world. The price of each work is Fifty cents only. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING ARE THE NAMES OF THE WORKS. 
 
 MAJOR JONES' COURTSHIP : detailed, with other Scenes, Incidents, 
 and Adventures, in a Series of Letters, by himself. With Thirteen 
 Illustrations from designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 DRAMA IN POKERVILLE: the Bench and Bar of Jurytown, and 
 
 other Stories. By "Everpoint," (J. M. Field, of the St. Louis 
 
 Reveille.) With Illustrations from designs by Darley. Fifty cents. 
 CHARCOAL SKETCHES ; or, Scenes in the Metropolis. By Joseph C. 
 
 Neal, author of " Peter Ploddy," " Misfortunes of Peter Faber," etc. 
 
 With Illustrations. Price Fifty cents. 
 YANKEE AMONGST THE MERMAIDS, and other Waggeries and 
 
 Vagaries. By W. E. Burton, Comedian. With Illustrations by 
 
 Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 MISFORTUNES OF PETER FABER, and other Sketches. By the 
 
 author of "Charcoal Sketches." With Illustrations by Darley and 
 
 others. Price Fifty cents. 
 MAJOR JONES' SKETCHES OF TRAVEL, comprising the Scenes, 
 
 Incidents, and Adventures in his Tour from Georgia to Canada. 
 
 With Eight Illustrations from Designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 STREAKS OF SQUATTER LIFE, and Far West Scenes. A Series of 
 
 humorous Sketches, descriptive of Incidents and Character in the 
 
 Wild West. By the author of "Major Jones' Courtship," " Swallow. 
 
 ing Oysters Alive," etc. With Illustrations from designs by Darley. 
 
 Price Fifty cents. 
 QUARTER RACE IN KENTUCKY, AND OTHER STORIES. By 
 
 W. T. Porter, Esq., of the New York Spirit of the Times. With 
 
 Eight Illustrations and designs by Darley. Complete in one volume. 
 
 Price Fifty cents. 
 SIMON SUGGS. ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SIMON SUGGS, late 
 
 of the Tallapoosa Volunteers, together with "Taking the Census," 
 
 and other Alabama Sketches. By a Country Editor. With a Portrait 
 
 from Life, and Nine other Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 RIVAL BELLES. By J. B. Jones, author of "Wild Western Scenes," 
 
 etc. This is a very humorous and entertaining work, and one that 
 
 will be recommended by all after reading it Price Fifty cents. 

 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 13 
 HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 
 
 YANKEE YARNS AND YANKEE LETTERS. By Sam Slick, alias 
 Judge Haliburtuu. Full of the drolle.-t humor that ha? ever emanated 
 from the pen of any author. Every page will set you in a roar. 
 Price Fifty cents. 
 
 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF COL. VAXDERBOMB, AND THE 
 EXPLOITS OF HIS PRIVATE SECRETARY. By J. B. Jones, 
 author of " The Rival Belles," " Wild Western Scenes," etc. Price 
 Fifty cents. 
 
 BIG BEAR OF ARKANSAS, and other Sketches, illustrative of Charac- 
 ters and Incidents in the South and South-West. Edited by Win. T. 
 Porter. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 MAJOR JONES' CHRONICLES OF PINEVILLE; embracing Sketches 
 of Georgia Scenes, Incidents, and Characters. By the author of 
 "Major Jones' Courtship," etc. With Illustrations by Darley. Price 
 Fifty cents. 
 
 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF PERCIVAL MABERRY. By J. H. 
 Ingraham. It will interest and please everybody. All who enjoy a 
 good laugh should get it at once. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 FRANK FORESTER'S QUORXDOX HOUNDS; or, A Virginian at 
 Melton Mowbray. By H. W. Herbert, Esq. With Illustrations. 
 Price Fifty cents. 
 
 PICKINGS FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF THE REPORTER OF THE 
 "NEW ORLEANS PICAYUNE." Comprising Sketches of the 
 Eastern Yankee, the Western Hoosier, and such others as make up 
 society in the great Metropolis of the South. With Illustrations by 
 Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 FRANK FORESTER'S SHOOTING BOX. By the author of "The 
 Quorndon Hounds," " The Deer Stalkers," etc. With Illustrations by 
 Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 STRAY SUBJECTS ARRESTED AND BOUND OVER; being the 
 Fugitive Offspring of the " Old Un" and the "Young Un," that have 
 been " Laying Around Loose," and are now " tied up" for fast keep- 
 ing. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 FRANK FORESTER'S DEER STALKERS; a Tale of Circumstantial 
 evidence. By the author of "My Shooting Box," "The Quorndon 
 Hounds," etc. With Illustrations. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN FARRAGO. By Hon. H. H. Bracken- 
 ridge. For Sixteen years one of the Judges of the Supremo Court of 
 the State of Pennsylvania. With Illustrations from designs by Darley 
 Price Fifty cents. 
 
