-«>•— " ■'>>':• v«v ■■» >i 4>i,. v>^'^^«...<> .,^'::»nr~ *-^^/ l^HMsl i . -at:;^ «- ^■•iXT GIFT OF Ella Sterling Liighels /lp^r%tnr^, f^bG y \^ ^ O K E N FEIEN^DSHIP NEW YORK: LEAVITT & ALLEN. Ay/ f^/\,, '•rro?' (/ 4 4 CONTENTS The Eainbow Bridge , . . . u The Silver Birdsnest— by 11. F. Gould . . . . . U Early Days— by R. C. Waterston 13 The Countess Survilliers. a translated Fragment — by Nathaniel Greene 16 To M. A 25 Sonnet: To Louise — by Mrs. Ilofland 26 The Velvet Hat— by Mrs. Seba Smith ; 27 Early Flowers — by Mrs. Whitman 2a A. Love Match — by the Author of " Wealth and Fashion" . 33 To *****, the Genius ofPlaintive Music — by S. G. Goodrich S9 The Mantilla — by Grenville Mellen ; ... 61 The Fatal Choics — by Mrs. L. K. Wells 64 Life — by E. A . . 93 Lines Suggested by a Picture — by Mrs. Whitman . 95 Stanzas for Music — by the Author of " Miriam " . 98 Phrenological Speculations — by Mrs. Seba Smith . . . 100 The Politician of Podunk 109 The Thoughts of the Dumb— by J. H. Clinch 112 Sea Rhymes — Return of the Victor Ship — by James T. Fields 113 Lines written on the Summit of Mount Ilolyoke — Ly Grenville Mellen 114 A Sketch from Life — by the Author of " Wealth and Fashion " 119 Lament for the Decline of Poetry — a Fragment 125 Luxury, or the Lady-Bird — by Mrs. Selia Smith 126 The Journey of Memory 129 The Legend of the Large Feet — by Miss M. A. Browne . . 132 Ancient Reminiscences — by the Author of llie "Three Experiments," &.c 161 Etanzas to a La>Jy — by Grenville Mellen 173 Till CO.NTE.NTS The Ilnimfs of tlie Sen-Fowl 175 To a Wi.d Violet, in March— by S. C Goodrich 175 "Show us the Fiitlier" — by Mrs. Sigouriiey 177 The lores of Old— by W. \V. Morliiiid 173 Tlie Grave of Marqiie'te — by ihe Aiilhor of "Miriam " . . 181 Mount Auburn — by Ihe Aulhor of •' Skclches of the Old Taiiiters "... 184 The Debut— by II T. Tuckerman U8 The ronf«ssion 191 Tyre- by R. C. Walersxm MS A Ncember Landscape — by Mrs. Whilmon . . . .193 The Widow's Hope — by II. F. Could la3 Second Thoughts Uest — by Miss Sedgwick • i . 201 The Fairies' Dance 259 The Portrait — by 11. F, Gould .263 Guess my Name . .•• 9$4 THE RAINBOW BRIDGE Love and Hope and Youth, together Travelling once in stormy weather, Met a deep and gloomy tide, Flowing swifl and dark and wide. 'T was named the river of Despair, — And many a wreck was floating there. The urchins paused, with faces grave, Debating how to cross tlie wave, When lo ! the curtain of the storm Was severed, and the rainbow's form Stood against the parting cloud. Emblem of peace on trouble's shroud. Hope pointed to the signal flying, And the three, their shoulders plying O'er the stream tlie light arch threw A rainbow bridge of loveliest hue '. Now, laughing os they tripped it o'er, They ga yly sought the other shore : But soon the hills began to frown. And the bright sun went darkly down. Though their step waj light and fleet. The rainbow vanished 'neath their feet,- / 10 KAINBOW BKIDaii. And down tliey went, — tlie giddj tilings; — But Hope put fortli his ready wings, — And clinging Love and Youth he bore In triumph to the other shore. But ne'er I ween should mortals deem" On rainbow bridge to cross a stream. Unless bright, buoyant Hope is nign, And. — lii^lit as Love and Youth, — they fly. * THE SILVER BIRDSNEST. BY H. F. GOULD. We were shown a beautiful specimen of the Ingenuity of birds, a few days since, by Dr. Cook of this borough. It was a birdsncst, made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest was found on a sycamore tree, by Dr. Francis Beard of York County. It was the nest of a hanging- bird ; and the material was probably obtained from a soldier's epaulette, wliich it had found. — West Chester Village Rer ord, Spiing of 1338. A STRANDED soldier's epaulet Tlie waters cast ashore, A little winged rover met, And eyed it o'er and o'er. The silver briorht so p'T-irfir) ucr .sight On that louo, idle vest, She knew not why she sliould deny Herself a silver nest. The shining wire she pecked and twirled. Then bore it to her bough, Where, on a flowery twig 't was curled, — The bird can show you how : Cut, when enough of that bright stufF The cunning builder bore Her house to make, she would not take, Nor did she covet, more. /i 19 SILVEK BIIIDSNEST. And wlien tlie little artisan, While neither pride nor guilt Had entered in her pretty plan, Her resting-place had built ; With here and there a plume to spare About her own lioht form Of these, inlaid with skill, she made A lining soft and warm. But, do you tliink the tender brooif She fondled there, and fed, Were prouder, when they understoo blood fQBScl." TO M. A. As one that ga^ietli on a star, lu adoration from alar, I gaze on thee, as pure and fair, — And yet, alas, as cold thine air I Still, 1 hare fondly, madly dwelt On one bright orb, till reason knelt In ■vforship at so loved a shrine, And, oh, how deeply wished 't wore min«k And when I saw its equal rays Bestowed on all who chanced to gaze, Spite of its high and haughty birth, I would have plucked it down to earth. Lady, forgive ! that star is bright. No thought of mine can dim its light ; Proudly it sweeps the azure sky, And I am left alone to sigh. SONNET: TO LOUISE, DAUGHTER OF A FREI^^CII REFUGEE. BY MRS. HOFLANJ). Fair, trembling girl, metliinks 1 ne'er beheld So sweet a sufierer in Love's hour of woe ; Not one, tlie ruthlesa deity compelled To crush a father'a heart by such strange blow. Though iiappy in tl;y choice. — uniiappy thou In tiie stern secret he hath bade thee keep. Sinless, yet joyless, thou canst not bestow One synip:ithetic smile, but turn'st to weep From hun who yearns to o!ess thee, — him whose brow The coronet of rank restored shall grace, — liut Hnds not there one jewel that can glow Like the bright beauty of his child's dear face, — .n days of confidence. Oh I ne'er forget The daughter's deep, unutterable di'bt. THE VELVET HAT. BY MRS. SEE A SMITH. I THINK I see tliee, gentle one, When first that " velvet hat," Before the looking-glass put on, Upon thy dark curls sat ; — I see the look of youthful pride, "Which thou didst seek in vain to hide,- The triumph lingering in thine eye. The conscious blush, that flitted by. I see thee turn aside thine head, Adjust the glossy curl, — And backward go with tiptoe tread, And pretty, girlish whirl, Then forward step for one last view ;— The " velvet hat " was then quite new. And thou wouldst know if it would bo Becoming to thy curls and thee. Yes, all was right, — I see it now, By that complacent smile. The calmness of the placid brow. The dash of maiden wile. That seems to dimple round the eyo And lurk about the corners sly Of that sweet, budding lip of thine, Which I could almost press to mine. 28 THE VELVET tiki. | Tlie " velvet hat," it was, sweet ; irl, The very tiling for thee, — So causing brow and sunny curl In softened light to be. O ' mny no shadow ever rest More coldly on thy youtnful breast, Than this, that tails upon ihy orow But making it more lovely now. EARLY FLOWEES. BY MK9. "WmTilAN "Vergnugen sitzt in Blumen-kelchen, und kommt alle Jabr elnmal ab Geruch heraus." — Jiahel. " Pleasure sits in the flower-cnps, and breathes itself out onc« every year in fragrance." As the fabled stone into music woke, When the morning sun o'er the marble broke. So wakes the heart from its stern repose. As o'er brow and bosom the spring-wind blows; So it stirs and trembles, as each low sigh Of the breezy south comes murmuring by ; — Murmuring by like a voice of love, "Wooing us forth amid flowers to rove ; Breathing of forest-paths damp with dew. Which the milk-white buds of the strawberry strew ; And of banks that slope to the southern sky. Where lanscuid violets love to lie. Its wings are heavy with rich perfume. Won from the hyacinth's purple bloom ; It has rifled the buds from the blossoming tree, And robbed of his banquet the roving bee, 30 EAKLY FLOWERS Their white peta.s far o'er the fields :\rp bloup. Like pearls on a mantle of emerald sovn No foliage droops o'er the wood-path now, Flintrinn' rich curtains from bouI FASHIOH " It is surprising how many diirerent stages people may pasfi through in tlie course of their lives, and yet preserve their identity. The Lm- tons were always spok-cn of as very worthy peo- ple. They were industrious and economical, and then they were called wealthy people. They purchased an elegant house, and furnished it with French furniture, and mirrors to the floor ; then they were called fashionable people. At length they gave dinners and balls, and brought out their only child, who v/as a belle and a beauty, and then they were called stylish people This is the very acme of praise in the aristocratic vocabulary. "The force of nature could no further go;" aiKi after the Lintons became wealthy, fashiona- dIc, and stylish, they stood still. Was it not a great mistake, in abolishing titles in this country, that we did not abolish the de- sire for them i' Now, with a certain class, nothing 3 34 A LOVE MATCH- is left to distiijgxush them but what can be pro- cured by vulgar coin, and all the wealth in the country cannot turn one American citizen into a duke, or even a three-tailed bashaw. Emma Linton, the heroine of our tale and the only child, though ambitious, possessed no vulgar ambition. Many a youth sued for her fair hand. She smil- ed upon them, talked with them, waltzed with them, and accepted their bouquets ; but her heart remained untouched. She had her secret aspira- tions, and determined nevCr to marry unless she could see them accomplished. It was not wealth she sighed for, nor such rank as our republican country affords, but for what she considcrcdita true nobility, talent. There were many young lawyers, physicians, and divines, who gave fair promise of future em- inence in their respective professions; but thia was not Emma's idea of talent. Talent was a magic word, that embraced every thing. The man who realized \icvheau ideal, was to charm by his eloquence, dazzle by his wit, convince by his ar- guments, and conquer by his energy. To find him was not easy, yet it had been her dream for years. She had heard of such, and read of such , but they were like wandering comets, that never crossed her path. A LOVE MATCH. 35 It is extremely difficult to know where to^eek for our distinguished men. Every party has its demigods, and poor Emma was kept in a state of feverish vicissitude. One position, however, she resolutely adopted, that they were only to be found in public life ; and she therefore sought her fu- ture husband in all the newspapers. She read whig speeches and democratic speeches, tariff speeches and anti-tariff. She turned from the frozen zone of the north to the fiery tropics of the south. She wandered from the far east to the still farther west, and her heart found no resting- place. At length, however, one star seemed to rise above its twinkling associates. All the world began to talk of Mr. Merville. " When he spoke in pufc4ic," the newspapers said, " every tye was fixed upon him, and every tongue was mute " All parties acknowledged his talents ; but only the party to which he belonged, gave him credit for virtue and principle. Mr. Linton happened to be on an excursion to Washington when Mr. Merville's fame became so trarscendent, and therefore had the good fortune to hear him make a speech six hours long, dur- ing which it seemed doubtful whether he onco stopped to breathe. All thrs Emma learned 36 A LOVE MATCH. thrQUgh the newspapers, and waited with the ut most impatience for her father's return. She had ascertained that Merville was a bachelor, and, if disengaged, he was the very hero of her aspirations. All in time Mr. Linton arrived, and Emma inquired, with no small degree of agi- tation, what he thought of the distinguished Sen- ator. With surprise she learned that he was an early friend of her father's. They had met, with a glow of feeling that carried them back to youth, and in the fulness of communication Mr. Linton expressed his astonishment that Merville had never married. " It would be surprising," replied his compan- ion, " if mine had not been an occupied life ; but I begin to grow weary of the strife of politics, and tired of gazirg year after year on the Lard, unyielding visages of my constituents. I want different specimens of creation ; its corals, ita pearls, and its roses; — the truth is, Linton,! am determined to marry, and live for myself." " I wish," replied his friend, " you could take ome fifteen or twenty years from your age ; and then, as far as my influence and consent could insure success, you might become my Bou-iu law." A I.OVE MATCH. 37 " And -why not now ? " paid Mcrville eagerly " do yon see iu me any of the imbecility of age ? Is my arm feeble to protect Biy wife my lieart cold in its pulsations? "Where is th man, on wbom you could bestow your daughter who would insure her less chance of vicissitude and change ? You may obtain for her youth, but you must take with it the uncertainty of worldly succci-s, of moral character, and of dis- positiou. Perhaps 30U may see her breasting the storms of life with a man who h-as nothing hut his youth to recommend him, an advantage cl' all others the most perilous and the most fleeting." As he spoke, his eye sparkled with the vivaci- ty of youth, and certainly at that r;ic i-'nt there w:is little to i.i fk ■ :if^ a ci:mui- .i n of vears. His hair was slightW ble-'^hed, bn the manly dignity of his form WaS still unimpaired. Mr. Linton became a proselyte to the eloquence of his friend, and consented thfit he should try hia influence with the young beauty. His surprise was great when he returned home, to find her mind already enga.T-?'! upon the subject; and, when he opened thf negotiation, she lent a ready aiif" willing ear. Mr. Linton communicated to his friend th«? 88 A LOVE MATCH. favorable intcliigence, rdth the permission to hasten on and m.^V- ais own inpreisions. Jlr. Merville was too ,'i;.oortarit a ^an ecsilj to get leave of absence. Kis name was on various committees; and petitions, signed by mar.j n Harriet, Mary, Eliza, &5 . -v^re daily "oming 'n^ which he felt bound to dom-nce or tn support. At such a juncture, he joulu on'y ^rite at first to the father. By d'^p^'^'^s ? correspondence was commenced betv.'ccii the p^rtios. Ilad aught been wantiug to contirm the fail Emma in her favor able impressions, these xctters would have been sufficient. The flame was kindled and burned brightly. Every newspaper that contained his name w^as preserved. " Mr. Merville made a motion," " Mr. Merville sat down," " Mr. Mer- ville rose," were all words of magic import; and now and then a speech of four columns in length, to be continued in the next, and con- cluded in the one after, by Mr. Merville, gave her employment till the next appeared. Emma QO longer troubled herself to keep up appcar- Bnces. Instead of wearing the numerous bou quets that were laid at her shrine, and which often made her resemble " Biruam wood com- ing to Dunsinane," she left them to fade and die on her dressiug-table. The consequence A LOVE MAI C H 39 was that tho passion of the innamoratos faded and died with them, and Emma Linton ceased to be a belle. At length, however, the long ses- sion was over, and Merville, crov/ned witn hon- ors, and his party triumphant, was speeched, and feasted, through all the principal cities and towns, till he arrived at , too late at night to visit the lady of his love. The first notice she re- ceived of his vicinity, was through the newspa- pers, those important agents in the present love affair. It was announced in capital letters, that Mr. Merville the great Senator, the great Speak- er, the great Statesman had arrived, and that ho held already received an invitation to a public dinner, which he had graciously accepted. Now did Emma's heart fiutttr, her cheeks glow, as she thought, " This man whom all the world de- lights to honor lo engrossed solely by me." She walked before her Psyche glass, scanned her slight and youthful figure, and feU a degree of wonder that any thing so dlmmutive could set the world in motion. At an early hour she was prepared to receive the Senator. But he was detained by calls, and shaking of hands, and accepting the homage of half the city. At length, hov/ever, the august moment arriv" 40 A LOVE MATCH. and Mr. Merville was introduced to tte elegant and classic apartment of the young lady. Em- ma was an only daughter, and had the privileges of one. Though Mr. Linton had no great taste for pictures or statues, Emma had cultivated an ardent love of the fine arts. She had collected around her specimens of Italian sculpture; and a Cupid, beautiful as day, surmounl^ed the pillar which rose in the centre of the crimson divan, against which she reclined. On either side were placed upon pedestals an Apollo and a flyicg Mercury. The walls were ornamented with the finest copies of Raphaels Madonnas, the St. John of Domiuichino, the Magdalen of Guido. The furniture was in the simplest stylo of Grecian beauty; tabourets and divans, and the slight modern cane chair, that looks as if it was hardly made to support one of mortal mould, had excluded the French comfortable hergcre and fauteuil. This apartment, so beautifully ar- ranged, was exclusively her own, and was re- flected on every side by superb mirrors, which produced the effect of a suite of rooms. It was an agitating moment to its youthful mistress when the great Merville entered, — great, we regret to say, in more senses than one. " The waving ilae of beauty " has long been cele* A. LOVE MATCH. 41 brated, but it seems difficult to defiue when brought into real life. Fanny Kemble we think illustrated it, who never stood erect, but benTi like a graceful sapling with every emotion of her mind. If it means merely a curve, Mer- ville illustrated it, for time often gives a sur- prising rotundity to the figure. Emma had been too much engrossed in her worship of tat- ent to ask a description of the temple which enshrined it, or she would have learned that he was what we Yankees call a portly man, with a comfortable share of the bones and sinews of old Kentucky. Emma had placed one of the light cane chairs near the divan, on which she meant to give audi- ence ; thinking it would be a convenient seat for her lover. Even the elephant is guided by in- stinct or reason, and refuses to cross a bridge that may totter and sink under him ; how much more a man of talents wonld avoid such a snare. Merville had real good sense, and none of the affectation that belongs to a little mind. Ho paid his respects to Emma in a manly and grace ful manner, and, as he considered the cane chair wholly out of the question, he took a seat on the small circular divan upon which she was sit- ting. This was unfavorable for first impressions, 42 A LOVE MATCH. it brought tbcm nearly back to back, reflected from the magnificent mirrors, and the light and graceful Cupid with his bow bent, rising above them, and ready to take aini. It however wa* only a first meeting, and it was of short contin nance, for Merville was a public man and had many engagements on hand. Perhaps he was too wise to make a long visit. His allusions were tender and respectful, as to the object for which he came, and yet not so pointed as to alarm the fair one. She felt that he still considered her the mistress of her own destiny. When he took leave, she watched his retreating form in the mirror opposite, and as the door closed her beau- tiful head drooped, and she burst into tears. At that critical moment the door was again gently opened, and Merville appeared ; he had left one of his gloves, and returned for it. What a spectacle for a lover, — his fair mistress, after the first triumph of a meeting, half suffocated by sobs, and bathed in tears ! His quick and comprehensive mind at once caught the meaning of her distress, and he determined to let his engagements wait and set her heart at rest. " My dear Miss Linton," said he (he had been u.sed to addressing her thus in his letters), '' why A LOVE MATC H 43 this ajritation, this causeless distress ? Vou liave incurred no responsibility, you are entirelv your own mistress ; whatever encouragement or hop(y I may have cherished, has been the result of my own sanguine wishes. This excursion, with out so powerful a motive, would have been desir able to me. Much as I had heard of your beau ty and sweetness, and truly as I read your mind in tlie letters I have received, I do not hesi- tate to say, that the reality far transcends my expectations. I feel that it was presumption in me to expect to win youth and beauty. Recover your cheerfulness and put me wholly out of the question ; consider me only as the friend of your father." The soothing tones of his voice, his manner so tender and respectful, at once produced the desired effect ; her tears ceased, and by degrees furtive smiles dimpled her cheeks. Their con- versation grew more interesting, yet that odious divan ! There was but one way of settling it ; Em' na arose and seated her slio-ht fisjure in the plight chair, and then they could talk face to face. Merville gained wonderfully by this ar- rangement. There is no old age to intellect, — it diffuses over the countenance the animation and brightness of youth. Emma saw all her 44 LOVE MATCH. dreams realized. Whether the little Cupid an tually drew his bow or not, it is difficult to sav but, before they parted, another appaintnienl wag made for the evening, and, when hs a second time disappeared, the mirror reflected to her eye ' a port like Jove." I\Ir. Merville had no liil^o to lose, and their engagement was soon settled and announced. Strange as it may seem, Emma was deeply in love; and we verily bel.eve, if she had heard all the spiteful things said about their difierence of age, it would not have given her a moment's uneasiness. Some tried to make it out a mercenary match on her side ; but, as she had rather more wealth in expectation, ilian Mr. Merville in possession this did not go well. Tlvey ne.xt endeavoured to proves that it was for an estallishment she was forming t-lie connexion, to be mistress of a bouse and of a carriage ; but all this she enjoyed under her parent's toof. Finally, they contented themselves by saying, *' she had thrown herself away ; " a conclusion tliat settles all diflicultics, and is a wonderful cordial to the ill-natured. In a few weeks Mr. Merville led his young brule to the altar. lie was tlve happiest ot hus- bunds, Emma the happiest of wives, and Mr Linton the happiest of fathers ; but there wa« /iLOVE WATCH. 45 one quiet, anobtrusive being, that we cunnot rank among the happy, and this was Mrs. Linton, the tender mother of Em.ma. She was neither tal- ented, nor gifted, but her heart was true to na- ture ; she had from the first been averse to the inaitch. and ventured to remonstrate against it Emma listened respectfully to her objections Ihey were entirely based upon the difference of years. *' How is it possible," said she, " that the young and the old can assimilate ? Your hus- band will soon want quiet, and retirement, while you are yet sighing for gayety and amusement." " Never, mother," said Emma, and she fully believed what she said. " His pursuits will al- ways be mine ; there is a perfect assimilation of mind, and time has no power over intellect." " And v^l," said Mrs. Linton, " I have known such disproportioned matches end unhappily, and what you cull intellect crumble away before old age." ' Then it ceases to be intellect," said Emma, triumphantly, " and cannot apply to our subjec'. We are all liable to the casual- ties of life ; 1 too may become an invalid, but v.'o can only pro\ide for the present." Mrs. Linton was always silenced by Emma's ready wit , she ceased to oppose, and, when she parted from her beloved and only daughter, made every ef- fort to suppress her rising tears. 46 A LOVE MATCH. Emma rej aiied to the pleasant mansion of her husband, and for three whole months was the happiest of human beings, tliough far away from her parents and early companions, and comparatively among strangers. The nitellect and talent, to which she paid homage, were de- votedly hers. Her husband suffered the wheels of government to re\;tlve as they might ; it mat- tered little to him which part was up, or which down. His beautiful bride absorbed ad his thoushts. He accoi^modated himself to her youth, her fancies, and even her whims. They had promised a distinguished artist to sit foi their pictures, and Emma insisted that they should botl) be put on the same canvass. Mer- ville's good judgment led him to oppose this fancy, but the young wife would not be contra- dicted. Notwithstanding the skill of the paint- er, the contrast of age was strikingly preserved. Emma was unpleasantly affected by it, and she protested they were neither of them likenesses. Hitherto Mr, Merville's world of politics had gone smoothly on ; but who expects stobilily in our new hemisphere ? Electioneering times were drawing near, and the hi'.sband began to arouso frjm his slumber. His brow was sometinios thoughtful, and Emma grew anxious lest ho I A L, U V E M A T C 11 . 1 7 loved her less. She had a modest and painful conscio asness of intellectual inferiority compared with him, which sometimes disquieted her. Her husl)and was in the habit of calming these so- licitudes by assuring her how much beyond compare were her native and intuitive percep- tions, to any dull acquisitions of his own. Her genius and taste were amply and justly alleged, and always with feeling and eloquence. But this could not last in electioneering times. Mer- ville was a determined politician*, and whigs and democrats were in motion. One evening the netted wife actually found herself alone in her orawing-room. The French clock struck nine and he did not arrive ; she tried to read, she walked the room, she rang the bell, she pcked the fire, and whiled away another hour. At length the clock struck the deep, funereal notes of ten. At that moment he entered, and found his beau tiful Emma in tears. " What is the matter with you, my dearest," said he tenderly, " no bad news, I hope, from our dear father or mother ? " It must be con- fessed he had the afiectation of calling h's early friends by their parental titles. Emma shook her head. " What then has happened } " " Where have you been all the evening ] ' said she, with a rising sob. 48 A LOVE MATCH. " To a caucus, my love," replied he. " Promise me, then,'' said she, throwing her- self into his arms, " that you will never go to another.'" It was easy for him to restore Emma's seren- ity for that tinie. But, alas ! caucus after cau- cus followed ; his whole time became engrossed. He was the leading man of his party, and the very popularity that had won her heart, now made her wretchedness. The chosen friends of her husband were politicians and of his own age. He urged her to invite friends to her house, and to visit ; but he was always too much en- gaged to be with her. At length, he proposed her making her parents a visit, and promised to hasten to her the first moment of leisure. Emma received this proposal as a wish to be re- lieved from the little restraint her society im- posed upon him, and made her preparations with the air of a martyr. His engrossment did not prevent his attending to every proper arrange- ment for the journey of his wife. Her father joyfully welcomed her, talked of the popularity and success of her husband, of his high stand- ing among his constituents, and congratulated her on having chosen so wisely. The mother's oye Boon detected a cloud on the fair you A LOVE MACTH €9 brow ; and, when Emma seated herself on a low cricket by her side, Mrs. Linton did not repress the confidence tliat ■sAas trembling on, her lips. "C mother," said she, "ail you predicted has arrived. I am interested in nt)lht'";g, I en- joy nothing, I have no society, I am alone in the world My husband has become indifferent to me." " You shock me," said Mrs. Linton. " Indeed, mother, it is too true ; but litde more than three months after we were married, his alienation began." " My dear child, Mr. Blervillb is a man of honor and principle ; I fear your conduct has been injudicious." " I have been the most devoted of wives," replied Emma ; " I wanted no other society than his. . Only three months after we were married, he left me fcr " " My child," interrupted the mother, "beware of suspicion, and do not expose any faults you may have accidentally discovered." " Surely I may speak to my own mother," re|ilied Emma "Three months after we wero married, he left me a whole evening entirely .'ilone, and I discovered that it was for nothing but a caucus ! " 4 A LOVK MAlCfl. " I am rcjoicea," said Mis. Liintoii, smiling, " that it was for nothing but thai. But now do tell me, I'lmnia, why you married Mr. Moi'ville?" " "i ou know, mother, it was for his talents; ihey first r.ecured my affection." " Then he has lost his talents ; he is no long- er an hi)n'aited. Ihio, however, I could cndiirx'-., thou^rh you know not, you never can know, ].o\r closely with every fibre of i»y THE FATAL CHOICE. 67 Boul, your image is entwined ; yet I could endure to see you sparkling far above me, if you were to be happy. But the time will come, when woman's heart will speak within you. You will weary of fame, and then you will yearn for the voice of calm affection, and your mem- ory will turn to the image of those quiet haunts, as the fainting traveller, in the desert, dreams of the cool, sparkling fountain, in his home among the hills. You know the powers of your intellect and fancy ; but, dazzled by ambition, vou do not know your heart. You have been nurtured in the midst of tenderness, — an atmo- sphere of love has been around you from your infancy ; the voice of affection has mingled with your earliest dreams, and you know not how necessary it is to your existence. Like the sweet air of heaven, you neither see nor feel it now, but, when it is withdrawn, you will droop and wither. Ellen, you will go far away from me ; that haughty stranger, with his burning thoughts and eloquent lip, has won you ; but you may not go without knowing how deeply the love, of which I have never yet breathed a word to you, is engraven in my soul. " Love for you is the first emotion I can recol- lect ; and, even in childhood, there was a ten- G8 THE FATAL CHOICE. derness, a feeling of protecting kindness in my love for you, which I did not feel for nay sisters. How I have lived but for you in later years, you well know. Our walks, our amusements, our books, our conversation, — ^has it not been but as one soul speaking by two voices ? Ellen, I know I am scarcely worthy of you ; but that stranger, with all his brilliancy and genius, has not a heart like mine to bestow. That eager look, that impetuous flow of glowing thoughts and images, that haughty air, which makes inferior minds shrink before him, do not veil, as you fondly imagine, deep afi"ections, but a cold heart, awake only to the promptings of ambition. I speak calmly and advisedly. !My afi'ection for you is too pure and exalted to admit of jealousy. Think for one moment, before you decide to barter the priceless wealth of your afi"ectiou3 with so cold a being ; — cannot you yet be happy here as in former years ? " She paused a moment before replying. His lip quivered, and, for an instant, a flush of hope passed over his countenance. At length she answered : " No, Albert, it is impossible. He has awak- ened feelings which can never be hushed. I must Boar, if it be only to fall ; — I must climb THE FATAL CHOICE. 69 the dizzy steep, even if it be full of hazard, I deeply feel your affection, and the time Las been when, — but that is past, — God's blessing be with you, and, witli some gentle being with affections warm and devoted as your own, may you yet be happy." He turned quickly away ; for emotions of which manhood is always ashamed, were rising, and burning tsars, not for himself, but for her, were starting from his eyes. Ellen remained for some moments lost in thought. It was the hour of summer twilight ; she was in a spot which had been a favorite re- treat of her childhood, and, in later years, Al- bert, guided by her taste, had gathered around it many quiet beauties. Under the shade of three wide-spreading oaks, a rustic alcove, with seats had been formed, a woodbine had been trained over it, and it was so surrounded by roses of every shade, that they had given it the name of *' the home of the roses." On the left, just at the foot of a smooth, green hill, a cool, sparkling fountain boiled up in the midst of pure white sand, and became a tiny brook, winding through the valley with so many backward turnings, that one would fancy it louth to leave the quiet spot. On the right, under the shade of two elms, that 70 THE FATAL CHOICE. gracefully entwined their limbs above it, was her mother's grave. She had died when Ellen wr.s BO youug that she remembered little of her, ex- cept the melodious sweetness of her voice, the subdued expression of her pale face, and tho atmosphere of quiet, which seemed to breathe around her. Had she lived, ]3llen would, doubt- loss, have been a very different being. This parent was sensitive and warm in her affections, but she had been chastened by early sorrows. She saw the world as it was, and, while entering, with warm sympathy, into the feelings of others, she was not misled by the false coloring of fan- cy. Calmness and repose formed the beautiful groundwork of her character, which was deli- cately shaded with all the quiet virtues. Though Ellen was but six years old when she died, she saw the dangerous gifts of her child, and her last hour was spent in prayer for her, that a " heart, so perilously fashioned," might be shielded, by a Saviour's love, from this world's temptations. She died, and her place was but poorly supplied by an indolent and self- ish step-mother, sufficiently indulgent, indeed because she wanted energy to control tho im- petuous child, but ignorant of her character and capacities. Her father's talenls fitted him to bo I THE FATAL CHOICE. her friend and guide ; but he was too dotingly fond of her to see that she had a fault. Her sisters, too, almost idolized her. They were much older than herself, and, while she was yet a child, all but one left their father's mansion ; and she was a sickly, gentle being, and left the bright, playful child to pursue her own fancies. Albert Carlton was her early playmate ; they grew up together, and, as she had no brother, she transferred to him all the affections of a sister. He was four years older than herself ; but, as his leisure for reading was limited, com- pared with hers, the quickness of her intellect fitted her to be the director of his taste and mind. She recommended the books he read, and guided in a great measure the judgments he formed in early youth ; but, as he approached manhood, his calm, reflecting mind often cor- rected the wild vagaries of her fancy. Perhaps there is no tie more near and close, between gen- erous spirits, than the mutual consciousness of conferring and receiving benefits. Ellen felt that his taste had been formed by her influence. With many women, this circumstance would have had little influence. But hers was no common spirit. She loved to feel that she was influeno- inw the minds of others, — that she was looked 72 THE FATAL CHOICE. up to, witli respect and admiration, as well as tenderness. On the other hand, Albert felt a constant care for the ardent, gifted, and impetu- ous being who honored him with her confidence and affection. He understood her character, and often, with the utmost gentleness, without her suspecting his purpose, corrected her judgment, softened her prejudices, and induced her to re- linquish mar.y a wild, impracticable scheme. Yet not a word of love had ever passed between them. It seemed so perfectly natural that they should be much in each other's society, that they had never asked themselves the reason. At least, Ellen had not ; though something more deep and tender than a sister's love spoke in the care with which she cherished the flowers he gave her, in her fondness for his favorite tunes, her uneasi- ness when his absence was protracted, and the bright glow which sent light to her eye and bloom to her cheek, when they met again ; but of all this she was wholly unconscious. Per- haps Albert's thoughts took a more tangible form, but he had never embodied them in words. When Ellen was in her seventeenth year, a Btranger, from a distant city, by the name of Beaufort, came to pass a few months iu that retired spot, to restore his health, which had been THE FATAL CHOICE. 73 impaired by close study. He boarded at her father's house, and, for a time, his manner weis haughty and reserved. He looked, with an indifr3rence, to which she had been little accus- tomed, on the rustic beauty, and she in her turn, p;qued by his coldness, was too proud to seek his admiration. Albert felt a little unquiet when he first saw the handsome face and com- manding mien of the young stranger ; but his fears subsided, when he found that his walks, reading, and conversation with Ellen were not in- terrupted. It was not long, however, before some bursts of eloquence from Beaufort touched an answering chord in Ellen's heart ; he marked the flash of inielligence in her fine eye, and a deep interest was awakened. He now sought opportunities of conversing with her, and soon found, that she possessed a glowing fancy, a taste formed after the purest models, strong in- tellectual powers, and a heart capable of warm and devoted attachment. He now began to look with a dark and suspicious eye on the mild, retiring friend, who engrossed so much of her atfention. " Ellen, said he to her, " how can you devot© so much of your time to that rustic ?'* *' Because I know his worth better than you 74 THK FATAL CHOICE. do," she replied, with an indignant air ; "he has been as a brother to me from my childhood." " Oh, very well," said Beaufort, with a smile "he may be a very good brother, for aught I know bit you are worthy of the society and homage of other minds. With a soul formed to delight in all that is beautiful in nature, in science, and in art, I cannot endure to see you pass your days in such deep seclusion. I long to see you, with all your native loveliness and sim- plicity, where your powers would be awakened by the society of minds attuned like your own." The blood mantled in her cheek and brow, and he saw that the poison was infused into her veins. Then, in tones of such eloquence as she had never before listened to, he described the brilliant and intellectual society in which he had mingled, — painted the wonders of art he had seen in his travels, — dwelt with seductive interest on the pleasure attending the conscious ness of bearing sway over other minds, and the mere feeling of mental power. She listened, with breathless eagerness ; and then he alluded, daikly nuleed, but with sufficient dislinclncss to his own plans and prospects for life ; ana with an'air of proud humility, added, "I know not what I may be ; but this I know, I will never THE FATAL, CHOICE. 75 plod contentedly on with the herd of spiritless beings around ine." This conversation infused a new spirit into Ellen ; her pursuits appeared grovelling and mean, and his words were constantly ringing in her ears, when she attempted to follow her for- mer occupations. She became thoughtful and pale, and Beaufort's vanity was flattered by the hope that he was the cause. He was interested in her peculiar character, where simplicity, im- agination, and intellect were singularly blended. He loved her, too, perhaps, as well as one is capable of loving, when the aflections have been made wholly subservient to the intellect. " Ellen," said he to her one evening, " you look sad, and I do not wonder at it. In this seclusion, where there are so few kindred spirits, your mind must prey upon itself, and retire within its own deep recesses." " I did not know my own privations or wants," she replied with affected gayety, but in a voice slightly tremulous, " till I saw you. You have awakened the consciousness of powers and cf desires, which I would that I had never known. Once I was happy in my duties, happy in my ignorance ; now I am ■ doomed to feel a vain thirsting for intellectual pleasures and distinc- tions I must not hope to reach.- 76 THE FATAL CHOICE. " Must not ?" said he, in an inquiring, softened tone ; " to-morrow, I leave you, Ellen, to engage again in the exciting bustle of the world. I am striving to rise, — perhaps, to fall ; but may I carry with me the assurance that one heart, at least, will watch my struggles with kind inter- est ? " A starting tear was her only answer. " Farewell, then," said he, grasping her hand, and bending his gaze on her as if he would read her thoughts ; " if I rise where I hope, it shall be 3'our own fault, loveliest and purest, if you remain pining in hopeless obscurity." It was on the evening after his departure, that the scene, with which we opened our little nar- ralive^ occurred. Albert" invited her to walk ; and, after some time spent in almost silent ram- bling, they sought the bower which had been formed by their united taste and skill. They had stood for some moments listeninfr to the evening song of the robin, when Albert sfiid, " If I could be content to part with the high birthright of reason, I would rather be that robin than any thing r.'lsf!." The conversation that followed blighted the clierished hopes of ye;irs. After he left l)er, Ellen's eye feL on her mother's grave, and the dcaUibcd scene rose before her. One petition ™^* THE FATAL CifOXCE. 77 which she remembered as always being repeated in her mother's prayers for her, now rung like a knell in her ears. " Keep her, oh, heavenly Father, fiom that pride which goeth before de struction, and that haughty spirit which is before a fall." "Oh, my mother, my mother," murmur- ed siie, " did you even then see, with a prophetic spirit, the danger of your child ? Is it, indeed, for pride, that I have spurned the pure and enduring affection of that gentle being, who would have lived for me alone ?" She was softened, and, for a moment, almost resolved to revoke the cruGi sentence she had just pronounced. But Beau- fort, with all his commanding dignity of manner and seductive eloquence, was before her, and she said, " No, I will not throw away the prize within my grasp, from a foolish, superstitious fear that my ambition may be wrong." After this time, the two friends seldom saw each other ; but each was sensible of a painful void. Ellen, indeed, thought it was nothing more than just the change, the mere deprivation of what she had been so long accustomed to. Albert grew pale and thin, and lost all relish for the ple.xsures he had once loved, now that she no longer shared them. Yet he never upbraided ner ; and, when he could show her any little 78 THE FATAL CHOICE. kindness, he did it with an alacrity, that told how dear her happiness was still to him. There was a touching sadness in his manner, niore Bubd';ing to a high spirit, like Ellen's, than the most eloquent protestations of regret could have been. She was disquieted and unhappy ; and she knew not why ; but, whenever her mother's image recurred to her fancy, it seemed to wear a look of reproof and sorrow. In a few weeks, all these melancholy feelings were banished by a letter from Beaufort, full of hope and exultation. He had entered on the arena of political life ; and, at a very early age, was elected, against a powerful opposition, to a scat in Congress. After dwelling, at some length, on the past struggle, he went on to say; "Chosen, as I have been, by the unbought suffrages of free- men, as a guardian of their dearest rights, it will be my first object faithfully to perform my duty to my country. 1 know not what is before mc, but a bright vista now seems opsning, and 1 hope to enrol my name among those whom my country delights to honor. I would not die, and have all perish with me ; but wouid transmit my name, as u talisman, to awaken the memory of all that is generous and self-sacj'ificing in the love of country. And you, Ellen, 1 feci that you THE FATAL CHOICE. 79 nave a spirit in unison with my own, and that your genius is worthy of a place among those, who would not waste all the energies of a death- less mind in the dull routine of daily duties." All this, and much more of the same charac- ter, Ellen read with delightful anticipations, that blinded her to the heartlessness apparent through the whole. She could not, or would not see, that ambition, thinly disguised, indeed, by the veil of patriotism, but still ambition, was the- ruling principle, and that domestic happiness had no place in his hopes. She could not resist the temptation of reading the letter to Albert, and asked him, at the close, " Has he not a noble heart .?" " Do not ask me, Ellen ; it is too late. He IS highly gifted, 'no doubt ; but, for your sake, I could wish there was less of the feverish excite- ment of gratified, and yet grasping ambition." Albert soon found, that he could not remain where every object awakened bitter thoughts After revolving various plans of life, he decided on becoming a physician. " In ministering to the woes of others, and relieving their real distresses, 1 may," thought he, " lose sight of m.y imaginary ones, and may, in time, forget ' that the iron has entered into my soul.' " 9# 1H& fXtii, CUfttCZ, He left Ins natire viOa^ wrdi a «ie:eTimnJli(M to refnro ibene' no more, till £Ileo hail (k^ned Sue new lost si^tt of biro, and onfjr beard, inci- deauMj and at lon^ intervals, tbat be was dklingMisbed as a scbolar, and beEoved for bts pbilamhnijyf. ** I wtsfa,** ahe sometinies said to faer%if, ** I could bare retained bim as a brtrtber and friend ; bot tbese men are so gra^ng, tbej »nMt be tbe wbole, or tbej will be nodnn^** • In two years, Beaofort csune to claim ber as bis bride. His d£lntt in Congress was most eloquent, and bis name lesoonded from one extreroi^ of tbe land to tbe otber. Ktlen ex- pected to see biro with tbe air of trimnpb and conscJoos power in lus eye and roein. But, tboogb be was larisb of admiration and brilliaot predictions ior ber, be spoke of wearioeas and dissatialaction, and locked forward to tbe time wben a seat in tbe Senate should release bim from some of bis present relations. It was Sabbath evening; they were to be oniled in the morning, and immedlatety to com- mence a tour through some of tbe roost pic- taresque parts of ilie country. Just at mitMH, ElSen went alone to ber mother^s grave, and to that bower, ** the home of tbe ro«c»." It was the same hoar, and there was the same purple THE FATAL CHOICE 8l cloud, as it seemed, as when she first revealed to Albert llie new hopes which were to be, in future, her suidinjj star. She lingered till the stars of evening appeared, one after another, " like infant births of light" VvTiat were her thoughts we know not ; but, ere she left that hallowed spot, she knelt upon the grave and breathed, for herself, and for him to whom her destinies were so soon to be united, her moth- er's prayer. " Keep me, and him too, oh my heavenly Father, from that pride which goelh before destruction, and that haughty spirit which is before a fall." But prayer, without efil^rt or watchfulness to avoid temptation, what does it avail with that Being who looks upon the heart ? Pass we over some years. Beaufort has received, one after another, some of the highest offices in his countrj^'s gift : but, still restless and unsatisfied, he cries, " Give, give." Har- assed, weary, and care-worn, he came to his home to contrive, with his wife, new schemes of ambition, and new methods of circumventing his rivals. And Ellen, — how does her woman's heart bear all this, so foreign to her nature, and to all her previous habits ? For a while she entered with eagerness into all his plans and interests. And, in witnessing his success, she fancied her- 6 82 THE FATAL CHOICE. Bolf happy. One scene of high excitemejit fol lowed another, so rapidly, that she had no time to think. She saw licr husband caressed and flattered, and beheld inferior minds vainly slr-A'iiig to reach the dazzling height where he stood. The voice of fame rung in her ear, in tones more dear to the heart of woman, than if its rich music had been breathed for her alone. It was for him, who was the object of her pride and de- votion, that those seductive strains were breathed, and for him that the incense of flattery rose in intoxicating perfumes. She, too, as united to him, received her full share of homage ; and not for that alone ; but her beauty and brilliancy, together with the freshness and originality of a vifTorous mind, foi'med in seclusion and from books alone, made her an object of admiration and envy. Ilcr opinions were sought, her in- fluence craved, and her sayings repeated with applause. She proudly felt, that now, indeed, she bore sway over other minds. All her fancy had pictured, all her soaring ambition asked, was now hers. ^Vns she happy ? We know not ; she never said she was not. But there was, at times, a weariness in her step, and a listli;ssness in her mien, and a vacant look, as if her lhou"lits were far away. There were some TI/E FATAIi CHOICE. 83 simple and touching strains of mus!c to w lich she could not, or would not, listen. There was a brilliant festival in Beaufort's sjilendid home. The elegant, the polished, and the intellectual, of our own and some other lands, were gathered in one dazzling assembly, Ellen was gliding from one gay group 'to another, the very personification of beauty, dignity, and grace. At her request, a lovely girl, whose very soul seemed to gush out in song, took a seat by the piano, and called out rich tones of har- mony, which she accompanied with her voice. Ellen was leaning, enraptured, over her. Sud- denly, she struck the notes of " Home, sweet home," while her voice poured forth a sti'ain of melody, so full and sweet, that every sound was hushed through the crowded suite of apartments. Ellen started as if an adder had stung her, and, forgetting every thing but those sounds, so full of anguish to her, she rushed into an adjoining boudoir, and, sinking upon a couch, put her hands upon her ears to shut out the tones. A look of surprise and won- der passed round the circle ; but in a few mo- ments sho made hoi appearance, perfectly calm again, and apologized by referring her emotion tc some early and peculiar associaliori.s. 84 THE FATAL CHOICE. After some years she became a mother. Tlio infant lived jusl long enough to stir the deep fountain of a mother's love, and then was snatched away. Deeply and bitterly did siio mourn. But her husband was now in the midst of a nev/ scheme, which promised complete suc- cess to his party, and he could hardly spare timo to shed one tear over the babe, beautiful, even in death Once, indeed, he showed some emo- tion ; when taking the last look of the body, from which the unsullied spirit had departed, he said, in a suppressed voice, " Thou couldst not have had a better time to die, pure as thou wcrt. Would that I had been taken, like thee, before the dark stains of earth were upon my soul." Ellen now opened her mothcr''s Bibic, which she had always kept near her ; but a darkness seemed to shroud its pages, once so full of ligh,. and hope. Her husband was a skeptic. He had never, indeed, tried to make a proselyte of her ; but he was one of those, who must e.\ert a commanding influence over other minds, for good or for evil. She had, insensibly, imbibed liis cold and heartless views of the Deity, and could find no consolation from the bright hopes and cheering promises of the Gospel A midnight f;loom now settled down upon her. She shunned THE FATAL CHOICE. 