 THE CHARMS OF PARIS ; or, Sketches of Travel and Adventures by 
 Night and Day, of a Gentleman of Fortune and Leisure. From his 
 private journal. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 PETER PLODDY, and other oddities. By the author of "Charcoal 
 Sketches," "Peter Faber," Ac. With Illustrations from original 
 designs, by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 WIDOW RUGBY'S HUSBAND, a Night at the Ugly Man's, and other 
 Tales of Alabama. By author of " Simon Suggs." With original 
 Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.
 
 14 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 
 
 MAJOR O'REGAN'S ADVENTURES. By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge. 
 With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 SOL. SMITH ; THEATRICAL APPRENTICESHIP AND ANECDOTAL 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF SOL. SMITH, Esq., Comedian, Lawyer, 
 etc. Illustrated by Darley. Containing Early Scenes, Wanderings 
 in the West, Cincinnati in Early Life, etc. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 SOL. SMITH'S NEW BOOK; THE THEATRICAL JOURNEY-WORK 
 AND ANECDOTAL RECOLLECTIONS OF SOL. SMITH, Esq., 
 with a portrait of Sol. Smith. It comprises a Sketch of the second 
 Seven years of his professional life, together with some Sketches of 
 Adventure in after years. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 POLLY PEABLOSSOM'S WEDDING, and other Tales. By the author 
 of "Major Jones' Courtship," " Streaks of Squatter Life," etc. Price 
 Fifty cents. 
 
 FRANK FORESTER'S WARWICK WOODLANDS; or, Things as 
 they were Twenty Years Ago. By the author of " The Quorndon 
 Hounds-," "My Shooting Box," "The Deer Stalkers," etc. With 
 Illustrations, illuminated. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 LOUISIANA SWAMP DOCTOR. By Madison Tensas, M. D., Ex. V. P. 
 M. S. U. Ky. Author of " Cupping on the Sternum." With Illustra- 
 tions by Darley. Price Fifty cents. ' 
 
 NEW ORLEANS SKETCH BOOK, by "Stahl," author of the "Port- 
 folio of a Southern Medical Student" With Illustrations from 
 designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 FRENCH, GERMAN, SPANISH, LATIN, AND 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGES. 
 
 Any person unacquainted with either of the above languages, can, with 
 the aid of these works, be enabled to read, write and speak the language of 
 either, without the aid of a teacher or any oral instruction whatever, pro- 
 vided they pay strict attention to the instructions laid down in each book, 
 and that nothing shall be passed over, without a thorough investigation 
 of the subject it involves : by doing which they will be able to speak, rend 
 or write either language, at their will and pleasure. Either of these works 
 is invaluable to any persons wishing to learn these languages, and are 
 worth to any one One Hundred times their cost These works have 
 already run through several large editions in this country, for no person 
 ever buys one without recommending it to his friends. 
 FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons. 
 GERMAN WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons. 
 SPANISH WITHOUT A MASTER. In Four Easy Lessons. 
 ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER. In Five Easy Lessons. 
 LATIN WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons. 
 Price of either of the above Works, separate, 25 cents each or the 
 whole five may be had for One Dollar, and will be sent free of pottage to 
 any one on their remitting that amount to the publisher, in a letter.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 15 
 WORKS BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 FLIRTATIONS IN AMERICA; OR HIGH LIFE IX NEW YORK. A 
 capital book. 285 pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 DON QUIXOTTE. ILLUSTRATED LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF 
 DON QUIXOTTE DE LA MANCHA, and his Squire Saucho Panza, 
 with all the original notes. 300 pages. Price 75 cents. 
 
 WILD SPORTS IN THE WEST. By W. II. Maxwell, author of Pic- 
 torial Life and Adventures of Grace O'Malley." Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE ROMISH CONFESSIONAL ; or, the Auricular Confession and Spi- 
 ritual direction of the Romish Church. Its History, Consequences, 
 and policy of the Jesuits. By M. Michelet. Price 50 cents. 
 