8? society, and took no interest in her husband's ambitious schemes. For a while he tried to hire her into the gay world again, but in vain. Up- braidings and reproaches, for her want of energy, fol'owed ; but, finding it all fruitless, he left her m her desolation, and pursued his path alone. Among all her summer friends, not one knew or cared for the secret of her grief, not one probed the wounded spirit, or shed upon the benighted mind the beams of heavenly hope. Then she began to feel deep yearnings for the voices of love in her early home. They were with her in her dreams, and she awoke but to feel the vain thirstinsrs of a desolate heart. That early friend, with all his forbearing tender- ness, his pure and devoted affection, was before her. Her mother's spirit seemed hovering over her with a look of pitying love. Her father's prayer, which was ofl"ered each morning and evening, in lowly guise, before the family altar, when the youngest blossom of their house was always specially remembered, was indelibly im- pressed on her memory. " Once more," thought she, " could I but hear that prayer once more methiiiks it would descend like cooling dew on my withered and burning brain. These thoughts and imacinintrs she revealed to no one. Her SR THE FATAL CHOICE. husbanife and a nioiher. While busily plying her needle, her eyes occasionally wander from her work, to dwell, for a moment, now on a rosy infant, asleep hi the cradle by her side, and now with a glance of deep and pure affection on th» THE FATAL CHOICE. 91 benignant countenance of her husband. On the other side, is a female, pale and thin, but with the traces of beauty on her wasted face. Her expression is sad, but subdued and calm. She is reading a worn volume, whose contents seem to absorb her whole soul. Various emotions flit across that speaking face, till, laying her finger emphatically on the page she had been reading, she looked up with a radiant smile, saying, in a low, sweet tone, " Albert." It was Ellen, — healed, and in her right mind. The volume she held was her mother's Bible, and her spirit, chas- '.ened, humbled, and peaceful, was sitting " at the feet of Jesus." " Albert," she repeated, as he looked silently, but with deep emotion, on the heavenly serenity that beamed from her tranquil eye, " here is a passage I have never seen before. ' Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls.'' How beautiful, how cheering, how full of hope ! " she added, in a low voice, while a tear stole silently down her cheek. " It is all 1 want, — rest — not for the body merely, — • though how sweet is rest to the weary frame ; but this is rest to the soul. How sweet the assur 92 THE FATAL CHOICE. arce to my weary, tempest-tost spirit. Albert you have been the physician, not of my body merely, but of my immortal soul. You have led me to the Heavenly Physician, and applied the Balm of Gilead to my wounded heart. You have pointed me to him who laid down his life for his friends, and left, as his last legacy, peace, — his own peace, not such as the world gives, but a peace deep and unbroken, reaching beyond timo and constituting the bliss of eternity." LIFE. A CL» t> o'ershades each human let A mist enwiaps each path of pain ; To solve tlie mystery of life, Let each wild dreamer seek in vain* A fitful, fleetirij^ joy we grasp, A lightning glance, a meteor fiame, We toil for gold, we strive for power, We sigh for love, we reverence fame. And some in Pleasure's mazes tread • But all m vain each human art; The poison lingers in each cup, The skeleton in every heart ! Some mocking liglit allures our steps O'er moor and fen, in giddy dance ; Forward we press, the phantom flies, Receding still as we advance. Wearied and worn, we pause awhile, Then watch some new illusion's glare; Again we hope, again we grieve, Our spectre glory melts in atr ! Some, like the far-famed queen of old, Their pearly treasures offer up. And joys, which should a lifetime fill. Are quaffed in one delicious cup ; 94 LIFE, Life has no further boon to give, In apathy their days glide by, Their tideless hearts, and aspect calm, Coldly each turn of fate defy ; Some wretched hearts th£'ir anguish veil, Their fierce despair they fain would liide, Karh vanished hope, and dream conceal. Beneath the iron mask of pride. A cloud o'ershades each mortal's lot, A mist ensiirines each path of pa'.u ; To solve the mystery of life, et each wild dreamer seek in vain , Ever a firm, unwavering trust In the most High's divine liehest The only steadfast rock is found, On which our trembling hearts to rest C A i LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE. The picture represents the beautiful La Valli^-re, ir her retirement at the convent of the Carmelites; and under it are inscribed the words once uttered by her in reply to the interrogatory of a friend, — " A'o< happy, but cmitent." BY MRS. WIIITMAlf. How calmly beautiful The pencilled scene! It is the evening hour, — The golden close of an autumnal day. Seen through yon time-worn arch, the parting sun Res».s like a weary hunter on the brow Of the far western hills, — and there lingering, To mark the silent flight of his last arrow Through the liquid air. Through the tall Gothic casement pours a flood Of golden glory, streaming o'er the walls, The marble pavement, and the vaulted roof; While in the far-perspective waving woods. Vineyards, and fields, and trellised cottages Are brightly tinged with the rich sunset glow, And autumn casts her mellow tints o'er all, Deepening the beavity of the quiet scene. li I n8 LI\ES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE The hour, the season, breathe of calm decay, Of life's brief splendor and approaching gloom, Anil touchingly accord with that sweet form Oi fading lovelmcss, so calm and pale. It seemelh some fair statue there enshrined , Tlie brow of marble beauty, raised to heaven, Is smooth and peaceful as the unclouded front Of sleeping innocence ; yet sober thought. Full of sweet sadness, there asserts her reign, While the dark eye, once eloquent of lovo, And fraught with human sympathies, now seems But the calm mirror of tiiat tranquil heaven On which its rapt gaze lingers. Did st thou find, Sweet sufferer, within those hallowed walls, Tliat heavenly peace which the world cannot give i And didst thou, through thy solitary hours. Feel that support which those can never know Who clinif to broken reeds, and bow before The self-created idols of the heart? Did thy fond fancy never lead thee back To vanished hours, and pleasures long gone by j — Nor memory lingt-r round those dazzling halls Of regal splendor, where thy dawning charms, Thy dreamlike beauty, and unconscious grace Enthralled a monarch's heart, and shone awhile The light of courts, a nation's cynosure .•* Could that fond heart Its '»arly dream forget, — its dream of love .' Ah when did woman e'er that dream forget? UNES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE 97 Man's love lives but with hope ; while woman's heart Still echoes to the music of the past ; — And never heart was formed more prone than thine To the impulsive, trustful tenderness Of innocence and youth; — its thrilling chorda Responded to the burning breath of love, With all the sweet, wild, mournful harmonv Which passion wakens in the youthful breast, Ere the rude hand of stern reality, And all the earth-born interests of life, Have marred its music, and its chords unstrung ! Ay, thou hast loved as woman only loves,— A love all sacrifice and sullering ; a star That gathers lustie from the gloom of night J A martyr's fond Idolatry , a faith Baptized m tears, to sorrow consecrate And still one liquid gem, unmarked before, Seems trembling on that pale and faded cheek ; As if some dream of other days had thrown -A passing shadow o'er thy thoughts, and dimmed Heaven's image, pictured on their peaceful stream. Yet all seems tranquil now, and that warm trace Of recent sorrow lends a touching charm To the deep sanctity and holy rest That breathe o'er all thy beauty, and bespeak A heart resigned, — ^^ not happy, hut content ;' — A hi.'art, that, like the Dove, long soujfht its rest III vain o'er earth's wide waters, — till, at last. Wearied and faint, it wings its homeward way. And folds its pinions in the uik ol peace. 7 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. BY THJE AUTHOR OF " MIRIAM." Thou lonely stream ! thou lonely stream! Beneath the twiUytht's dying gleam, Art thou, when busy fuct are gone, Still flowing on, still flowing on? Thy murmurinfr song Dost thou prolong Beneath the awful midnight skies, While 'mid the trees The folded breeze In slumber lies, — m slumber lies .•* Yes ! murmuring stream ! and far away The dweher on tny banks must stray ; But thou wilt heed not who in gone, Still flowing on, — still flowing on: But oil' mine ear Those murmurs dear In distant lands shall ne'er forget « Though 1 depart Mine achmg heart Shall hear thee yet, — shall hear tlice yel ' STANZAS FOR MUSIC 99 And shall my stream of life then cease, Lost in tlie shadowy Land of Peace, While thou through forest, de!I, and lawn, Art flowing on, — still flowing on? Where young trees cast Their shadows fast, Beside thee dies the aged pine. And the whole span Of pilgrim man U less than thine, — is less than Uuae t PIIRENOLOGICAL SPECULATIONS. BT MRS. SEBA SMITH. Gentle reader, art thou a Phrenologist ? If so, we Will indulge in a few harmless lucubra- tions. We will, if you please, enter this place of public resort, because, if I mistake not, there is a .school kept hard by, and soon the door wil. fly open, and out will burst a little host of future legislators, embryo judges, incipient divines, and unfledged orators and statesmen. Stand one side. Hurrah! — out they come. Now mark ; did you ever see such a set of heads .' What facial angles ! what breadth, height, and compass of brain ! Observe their temperaments too. None of your little, puny, pale-faced children of the aristocracy, looking like the relics of humanity ; but firm, athletic, vigorous young republicans, half able, even now, to cope with the venerable and musty sticklers for preeminence, and ancient usages in the tottering fabrics of other lands. Mark > n PHRENOLOGICAL SPEC LATIONS. 101 the clear, brilliant eye looking ^s if a very volcano of thought and passion were slumber- ing beneath. Address them, and ten to one, some sturdy young democrat will read you a lecture upon the rights and privileges of boyhood, worthy of a Jefferson. Does any one believe the mothers of boys like these, are weak, nervous, unthinking fashiona- bles .? No, it is contrary to the very laws of our being. They are strong-minded, strong-hearted, rational matrons, worthy to be the countrywomen of Mary, the mother of Washington, — worthy to be called American wives, American mothers. Of the fathers we will say nothing now. It is the mother that stamps the character of the future man. She gives the boy the bias to good or ill,* — makes him the hero, philosopher, or statesman. It is she who makes him the upright, virtuous citizen, the supporter of the laws of his country, and the upholder of its institutions, or the degraded and depraved outcast, on whom the slern arm of justice executes her severest penalties. She may be unconscious of all this, but it » no less the fact. Her child will inherit hers, rather than its father's intellectual organization ; and it is the tones of her voice, Jier teachings 102 pukjLXological speculations. by its infant bed, her language and daily demean- or, that are stamping its character, and making the hereafter good or bad man. If she knows all tliis, and is faithless to her trust, who shall depict the guilt and woe that may ensue } Na- ture, as well as religion, cry shame upon such a mother. But we are straying. Let us stand by in this recess, and mark the boys as they divide them- selves into groups. Do you see that boy in the centre of half a dozen others, all of whom are talking with great vehemence, while he is en- tirely calm } There, I am glad of that, he has taken off his hat, and we can see his head dis- tinctly. What a calm, intellectual brow ! He is rather pale too, — a young student. But mark the preponderance of the intellectual over the animal region. lie will through life sway the intellects, but never the passions of men. He speaks now, and his voice is low, and very sweet ; the boys are perfectly quiet about him. There has been some juvenile litigation amongst them, and they have chosen him umpire ; and they will abide by his decision too. He has given his award now, and, I dare say, it is worthy of a Hale. You see the boys are perfectly satisfied with the propriety of hia PHRENOLOGICAL SPECULATIONS 103 decision, and are dispei-sing. That boy, I doubt not, will one day sit in the place, once occupied by Chief Justice Marshall, unless he be over- taxed in youth, and thus fall a victim to his precocity. There comes a young leader, swinging his cap, and hurrahing at the top of his lungs, fol- lowed by a score of boys, all as eager as himself, about to engage, I warrant, in some trial of strength or skill. You see those boys are all smart, all active, but yet how naturally they move off in the Avake of that young champion. What a Napoleon head is there ! What power in the animal region ! and how nobly balanced by the broad, intellectual forehead ! That boy is made to command armies, and to sway popular assemblies. He will rule, let him be where he will. People will bow before him as by an instinct they cannot resist. What are those boys collecting about that rich, crusty old gentleman's door-way for ? They are in close consultation, and, if I mistake not, he ha« m )re than once rated them soundly for mak- ing so much noise about his premises. Hurrah! there it goes, three cheers for Mr. , and they are off in a gifly. Out comes the old gentleman, his face red with wrath, shaking his head, and 104 FHUENOLOGICAL SPECLLATIONS. denouncing vengeance upon every soul of them He looks up and down the street, — not a boy is to be seen. There, a roguish, chuckling face has just -peered round the corner, and is off like a flash. He gives chase. The boys have been round the square, and, in the absence of the owner have repeated the cheers at his door, and now turn up another avenue. They will not dare repeat the experiment, and the irritated, baf- fled old man goes in, breathless and mortified, ruminating plans of revenge. Here is a group of miniature politicians, deep m the mysteries of party. They gesticulate as much as their fathers, and are ten times more in earnest. They are of opposite parties too, and some heat has been elicited, for combativeness is pretty actively excited. Hard names have been exchanged, and both leaders (you can easily distinguish them) are quite red in the face. Yes there are blows, and their voices grow loud. " Call me Tory, will you ? I won't stand that, — the Tories helped the British, and were against our independence." " Then don'l call me Hartford Conventioner, — nobody shall do that." There, will not those boys understand the prin- ciples of our government ? Will they not al PHRENOLOGICAL SPECULATIONS. lOJ. eome day be nobly capable of exorcising the elective francriise ? Suppose they be a liille intemperate in their discussions, it is infinitely better than the dull, cold apathy of a despotism. Our boys have a most sovereign contempt for wliat we call aristocracy. Even the boys of the silly things in our land, who try to affect the airs of that class, will do nothing of themselves to sustain such pretensions, except as it is drilled into them by perpetual talking and coercion. The boy has everywhere a glorious contempt for caste. He naturally chooses the brightest and smartest boys for companions, let them be found where they may. I recollect in a neighbouring city the boys at one time were divided into two classes, dis- tinguished by the names of the " upper-en'ders," and " lower-enders," and much bickering and ill-blood ensued. The uppcr-enders were the sons of the wealthier citizens, and the lower- enders, of the middling class. Never did one boy meet another of the op- posite faction without bristling up and looking defiance, or skulking to the other side of the street, according to the strength of his nerves afTe, &c Things remained in this condit'cn lOG PHUENOLOGICAI, SPECULATIOAS. apparently, for some time ; though a close ob server might have detected symptoms indicative of an approaching crisis. The ower-encJers beg-m to bandy contemptuous terms ; sometimes "stumped" the upper-enders to fight, — talked of gloves, soft hands, and white faces. The upper-enders grew exasperated, tried to look fierce, and at length, screwing then* courage to the sticking-point, actually challenged their op ponents to combat. The call was obeyed with alacrity. Never did mail-clad champions of the olden time thirst more eagerly to distinguish themselves in military prowess, than did these doughty heroes of a dozen years, to signalize themselves in the war of the upper-enders and lowcr-cnders. It was a bright moonlight evening. The elements were hushed, unconscious of the great destinies about to be decided, or else breathless wiih expectation. A certain brother of mine, a youthful Mars, having enjoined silence, divulg- ed the precious secret. 1 was at that time too much an admirer of martial achievements to betray him, and he departed with many and sage injunctions to " be careful," "not to get hurt," &ic. About eleven o'clock he returned thorougit- PHRENOLOGICAL SPECULATIONS. 107 ly bespotted and betorn ; but what was all that and a few bruises into the bargain, when his party had been victorious! The lower-ender? had beaten the upper-enders, and driven them into yards and enclosures, whence they dared not show a head; and they never, from that day forth, presumed to turn up a nose at the lower- enders. Thus ended the war. All this is boyhood, you say ; ay, and so it is ; but it is American boyhood. Did you ever think of the thing before ? Did you ever think of the difference of boyhood in our own coun- try, and that of every other on the face of the earth ? Did you ever think of the contrast in America and England even ? Here we have no aristocracy, no privileged orders, no laws of primogeniture ; and boyhood, in the mass, must be altocether a different affair in the mother country, from what it is with us ; and it is too obviously so under other governments to admit of even a comparison. Our boys will not tamely submit to usurpa- tion, to airs of superiority ; they are keen observ- ers, and even keen thinkers. They ask the why of every thing, and the wherefore must bo rational indeed, to cxchip. the reverence of these 108 FHRENOLOGICAI SPECILATIONS. stripling republican cavaliers. They are nk»N boys as our own institutions, and no others, are calculated to develope. Their education '« ic accordance, — the circumstances by which thej are surrounded are likely to make such boys unlike those of any other country ; and they must be followed by such men. And here J come to the point phrenologically. The institutions of America, all of them, polit ical, moral, and religious, are, of all others, bcs. calculated for the developemcnt of the highe; faculties of our nature ; and these are of ihcm selves establishing among us a cast, a type oj head, which will itself guaranty the perpetuity oJ those institutions. We have nothing to fear from foreign oi internal disorganizers and corrupters, — for the permanency of our institutions is written upon thn very brows of our children, — in plain, legible characters upon the forehead of every school-boy. that, sauntering, swings his satchel in our streets We need not enter the legislative hall, to sccV for the conservative principle of our govern ment ; it is to be fi)uiid everywhere, in iho vigorous, manly outline of the heads of our pro- fessional men, our artisans, our free voters. THE POLITICIAN OF PODUNK. Solomon Waxtend was a sliocmaker of Po» dunk, a small village of Nevv York, some forty years ago. He was an Englishman by birth, and had come over the water to mend the insti- tutions, as well as the soles, of the country. He was a perfectly honest man, and of natural good sense : but, having taken pretty large doses of new light from the works of Tom Paine and the French Revolutionists, he became, like an inflated balloon, light-headed, and soared aloft into the unknown regions of air. Like many of his coun- trymen brought up under monarchical institu- tions, he was slow in understanding the mysteries of our political system ; and, wanting the ballast of Yankee common sense, he nevertheless thought himself specially qualified to instruct the people of Pod unk in eveiy thing relating to civil liberty. Accordingly he held forth, at first, over his lapstone, then at the bar-room, and finally at a caucus. He had some gifts, and more of the grace of assurance. He set up for a great man, became a candidate for representative, and was 110 THE POLITICIAN OF PODUNK. triumphantly elected a member of the Gener- al Assembly of New York. With all the spint of a true reformer, he set forth for Albany, to discharge "the Kieh functions of his official state. [Je went. He rose to make a speech. His voice failed, his knees tottered, he became silent ; ho sat down. The whole affair was duly reported in the papers. It was read at the alehouse in Po- dunk ! Solomon Waxtend came back an altered man. He went away round, ruddy, and self-sufficient ; he returned lean, sullen, and subdued. He shut him- self up for a month, and nothing was heard in his house by the neighbours, save the vigorous hammer upon the lapstone. At length, one even- ing, he appeared at the village inn. It was a sort of holiday eve, and many of his partisans were there. They looked at Solomon, as if they saw a ghost ; but he had that calmness of counte- nance which betokens a mind made up. His late friends crowded round him ; but Salomon, waving his hand, bade them sit down. Havmg done this, he spoke as follows. " I trust I am duly sensible, my friends, of the honor you intended me, in sending me to the Assembly. If 1 have disgraced you, it has, at least, been a lesson to me. I find, that in order THE POLITICIAN OF PODUNK 111 to understand j^our institutions, and to cope with your Yankee people, it is necessary, like them, to live long in the country, and to study its history, and become familiar with its political sys- tem. I find that an Englishman, with his Tory notions, his hereditary love of monarchy, his loyalty, woven in with his first lessons of life, is like a • fish out of water ' in one of your demo- cratic assemblies. I have, therefore, only one thing to say and that will be told in the way of a story, " Some people, digging in a sandbank by the seaside, in search of Kid's money, came to a chest, with the following inscription, — ' Take me up, and I will tell you more ! ' This gave them fresh courage, and they continued their efforts. At length they dug up the chest, and on the bot- tom, they found the following inscriptioji, — ' Lay vie doion as I vms lej'ore.'' " Having told this story, the cobler departed leaving his hearers to apply the obvious hint con* veyed by the legend. THE THOUGHTS OF THE DUMB. BY J. H. CLINCH From words we gain ideas; — there are some, Alas I whose only knowledge rests in words, Tlieir wisdom empty wind. How different The shad' wy thoughts which wander through suca minds, From those ideal pictures, fresh and warm And well defined, which crowd the mental sight Of the deaf mute. — Words are unknown to liini, — His thoughts are things, — his logic and his chain Of metaphysical deductions, — all Pass through his brain in bright depicted facts, The fresh reflections in mind's mirror clear Of Art's achievements or of Nature's works. One, to whom Heaven, in wisdom infinite, But to our sense inscrutable, had locked The gates of Sound and Speech, was asked to tell The meaning of " fursiveness.'' Pausing then A moment, with the eye of memory " 'I'o glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, Fur lit'ing thoughts, he seized tlie ready pen And wrote, — The odor lohich the Irmnplcd Jloicer Gives out to bless the foot which crushes it ' I i ■'!,•_ ■ ..*.*.• SEA RHYMES. RETURN OF THE VICTOR SHIP BY JAMES T. FIELDS. She liung her snowy pinions wide, A moment on tlie breeze, Then dashed the crimson waves aside And leapt the foaming seas ; She swept a banner o'er the flood That never bore a stain. And like a giant forth she stood As if to dare the main. Away ! awny ! ye gallant so\ils, With swelling hearts ye fly j In clouds of fire your thunder rolls Its white smoke on the sky, — I hear. 1 hear, the ringing ['cal. Your jiashing arms I see; Away 1 away I what ji)y to feel The ti-rill of victory ! IJehinci ye moans the battlt*-ery^ Of many a foeman doomed to die, Above ye float the stripes aivd stars Amid a nnt ion's loud huzzas, While glory's boon, — proud honor's fame, Encircles each exulting name ! 8 The interesting and picturesque fact, fhftt you can say^ In all tb«> jtoberncss aad gravity of prose, that you leaJ'y "iom- posed " stanzas " on the top of a " heaven-kissing " mountain, — or on some capital quarter-deck " at sea," is something loo valuable, withal, to pass over with a poor indifference. The chance is, that matter thus brought to light might do some- thing extra towards advancing the •' good and true " in poetry. So would have judged Swedenbnrg, at least. For my own part, I am so certain, with reference to the article that follows, that enough to " swear by " was actually done, in pencil, on the very crown-rock of the mountain sung of, that I feel no disturbance of conscience in telling about it here, under the title of LINES WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT HOLYOKE. I. Great God! tiiy works oppress me. As 1 gaz» Upon thy beautiful crcalinii, I but feel My frailty and my lueamicss. — I look down On a world niap()0(i beneath nie, like tJie \\7> Of forms upon llie firmament, wlieii c.ouds Are marshalled there, amid a shadowy light Tiiat touches them with hues beyond ovir dreams' 1 look down with a fearfulness, — I hear A voice, as of a choir, bursting in song Of gratitude and glory to the J'owcr LINES WRITTEN OiN M jUNT HOLYOKE. 115 Tliat fashioned such immensity. 1 hear An anthem rolling to the Architect • Of such a boundless beauty. It comes not From some towered city, where the booming bells Send up faint music through its cloudy pall It comes not from one land amid its joy, And gladness of its harvest, and its flowers, — Not from oaie sounding river, in its flow To the great flood that bosoms it, — nor yet from one upheaving ocean, — but it comes from all their voices, mingling in this blue And far vault of the mighty universe ! 11. My vision dims, with wonder ! — I look in Upon the panorama of my soul. And hear a whisper from deep places, full Of a subdued devotion, telling me. That man, though but an atom glimmering through This sea of things incompreliensib'e, Yet ^.ooms above the mountains in his mind, And holds great conversation with the stars ! And when he bends him to the checkered earth On its vast altar-peaks, — the dreamy world. That, like a canvass touched by his own hand, Seems but a painted pastime of the power Of the far God that walks above the clouds. And the broad blue they curtain, he is touched With some proud intimation; — and his brow, Illuniinate with a proud hope, and full Of the unfathomed mystery within, 116 LINES WRITTEN ON MOUNT HOLYOKE. Jjifta to the high home of his destiny ; Then hows on eartli's bald pinnacles, in prayer III. Silence and prayer, — upon the mountain tower ! \Vhere clouds rest on their passage tlirough Ihe skf And its briglit orbs seem nearer ! — wliere the wind Sweeps, with a lioUow sound, like that of waves Or countless organs mingling, and the storm Peals with a fierce music ! O, if here, On these unshadowed places of the world, Where the earth looks tlie dim and dwarfish thin» That well williin the iiollow of his h.ind. Who called it from immensity, might swing, — If here, where man, and all his wurks seem tombed In the dark forest that embosoms all, — Where of his triumph voice no echo comes. And the great cannon's call scarce undulates, — If here he bow not, as a creature struck Down to the dust he tends to, aud outpour In that confession, sanctified by tears. That ever mark the noblest penitence, — The story of his consciousness, — and ask For mercy, with a deep siiame on his iieart, Siiading it as some jjrcat incubus, — if 3'et He prate of power, and dream of glory here,-— Wrap him in pride, and curl tin: paling lip, That niusi to-morrow parley with the worm,— Then let him pass, — as but a breathing thing Gud's glories ciinnot reach, — nor beauties bow A creature with whose soul companionship I LINES WRITTEN ON MOUNT HOI YOKE. 11' Must merge in misery, — a mass of earth. That seems not formed to live, — yet dreads to die IV. Silence and prayer! — O tell me, ye who come As pilg-ims to these towers, — these cloudy homes Where Nature casts her banners to the sky, Above the bravest battlements of man, And tells tiie story of her lordliness In her unfading oak and waving pine, That count the passing centuries from their crag, Dare the red bolt, — and laugh above the storm,— O tell me, — can ye come here, and bow down Where the world dwindles 'neath ye, like a point, Nor feel its passions lessen ? Can ye hear The voice of cities, and the waving fields. Sweep far beneath ye, like the sound of winds. Nor feel how lesser than a child's it is? Can ye look down upon the ocean sea. Nor feel how infant-handed are its waves When storms are at their bravest, to the waves That mingle in their battles of the sky, When the tornado rides its tempest-car. And whirlwinds gather at its thousand wheels, And the red thunder leaps from spire to spire Of clouds that point the heavens like citadels, And blacken tlie horizon like a veil? O say, — can ye bow here, nor feel how far Ye are from eartb , — and yet how near to heaven f 118 LINES WRITTEN OX MOUNT HOLYOKE. Can ye, on summits where ye almost hear The clouds swoop by ye on their passage, gaze On this mosaic of tlie land and sea, Or the unfathomed blue, nor feci deep tears Breaking within ye, as from founU that stir Only to One great voice ? Can ye bow down Without that unheard utterance of pray«.f, Wiiich the heart wliispers, when the things of GoB Bend it to silence that is eloquence ? A SKETCH FROM LIFE. BT THE AUTHOR OF " WEALTH AND FASHION." How many essays have been written on that simple word, happiness^ from the times poste- rior to Miss Hannah More's charming poem, entitled, " Search after Happiness," to the present day; when it seems to be conceded, that happi- ness is a celestial resident, who has no home on earth, and whose " visits are few and far between " ; that she only comes now and th'^n .to say, that we must not expect to be intimately acquainted with her till we seek her in her own region of life and glory, where she dwells in the presence of the Creator. Let us then cease to repine that she so con- stantly eludes our pursuit ; and take the best substitutes we can find, cheerfulness and con- tentment, It wou.d be a utilitarian service, not unwor- thy the projects of the present day, to prove that these qualities are within the reach of all , but I am not sanguine enough of success to a' 120 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. tempt it. An habitual discipline of mind, howev- er, will secure a comfortable portion of conlent- ment, and a conscience at peace with itself will conjure up its partner, cheerfulness ; it must be confessed, nevertheless, that conscience is not apt to be perfectly at peace with itself; and, tlie higher the standard, the less there is of self- complacency. There is one great truth connected with this subject, which illustrates most powerfully the goodness of God. Contentment is not oftener the portion of the rich, than of the poor , neither does it ally itself to rank, or intellect. One of the most contented people I ever heard of. was one among the least gifted. She was uncouth in her figure and gait, and deeply pitted with the small pox, which she had had severely in her youth. By daily labor she supported an aged mother ; and they occujJled. a room furnished with the bare necessaries of life. Let not the wealthy disdain " the simple annals of the poor." She often spoke of her success in life with fer- vent gratitude, and said it seemed to her a miracle how she had risen in the wotld, so as to be able to " keep house." \ / Her idea of aflluence, was bounded to a sufTicient supply of work to enable her to clothe x^ t A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 121 herself suitably for the season, to furnish three meals a day, and to pay an annual rent of twelve dollars for her room. This last demand she considered exorbitant, and said, " if she consulted oil y her own comfort she would not submit to It, but Marm must live well, she was used to It, and could not be reduced in her old age ; then, upon second thoughts, she did not so much blame her landlord, for the prices of every thing had risen, and it was natural enough that rent should rise too." At length^ however, she said, with something like gloom, " that they must move ; — the landlord had raised their rent from twelve to fourteen dollars, and she could not afford to pay it, and, if she could, she should think iL wrong to-be living at such a rent." I offered to lend her the two dollars. I would not have risked hurting her feelings by offering to give them. She said, " No, everybody must accommodate themselves to their circumstances ; she would move, though it would take her ofT from a day's work, and she was afraid tliey should go behindhand. The bedstead must be uncorded, and there was a chest of drawers to Ucv -moved, and only one pair of hands to do it bat, thank her stars, they were strong ones." I proposed sending a hand-cart for the heavy 122 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. articles, and asked how far they were to be car- ried. " Only across the entry," she replied ; " the landlord can fret a higher rent for this room than the other, and so that is naore suit- able for ws." She certainly bst none of this blessed quality of contentment by getting into a smaller apart- ment, but said, " the same good luck had fol- lowed her that did 'about every thing; — it took less firo to warm it, and was every way a saving." In time, Sary's mother died, (thi.s was the name she always went by.) and she became rheumatic and unable to work ; ami then she got wh.at she called " a nice snug birth in the alms- liouse." I knew bar love of independence so well, that I thought this must be a calamity to her ; but I found it otherwise. The first time I went to see her, she began to enumerate hei comforts; said, "she had half a bed to herself and that was as much as she had, when her mother was living." After she recovered bet health, which she did in the course of a few months, she preferred remaining in the alms house as an assistant. " I can do more," said she, " than earn my living ; I can do something for the poor, and it is but just that \ should, for A SKETCH PUOJtf LIFE. 123 I have been living almost a year upon charity not that I ever felt humbled by it, for we are all livinfT upon God's charity." Sary was some- thing of a philosopher; for she added, " that she knew she was well off there, and it was uncer- tain wl?ether she should ' better her situation,' by trying to live independently." She certainly had not book learning, for she could neither write nor read ; but she had col- lected a good many sayings, that she applied to the affairs of life. The wisdom of them she always tested by her own experience, and never yielded her opinion to their authority without full conviction. If she had any affectation, it was in quoting the observations of men, instead of those of her own sex ; and she always pre- faced her quotations by remarking, " I have heard sensible men say," &;c. I recollect one strikinc: instance of her inde- pendence of public opinion. She prefaced a quotation as usual, by, " I have heard sensible men say, * If you mend your clothes on your back, For poverty you 'II ne'er lack ; ' now I know that is not true, for I have mended mine on my back a hundred times, and I never yet wanted for any thing." I 24 A SkETCH FROM LITE. Some circumstances took plnce which ren dered it necessary for Sary to make a journey, It was upon the whole a trial to her equanimity ; but she was too wise to repine at an unavoidable evil, and so she made up her mind to perforin it for pleasure. It was eight long miles, and then there was a bridge to cross, which would cost her two cents. This last difficulty was obviated by crossing in a boat below for nothing ; it made her foot journey two miles further, but she saved her cents. She said, however, " that it was the hardest job she ever went through for pleasure, and, upon the whole, the dearest one, taking into account the wear upon her shoes." I will not further illustrate my subject, lest some one should say, this is not intellectual conlnnt- nieii-., but mere vegetation. It may be so ; for God ripens fruits, flowers, and plants by his sun- shine ; and he will watch over the humblest mind to which he has given existence, even though to the highly gifted it may seem scarcely raised above the clod of the valley. LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF POETRY. A FRAGMENT. Alas . the days of song are past, And all is downright prose at last ; No more the lover wooes with verse, But argues better with his purse; And haply finds, if this is long, His suit is short, his pleading strong. The Moon, that once inspired the lay, Now only wakes the watch-dog's bay. The Muses, wooed and won of yore. Are sought or worshipped now no more ; And sooth to say (I speak from knowledge, Although I learned it not at college), — Since Homer thundered in their ear, The deafened Nine have ceased to hear; At least, 't is vain their aid to seek, Unless your prayer is couched in Greek ; For 1 have tried it many a time, And could not even get a rhyme ; So, let them pass, — they 've lost their zest,- They 're nine old musty maids, at best, They 're not in vogue, and that 's enough; A goddess, out of fashion, 's stuff ! Old Helicon is but a hill, — Dry is Castalia's bubbling rill, — Arcadia's golden age is flown. So Benton's mint-drops did not go alone . LUXURY, OR THE LADY-BIRD BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. 1 SAW three children gathered round A tulip's bed, on the dewy ground, And their little voices chiming rung, "White these were th.e words tlie young group sun^ " Lady»bird, lady bird, fly away home! Your house is on fire, your children will roam.' They thought, to be sure, tlio dainty thing Would flutter aloR its tiny wing, And fly to rescue the little brood. Away, far away, in ihe deep, green wood. They waited in vain, — it stirred not a wing, Thougli the warning voices did loudly ring. They looked with surprise, then raised again, In a louder voice, the warning strain. " Lady -bird, lady-bird, fly away home! Your house is oh fire, your children will roam." The words were sweet, and llie mr-rning clear, • But it fell, I am sure, on a senseless ear, On a callous heart, or dangoi and home Would have urged her away where her children roaiu They thought she was an insensible thing. And proud, perchance, of her spotted wing. 1 looked in the cup the monster to see, And learn what the truth of the case minrht be. LUXURY, OR THE LADY-BIRD. 127 I saw, at once, that her silly brain Would think no more of that home again. The whirr of her wings no more would be heard, In the woody dell, by insect or bird, — For there she sat, like a fairy queen, On her velvet couch in the tulip's sheen ; And the dainty thing had gathered there Whatever is rich, or sweet, or rare, — A thousand things, that were all unknown In the rose-tree shade, from whence she had flown ; And things, that her sisters there would deem Too wild for even a lady- bird's dream. Her paiace was hung with crimson and gold, And gems gleamed out in the tapestry's fo.d ;' And tiny vases, with nectarine dew. Their coolness and fragrance round her tnrew. There were pearls, too small for a common eye, And such as a poet alone can descry. And fairy sprites were hovering there, To deck the brow of the lady-bird fair. The rose's leaf, and the thistle's down, AnC the gossamer web were round her thrown j And all that were skilful in things like these. Came hither the dainty one to please. A globule of dew for a mirror hung, And the glow-worm's lamp in the hall was strung A band of insects was stationed near. With music to charm the lady bird's ear A spider came with a solemn tick, To know if tlie lady were well or sick ; I judged by his air, and his sable hue. Of the lady-bird's doctor I 'd had a view, 128 LUXURY, OR THE LADY -BIRD. And grieved to see that the insect throng Were aping our manners, right or wrong. « « • • * Tlie insect we called a luxurious thinj, Toi idle to ppread its beautiful wing, Ana fly awav on the balmy air, WluTe the joyous group 'neath the rose-tree were > We knew it would dw; in that gorgeous home. And never agarn the green-wood roam ; The rustling leaf, and the healthful breeze. Were all unmar'ited in her selfish ease. The gentle voices of love and mirth. In vain rang ud from the joyous earth. We left her tliere m iier pride, to dje^ A lady-bird spoiled by luxury. THE JOUllNLY OF iMKMOK^. I HOVERED, in guise of a witching dream, O'er tiie captive's coiicli , and a bnlliapt gleam or tlie purest joy in his features shone, As I spoke, in a low and impassioned tone, Of a lovely home in a tranquil glade, And the changeless faith of a dark-eyed maid. But 1 tou\;hed the fetters which bound him fast And a cloud of anguish that fac(; o'ercast. 1 lingered not with tlie young; and fair, If love and hope were my rivals tliere ; But I knew I should come, when youth was flown And raise, in those innocent hearts, a throne. I sought the dwelling where death Imd left, On the jovie&s hearth, las ioot-pi.uts deep; A mother, unconscious of earthly ill, Was tranquilly sleeping a " dreamless sleep." I harrowed the souls of a youthful throng, Not mine to comfort, not mine to bless ; 1 called from their graves the thoughtless word, The wayward deed, and the cold caress, Which had grieved that kind and gentle heart, Which could lavish no longer its " wealth of love ' iJut, worn and wearied with earth-born cares, Was glad of a refuge in realms above. Remorse and regret alike were vain ; Nor all earth's treasures, nor all earth's tears, 9 ice, and the softened tone ijanged ; at the altar's oide id a youthful bride ; T'er the maiden's brow, te of an earlier vow, le in lu3 mjinhood's prime, Gatlifiring gold in a far-OT clime. She sought to bribe me with sparkling gems, I would not list to her earnest prayer ; Uncalled, ungreeted, unwelcome, 1 came , No wedding' garment was mine to wear. Eut 1 laughed at flio yiowcrlcss rivals, whicU shone In those dark-w \ and glittering zone As I plodded onward my weary way, A group of wild urchins entreated my stay ; They were conning theu^^|Lin the morning sun. And earnestly wishing sVHBnance done; They shouted a welcome, but shouted in vain ; 1 dared not mix with that rival train ; For Wit was there, with his arch reply, And Mirth, with her saucy, wandering eye, And tSport looked forth, and longed to ride His mimic bark on the river's tide , While In sile I sought Where, weak, Dwelt a tranquil EMORY, 131 :e ''^^■■MMMI^HMmipK generous deedt . orful spirit, enduring lonjj, And nieekly brooking the keenest wrong; Of a life, in noblest efforts spent, And a soul, in its conscious worth, content. THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. BY MISS M. A. BROWXE. Which is the true earthly fairy land, — the region where the wayward, but lovely little beings love best to hold their revels ? Germa- ny, with her black forests, and her strange tales of demons and monsters, has claimed those fair and delicate creatures for her own. Scotland can show the green rings their light feet have DO O left among her brown licather ; and often Iwive they been seen, by hardy deer-stalker and wan- dering minstrel, in the parks and forests of merry England. But there is another country, not less beautiful and famed, which has enjoyed, at least, an equal share of fairy favor. Can it be doubted that 1 speak of Ireland ? Never was land more prolific of fairy lore ; not that lore which is clasped in dusty volumes, or hidden in unintelligible old manuscript, but that wnich is transferred from generation to generation, learned by the infant from its mother's lips, believed as a faith which it were a sin to doubt ; written on THE LEGEND OF THE LARGB FEET. 13^ the l:jeavls and twined in the minds of the chiU dren of Erin, with their earliest ideas. It was in the spring of the year 1833, that I had occasion to visit the south of Ireland , and my business led ine to the little town of Clonacarty, in the County of Cork. During my stay, I fell in with ihe quondam schoolmaster of the parisli, who had formerly " taught the young idea how to shoot," beneath the shelter of a stout hawthorn hedge, until the march of intellect, and a national school, had fairly robbed him of his vocation. Why will people be so much wiser than their fathers } I verily believe that many of his old pupils, under their new lights, would have gone near to doubt the truth of the tale which follows. He related it to me himself, one fine summer noon, as we sat on a green knoll, and overlooked the scene of the story. " 'T i's long ago smee there was a house here ; before my time, there was n't one stone of it left upon another ; but, notwithstandia', there was wanst a dacent house stood convaynient to this, jist beyant the grate ash trees. 'T was called tlie farm of Kilavain, and was burned in the grate rebellion ; but that is nothing to the purpose. 134 THK LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. " On this farm lived one Dick Donovan, ana his only child, a very purty girl, called Moyna. I wish I could paint you the likeness of Moyna Donovan ; — sure she was handsomer than an angel itself; so at laste, my grandfather towld me, — the saints be good to his sowl, for iver and iver, amen ! She was about sixteen years old ; small and light made, her eyes blue as the skies above, and her hair black as the raven's wing. These are ould sayings, but I can't find newer or better in spakin' of Moyna, Jist round the fut of yonder hill, lived the landlord of all these fields and farms about, one Misther Doyne, or, as he generally was called, Misther Walter. A dacent jintleman he was ; lived on his estate the year round, barrin' an occasional visit to the city of Cork, and was, altogether, as merry- hearted, open-handed, free-spoken a youth as you 'd sec of a summer's day. Long and well had he loved Moyna Donovan, and often had he vow- ed to make her his wife ; but crops failin', and tmnants runnin' away, and one thing or another camr. across him, and he was forced to put ofi* marryin', till his affairs were put a bit straighler. "With Walter Doyne lived one of his relations ; that is, he had a score or two of them about his place, but only one, for a wonder, who ate and THE LEtiEND OF 1 HE LARGE FEET. 135 dhrank wi-d himself, and was looked on as nearly his aiquil. Whether he wa:3 his uncle or his cousin, or some friend of his father's, nobody could rightly tell ; but he never wint, amongst high or low, by any name but Uncle Jack. IJe was a jolly, stout little man, about forty years old, wid a good-tempered face, and a hearty laugh ; remarkable for nothing but a wonderful dislike to doing a hand's turn for him- self. But, give him his due, he was ready enough to mend all the broken spa-des and fishin' tackle, and go a nuttin' with the byes and girls, and tache the childher to make bows an' arrows, or to do any thing in life for a neighbour. Now, 1 think, you have the picktur of all parties con- sarned in this story, except Jerry Maguire and Nelly Malone. Jerry was the finest specimint of a Keny man, that iver you seen. A tall, raw-boned crathur, wid red cheeks, a rownd face, wid blue eyes, an' white teeth, which you were sure to see if you looked in his face, he was so apt at smilin' at you. Nelly Malone was a purty 'air-haired colleen, who waited on Moyna, the cows, and the chickens. " At the time 1 spake of, yonder little green .pot, which you see the ploughmen have taken are to leave unbroken, was the favorite meet- sr 136 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. ing place of the good people, as they call 'em bad ind to 'em, for what they done to purty ]\Ioyi»a Donovan, as you shall hear in proper time. Well ; the good or bad people kept their nightly revels there, jist as you see, a little before you come to Dick Donovan's farm, that is, when the farm was in it. They could have seen thim junketin' from the very windys, if the ash trees had not stood bclwanc, and spiled the prospect. It was a fine, lovely summer's night, when Moyna Donovan was walking from the fair of Clonacarty wid Walter Doyne. I should tell you, she was thought to have the purtiest fut and ancle, and to be the best dancer in all Munster. They had jist passed through the ould gateway that used to be here, and Walter, in a jokin' way, was spakin' of IMoyna's dancin', and she blushin' like a rose, an' frownin', and cryin' ' Nonsense,' and thin turnin' away her head, that he should not see her smilin'. ' True for you, Moyna, avourneen,'' said he, 'sure didn't you bate them all out an' out, the two S-ullivans that set themselves up for the hoith of gentility, and M.ss Rose Flaherty, that tachcs, and Mislhi-ess Newcnham, an' all ? I b'lieve you'd bate the fairies thimselvcs, only they'd not dare to thry wid you, wid thim purty little feet of your own, THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 137 siz he, lookin' down at thim, as they glanced in and out from beneath her white gown in the moonUght. " What Moyna answered I do not know ; an}' way, she almost believed all Waller Doyne had been sayin', partly because he said it, and part- ly because it plazed her. Somehow, she was restless in her mind that night. May be she was over-heated wid the dancin', and the walk home ; may be she did not know the rason her- self; but, any way, when Walter Doyne was gone, she walked out into the garden, and then into the field. She had not gone far, when she heard the sound of music, but so low and soft, she would have thought it was only coming on the wings of the wind from the town of Clona- carty, if every note had n't been heard a-s clear as if it wa-3 jist beside her. Some way, the thought of the fairies come into her head, an' all that Walter Doyne had been sayin' ; and she almost wished she could have struv wid the fairies ; for Moyna, small blame to her, was a little tasle proud of her dancin'. Well, the mu- sic sounded nearer and nearer ; and, just turnin' round by the ash trees, beyant the green rmg, ]\Ioyna came upon the whole fairy court, in the midst of their merrymakin'. They were dancin' 138 rilK LEGEND OK THE LARGE FEET. away to the music Moyna had heard, in the best of tune, and as hght as a feather. Some of thim were standin' by, and Moyna, half pleased, half fiighlened, stood watching them, too. But in a minnet, her fear overcame her wish to stay, and she was hoping to slip away, and get home unknownst, when one of the little crathurs, who had been cuttin' capers, and snappin' his fingers over his head like mad, danced up to her, an', wid a low bow, ' Moyna Donovan,' siz he, will you take a dance wid me?' " Now Moyna, though she was but a woman, had a true Irish woman's heart in her bosom , and, whatever she felt, would have scorned to seem afraid ; so she curtsied in reply, and danced forrits. Thin began such a dancin' match as these fields niver saw before or since. At first, all the advantage was on Moyna's side ; she was light and slight, and knew all the steps and figures which were never so much as heard of in fairy land. She shot hither and thither, up and down, slow and quick ; now swimmin' along as if she was goin' to faint ; now burstin' into a light quick step, enough to electrify you to see il, while the fairy spectators clapped their hands, and laughed for very pleasure. But slie was but a mortal aflhcr all. The fairy music played fast- THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 139 er and faster, and her partner leaped and capered higher than ever. Poor Moyna's limbs began tc fail her ; she tottered and trembled, and at last was obliged to stop and rest, sinkin' down at the