 GENEVRA; or, the History of a Portrait. By Miss Fairfield, one of tho 
 best writers in America. 200 pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 WILD OATS SOWN ABROAD ; OR, ON AND OFF SOUNDINGS. It 
 is the Private Journal of a Gentleman of Leisure and Education, and 
 of a highly cultivated mind, in making the tour of Europe. It shows 
 up all the High and Low Life to be found in all the fashionable re- 
 sorts in Paris Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt. 
 
 SALATHIEL; OR, THE WANDERING JEW. By Rev. George Croly. 
 One of the best and most world-wide celebrated books that has ever 
 been printed. Price 50 cents. 
 
 LLORENTE'S HISTORY OF THE INQUISITION IN SPAIN. Only 
 edition published in this country. Price 50 cents; or handsomely 
 bound in muslin, gilt, price 75 cents. 
 
 DR. ROLLICK'S NEW BOOK. ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY, 
 with a large dissected plate of the Human Figure, colored to Life. 
 By the celebrated Dr. Hollick, author of "The Family Physician," 
 " Origin of Life," etc. Price One Dollar. 
 
 DR. ROLLICK'S FAMILY PHYSICIAN; OR, THE TRUE ART OF 
 HEALING THE SICK. A book that should be in the house of 
 every family. It is a perfect treasure. Price 25 cents. 
 
 MYSTERIES OF THREE CITIES. Boston, New York, and Philadel- 
 phia. Revealing the secrets of society in these various cities. All 
 should read it. By A. J. H. Duganne. 200 pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 BED INDIANS OF NEWFOUNDLAND. A beautifully illustrated In- 
 dian Story, by the author of the " Prairie Bird." Price 50 cents. 
 
 HARRIS'S ADVENTURES IN AFRICA. This book is a rich treat 
 Two volumes. Price One Dollar, or handsomely bound, $1 50. 
 
 THE PETREL; OR, LOVE ON THE OCEAN. A sea novel equal to th 
 best. By Admiral Fisher. 200 pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 ARISTOCRACY, OR LIFE AMONG THE "UPPER TEN." A true 
 novel of fashionable life. By J. A. Nunes, Esq. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE CABIN AND PARLOR. By J. Thornton Randolph. It is 
 beautifully illustrated. Price 50 cents in paper cover ; or a finer edu 
 tion, printed on thicker and better paper, and handsomely bound m 
 muslin, gilt, is published for One Dollar. 
 
 LIFE IN THE SOUTH. A companion to " Uncle Tom's Cabin." By 
 C. H. Wiley. Beautifully illustrated from original desigus by Va 
 ley. Price 50 cents.
 
 16 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 WORKS BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 SKETCHES IN IRELAND. By William M. Thackeray, author of 
 "Vanity Fair," "History of Pendennis," etc. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE ROMAN TRAITOR; OR. THE DAYS OF CAT ALINE AND 
 CICERO. By Henry William Herbert. This is one of the most 
 powerful Roman stories in the English language, and is of itself suffi- 
 cient to stamp the writer as a powerful man. Complete in two large 
 volumes, of over 250 pages each, paper cover, price One Dollar, or 
 bound in one volunue, cloth, for $1 25. 
 
 THE LADY'S WORK-TABLE BOOK. Full of plates, designs, diagrams, 
 and illustrations to learn all kinds of needlework. A work every 
 Lady should possess. Price 50 cents in paper cover; or bound in 
 crimson cloth, gilt, for 75 cents. 
 
 THE COQUETTE. One of the best books ever written. One volume, oc- 
 tavo, over 200 pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 WHITEFRIARS; OR, THE DAYS OF CHARLES THE SECOND. An 
 Historical Romance. Splendidly illustrated with original designs, by 
 Chapin. It is the best historical romance published for years. Price 
 50 cents. 
 
 WHITEHALL; OR, THE TIMES OF OLIVER CROMWELL. By the 
 author of " Whitefriars." It is a work which, for just popularity and 
 intensity of interest, has not been equalled since the publication of 
 " Waverly." Beautifully illustrated. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE SPITFIRE. A Nautical Romance. By Captain Chamier, author 
 of " Life and Adventures of Jack Adams." Illustrated. Price 50 cents. 
 
 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN AS IT IS. One large volume, illustrated, 
 bound in cloth. Price $1 25. 
 
 FATHER CLEMENT. By Grace Kennady, author of "Dunallen," 
 " Abbey of Innismoyle," etc. A beautiful book. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE ABBEY OF INNISMOYLE. By Grace Kennady, author of "Fa- 
 ther Clement." Eoual to any of her former works. Price 25 cents. 
 