fut of one of the trees. Immediately there was a shout of triumph from the elves, and Moyna would have run away ; but she was too weary to rise. " The whole tribe of fairies gathered round her, and her malicious pai'tner took a harebell from his cap, and shook the dew from its cup upon her feet. No sooner did it touch them, than a great pair of brogues rose out of the earth, and the fairies, sazing them, buckled thim on the helpless glrPs feet, singin' an uncouth sort of charm, and vanishin' wid a shout of laughter that shook the leaves from the ash tree. The words of their song Moyna could not rightly recollect ; but the drift of them was, that she should never be ridded of the brogues, till she should find a thorough-bred Irishman, with courage and strength enough to challenge the fairies to dance, and to bate them, too. " How she got home she did not know ; she was lyin' in her own bed in the morning, and the sun comin' shinin' through the windy, and she started up, hoping she had been dhreaming. / 4 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. But she soon found the dlfTer, for there were tho bis brusucs fast round her slender ancles, makin' her party feet look bigger than any gossoon's on the farm. Greatly terrified and grieved yoi may be sure she was ; she dreaded to tell lier father ^and Walter Doyne how she came by the brogues. Tiiey would, no doubt, scowld her for her night- walkin' ; and, may be, Walter would judge her to be unlucky, and have nothing more to say to her. She tried to loose the strong leather latch- ets, but in vain. As soon as she got one clasp undone, it fastened again tighter than iver. Fair- ly bothered she was at last, and the only thing she could do, was to sit down and cry for the bare life. Presintly she hears her father callin' out for his huckoslil, and ' Moyna, Moyna,' siz he, ' where 's the colleen at all. Sleepin' after her dancin', I suppose. It's likely I'll let her go to the fair of Clonacarty, if this is to be the way of it. ]\Ioyna, agra, can't ye answer ? ' and Moyna called down to him that she was comin% as well as she could for the cryin'. AVlicn she got into the kitchen, her father was gone o\it of .t, and she had jist time to slip in asy, and got behind the tabic and hide her large feet, before lie came back. She said little enough, you may be sure, and her father, atia' in a vast hurry, THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 141 Bcarcely looked up from his mate ; only now aa' then asKing her a question about the price of whate, and bastes, and such like, at the fa:r, where he had not been, for a rason of his own. Moyna know as much of them things as the man in the moon ; but she answered as well as slie could, keepin' her feet hid undher the table, and turnin' her face to the door, when he happened to look over to her. But at last, ' Father,' siz she, ' I must go to confession this very day.' " These were the first words that made ould Dick Donovan look full at her. He riz out of his sate, and stared full in her face. ' Yarrah, what ails you at all, avourneen,'' siz he. ' It 's but last week ye were at yer duty. You can have nothing to confess now but what ye might as well tell yer ould father. Spake to him, dar- lin', and tell him all that 's troublin' the little heart of ye.' " Wid that, Moyna threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him ; but she sobbed so sadly, it was long before she could spake. At lasi she tould him all ; how she had evened herself, in the pride of her heart, to the fairies, and how they had punished her ; together wid the only manes of ridding her of the brogues, if indeed she ever could be released from them- i42 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. " Donovan was bothered entirely what to ad- vise ; but he thought he 'd have one trial to f^ot the brogues off, any way. So he tuk a knife, and begun to cut the straps , but sure never •was leather like them. The knife wint m asy enough, and cut as if it war goin' through water ; but, like the same water closin' over the wake of a vessel, the leather closed over the track of the knife. Then Donovan grew mad, and he swore by this and by that, that he 'd have the brogues off, in spite of the fairies, and the ould boy himself to back them, and he made a desperate slap wid the knife at the thick leather ; when, oh miirlher, it slipped aside, and, scratchiu' his daughter's purty ancle, drew more than one dhrop of blood. Then he flung down the knife in 'raal despair. ' There 's nothing for it,' siz he, ' but to go to father O'Halloran. I 'II take you to him myself, this day ; or may be, he would step over here ; for we would n't be makin' a show of them feet to the parish, if we could help it.' " Well an' good. Father O'llalloran came, and soon poor Moyna tould him the story, and showed him the grievance of the brogues. ' My daughter,' siz- he, ' it was a sinful thought to even yourself to the good people, and it 's THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 143 for meddling o' them that this evil is permit- .cd. However, we '11 thr} what can bis done, i did not come widout the manes ; ' and wid that he took out his manual, and a little bot- tle of holy wather. But if all the precious tears Moyna's purty blue eyes had shed would n't help her, you may be sure the holy wath-er did little good. The priest prayed to the saints all round, and w'asted a dale of the blessed wather, but ail to no purpose ; the brogues would not stir an inch lor liim. Then siz Father O'Halloran, * I 'm sadly afeard, I\Ioyna, you 're a bad mimber, either in faith or practiz. There 's somelhin' on your mind that ye never tould me of, or these devices of the evil one would not have such power over you.' " Rloyna began cryin' again, and purtested she ' knew nothing to cause her to be so punished, always exceptin' the meddlin' wid the fairies ; but she was willing to confess to his riverence, notwithstanding.' " I cannot tell you what her confession was, for that, you know, is a matter betwane the priest and the penitent ; any way, there was no pinance appointed her. But the confession did no more good than any thing else ; so Father O'Halloran pocketed his two thirteens, and walked peaceably 144 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. home, hummin' ' The Groves of Blarney,' and wondering what the dickens ailed Moyna Don- ovan. " When Walter Doyne came in the evenin', as usual, it was a hard task for Moyna to see liim, and toll him what had happened to her, and how she feared it woukl put an ind to all hctwane them. But when W'alter heard of the way she might be relased, you may be sure he was not long in offering to" dance her feet to their proper size again. But Moyna would not hear of it. Slie said it was only puttin' himself into useless danger. It was a th.orough Irishman only could sarve her, and he was half English by his motli- er's side, so it would be in vain. But he was not to be sed ; and that very night, when everybody was asleep in their beds, ho set out for the fairy ring. He had betther have stayed at home. He called in vain on the fairies to appear. He conjured them to have pity on poor Moyna, and fasten their infernal brogues on his feet instead of hers. He invoked them in the names of all the saints and sinners he could remember, but nevor a fairy did he see. ' Just as the mornin' was dawning, he turned to go home, vexed entirely, an' vowing ven- geance on the good people, though he wiat to tho THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE I EET. 145 Pope at Rome to get it. Jist then his foot slip- ped on a wet place in the path, and down he fell. A sound ran through the grass and trees. May be it wos only the mornin' wind, freshenin' with the daybreak ; but to Walter it seemed like a distant peal of laughter, burstin' from many peo- ple at once. It rose high and long, an' died away in the sobbin' and wailin' of the wind. Walter tried to rise, but found he could n't ; and ho might have lain there from that time to this, had not one of Dick Donovan's laborers, comin' to his work, helped him home. He found he had sprained his ancle, and that so badly, that it would be many a day before he could strive wid the good people, even if they should take his next offer of a thrial. " It was wid a heavy heart that he gave up the * thought of relasin' Moyna Donovan for the pres- ent, and heard the doctor say, he must keep still and not even walk for days, or perhaps weeks. " When Moyna heard of his disaster, she was like to go ravin'. ' She was the most unfortunate crathur on earth,' she said, ' first to suffer this way herself, and thin to bring a friend into trouble, and all for no rason at all.' " Poor Walter was obliged to stay m his room, an' the only body he had to spake to was one he 10 146 THE LEGEND OF THE lARGE FEET. could not well avoid, and that was Uncle Jack He had heard of IMoyna's misfortune, and now "Walter, to ase his heart, up an' tould him all his troubles, and how perplexed he was wid thiiikin' what a while it would be before he would get another chance of bating the fairies, by rason of his lameness. Uncle Jack pitied him sincerely, and he said so ; but he did not say a word of the plan he had thought of, for puttin' every thing to rights. He had been schemin' it all in his head, while Walter was talkin' to him, though he stood quite innocent like, wid his hands in his pockets, chewin' his tobacky quid, alid seemed to be walchin' the brood of young ducks, that was wabblin' and squabblin' in the yard before the windy. ' Make youreelf aisy Walter, ??m houchal,'' he began. Then he stopped himself. ' What can't be curccT mu5t be endured,' siz he, ' so take another tum- bler to .Moyna's good health, and your own suc- cess the next time you 're to thry your skill with the fairies.' " But Walter had no mind to more punch then ; the more wondher fur him ! an' Uncle Jack was "lad to 'lol to his own little room ni the garret, an' think about his scheme. An' what think you it was ? Nayther more nor less than THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 14/ to challenge the fah-ies himself! Fancy Uncle Jack challengin' the elves, that they say are aa light as the dewdrop dancin' on the bennet top ! He who, if he was not much taller than the chiricane, was at laste six times as broad ' But I 'm a true Irishman, every inch of me,' siz he, ' an' there 's a purty girl in the case, which ought to be enough for me any day, without minlionin' my own born relation, poor Walter 1 ' An' so sayin'. Uncle Jack vvint to the little cracked shaving-glass, that he might make himself dacint, and go respectable to the dancin', which lie liad determined on for that very night. " Now the moon shone brightly out on these wide fields about us, and cor in' down yond jr path, you might have 'spied a little rollicking looking crathur, with his hat cocked on three hairs, his shillelagh in his hand, steppin' lightly along on his toes, and whistling as if he were ready for a frolic. On he came, as bould as whiskey and a good cause could make him, until he reached the fairy ring. He was consitheriiig how he could call the good people in the po- litest manner, when a little crathur, dressed all in green, popped up before him, and whichever way he turned, there was another and anotlu^r till he stood in the very midst of the fairies. 148 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. *' ' What do you want here, mortal ? what do you here, man ? ' demanded many voices, at once. " ' Manners, manners, ladies and jintlemen , cne at a time, if you plase, an' I '11 do my best to answer ye,' siz Jack, no ways daunted. ' 1 'm here in regard to my nevy, and purty Moyna Donovan, whom you so kindly gifted wid a oair of brogues gratish ; an' I 'm here to see if there 's no way of pershwading you to take your present back again.' " ' There 's but one way,' replied a silver voice, ' and you know tlie way quite well. You must bate us, — tire us down at the dancin', an' if you win, she '11 be relased at once.' " It was the queen of the fairies herself who spoke. " ' My dancin' days have been long over, ma'am,' siz Jack ; ' but,' says he agin, bowin' and drawin' nearer to her, ' if your ladyship's self would do me the honor,' " ' /,' said the lady, drawin' back like any queen in the world, — 'Mortal, presumptuous rnoital ! do you know wliom you address .'' but any of these my maidens,' wavin' her hand mighty stately, ' will thry their skill with you as soon as you like THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. i4S " ' Wid all my heart,' siz Jack, quite bould tike ; ' which will I take ? ' " ' You must choose for yourself,' replied her majesty of the fairies, and the word ' Choose, choose, choose ! ' ran from lip to lip, like a faii.t wind gom' from rose to rose. " ' Then, by your lave,' siz Jack, ' I '11 take out the little lady in green ; she 's a sweet crathur, 1 'm sure, an' won't be hard upon a poor bye like me, that 's twenty times her weight upon his heels,' siz he, thrying to luk insinivatin', an' thinkin' to come over her wid a bit of the blarney. "' Don't be |?uttin' your flummery on us. Uncle Jack,' siz she, standing forrits ; ' but just begin, and do your best, as I shall do mine ; ' but Jack saw she was not altogether displeased whh the , ^!(j^;' taste of flattery he made bould to give her. " Well, the unseen musicians began to play, an' away they went. Jack and the fairy, to the y ,une of ' Katty O'Lynch.' In a few minutes, Uncle Jack threw away his hat ana wig, aa useless incumbrances, puflin' and blowin' wid the fatigue and want of breath, but sail dancin' on, as if he had quicksilver in his heels. For some timn you 'd have sworn he had as good a chance as his antagonist, whose lapes an' bounds was n't 150 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. to be compared to Uncle Jack's flings an' capers. But wlicn the fairies saw this, they got vexed and did nothin' but torment him. Some would rin jist across him when he would be chassey- ing forrit ; others were riddy behind to pull the lap of his coat, thinkin" to bring him backwards on his scull. It was in vain that Uncle Jack roared for fair play, and danced faster for very anger. Still the little crathurs were so trouble- some, one of tbem in particular, that he could not forbear raising his fut, an' givin' it a kick. Immadiately there was such a willUoo as never was heard ; and before he could bless himself, Jack was laying on the broad of his back, ag unable to rise as a turtle in the same condition; and one of the fairies was standin' on his chest. " ' Och,' cried he, ' by the powers ! is this the tratement ye give strangers, ye little venomous sprissonneens ! If there 's law or justice to be had ' but here the fairy on his breast, bad cess to it, set its foot on his mouth ; and, though it was no heavier than a flower-bud, it stopped his spakin'. '"Have done wid yer nonsense, Uncle Jack,* 617. the imp, ' and go quietly home, an' lave other people's aflairs to take care of themselves If it was n't that the day is jist going to break THE LEGEND OP THE LARGE I EET. 15i I 'd give you a mark that you should be known by for ever an' a day. Good mornin' to you, Uncle Jack, an' bctther luck to you in your next undertaking.' The elf then jumped off his breast and, as it passed, struck his wrist with its hand, and the whole court vanished, wid a shout of aughter, lavin' poor Uncle Jack wid his wrist twisted out of joint, and altogether in a very bad- condition. " Things went on in this way for some weeks. ]\fr. Walter's ancle got worse, instead of betther an' Moyna's feet were as fast in the brogues as ever. Her misfortunes were noised far an' wide, an' she came to be spoke of by strangers as ' The Lady of the Large Feet.' " Now Nelly Malone, the maid, had a raal affection for three things in the world, — for Miss Moyna, for the white turkey-cock, and for Jerry Maguire. May be, havin' but few things to set her heart on, she loved them the betther ; for poor Nelly had nayther father or mother, or any other relation livin'. She had reared .iho white turkey-cock hei-sclf she had been foster sister to Miss Moyna, and Jerry Maguire liad been her fellow-servant and swcetheLrt evei s'lice she could remember. " " ' Jerry, jewel,' said Nelly, one fine evening 152 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. as he was sittin' wid lier undhcr the sido of a big hay-rick, ' Jcriy, darlin',' siz she, ' I 've somethin' on my mind.' *' ' Never say it twice, Nelly, achorra ma' chree,'' siz Jerry, ' but tell me what 's ailin' you ; ipakc out acuishla.'' " ' I 'm grieved for Miss Moyna,' siz Nelly * to see her sweet purty feet spiled with 'hern brogues ; an' sorry I am for Mr. Walter ; an', al- together, I 'm greatly tioubled.' " ' Sure, you 've your own dear bye to com- fort you, — an' that 's myself,' siz Jerry. " ' Ah ! then,' siz she, ' you '11 do what I ask you for poor Nelly's sake.' " ' If it 's possible to be done, Nelly ; any thing in rason, avonrneen.'' " ' An' ain't you a raal good dancer, Jerry, and a true Irishman to ycr heart's core : bate the fairies at the dancin', an' then Miss Moyna will be rclased an' married, an' Ncllv will bo ycr own wife ; ah ! sure ye '11 not refuse me.' '" ' Avock ! we thank you kindly ! (lO an' be strangled by the fairies, is it ? S/iasloue ! give me any tiling of flesh and blood to deal wid • any thing mortal, Nelly dear, but as for the good people ' " ' An' you won't oblecdge rae, then ' said i THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE TEET. 153 Nelly, biirstin' out cryin'. ' Well, you are not wluit I tuk you for. I thought, when I prom- ised Jerry Maguire, he was a bould bye, fearin' nothin' ; an' instead of that, he 's a mane, pitiful crathur, or coward, that 's afcard.' " ' Don't say that word agin, Nelly Malone, if you 'd not drive me mad at wanst. I 'm no more a coward than any man, but where 's the use of throwin' myself away to the fairies ? Luk at Mr. Walter, wid his sprained ancle, and Uncle Jack, wid his twisted wrist, an' then tell me, would n't I be goen' on a fool's errand .' My Nelly, don't luk so vexed, — you know if you insist,' " Well, bless the women ! They bate the world for gettin' their own way, an' makin' the byes do as they plase ; an' somehow, between scoldin' and cryin' and coaxin', Nelly Malcne made Jerry Maguire cliange his tune, and prom- ise to challenge the fairies ; an', as long as Nelly was wid him, he had almost as good a mind to it as herself, when wanst he 'd promised. But whin the maslher called her away, and Jerry was left to himself, he was in a complete pcr- ploxshity. He turned the thing over an' over in his mind, but there was no crack to creep oj; at. lie was not the bye to run oiT his word, — ■ 154 THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET- but then to lace the good people ! Jerry liaa but one resource left, an' tliat was, to set out to Father O'llalloran, trusting he 'd forbid the chal Icnge as a thing unlawful, an' lay the ban of the church on him, if he attempted it. " He was disappointed, hov ever. Father O'llalloran said the promise was a rash one, yel it must be respected ; tliat we must keep faith, ihough it was wid the father of lies liimself; and that though the matin wid the fairies was not over and above holy, the end, in this case, sanctified the manes, an' there seemed no other way of riddin' poor Moyna Donovan of her large brogues. So Jerry, lookin' mighty foolish and downcast, stood twistin' his canheen in his hands, and then raisin' his head smart, as if a thought had jist struck him, asked if ' there was nothing his riverence could give him by waj' of a charm, to hinder the good people doen' him any harm. " ' When do you mane to make the thrial ? ' asked Father O'llalloran. " ' This night, plasc Heaven,' siz Jerry. ' ^\'hin a thing 's to bo done, the sooner one sets about it the belter.' " ' There 's only one thing I am do foi you,' returns tiie j)ricst ; ' step home an' back ns fast as you can, and bring me the little bottle I seen THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 155 In your harvest last harvest ; an' be sure there 's Bomc sperrits in it.' " .Terry was not long in bringing the bottle, and when Father O'Halloran tuk it up, he held It up to the Hght, an', ' It 's too full by ),a.i{^'' siz he. " ' Och n hone ! ' siz Jerry ; ' if I 'm to fact the fairies, I 'm sure I 'd need it every dhrop.' " ' But there 's not room for the holy wathcr,' siz Father O'Halloran, uncorkin' the bottle, an* pourin' out a dacent share into his own tumbler, which stood convaynicnt, ' I 'm goen' to bless the whiskey ; and, whinever you 're gettin' tired in dancin', jist take the laste taste in life of the blessed whiskey, an' you '11 lape like a trout in the sthrame.' So tlie priest tuk a little vial from the chimney, and was pourin' out the holy water " ' Ilould, hould, your riverence,' siz Jerry, stoppiu' his hand, ' sure one drop 's as good as a thousand, an' if you spile the whiskey that vmy, how will I be able to drink it ? ' " ' Ah ! son Jerry,' siz Father O'llalloran, laughin' till his sides shook again, ' how can ye spake in that manner of the holy waihcr, ye baa number, you ? ' But, however, he corked up the bottle at wanst, and giv it to Jerry, recommend- \bb THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE tXEl. in' him to say half a duzen aves, and a duzen credes, before he made tlic llirial. "Well an' good, — ihe moon rose, an' jisl wlicn she was in the hoith of her beauty, an the flowers and birds in the depth of their slum- ber, Jerry Maguire made his appearance in this very field, jist outside the fairy ring. A turnip- field it was in those days, though it 's spring vhate now. H-e did not seem to have an inch cf fearful flesh left about him, and stood slrikin' the ground with his alpeen, and callin' on the good people to appear for full five minutes be- fi^re he saw any tiling of them. At last he heard a low, grufiish voice behind him, growlin out, " ' What 's your business here, Jerry Maguire ? ' " ' The dancin', the dancin',' said Jerry, cut- tin' a caper, an' flourishin' his alpecn, to sliow his bravery ; ' sure, you know my business well enough ycrself.' "'Must we thry, — must, we thry, — must we thry ? * run round an' round him like a voice an' its echoes dyin' ofi' in a fuint wailin'. " ' Faith, must you, my darlins,' siz Jerry , ' I 'un not the bye to bo thriflcd wid ; so ma\e haste, an' begin at wansi. " The moon, jist then, glided behind a big THE LEGEND OF THE LARGE FEET. 15] cloud, that looked like a heap of snow ; and when she came out again, Jerry saw a dozen o two of purty little crathurs, dressed in all man ner of gay colors, standin' in and about the fairy ring. Jerry had made up his mind not to touch one of them, nor go within the ring : so siz he, widout more ado, " ' The jig and the fling, if you plase, an' I '11 dance my part out here in the turnip-field ; you can keep within that little place if you like, — it 's not big enough for my dancin',' siz he, stretchin' about wid his hands in his pockets, while the fairies were consultin' what to do wid him. There was nothing for it, they found, buf to give Jerry his own way, so one of the elves stood up in the ring, and Jerry opposite, in the turnip-field. >. " Och ! whisleh ! I wish you could have watch- ed Jerry that night. It would have done your heart good to have seen his dancin'! iNow pound- in' the ground with his feet, as if ii w / pavin' he was ; now jiggin' on his toes "la uk- t as the fairy itself; now roolin' wid his nee- uU yXK5. she died on the 12lh of Tilarch, 1741, deeply lamented by her husband, parents, and friends." It is truly said we live a second time in our cliildrcn. Of the daughter of this ladv and granddaughter of Governor Shirley, trances Shirley BoUen, there is much known that is in- teresting. A friend of hers is still living at an advanced age. Her mother died while she was very young, and her father, being appointed agent for Massa- chusetts to the court of St. James, went to Eng- land, and left her to be educated in this country. The property which she was to inherit made it proper to appoint guardians of distinguished re- spectability. These were Judge Trowbridge, Judge Russell, and her uncle, Mr. Temple. With Judge Trowbridge, at Cambridge, she principally resided. Her wealth and beauty at- racted admirers at an early age; but it was well understood, that her father was averse to her forming any niulrimonial connexion in America, and that he looked forward to her making a splendid alliance in England. The early part of her life was passf. i m inno- cent gayoty, imcloudcd by thought of the future. She formed those associations with friends (jf her cwn se.\, to which the youthful mind so naturally ANCIENT REMINISCENCES IG3 turns, and felt as if her world of happiness existed on this side of the Atlantic. At the age of eishteen, she received a summons from l-er father to come to him; and, with deep sensibility, she parted from Mrs. Trowbridge, who had sup plied to her the place of her own mother. There \»as no mother to welcome her to the strange land to which she was going ; of her father she had but a slight remembrance ; and, if friends were in store, they must be new ones. She made a thousand promises to write constantly ; and said^ " that to lay open her whole heart " to those she left behind " would be her greatest solace." Soon after her arrival in England, letters came; but they were not the transcripts of her warm and affectionate heart ; it \\as evident to her friends, that they were written in a depressed and con- strained manner. At length, all correspondence ceased, and they heard of her only by report. It was soon understood, that her father did not wish her to continue her intercourse with lier Ameri- can friends, and was continually haunted by fears that she might defeat his ambitious projects by forming some alliance beneath her. This led him to keep a constant guard upon her move- ments, ind to prohibit her from general society. One solace, however, he allowed her, and that 104 A^'CIENT KEMI^'ISCE^'CES vas, the privilege of passing a few dnys ocoa' sionally wilh Mrs. Western, a female friend, of great respectability and intluence. This lady be- came fondly attached to Frances, who acquired, from her elegant and cultivated manners, a polish that she could not have gained in her father's family. ]\Irs. Western resided a few miles from the city, and it \vas happiness to hei* young friend to quit its noise and dust and enjoy those scenes in the country, that reminded her of her early walks in Cambridge, and the winding couree of Charles river. Mrs. Western had sons, but they were absent from home, and the father's appre- hensions, with regard to them, seem not to liave been awakened. One of them returned home on a visit to his mother, while Frances was stay- ing with her. Mrs. Western immediately made arrangements to restore the young lady to her father's residence the next day, knowing his extreme anxiety on the suliject. The breakfast hour, wiih her, was one of clioorful meeting. She took her seat as usual at ;iie table, and, after waiting some time in vain for the appearance of her guest, sent a summons to her room. The messenger returned with the intelligence, that she was not there, and that the ANCIENT REMINISCENCES. 165 room d'id not appear to have been occupied dur ing the night. She sent to her son's room ; the young student was not to be found, and the tiuth flashed upon her mind, — tliey had eloped to- getliLT ! Nothing remained but to send a de- spatch to the father, acquainting him with her suspicions. He lost no time in repairing to her mansion, and loaded lier with reproaches. His accusa- tions were violent and unfounded, and he more than hinted, that she was accessory to the elope- ment. Mrs. Western preserved a calm and dig- nified deportment, and replied, " that the meas- ure was as unpleasant to herself as to him ; that her son had not yet finished his education, and a matrimonial connexion might prove a blight to his future prospects and exertions." She also observed, " that he was not of age, and could not, for some time, come into possession of his own property. That, as now the thing was irre- mediable, they had better submit to it with mag- nanimity." Necessity is a never-failing counsellor. The father contented himself with solemnly proicsling he never would forgive, or see, liis daughter. Mrs. Western, on the contrary, received tho young couple with gentleness when thev return IGG ANCIENT PEMlNISCENfEP. ed, which ihcy did after a few days' absence, and endeavoured, by malernal counsel, to obviate the ev'ls of this rash and disobedient step. Years passed on, and they had several chil- dren. Though tlie father still adhered to his determination of not forgiving his daughter, in the tenderness of lier husband and his mother, and surrounded by blooming and healthy chil- dren, her life was tranquil and happy. Some months after the birth 'of the youngest child, Mr. and Mrs. Western set out on a jour- ney, taking the infant with them. At an inn, where they stopped, JMr. ^Vestern got out of the phaeton. At that moment the horses, which were usually perfectly gentle, took fright, and ran with his wife and child, notsvilhstanding all his own and his servant's attempts to stop them. The mother's first thought was for her infimt, and seizing an opportunity when the speed of the horses was a little checked, by a hill, she threw it upon a hedge of foliage. A mother's cars are quick, she distinguished the cry of the child ; it was not one of distress, and she felt now cournac, and, springing herself from the carriage with but slight injury, was able to hasten imnie- diatt;!y back to recover the child. She found it safe and unhurt, and it recognised its agitated ANCIENT REMlNISCEx\CES. 167 mother with the joyous welcome of infant affec- tion. Witli a heart filled with gratitude for their preservation, she walked on to meet her hus- band, knowing he must be enduring dreadful anxiety. The first person she met was her own servant ' We are safe and uninjured," she exclaimed " hasten back and tell vour master." He neither moved nor spoke, and as she looked m his face she •perceived signs of deep distress. " What has happened ? what have you to tell ?" she exclaimed. He was unable to evade her eager inquiries, and the information he gave v/as abrupt and overwhelming. IMr. Western, in en- deavouring to stop the horses, as they rushed furiously forward, received a violent blow on his breast, from the pole of the carnage, and fell dead on the spot. His wretched wife fainted at the intelligence, and so dreadful was the shock, that for many months her reason was par- tially estranged. Her father could not resist this accumulation of distress. He went immediately to see her, and continued the intercourse, sooth- ing her grief by parental tenderness. Aftei these melancholy events took place, she resiiled wholly in the country, devoting herself to the education of her children. She died many 168 ANCIKNT UEMIXISCENSES. years since ; and only one of her American friends still survives licr. We hope this little narrative is sufTiciently interesting to make one of her early letters ac- ccptab c. It was addressed to the friend just alluded to, after returning from a visit she had been making her. The contrast it forms be- tween the thoughtless gayety of a girl, and the heart-rending events of after life, is very striking. The local allusions it contains' to people who existed before the Revolution, as well as tlie mode of travelling it describes, making a journey from Nevvburyport to Boston occupy nearly a day and a half, have something of a picturesque effect in contrast with the present times, and modes of travelling by railroads and steam. " Cambridge, 17C2 " Dear Sibby, " Last evening I heard of an opportunity to send to you, and I cannot omit writing ; but must give you a short account of my journey back, which was not very agreeable, on account of the roads. You cannot imagine how bad the travelling was, — we could only walk the hoi-se for several miles, and just as we got to Parker's river, one of the wheels of the chaise came oiT ANCIENT REMINISCENCES, 169 It look some time to get it on again, and by tho time we entered Rowley woods I was heartily tired. They looked dark and dismal, and I thought of nothing but robbers, and determined if we were attacked, to surrender even my N. P ear-rings to save my life. Well, all at once I saw a man on horseback, coming towards us. I began to tremble, but who do you think it proved ? why, Mr. Jonathan Jackson ! of all per- sons in the world, the least like a robber ! We had a little pleasant conversation, and then pro- ceeded, — but did not get to Beverly till quite dark. The next morning we left early, found the roads much better, and arrived at Cambridge about one o'clock. " To-day is Sunday, and we have had a ser- mon upon dress, from Mr. Appleton. Upon my word, I think he made it out very well; for he told us people should dress according to their rank, and not go beyond their circumstances. He touched a little upon the propriety of our being subject to the other sex, and gave is a hint upon silence. I suppose, my dear, yov will think I could not help taking this to myself, I confess it touched me a little, but I shall soon recover from it ; for it is so natural to my tongtie to go, that I cannot easily stop its motion. 170 ANCIKNT KEMlMStKNCKS. " Here oin I, sighing and moaning thai we hai not some of this good weather while I was with you at N. P. I liked the place so well that I had quite a curiosity to see how it looked when the sun was out. " I had almost forgot to tell you how much my N. P. ear-rings were admired. I thought of them durin"- the sermon, and ventured to wear them aaain in the afternoon. How I want tc take a serious w\alk with your ladyship through those long rope-walks, — a walk ? no, I think the weather is cool enough for a run. I don't believe you have had any knots tied in youT handkerchief since I came away. Only think of my forgetting to deliver a message from ]\Ir. ]\I. while I was at N. P. I am positively afraid tc walk out lest I should ]wp upon him, and he should ask me about it. 1 must beg the favoi of you to do it for me. It was to ask youi father if he received a letter by one Mr. White- field } He is a great preacher, and quite the fashion ; they say he makes people cry and laugh in the same moment ; pray go and heat him. and write me word, which you do moS'l heartily, cry or laugh } " The spring is delightful, the trees arc commg out m blossoms and Chftilos river really looks ANCIEXT REMINISCENCES. 171 majestic. How I wish you were here ! Write soon, and don't forget the message about Mr Whitefield, " "i'our sincere friend, " Frances Siijcixy Bollen." STANZAS, TO A LADY. I. Ah, Lady ! could 1 deem my liumble lay Wortliy the pensive lustre of thine eye ; Could I awake the music of that day When Beauty, as some creature from the sky, Stirred the deep fountains of my heart, and bade Its waters leap, as to some wand divine, — Until I R'll its mystery had made New liope, new joy, a new existence, mine; How would 1 rush to strike my palsied lyre. And wake to melody, once more, each quivering wire II. But 1 have seen the darkness of our years Shadowing our youth, — tliat withering eclipse That comes upon the spirit in its tears, When the still prayer of Woe is on the lips, — Has fallen upon me, till I felt no more 'T was mine to tune my harp, or touch its strings No longer to that ecstasy to soar, Where new joy lights the Poet's lifting wmgs I Ah . thou canst tell the mystery ! To thee, — But why tell thcc the sorrowing tale .' — 't was thine To bend o'er Love's grave, in lliy mourning, — e'en as mine ! THE HAUNTS OF THE SEA-FOWL. It is "egging time," — the sea-fowls nest In the cleft of the rock is spen, And she who sat on the cean breast, With folded wing in the sunlight sheen, Hath laid her eggs where the rock is high, And the white wave roars as it dasiies by. 'T is a wild, wild spot, — in circles wide. From a thousand isles, the sea-birds come, — For they rear their young by the water side. In the very dash of tlie stormy foam- 'T'is there they learn on the wave to play, And sport themselves in the sno^y spray. On that nigtiest cliff is the eagies nest. Above the wave, but within its roar ; And proudly the stern bird eyes the rest In their noise and gambols along the shore. lie 's an old, white-headed, lonely bird, And he loudest screams when the storm is lieard He darts from the cliff with a piercing eye, For he marked fioni afar his destined prey; And he cleaves at once the cloudy sky. And dips his beak in tlie yielding spray, Or the prize that the fish -hawk screaming bears, The pirate eagle remorseless tears. 174 HAUNTS OF THE SEA FOWL. Ye climb not there, — 'twere a daring thing To mount to that eyrie built on high, Where the eagle plumes her dark-gray wing, And soars aloft to the burning sky; For the rock, witli bleaching bones is white, And the eagle by, for her young to fight. Ye 're a daring race, — but ye climb not lltere } The eagle's eyrie ye may not reac-Ii; To the while gulls nest ye may boldly dare, And seize the eggs 'midst her sad, wild screech. Yes, climb ye in to the rocky cave. Where the sea-fowl's nest is dashed by the wave It is "egging time," — and t]:e rocks are h'gh ; But the boys were bred by the ione s(fa-side ; They are sure of foot, and true of eve. And know where the f^ull her eggs may hide; And well do they love tlie rocky sliore. Where they hear the sound of the ocean roar. TO A WILD VIOLET, IN MAKCH BY S. G. GOODRICH. My pretty flower, how cam'st thou here? Around thee all is sad and sere,— The brown leaves tell of winter's breath, And all but thee of doom and death. The naked forest shivering sio-hs, — On. yonder hill the snow-wreath lies, And all is bleak ; — then say, sweet flower How cam'st thou here in such an nour' No tree unfolds its timid bud, Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood, The tuneless forest all is dumb; llow then, fair violet, didst thou come? Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers, But lingers still in southern bowers ; No gardener's art hath cherished thee,— For wild and lone thou springest free. Thou springest here to man unknown. Waked into life by God alone! Sweet flower, thou tellest well thy birth,— Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth 176 TO A V.'II.D VIOLET IN MAECH. Thou tell'st of Ilim whose boundless power, Speaks into birth a world or flower ; And dost a God as clearly prove, As all the orbs in Heaven that move 4 "SHOW us THE father.'^* BY MRS. SICOURNEY. Have ye not seen Ilim, when through parted snows Wakes the first kindlinirs of tlie vernal crreen ? When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, And the blue violet bursts its mossy screen ? Wlien the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there Have ye not seen Him, when tlie infant's eye, Throujrh its bright sapphire window, shows the mind ? When in the trembling of the tear or si^'jh Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined ? Saw ye not Him, — the Autlior of our trust. Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust ? Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill Casts off its icy chains, and leaps away ? In tliunders echoing loud from hill to hill? lii song of birds, at break of summer's day ? Or in the Ocean's everlasting roar, Battling the old, gray rocks, that sternly guard his shore ? * Sec ^t .!op.!i siv. 3. 12 173 SHOW US THE FEATHEIU When in the stiUness of the Sabbath morn. The week's dread cares in tranquil slumber rest, When in the heart the holy thought is born, And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast, Have ye not fell Him, when your voiceless prayer Swelled out in tones of praise, announcing God was there ? Shoto us the Fatlicr ! If 3'e fail to trace His chariot, wlicn the stars majestic roll, His pencil, 'mid earth's loveliness and grace, His presence, in the sabballi of the soul, How can ye see Him, till the day of dread, When, to assembled worlds, the Uook of Doom Is read I I THE LYRES OF OLD BY W. \V. MORLAND. The lyres of olden time, — how silent now! Shattered are all their strings ; — the hands that sweot Those chords in glorious days, — when thousands wept O'er strains of woe, or bade their spirits bow ' In adoration, while some hymn tdivine Was chanted slow; or, filled with fiery wine, Sang the old festal songs, — then softer flowing, The thrilling voice of youthful lover glowing ; — Or in stern notes the warrior god breathed out To martial men the battle-waking shout 1 Those hands are powerless; —mingled with the dust Each bard of those famed days ; - yet, though the rust Of ages cankers every tombstone o'er. Their names and glory brighten more and more. Though Homer's fingers touch not now the string, Still in our cars his mighty numbers ring ; — And, if the gentle Sappho's tongue is mute, And hushed the music of the Dorian flute, The enraptured poet, while he muses long, ^ And, all entranced, glows o'er the flowing song,— \ Imagines still he hears the same rich lays. Warbled by voices of those olden days. But 't is not so, — the Teian lyre, unstrung, Has long unused and uiidelighting hung, — 180 THE lA'KES OF OLt>. lis potent master gone ; — hut who can tell ' Some new Anacreon may take again The long-neglected harp, and weave a spell Round human spirits;— tiien, not framed in vain, Tiie song sliall swell responsive, — all srouD'l ShiJl seem some charmed land, some faary ground THE GRAVE OF MARQUETTE.* BY THE AUTHOR OF " MIUIAM." MtTRMVR, ye waves of Michigan, low hymns Of requiem round that lone and tombless gravP ! And let no blasts your rising waters dash With heedless fury o'er the hallowed spot Where, 'mid the sands reposing, lie the bones Of one, whose cradle rocked in sunny France Men have grown old and died, their children's sons Have risen and passed like shadows, since that grav« Was by a few rude hands in silence dug, Close by thy waters blue, old Michigan ! Yet, though thy waves with ceaseless homage comff To die in whispers on that hallowed beach, Touching almost the good man's resting place ; Never, — so runs the tale, — hath billow kissed The sands, that hide his bones from gaze profane. Where oft the pebbles felt the oozing wave, Ever the dry, warm sunshine sleeps serene : Or, when the tempest sweeps the foaming lake, The very winds, — whose steeds man may not bridle,— Touch with no rude, disturbing breath that grave ! What glorious hero sleeps beneath ? What son Of laughing, warlike France e'er wandered hither, * See North American Review for January, 1839, page 63. 182 TlIE GRAVE OF MARQUETTE, All flushed with youth and wild with enterprise, Reckless and light as are the winds themselves ? How died the stranger 'mid these lonely wilds ? Bore he bright, deadly weapons? Came lus_ death From the bare arm, or from the sounding bow, Raised by the sullen red man 'mid iiis wrongs i Died he in wrath ? died he in blood ? the man Upon whose grave some unseen angel sits Smiling and waving still her snowy wings. While peace and reverence fall in dews around r \\'hat sought he here? fame? glittering wealth •* a crown ? Hear how the wanderer lived ! hear how he died ! Hearts did ho seek through toils and dangers fierce, Hearts for iiis Saviour's love ; and on, — still on, — bpeaKmj^ of love and peace he wandered slow ; Up tlie wild, unknown streams, through the deep forest, And o'er the mighty lake, w^ith weary frame, But with a trusting spirit, on he fared ; And the poor Indian loved the poorer priest. Then came his hour. He bade them turn his prow Where the lone stream came murmurine from the hills. Pouring its simple tribute to the lake ; There, on the untrodden beach, he went apart. And bowed him down to l>ray. Cold death-damps stood Upon his holy brow ; his failing limbs Trembled beneath the martyr, yet no hand Of mortal strength sustained the clay that thus Its glorious tenant silently gave up ! The blue sky o'er his head,— the flitting birds, — Perchance the wild deer, pausing ere he drank, — THE Gil AVE UK MARCICETTE. 18S /I lone beheld the stranger as he knelt, Tliought of his distant home, and, while the sound Of murmurinij waves stole fainter on his ear, IV'lt as if Heaven were home, — and, 'mid his prajcra Peaceful sank down to find the vision true ! They came, his followers few ; with hasty search They found him bowed ; and on Iiis placid lips Devotion lingering with a holy smile ; But the worn frame was cold, the heart was still Seiving and praying, their meek friend had died. And in that spot, thus sanctified, they made The Missionary's lone and hallowed grave. Angel of Death ! oh ! could thy summons thus Find each tried soul with pinion ready plumed, Struggling to soar before thou break st tlie bond, Half lilted to the skies by faith and prayer! MOUNT AUBURN. BY THIS AUTHOR OF ''SKETCHES OK THE OLD MASTERS." On the 27th of June, 1832, the first monument was reared at Mount Auburn, with this inscrip- tion : — "In memory of Hannah Adams, the first tenant of Mount Auburn." To tliose who knew her modes of thought, there is something peculiarly congenial in thia tribute. There are many who care but little about the dust that has encumbered the immortal spirit. I will not ask, that fragrant ilowors Sliould o'er my lowly grave be shed; I '11 trust to nature's vernal showers To throw a mantle o"er the dead. For what to me is that lone spot ? It boots not where the form is laid ; " D«st unto dust" must be its lot; To earth her tribute must be paid. Take then, O earlli, whate'er is thine, And in thy bosom let it sleep ; Tliou canst not claim the soul divine, Tl»c joyous spirit canst not keep. I I (S®li^¥ERfflfp[L^-irn@K! t • • • • • • .," • • • 9IOUNI" AUUURN. 185 When Miss Adams spoke of those who were gone, there seemed to be a feehng that their spirits were hovering round her. A friend, after returning from a tour to the fiouth, was describing the burying-grounds in Savannah, Mobile, and New Orleans, where " the beautiful exotics, that in our northern climes we cultivate with so niuch labor, geraniums, myrtles, and jasmines, appear to plant themselves spon- taneously on the graves, and afford a striking contrast, by their freshness and gay colors, to the often decaying monuments v/hich enclose the unconscious dead." '• How do you know they are unconscious ? " said she, with animation ; " it seems to me, that I should at least dream, if I were buried in such a spot." Her love of flowers seemed to be a part of her existence. ]\Iany were the young, fair hands that decked her humble apartment with these ofTcrings, " Yet spangled with tlie morning dew." There was one, who delighted to quit the cir- cles of fashion and sit at her feet ; one who seemed early consecrated to holiness, and in whose delicate frame were, too obviously, the 18(5 MOUNT AIIBUKN. symptoms of premature decay. We have seen her, with the sacred book in her hand, gently bending over the aged woman, and reading words of \\k and comfort ; — words that not only gave peace to the last moments of her venerable friend, but filled her own with faith and joy. The monument at Mount Auburn will stand as a record of the feeling and sentiment of Miss Adams's contemporaries. "\^'^e think it is the first public tribute of the kind, in this coun- try, to femn.le worlh and talent. There is some- tiling more touching, and more poetical in this removal of her remains to the beautiful spot and chissic monument prepared for them, than in all the glare of pubHc homage that crowned the living MorelU in the " Eternal City." In the following account will be recognised the original Corinne of Madame de Stael. "This day, (the 31st of August, 1776,) Maria Maddalena Morelli, called Gorilla Olimpica by the Academy of the Arcades, was crowned in the " Capitol. Petrarch and Pcrfetti were the last Ital- ian pocls who obtained this honor, till it w&s con- ferred in the [jrcsent day. Corilla Olimpica has long gained the admiration of Italy by her extem- pore verses on any subject proposed. After un- dergoing the necessary literary examinations, pre- MOUNT AUBURN. 187 ceding thai ceremony, in the presence of more than twenty ladies of the first distinction, twenty- five foreigners of rank, and three hundred per- S'^ns of known erudition, with the greatest ap- ])lause, she was this day conducted to the Capitol b} the Countesses CardeUi, Dandini, and Ginnasi. When she entered, she kneeled to the conserva- tors who were sitting under a canopy; and, after the usual Latin forms, the Chevalier Jean Paul de Cinque placed the laurel crown on her head ; after which the Chevalier John Baptist Conci reg- istered the act of her coronation in the public registers, under the discharge of one hundred pieces of cannon. Several members of the Acad- emy of the Arcades read pieces of their own composition, and three questions were proposed to Corilla, who answered in verse, with an elo- quence and vivacity which surprised all who were present." — Annual Register, for 1776. We almost wish that Miss Adams could have possessed the gift of the ancient seers, and beheld her Mount Pisgah. Monuments are for the living. Auburn is fast becoming tne " city of the dead,'^ Earth, like a faithful moiner, opens her bosom to receive her kindred earth. When we v/ander to this beautiful spot, we feel holier and better ; but it is because we realize that the spirit, the immortal spirit, is not there. THE DEBUT. BV H. T. TVCKERMAN. TuRoucu the light curtains of the rich boudoir Glimmered the morning, heavily and chill ; And tlie bronze lamp burned dimly, as the dawn, Like an unwelcome presence, gathered slow O'er pictured wall and tessellated floor, While the broad mirror newly caught the tints Of silken drapery and sparkling gems. On a Venetian ciiair, carved daintily, Hung, in fantastic folds, an Indian shawl j Upon the rose wood table glittering lay A diamond necklace and an emerald ring, . Brooches of rare mosaic, cameos, Bracelets of gold, and coronets of pearl ; While scattered round was many a fair device Of foreign tissue and resplendent hue, To decorate attractions now divine. Upon a couch, regardless of llio scene, declined its mistress in a siiow-wliile robe Wrapt in those wavy folds which sculjilors fling In careless grace around their classic nym[ili3. 'ISlid the light masses of her loosened hair, — A pearl-like star upon a cloud of gold, — Still drooped a lialf-blown rose, as if in pride It fain would wither o'er the ivory brow, THE DEBUT. 18S Whose rival tint it could no more relieve. The eye, whose liquid love e'er stirred with joy All who could catch its glance of tenderness. Now glistened with a moisture mild and sad ; The smile, v/hose magic gladness all the niirht Hud woke a thousand hearts to rapture new,— The dimples, that like rosy ells had played Upon the rounded cheek, — all now were gone ; The maiden, with her beauty, was alone, And knew it not, save as the bright-plumed birda Are conscious of their wings, when folded down In the soft, lassitude of summer sleep. "And this is all"! she murmured pensively, — " The throng was brilliant, and the music sent A thrilling sweetness tlirough my very heart, — Ay, and the dance went merrily, and oft I looked on those fair faces, and was glad In tlie exciting hum of mutual joy. Yet how this long anticipated night lias marred my ardent hopes ; how tame the bliss It brought and leaves, compared with that delight Which, in my fancy's view, so long hath shone ! Mary, whom like a sister I have loved. For the first time looked coldly on my face. When rose the admiring murmur as I danced ; And he, — my own, my cherished one, — whose hand Will lead me to the altar, gazed he not With a strange jealousy, as 1 replied To the unwelcome praises of the crowd, — Forgetting our long love, our perfect faith, Our fond communion and affinity ? 