 THE FORTUNE HUNTER; a novel of New York society, Upper and 
 Lower Tendom. By Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt Price 38 cents. 
 
 POCKET LIBRARY OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE. New and enlarged 
 edition, with numerous engravings. Twenty thousand copies sold. 
 We have never seen a volume embracing any thing like the same 
 quantity of useful matter. The work is really a treasure. It should 
 speedily find its way into every family. It also contains a large and 
 entirely new Map of the United States, with full page portraits of 
 the Presidents of the United States, from Washington until the pre- 
 sent time, executed in the finest style of the art. Price 50 cents a 
 copy only. 
 
 HENRY CLAY'S PORTRAIT. Nagle's correct, full-length Mezzotinto 
 Portrait, and only true likeness ever published of the distinguished 
 Statesman. Engraved by Sartain. Size, 22 by 30 inches. Price 
 $1 00 a copy only. Originally sold at $5 00 a copy. 
 
 THE MISER'S HEIR; OR, THE YOUNG MILLIONAIRE. A story 
 of a Guardian and his Ward. A prize novel. By P. H. Myers, author 
 of the " Emigrant Squire." Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cent! 
 in cloth, gilt.
 
 OEM^INDUCEMENTS J"OB L 1856j 
 
 ] NOW IS TH TIME TO MAKE uFmJBST 
 
 PETERSONS MAGAZINE 
 
 The best and cheapest in the World for Ladies. 
 
 This popular Magazine, already the cheapest and best Monthly of its kind in the world, 
 Will be greatly improved for 1856. It will contain 900 pages of double-column reading 
 matter; from twenty to thirty Steel Plates; and over four hundred Wood Kngravinga: 
 Which is proportionately more than any periodical, of any price, ever yet gave. 
 
 ITS THRILLIJVG ORIGIJT^IL STORIES 
 
 Are pronounced, by the press, the best published anywhere. The editors are Mrs. Ann S. 
 Stephens, author of "The Old Homestead." '-Fashion and Famine," and Charles J. Peter- 
 Bon, author of " Kate Aylesford." ' The Valley Farm," etc., etc. ; and they ar assisted by 
 all the most popular female writers of America. New talent is continually being added, 
 regardless of expense, so as to keep " Peterson's Magazine" unapproachable in merit 
 Morality and virtue are always inculcated. 
 
 ITS COLORED FASHION PLATES IN ADVANCE, 
 
 Its Illustrations excel those of any other Magazine, each number containing a superb 
 Steel Engraving, either mezzotint or line, beside the Fashion Plate; and, in addition, 
 numerous other Engravings, Wood Cuts, Patterns, &c., Ac. The Engravings, at the end 
 Of the year, alone are worth the subscription price. 
 
 PATTERNS FOR CROTCHET, NEEDLEWORK, etc., 
 
 In the greatest profusion, are gitm in every number, with instructions how 10 work 
 them; also, Patterns in Kmbroidery, Inserting. Iiruidi-ri<) Anglaise, Netting. Lace-making, 
 Ac., Ac. Also, Patterns for Sleeves, Collars, and Chemisettes ; Patterns in Head-work, Hair- 
 work, Shell-work; Handkerchief Corners; Names for Marking and Initials. Kach num- 
 ber contains a Paper Flower, with directions how to make it. A piece of new and fashion- 
 able Music is also published every month. On the whole, it is the most complete Ladiaf 
 Magazine, in the World. TRY IT FOR ONE YEAR. 
 
 TERMS: ALWAYS IN ADVANCE. 
 
 One copy for One Year, - $2 00 I Five copies for One Year, - $7 50 
 
 Three copies for One Year, 5 00 | Eight copies for One Year, 10 00 
 
 Sixteen copies for One Year, - - - $20 00 
 
 PREiynUIVTS FOR GETTING UP CLUBS. 
 
 Three. Five, Eight, or Sixteen copies, make a Club. To every pen-on getting up a Club, 
 OUT " Port-Folio of Art," containing Fifti/ Engravings, will be given gratis; or. If pre- 
 ferred, a copy of the Magazine for 18.V>. For a Club of (sixteen, en extra copy of the 
 Magazine for 1856, will be sent in addition. 
 
 Addres*, post-paid, CHARLES J, PETERSON, 
 
 No. lOa Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
 OS- Specimens sent, gratuitously, if written for, post-paid. 
 
 "~*S^All Postmasters constituted Agents. But any person may get up a Cl Jb. 
 