190 THE ILy.UT. Have I not heard, that in the world's domain. Friends are dissevered, warm hearts frosted o'er With prideful hope and selfish vanity ? Ah ! happier were the hours tliat book and lute And friendly converse and confiding love Have borne away on soft, unruffled wings, In the ethereal atmosphere of home, Or 'mid sweet nature's balmy solitude. What is my triumph, though its circle spread Through Fashion's temple, if the dearest nooks Where Love and Friendship dwell are shadowed o'ar, And my own spirit's garden is defiled With passion's gusts and env3''s sickly weeds ? If the broad sunsliine parches thus tlie spring Of our most blessed aft'ections, shade be mine ! Yes, Father ! let the flowers, which lliou hast sown, Hold meekly up in their bright chalices. Throughout my pilgrimage, the sacred dews Which thou didst shed from heaven upon their buds, Till by thy hand paternal they are gleaned, To wave as odorous cf.iscrs in thy courts, And, in eternal beamy, blossom there." THE CONFESSION. '* Come let us wander, dearest, through wood and shady glen. And thou wilt speak those winning words of yesternight again ; The purple clouds with crimson edge a glorious eva foretell, The path winds near the clustering elms, to yonder flowery dell ; A grave Confessor will I prove, and shrive each wily art Which my romantic spirit won, and chained my haughty heart. " I know the wise ones counsel a maiden to deceive, And in thf labyrinth of doubt each faithful suitor ieave ; They warn the simple, girlish heart, its nature to conceal, And lights and shades of passion pure forbid her to reveal ; But thy unfaltering truth will scorn such mean and shallow art, Nor fear to let thy lover scan thy guileless, sunny heart." '' And must 1 tell thee, dearest, that I trembled, when tliy name Was uttered in our household, in honor, or in blame; 192 THE CONFESSION. And when thy manliness and worth all voices echoed loud, I coined some triflintr error, my secret to enshroud ; Some dust upon the blossom, on the peerless gem a stain, A cloud in the cerulean, a sliadow on the main. " And must I own, Confessor, that in the gayest dance, I fearfully and slcallliily watched each betraying glance, \\ inch you lavislied on the graceful, the witty, and t!ie fair. While in my soul was struggling the Demon of despair ; But, tliough my lieart was breaking, more brightly Hashed mine eye, And proudest rival might not then divine my jealousy. " Tliough gallant youths full many might throng the stately hall. One noble farm my partial eye could see amidst tliera all; Thougli suitors clustered round me, and worshipped at my shrine, A cold, abstracted notice, and changeless check were mine ; A mist, a cloud, o'ershadowcd the view of all save tliee,— O, if the wise ones listened, wliat would they tliink of me ; '* A dull, d-'U weight was at my heart, how sad the eavv hours To measure off with sighs ; And over life's quick- withered flowers To droop with streaming eyes. For ah ! our waking dreams, how fast Their dearest visions fade, Or flee, and leave their glory cast For ever into shade ' And still, the doating, stricken heart, In every bleeding string That grief has snapped or worn apart, Finds yet wherewith to cling ; And yet whereon its hold to take With stronger, double grasp. Because of joys it held to break, Or melt within its cUsp. 200 THE widow's HOPK. A blast has proved, that in the sand I bused my fair, high tower! Pale Death iias laid his rending band On my new Eden bower ' And now, my tender orphan boy, Sweet bud of liope, 1 see My epice of life, my future joy, My all, wrapped up in thee. I fear to murmur in the ear Of Him who willed the blow, And sent the King of Terrors here To lay thy father low. I ask his aid my griefs to bear, To say, "Tliy will be done." — That Heaven will still in pity spaiv The widow's oniy son. SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. BY MISS SEDGWICK. " Grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair." — Measure for Measure. It is a common saying, that no individual profits by another's experience, — there are few, we believe, thnt profit by their own ; few to whom may not be justly applied that striking say- ing of Coleridge, that " experience is like the stern lights of a ship, which only illuminate the way that is passed." But, of all the scholars I have ever known in this ever-open school of experience, my friend, Mrs. Dunbar, is the most unteachable. With a fair portion of intellect, with a quick observation, and fifty years' acquaint- ance with the world, she is as trustful, as credu- lous, and as hopeful, as, when a child, she believ- ed the rainbow was a rope, of substantial., woven light, with a gulden cup at the end of it ; that there was a real man standing in the moon, and vhat the sky would, one of these bright days, fall. 202 SECOXD THOUGHTS BEST and we should catch larks. Being of a benevolen and equable temperament, her credulity has the must happy manifestations. Her faith in her fellow-creatures is implicit, and her confidence in the happiness of the iuture unwavering ; so tiiat, however dark and heavy the clouds may be at any given moment, she believes they arc on the point of breaking away. I have known but a single exception to \he general and pleasant current of my friend's life. One anxiety and disappointment crossed her, which even her blessed alchyniy could not gild or transmute. Her husband lost all his fortune ; this was not the cross. Mrs. Dunbar said, she saw no reason why they should not take their turn on For- tune's wheel ; she did not doubt they should come up again, and, if they did not, why, her own pri- vate fortune was enough to secure them from de- pendence and want. Her husband had none of her philosophy, or, rather, happy temperament; — philosophy gets too much credit. He had an am* hitious spirit, and his ambition had taken a direc- tion very common in our cities ; an aspiration after commercial reputation, and the wealth :jid magniilcence that follow it. Mr. Dunbar nad mounted to the very top rung of the ladder, when, alas, it fell ! and his possessions and hopes wore SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 203 prostrated. A fever seized him in the severest Iiou'" of disappointment, and the moral and phys- ical pressure killed him. But this was not the cross. Mrs. Dunbar loved and honored her hus- band without having any particular sympathy With him. He imparted none of his projects to her, and neither interfered with nor participated her quiet, every-day pursuits and pleasures ; so that no harmonious partnership could be dissolved with less shock to the survivor. Mrs. Dunbar, beside the common-place solaces, on such occa- sions, such as, " We must all die," " Heaven's time is the best time," had a particular and reasonable consolation in being relieved from the sight of unhappiness that she could not remove or mitigate. This was not selfishness, but the necessity of her nature, which resembled tho«f* plants that cannot live unless they have sunshine, and plenty of it. Mrs. Dunbar had one son, Fletcher, a youth of rare promise, who was just seventeen at his father's death. He most happily combined the character of his parents, — the aspiring and firm qualities of his father, and the bright spirit of his mother. His education had been most judiciously directed by his father ; and his mother, without any system or plan whatever had, by the snonta S04 SECOND THOCGHTS BEST. ncous action of her own character, most hapoily moulded his affections. At seventeen, Flctti.tr Dunbar seemed to nie the perfection of a youth ; with a boyish freshness and playfuhiess, and u manly grace, generosity, and courtesy. Much more attention than is usual in our country had been given to the adornments of education ; but his father, who had all respect to the solid and practical, had taken care that the weightier mat- ters were not sacrificed ; and he had a prompt reward. So capable and worthy of trust was Fletcher at his father's death, that the mercantile house in which he was clerk offered him, on ad- vautuutious terms, an agency for si-\ years, in France and England. Mrs, Dunbar consented to his departure. But this parting of the widow from her only son, her only child, and such a child, was not the cross. " There was nothing like throwing a young man, who had his fortune to carve, on his own responsibilities," she justly said. " Fletcher would get good, and not evil, wherever he went. She should hear from him by every packet, and six years would soon fly away." And thoy did nnd this bungs me to the story of that drop, that dilluscd its bitterness through the cup my friend till now had preserved sweet and sparking. The si.x years were gone : si.\ years tney liari SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 20£ been to Fletcher, of health, prosperity, and vir tue. I need say nothing more for a young man who had been exposed to the temptations of London and Paris. The happy day and evennig of his arrival had passed away. Uncles, aunis, and friends had thronged to welcome him, and gone to their homes, and Mrs. Dunbar was left alone with Fletcher and Ellen Fitzhugh. I have said, that Mrs. Dunbar had but one child ; but, if it be possible for the bonds of adoption to be as strong as those of nature, Mrs. Dunbar loved Ellen as well as if she had been born to her. This instance was enough to prove, that there may be the hai)piness of a maternal affection v/ithout the instincts of nature, or the feeling of property in the object, which more selfish natures than my friend's require. Ellen was the child of a very dear friend of Mrs. Dun- bar, who, from a goodly portion of nine daugh- ters, surrendered this, the fairest and best, to what she then deemed a happier destiny than she could in any other way secure for her. I do not believe Mrs. Dunbar could have to.d which she loved best, 'Ellen Fitzhugh or her son ; in truth, they were so blended in her mind that they made but one idea. When she saw Ellen, Fletcher was in her imagination ; when slifl 206 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. thought of Fletcher, Ellen was the present visible type through which her thoughts and affections went out to him. Now he had returned ; they were under the Bame roof; — Fletcher was three and twenty, with a handsome fortune to begin the world with ; Jind Ellen was just eighteen, with " a countenance, in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wileSj Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. Never was there a fitter original for this beautiful description of the poet, than Ellen Filzhugh ; and could there be any thing more natural than Mrs. Dunbar's firm belief, that Fletcher would set right about weaving into an imperishable fabric the golden threads she had been spinning for him ? The first evening had passed away ; the old family domestics had received from Fletcher's hand some gift " far fetched," and enriched with the odor of kind remembrance; and IVIrs. Dunbar and the young people lingered over the decay- ing embers, to talk over the thousand particulars lliat are omitted in the most minute correspond- SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 207 « ence. •' Pra5' tell me, Fletcher," asked I\Irs. Dunbar, " who was that Bessie Elmore you spoko of so frequently in your last letters ? " " Bessie Elmore ! Heaven bless her ! She was the daughter of a lady who was excessively kinc to me the last time I was in London. She bore a striking resemblance to Ellen, so 1 called her cousin., — a pretty title to shelter a flirta- tion ; — I should inevitably have lost my heart, but for the presumption of asking her to give up her country." " Was she very like Ellen } " " Excessively ; her laugh, too, always recalled Ellen's. She was a charming little creature ! " Ellen blushed slightly, and Mrs. Dunbar's hap- py countenance smiled all over as she said, " Ellen is very English in her looks." " Yes, aunt, a ' rosy, sturdy little person,' as English Smith used to call me." " Not too sturdy, Ellen," said Fletcher, " and not too little, — just as high as our hearts, moth- er, is she not .' " " She has always just filled mine," replied the delighted mother, who had already jumped to the conclusion that the aflair was as good as settled, and the wedding, and the happy years to follow, floated in rich visions before her. She ventured on one question she was anxious to have 208 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. settled. " You have no occasion to go abroai again, Fletcher ? " " None. A happy home, in my own country lias long been my ' castle in the air,' and now thank Heaven, I can give it a terrestrial founda- tion." " Ellen is not the person to relish this ' taking for granted,'" thought Mrs. Dunbar; Fletcher should be more reserved. Fletcher soon turned the current of her ap- prehensions. " Pray," he asked, " what is the reason, Ellen, that you and my mother have so seldom mentioned Matilda Preston in your letters of late ? " " We have seen much less of her than usual the winter past. Matilda cannot ' To a party give up what was meant for mankind.' I suppose you know she has been a ' bright and particular star ' this winter, — a belle ? " " Has she ? I am sorry for it ! " " So is not Matilda. She enjoys her undis- puted reign. She has, to those she chooses to please, captivating maimers, and you know she is talented. The beaux, of a score of years standing, declare tlierc has been nothing like her in their time. She is beset with admirers and lovers. She says she is obliged, when she cocs SECOND THOUGHTS BEST 209 lo a ball, to keep an ivory tablet under her belt, with a list of her partners. Some wag pasted up on Carroll Place, where the Prestons live, *■ Apol- lo^s Courl^ on account of the perpetual serenades there. Poor Rupert Selden told me, he had thrown away a half year's commissions en bou- quets and serenades to her, which, in his own romantic phrase, had 'ended in smoke.' She is said to be engaged." " Encased ! " Fletcher bit his nails for two or three minutes in deep abstraction, and then added, " To whom is she engaged ? " " Pray don't look so distressed, cousin; I only reported it as an on dif^ — I forgot your flame for Matilda." " Pshaw, Ellen ! but who is the person ? " " The preeminent person at the present mo- ment is Ned Garston." " Ned Garston ! a monkey, — impossible ! " " Oh, he is much improved by foreign travel, and, if still a monkey, a romantic monkey, a monkey en heau. He has put himself into the hands of some Parisian master of the science of transforminsr the deformed, and has come forth the tableau vivant, copied after a famous picture of some Troubadour m the Louvre." " What do you mean, Ellen ? " 14 8 1 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. " I mean, that Ned Garston's very pretty, black hair hangs in hyacintliine curls over the collar of his coat, — that he wears tresses, Hke a girl's, on each side of his face, and mustachios and whis- kers that would befit a grand Sultan. The girls call him the Sublime Porte.' " " And is it possible that Matilda Preston, that gifted, beautiful creature, is going to tlirow her- self away upon this Jackanapes ? " " How wildly you talk, Fletcher!" interposed his mother, " you have not seen Matilda Preston since she was a mere child." " But a rare child, my dear mother ; Matilda Preston, at thirteen, was a fit model for sculpture and painting. She moved like a goddess, and her faculties were worthy such a form. Lord bless me, what a sacrifice ! — is it a sacrifice to Mammon, Ellen ? " " Do not insist that the sacrifice is certain," — " I have no doubt it is liis fortune," said Mrs. Dunbar, for the first time, I believe, in licr life, turning a scale against an absent person that miglii have been struck in her favor, " that is to Bay, fortune and s'ylc. Garston has the most Bhowy equipage in \ne city, and his family, you icnow, arc all in the first fashion." " The fashion would have more influonco with SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 211 Matilda than fortune, I suspect. You know, aunt, she refused Stanhope Gilmore, who is very rich and very clever into the bargain." " But you remember, Ellen, she told us her father would never have consented to her marry- ing a loco-foco.'''' " Loco-foco ! what the mischief is that mother .' " " Why the lowest of the people, — an agrariai., you know, — a Tory." " What does my mother mean, Ellen .' I never heard such a confusing combination of terms." " You surely know what we mean by ^^'hig3 and Tories } " " Not 1." " Do you never read our newspapers ? " " Very seldom, — never the party papers. An American abroad is ashamed of the petty wran- gling, virulence, and vulgarity of our political papers. We care only foi the honor and pros- perity of the country at large. We Icve our countr}'men, by whatever name they are called, and it makes us heart-sick to take up one of our popular journals and see it proclaimed, that ' u crisis is at Iiand ! ' — that ' the country is on tl.e brink of ruin ! ' that ' the constitution is in jeoji- ardy ! ' and can only be saved by a doubtful ma- 2 I 2 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. jority, rallying with all their strength ag&insl a corrupt faction^ about to prostrate the liberties of the country ! The only way to keep your temper is never to look into a newspaper. But, pray, can you tell me what are these loco-foco Tories ? " Poor Mrs. Dunbar never disturbed the serene heaven of her mind with politics. She received a very vague impression from the persons she associated with, and in accordance with this im- pression, she now replied, " I don't know pre- cisely, — I remember my father talking about the Tories in Revolutionary days being the enemies of their country, and I suppose it is just the same now." Mrs. Dunbar answered in good faith. The changes of the last sixty years, the new forma- tions, and the remodellings ; the old parties with new names, and the new parties with old names, still existed in her mind as the ideas had origin- ally entered it, as banded Whigs and Tories. Fletcher laughed at her reply and said, " I see, my dear mother, you are just where I left you. The loco-focos, I lake it for granted, Ellen, ore the administrution party." " Yes." "And Stanhope Gilmore, sprung from the most mristocratic family in the State, is a loco-foco ? SECOND THOUGHTS WEST. 313 and Matilda Preston's father, of a purely aemo- cratic origin, belongs to the aristocratic party ? " " Just so." " Well, thank Heaven, our party associations may make a great uproar, but they can never hav«? the element of danger while they are so unstable and accidental ! " A rinjj at the door, and the entrance of a note " To Miss Fitzhugh," cut the thread of Fletcher's generalizations. He cast his eye on the note, and exclaimed, " That I am sure is from Matilda Preston, though I have not seen her writing for six years. If there is nothing private in it, will you allow me to look at it, Ellen ? " " Certainly, there is nothing private, only such a strange proposition ! " " Read it aloud, please, Fletcher," said Mrs. Dunbar ; and Fletcher read as follows : " Dearest Ellen, " You are engaged to go to Mrs. Reeves's cos* tume-ba.l to morrow evening. Some tiresome people have been persuading me to appear as Rebecca. Now I am well aware, that, in the article of beauty, I am not fitted to impersonate the lovely Jewess, but I am half inclined to try it, because I can so well arrange a dress for tlie 214 SELONb THOUGHTS BEST. character. Mamma has a remnant of a lasi century's dross, a bright yellow India silk, em- broidered with silver, that, with my ostrich feath- er and agrafe^ will do admirably for the turban I do not quite comprehend Rebecca's simarre but 1 think the boddice of my brocade will do aj a substitute. " ]\Iy note was interrupted by a visit from ]\Iad. ame Salasuar. She offers me her diamonds, — d has pride, I '11 wear them. They are es- sential to give the Eastern character of magnifi- cence. Then, you know my ' sable tresses,' my ' aquiline nose,' my ' dark complexion,' and my ' Oriental eyes,' as De Ville will call them, will all work in as accessories, to give a vraisem- llance to the tableau vivant. " Now, my sweetest Ellen, T cann.^t appear as the Jewess, unless you will accompany me as the Lady Rowena. Pray, — pray do not refuse me, why should you } " Perhaps you think ' Vohscuritc convient aux femmcs'' ; — my dear, it will come soon enough when there are kitchens and nurseries for us to supervise, — let us buzz a little while in the sun- shine first. " Do you know a possible Ivanhoc among the Invited ? I do not. My acquaintances are ail SECOND THOUGHTS BEST 215 party-going, unknightly gentry enough. Garston proposes to appear as Brian de Bois-Gialbert ! ! ! The perverse winds and waves ! if they had but sent us Fletcher Dunbar!" (Here the reader blushed, smiled, and hesitated. " Read on, my son," said his mother, impatiently, and on ho stammered.) " A Palmer's dress, in which you know Ivanhoe first appears, would have been just the thing for Fletcher's advent from foreign land, though the uprooted oak, the device of his shield at the tourney, and the motto, Desdichado, (Disinherited,) would have ill fitted dear Mrs. Dunbar's heir-apparent. It is so intolerably pro- voking that he has not arrived, when he is prob- ably within two days' sail of us. He is so clever and with such a born-hero look ! Perhaps, after all, he might be cross and refuse ; so let us be philosophers, and do as well as we can without him. You, dearest Ellen, will not refuse me .'' You will be the ' Queen of Love and Beauty ' ; I only the poor Jewess, who, you remember, the Prior of Jorvaulx 'swore was far inferior to the Jovely Saxon Rowena." " Is JIatilda Preston out of her head .' " ex- claimed Mrs. Dunbar. " A fitting character for you, truly, Ellen, that pompous, cold, disagreea- SI 6 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. ble, insipid Rowena. Don't think of it, my dear child." " I shall not think of it for other reasons, aunt. I cannot conceive of any thing more absurd than for mc to personate a beauty, — a tall beauty, too ! born ' to the e.xercise of habitual superior- ity, and the reception of general homage.' " " I see no objection in that, my dear child. There are not half a dozen readers of Ivanhoe, who remember whether Rowena was tall or short ; and as to beauty that is, as to what i3 really engaging and captivating, I am sure"— — " Pray, dear aunt," " The servant is waiting for an answer," said Mrs. Dunbar's maid. " He shall have it instantly," replied Ellen, taking up her pen. " Stop one moment, my dear cousin," said Fletcher, laying his hand on hera • " if it is not too disagreeable to you, say Yes. I should par- ticularly like surprising Matilda, and joining you at this ball in the way she proposes. I do not see, that, in merely dressing in costume for Row- ena, and calling yourself by that name, you arro- gate to yourself beauty, and qucenship, and all that. Where you make one of a group, the ro sumblaaco is a matter of inferior consequence. SECOND THOUGHTS DEST. 217 Mciti'da's Jewess will be so striking, that she will shelter all our imperfectioire." Ellen still hesitated, and looked perplexed, and Fletchfir added, " I see it annoys you, — it is a sacrifice of your prepossessions, — write the note as you at first intended." The word sacrifice seemed to Ellen to set her leluctance- in a ridiculous light, and she felt ashamed of having hesitated, at this moment of Fletcher's return, to accede to a request that in- volved pleasure to him. " I will write it as / should have intended, if I had not been more thoughtful of myself than of others' pleasure. You must make up your mind, aunt, to my doing the Lady Rowena too much honor ! Shall I tell Matilda I can find an Ivanhoe, and that we will meet her at Mrs. Reeves's at ten ? " "Thank you, Ellen, — yes, — but pray don't give a hint of -my arrival ; let us see, what was the Palmer's dress, — do you remember, moth- er .? " Mrs. Dunbar did not ; but, believing and hoping in hor heart it would be somethino; so unsuitable as to induce Fletcher to abandon the project, slie eagerly sought the first volume of Ivanhoe on tho book-shelf, and gave it to him. Fletcher opened at the entrance of the Palmer into Roth* 2 1 8 IfSECOND THOUGHTS BEST. erwood. '"A mantle of coarse, black serge,'" hs read aloud, "admirable ! that is easily got up, and can be easily thrown aside. ' Coarse sandals boun(^ vi'ilh thongs on his bare feet.' By yc ir leave S.r Palmer, I shall not meddle with those. ' A broad and shadowy hat, with cockle-shells stitched on its brim.' Excellent ! ' A long staff shod with iron, to the upper end of which was attached a branch of palm.' As we are not to tramp to Holy Land, we will omit the shoeing. The branch of palm is the grand point. That can be got from my old friend Thorburn." "And what is Ellen's dress to heV asked Mrs. Dunbar, — " 1 hope that will not be forgotten." " My dear mother, forgive me, — Ellen was busy with her note, — finished and sent is it ! — you always execute while others are planning, Ellen. Ah, here is the description ; ' Hair be- twixt brown and flaxen,' — yours has a touch of the auburn, — the Saxon red." " Red ! " interposed Mrs. Dunbar, " Ellen's hair red I it has a true golden tinge." " Red gold, mother." " At any rate, Fletcher, it is not red, flaxen, or brown ; I miijht have remembered Ivowena's hair was flaxen, — every thing about her was unmeftu- ing." SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 21D ' ' Iler hair,' " proceeded Fletcher, " ' was braided with gems.' " " Le Fleur will manage all that," said Mrs. Dunbar, " with my set of pearl." She began to feel a little womanly interest in the getting J]) of .he dress. "'A golden chain,'" proceeded Fletcher, '" to which was attached a small reliquary of the same metal, hung round her neck.' That, my dear cousin, you must allow me to manage, that is, if a cross will do m place of a reliquary, and, as they are both symbols of the same religion, I do not see. why it will not." He unlocked a very beautiful dressing-case, which he now told Ellen he had bi'ought for her, and took from it a rich gold chain, with an exquisitely wrought cross attached to it. " I brought this propheti- cally," he said, clasping it round Ellen's neck. " Would the chain, and not the cross, had been prophetic ! " thought Mrs. Dunbar, and she heaved a deep sigh. "The memory of affection is always prophetic, Fletcher," said Ellen ; " it links the memorj' of past to future kindness." *' What, my dear ? " asked Mrs. Dunbar ; " 1 don't clearly understand you." The chain and the cross were too suggestive 220 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. to Ellen's mind to admit of any very clear ex- planation. Fletcher's quick eye perceived her embarrassment, and, imputing it to the awkward- ness that very commonly attends recei\ing a gift, ne went on witli the book. " ' Her dress was an under gown and kirtle of pale green silk.' " " Your new gown is the very thing, Ellen," interrupted Mrs. Dunbar; " how fortunate! gree7i^ your own color." " Ellen's color the emblem of desertion ! mother ? " " No, no indeed, Fletcher ; no one who has ever loved Ellen could forsake her." Fletcher, all unconscious of the feeling that was bubbling up from his mother's heart, coolly pro- ceeded in his trying process. " Here is a stum- blinz-block ! ' The Lady Kowena wore a long, loose crimson robe, manufactured of the finest wool, which reached to the ground.' " " A stumbling-block ? by no means, Fletcher ; Amande can convert my India shawl into such a robe without the least injury to it, and I '11 an- swer for it the Lady Rowena's mantle was cowlaa to that. Is there any thing else > " " ' A veil of silk interwoven with gvld.' " " My Brussels lace will be just tlie thing , il is magnificent, and will shelter without conceal- in^r." SECOND THOUGHTS BES'l. 221 At another time Ellen's right joyous spirit would have found merriment enough in the pro- ject of arraying her little, unobtrusive person in a crimson robe, flowing to the ground, and at the simplicity of good Mrs. Dunbar, in supposing she could carry off any thing " magnificent." She had another kind of veil to wear, for the first time in her life, to conceal her feelings, and to assume cheerfulness she did not feel. Mrs. Dunbar retired for the night. Ellen, after despatching some trifling home aflairs, was following her, when Fletcher, who had been leaning abstractedly on his elbow, said, " Ellen do not go ; 1 have something to say to you." Ellen turned with a beating and foreboding heart. " Tell me, Ellen, honestly, is it your belief that Matilda Preston is engaged to Garston .