 JtS~ Persons remitting will please get the Postmaster to register their letter*, in whwb 
 case the remittance may be at our risk. When the sum is large, a draft should b pw 
 lured, the cost of which may be deducted from the amount
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S 
 
 WHOLESALE AND RETAIL 
 Cheap Book, Magazine, Newspaper, Publishing 
 
 and Bookselling Establishment, is at 
 No. 103 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON has the satisfaction to announce to the public, that he has removed 
 to the new and spacious BROWN STONE BUILDING, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET, 
 just completed by the city authorities on the Girard Estate, known as the most central 
 and best situation in the city of Philadelphia. As it is the Model Book Store of the 
 Country, we will describe it : It is the largest, most spacious, and best arranged Retail 
 and Wholesale Cheap Book and Publishing Establishment in the United States. It is 
 built, by the Girard Estate, of Connecticut sand-stone, in a richly ornamental style. 
 The whole front of the lower story, except that taken up by the doorway, is occupied by 
 two large plate glass windows, a single plate to each window, costing together over three 
 thousand dollars. On entering and looking up, you find above you a ceiling sixteen 
 leet high ; while, on gazing before, you perceive a vista of One Hundred and Fifty-Seven 
 feet. The retail counters extend back for eighty feet, and, being double, afford counter- 
 room of One Hundred and Sixty feet in length. There is also over Three, Thousand feet 
 of shelving in the retail part of the store alone. This part is devoted to the retail busi- 
 ness, and as it is the most spacious in the country, furnishes also the best and largest 
 assortment of alt kinds of books to be found in the country. It is fitted up in the most 
 superb style ; the shelvings are all painted in Florence white, with gilded cornices for 
 the book shelves. 
 
 Behind the retail part of the store, at about ninety feet from the entrance, is tie 
 ccunting-room, twenty feet square, railed neatly off, and surmounted by a most beauti- 
 ful dome of stained glass. In the rear of this is the wholesale and packing department, 
 extending a further distance of about sixty feet, with desks and packing counters for the 
 establishment, etc., etc. All goods are received and shipped from the back of the store, 
 having a fine avenue on the side of Girard Bank for the purpose, leading out to Third 
 Street, so as not to interfere with and block up the front of the store on Chestnut Street. 
 The cellar, of the entire depth of the store, is filled with printed copies of Mr. Peterson's 
 own publications, printed from his own stereotype plates, of which he generally keeps 
 on hand an edition of a thousand each, making a stock, of his own publications alone, 
 if over three hundred thousand volumes, constantly on hand. 
 
 T. B. -PETERSON is warranted in saying, that he is able to offer such inducements 
 to the Trade, and all others, to favor him with their orders, as cannot be excelled by any 
 book establishment in the country. In proof of this, T. B. PETERSON begs leave to 
 refer to his great facilities of getting stock of all kinds, his dealing direct with all the 
 Publtehing Houses in the country, and also to his own long list of Publications, consisting 
 of the best and most popular productions of the most talented authors of the United 
 States and Great Britain, and to his very extensive stock, embracing every work, new or 
 old, published in the United States. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON will be most happy to supply all orders for any books at all, no 
 matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at publishers' lowest cash 
 prices. He respectfully invites Country Merchants, Booksellers, Pedlars, Canvassers, 
 Agents, the Trade, Strangers in the city, and the public generally, to call and examine 
 his extensive collection of cheap and standard publications of all kinds, comprising a 
 most magnificent collection of CHEAP BOOKS, MAGAZINES, NOVELS, STANDARD 
 and POPULAR WORKS of all kinds, BIBLES, PRAYER BOOKS, ANNUALS, GIFT 
 BOOKS, ILLUSTRATED WORKS, ALBUMS and JUVENILE WORKS of all kinds, 
 GAMES of all kinds, to suit all ages, tas-tes, etc., which he is selling to his customers 
 and the public at much lower prices than they can be purchased elsewhere. Being lo- 
 cated at No. 102 CHESTNUT Street, the great thoroughfare of the city, and BUYING 
 bis stock outright in large quantities, and not selling on commission, he can and will 
 sell them on such terms as will defy all competition. Call and examine our stock, you 
 will find it to be the best, largest and cheapest in the city ; and you will also be sure to 
 find all the best, latest, popular, and. cheapest works published in this country or else- 
 where, for sale at the lowest prices. 
 
 Jt~ Call in person and examine our stock, or send your orders by mail direct, to the 
 CHEAP BOOKSELLING and PUBLISHING ESTABLISHMENT of 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, 
 
 No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 
 32
 

 
 
 
 

 
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 University of California Library 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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 310/82 
 
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