^ " " I do not believe she is." "Why are you in such haste .^ sit down, — there, thank you ; but do not look as if I had murder to confess, — I have only to tell you the weakness and the strength of my heart. You know, my dear Ellen, — cousin, — sister, I sho'ild rather call you, for, without any tie of blood, no 3ister was ever dearer, there is no one but you \o whom I can communicate my feelings, pro- jects ^nd hopes, — from whom I can take coun- 222 SECOND THOrCHTS BEST. sel. To begin, then, wlicn I left Anicrica you find Matilda Preston were very intimate. I do not find you so much so now ; what is the cause of this alienation ?" " There is no alienation, Fletcher; we are Jiti- mate still." " AfTcctionately intimate } " "Matilda is very kind, — very aflbctionate tc mc." " And you not so to her ? 1 am sure you never repelled afTection with coldness. There must be some reason for this. My mother, too, seems to have a prejudice against Matilda; pray be frank with me, Ellen." Frankness was Ellen's nature. She was one of the few beings in this world, who are thor- oughly and habitually, by nature and by grace, true. For the first time a cloud had passed over her clear spirit. She began to speak, faltered, began again, and finally said ; " It may be more mine than Matilda's fault, that we are less in'.i- mate than formerly. Our circumstances, our tastes arc difTcrcnt. I think Matilda is nmch what she was when you left us, — that is, — that is, allowing for the diflcrence between a Bchool-erirl and a belle, Fletcher." " A belle ! — how I hate the term. Hut hovr SECOND THOUGHTS BEST 223 could it be otherwise in a city atmosphere, with Matilda's beauty, Talents, and accomplishments ? I see she is not quite to your taste, Ellen ; I am sorry for it, but this is better than I feared. Now for my confession, in brief. When I left you, I was a reserved boy. Neither you, nor my moth- er, probably, ever suspected my predilection, but for two years I had been desperately in love with Matilda Preston. I believed she loved me. We exchanged many a love-.oken, many a promise. It is true she was a mere child, I a mere boy ; but there are such childish loves on record, EK Icn. The germ of the fruit is in the unfolding bud. It may, after all, have been, on her part, a little innocent foolery, forgotten long ago ; but, if so, I was coxcomb enough to take it all in dead earnest. Through my six years of absence I have cherished, lived upon, these remem- brances. All my projects, all my successes have blended with the thought of Matilda ; and, blessed by Heaven in my enterprises, I have now come home determined to throw myself at her feet, if ■I find her what memory and a lover's faith lia^-c painted her." Fletcher fixed his eye on Ellen Hers fell. "Will you not, — can you not, El- en, give me a ' God speed ' ? " Th:; flush on Ellen's cheek faded to a deadly 224 SECOND Ilk IGHTS KI.ST. paleness. After a momcjfjfs hesitation, she sum- moned her resolution ; and, raising her eye to meet Fletcher's, rejilicd, with a tolerably steady voice, "Do not ask a 'God speed' of me now, Fletcher ; — wait till you have seen Matilda, and B;udied her character, as you ought to study that en which the happiness of your life is to depend • and then, if your ripened judgment confirms your youthful preference, you shall have my" — "God speed," she would have said, but her honest tongue refused to utter the word to which her heart did not answer, and adding, " my earnest wishes, — my prayei-s," she burst into irrepressi- ble tears, and, horror-struck at what she feared was a betrayal of her true feelings she fled, with- out even a " good night," to her own apartment. The truth did once flash across Fletcher's mind, " It is a phenomenon to see Ellen in teare, save at some touching tale or known grief," he thought; " Ellen, with her ever bright, buoyant spirit, — her ' obedient j)assions, will resigned.' lias my dear, imprudent mother, with her equal fondness for us both, been kindling a sjiark of tenderness in Ellen's heart .^ " The ihouiiht was no sooner conceived than rejected. There was no latent vanity in Fletch.cr's mind to please itself with cherishing it. It was happily improbable. SECOND THOt.'GHTS BEST. 225 and it soon gave place to thick-coming and mosi pleasant fancies. But one cloud hovcrcd ove. them, — Mrs. Dunbar's and Ellen's too evident ilistrust of Matilda. " I will ' study her charac- ter,' and abide by the decision of my ' ripened judgment,' " resolved Fletcher. Alas for tho judgment of a young man of three and twenty as to a talented beauty of nineteen, with the des- perate make-weight against it of a long-cherished love ! When love takes possession of a mind perfect- ly sane in other respects, it acts like a monoma- nia. This one idea has an independent exister.ce, a complete ascendency, and absolute rule. The faculties of perception, comparison, judgment, have no power to modify, — the will no control over it. An angel, surely, should keep "Strict charge and watcii, that *» No evil thing approach or enter in " the paradise of the affections. The trials of the evening were not over for Ellen. It was her invariable custom to undress in Mi-s. Dunbar's apartment, and to have a liulo gossip over the interests of the closing day, and the anticipations of the leaf of life next to be turn- ed, before they parted for the night. This is the 15 226 SELOU IKCLUHlb Jl.fcT. hour, that, of all others, unlocks the treasures of the heart. Memory pours out her hoarded stores, and young hope shows, by her magic lantern, her visions of the future. Ellen had often sat with her loving friend over llie dying embers, reading and re-reading the pas- sages in Fletcher's letters, where he dwelt on the fond remembrances of homo. Every mention of Ellen, and the letters abounded with them, his mother repeated and repeated, and always with an emphasis and smile, that sometimes made Ellen's blood tingle to her fingers' ends. And yet, sim- ple as a child, the good woman never dreamed that she was communicating her faith and hopes, and awakening feelings never to sleep again. This she knew, as a matter of principle and dis- cretion, would not be right ; and, while she never said to Ellen, in so many words, " !\Iy heart is set on your marrying Fletcher, and I am sure his is, even more than mine," she did not suspect she was conveying this meaning in every look, word, and motion. And even now, when the pillars of her "castle in the air," were tumbling about her head, she had no apprehension that Ellen would be crushed by them. They were to meet now for the first time, with the most pain- ''ul feeling to loving and trusting friends, that BECOXD THOUGHTS BEST. aQ"* their hearts must be hidden with impenetrable screens ; but, such was the transparency of deal Mrs. Dunbar's heart, that, put what she would before it, the disguise melted away in the clea. light, — to tell the truth, Ellen's was little better her safety was in the dim sight of the eye to be eluded. She washed away her tears, called up all the resolution she could muster, and repaired to Mrs. Dunbar's apartment, whom she hoped she might find by this time in bed, and get off with her " good-night kiss " ; but, instead of this, she was pacing up and down the room, not a pin removed. " Dear aunt, not in bed yet ? " "No, my dear child, — I did not feel like sleeping the first night, you know, of Fletcher's being here ; — it 's natural to have a good many wakeful thoughts of past times, and so forth." While saying this she had turned her back, and was busying herself at the bureau, the tone of her voice, and the freqr.ent use of her handker- chief, conveying the state of her feelings as pre- cisely to Ellen, as her streaming eyes would, had she shown them. " Now you are at the bureau, aunt, please to take out your crimson shawl," said Ellen, lucE- ily hitting on an external object to engage their gas EECCND TKCUGHTS BIST attenlion. Mrs. Dunbar fumbled at the drawers lonii enoiiszh to sjivc herself time to clear her voice and dry her eyes, and then, throwing the shawl into Ellen's lap, she said, " You ar° wel- come to that, and every thing else I have in the world, God kncnvs, my dear child ; but I don'l wish you to go to Mrs. Reeves's to-morrow eve- ning, — I don't think you will enjoy yourself." *• It 's no very rare thing, at a party, not to enjoy one's self, aunt. I shall certainly have the pleasure of obliging Fletcher." " That 's true, Ellen ; — but then it was not like him to ask you, when he saw it was so dis- agreeable to you. I don't see why he should set his heart upon this foolish Ivanhoeing." " But you see why lie does, aunt " Ellen spoke with a smile, melancholy, in spite of her cUbrts. "Yes, I do, I do! " cried Mrs. Dunbar, her tears gushing forth afresh ; " I sec that Fletcher has the most unexpected, incompreliensible, unrea- sonable, unfortunate, strange, dreadful, wonderful, and amazing interest in Matilda Preston. I iiad never so much as thought of it, — it 's insanliy, Ellen, — he is as blind as a beetle." "It IS a blindness, aunt, that is not like to be eurcd by the presence of Matilda Pre.ston." SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 229 " That 's just what I feel, Ellen. IMen are always carried away with beauty. I thought Fletcher was an exception ; but he is not, or he ivould tell the gold from the glittering." "• But, aunt, you do Matilda and Fletcher injus- tice. She has fine qualities; and, if what you now expect should happen, you will look on Ma- tilda with very different eyes." "Never, Ellen, never in the world, — she will always seem to stand between me and — I mean, — I can't tell you^ Ellen, what I mean. But this I will say, come what Avill, no one can ever take your place to me, — you are the child of my heart, ^ you have grown up at my side, — I can never love another daughter ; — whomever you marry, Ellen, wherever you go, your home shall be my nome." " No, no, aunt," said Ellen, hiding her tearful face on the bosom of her faithful friend, " I shall never marry, — nerer.'''' And before Mrs. Dun- bar could reply, she gave her good-night kiss and left the room. " Is it possible she could have understood me.'" exclaimed Mrs. Dunbar. After a little reflection she quieted her apprehensions with the thought that she had a hundred times before spoken just as plainly, and Ellen had not suspected what she ^3 PFCONP TKOrCHTS BEST meant. She was like the child, who, shutting his own eyes, fancies no one can see him. When Ellen left 3Irs. Dunbar's room, she went mechanically down stairs to perform her last household duty, which was to see that the doors were secured. On the floor, at the strcot-door, she perceived a note ; and, on taking it up, saw it was addressed to a Miss Littell, Miss Preston's dress-maker, who lived opposite the Dunbars'. It had been accidentally dropped by Miss Pres- ton's careless servant. It was unsealed, and El- len, taking it for granted it related to something about the costume for the Reeves party, and that it might be important to have no delay in getting it into the hands of the crfiste, x-ang the bell for the servant, intcndintr to send it, thouErh the hour was unseasonable. Diana, Mrs. Dunbar's crippled old cook, called out from the kitchen stairs to Miss Ellen, that " Daniel had just gone up to bed." Daniel, like his pagan mate, Diana, had lived out, and overstayed his lease of threescore and ten with kind Mrs. Dunbar; and Ellen, hes- itating to call liim down, ventured to open the note, to see if it were a matter of any impor- tance. It contained only the following thrcp lines : " Pray, Miss Littoll, if you have any dealings SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 231 ivith Mrs. D.'s family, do not mention that you iti formed me of the arrival of her son. " iM. P ." ' I thought so!" exclaimed Ellen, involuntari- ly. " What is it, Ellen > What did you think .' " asked Fletcher, who, unheard by her, had just come into the open door for something he had loft behind. " Oh, nothing, — nothing at all," said she. He playfully attempted to wrest the note from her hand, till, seeing she anxiously retained it, he desisted, and she returned to her own apart- ment, where sJie breathed freely for the fii*st time for many hours, and where she spent a long, sleepless night in expelling from her mind her shattered hopes, and forming her plans for the future. "Ought I not," she said, in her self-examina- tion, " to have obeyed the first impulse of my heart, and when Fletcher appealed to me, to have told him frankly my opinion of Matilda. After much meditation the response of her conscience was a full acquittal. She had done all that the sircumstances of the case and her relations to the parties allowed, m withholding her ' God speed ' till Fletcher's ripened judgment should authorize his decision. She reflected, that Matilda's char- 232 iJECOND THOUGHTS BEST. nctcr had seemed to her to have the same radical faults six years before, that it had now, and that in spite of them, Fletcher loved her then. Per- haps she judged those faults too strictly. Perhapi her judgment was tinged by her self-love ; foi she was conscious, that, in the points so offen sive to her, she was constitutionally the oppositr of Matilda Preston. She looked ae-ain at Mali/ da's discrepant notes of that evening, and charita bly allowed, that she had at first felt too much displeasure at what struck her as absolutely false, but what, after all, might be an innocent strata- gem to get up a dramatic scene, and perhaps to slieltcr emotions at a first meeting with Fletcher. "Rut oh, Matilda, why always a stratagem.? Why never let the appearance answer to the reality ? Why never trust yourself to simple truth } " Because Matilda was afraid, that truth would not serve her so well as she could manage for herself. We have no doubt our friends, the Phrenologists, would, wiih a very fair intellec- tual developement, have found a great predom- inaricc of the organs of self-esteem, love of approbation, and cautiousness on Matilda's head. She had an intense love of admiration, not mero ly of her personal charms, fur her preeminonl beauty was settled by universal suflVago. and she SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 233 nad no anxiety about it; but slie would bo thought, in all the circle of her acquaintance, to be the most capable of disinterested friendslii[] and of self-sacrificing love ; her tastes were in favor of all the virtues, — she really wished to be amiable and excellent ; but the virtues have their price, and they will not abate one jot or tittle; — that price is self-abasement, self-forget- fulness, and generosity. " Hard it is to climb their steeps ; " and they can only be achieved by painful and persevering efforts. At tiic first real trial appearances vanish like vapor, — there is no cheating in the long run in the matter of goodness. With all Matilda's fine taste, with her suscep- tibility to opinion, and her eager desire of praise, she was no favorite. Her intense selfishness would penetrate all disguises, — her conscious- ness of herself was always apparent, — there was never a spontaneous action, woixl, or look. In all this she was the very opposite of Ellen, who, most strictly watchful of the inner world, let the outer take care of itself. This gave a freedom and simplicity to her manners, and a Btraightforwardness to all her dealings, that inspir- ed confidence. Matilda, in the midst of her rnosl Imlliant career, had, whenever silent, an expres- 23 4 SFXOND THOL'GHTS BEST. sion of care and dissatisfaction, — a rigidity and contraction of the upper lip, (often criticized as the only imperfection of her beauty,) that be- trayed the puerile anxieties in which she was in- volved, the web slie was perpetually weaving or ravelling. There is no such tell-tale as the hu man countenance, or rather, we should say (with more reverence) God has set his seal of trull) upon it, and no artifice has ever yet obscured the Divine impression. Ellen Fitzhugh's lovely face was the mirror of truth, cheerfulness, and afiec- tion. " There is no use," thought Ellen, as she pur- sued the meditations in which we left her, " in trying to conceal my feelings, — 1 cannot, — I never did in my life, — I must just set to work and overcome them. Dear Mrs. Dunbar, all those sweet fancies that you and I have been so busily weaving, the last six years, must be sacri- ficed at once and for ever ; and I must just learn to think of Fletcher, as I did when a little girl, — IIS a dear, kind brother ; — that should- be, — it shall be, enough." This resolution was mado with many showers of tears, and sanctified with many prayers, ejaculated from the depths of her Iieart ; and, once made, she set about, with most characteristic promptness, contriving the meanf *br carrying i' into execution. tJEl^ONI) THOUGHTS BEST. 235 " In the first place," thought she, " I must have something extraorduiarj to occupy ine, or I shall be constantly, and oh how painfully, watching Fletche:''s every look and action ; in spite of myself, I shall be hoping and fearing. This must not be, for 1 know how it must all end ! It oc- curred to her, that it was nearly as important to divert Mrs. Dunbar's attention as her own, and a lucky thought came into her head. Mrs. Dun- bar's physician had been urging her, for some weeks, to have a little w^en removed, that waa growing in a dangerous neighbourhood to her eye. Mrs. Dunbar was timid and procrastinat- ing ; but, with Fletcher's aid, Ellen felt sure of persuading her this was the very best time for the operation. Then she determined at once to put in execution a project she had conceived, -of teaching a poor, young blind girl, a pensioner of Mrs. Dunbar's, music. Ellen was an accom- plished musician ; and she certainly was not over sanguine in believing, that the prospect of qual- ifying a drooping, dependent creature to earn an independent existence, would make sunshine f ir Bome hours of every day. With these, and other similar plans in her head, which were necessarily deferred till after the Reeves ball, Ellen appeared the next morn- 5J3G SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. ing Willi a light and strong heart, and a corre« spondent face, voice, and manner. Oh, if rightly put to the test, what unthought of powers there are in those who every day yield themselves the passive victims to uncontrollable circumstances ; " powers That touch each other to the quick, in modes Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, No soul to dream of." Ellen talked over with Fletcher, with real interest ond unaflected cheerfulness, the arrangements for the evening. If she had put into action all of Talleyrand's diplomacy, she could not so thor- oughly have convinced him, that his surmise of the preceding evening was unwarranted. Half of Mrs. Dunbar's griefs were removed by the conviction, that her favorite did not share them ! We could fill a volume with the details of the ball, and the circumstances of the following sLx weeks, and all the dcvclopcments of charac- ter and feeling which came from them ; but wo must cut down our history to the dimensions of its Procrustes' bed. We must say for t>ur fivnriie Ellen, that, bating a Ccw inches of stature she did honor to the character she so reluctantly as- sumed. Ilcr usually sparkling eyes were languid from the sleeplessness of the preceding night, and SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 23? her color, which, in heated rooms, was apt to be uncomfortably high, was abated and fluctuating, and her dress, so happily arranged and judicious ly modified, that the Saxon beauty, for once, fairly divided the suffrages with the brilliant Re- becca. Cut with the mere externals endrd all resemblance to the truth of the characters. The Palmer, tlie Christian devotee, had nor eye, nor ear, but for the proscribed Jewess ; and Rebec- ca was all delight at finding, beneath the broad brim of cockle-shells, and the Slaconian, the contour and air of a very elegant young man, who, she felt assured, had returned no less her ardent lover than the boy she had parted with six years before. She managed her prepared surprise so awkwaidly, that Ellen wo'ndered at Fletcher's blindness. He was indeed blind ! As to poor Garston, he was so enchanted with him- self in the Templar's costume, that he never once dreamed how near he was to a more por- tentous overthrow than that of his prototype on the field of Ashby de la Z'ouch. We must pass over the next six weeks with merely saying, that Ellen executed her plans, — that Mrs. Dunbar found, in the complete success of a dreaded operation, a very considerable coun- leraction to what she still maintained was by far 238 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. the greatest grief of her life. But it was plain that even in no selfish grief could her benevolent feelings be merged. Siie was exceedingly ex- cited with Ellen's marvellous success with her musical pupil, and she had the most eager pleas- ure, every day, in the result of a subscription Ellen had set on foot for the yet unpublished book of a poor autlior, or, rather, a very poor man, and good author. We must confess, that Ellen had her liours of conflict, agitation, and derpondency, when life was a burden ; but even then, though the eclipse seemed total to her, she saw light beyond the shadow. Is there ever total darkness to the good ?' Fletcher made her liis confidante. This was a pretty severe tria-l ; but she tried to feel, and did feel, in some measure, the sympathy he expect- ed ; and she was prepared by degrees for the final communication, that he and Matilda had plighted faith. In spite of her resolutions and efibrts she turned excessively pale, and tried in vain to command her voice to speak ; but thia did not surprise Fletcher. All deep emotions are serious. lie had never hunself been more so *han at tins moment of the attainment of the dearest, liie long-cherished wish of his heart. One hour before he had felt a pang that he in vain tried to SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 23 & forget, when, while their mutual vows were stil' warm on their lips, Matilda had left him in haste lest she should not be the first at the opening of i newly-arrived case of French millinery ! Ho painfully contrasted this with Ellen's emotion, — with his own ; and a thought arose through the mists of his mind, repressed as soon Ors perceived, that there were more points of sympathy be- tween him and Ellen Fitzhugh, than he had found with Alatilda. As to poor Mrs. Dunbar, whom Ellen trusted she had quite prepared for the crisis, she took to her bed, upon the first intimation of it, with a head-ache that lasted, unintermittcd, as never had head^ache, or heart-ache, with her before, for three days. In vain Matilda came to ask her blessing. Mrs. Dunbar was unaffectedly too ill to receive her. " With God's help and time," said the good lady to Ellen, "I will do my duty to Fletch- er's wife ; but as to seeing Matilda Preston now, that 's quite impossible, — and as to ever loving Ijor as a child, as I do you, my own dear Ellen that 's not to be looked for.—' The wind blowelh where it listeth.' " Mrs. Dunbar was no philos- opher , — her instincts alone had led her to the discovery of the great truth, that our volitiona have no power over *xir affections, Ellen, now that all was decided, kept her eye« 24 SErOI>;D THOIGHTS BEST. resolutely on the bright side. " I am very sorry aunt," she said, " you did not feel equal to see ing Matilda tfiis mormng ; I have seen her more brilliant, 'out never one half so interesting. Love has given an exaltation to all her feelings.— has breathed o soul into her face. There was a gentleness and a deference in her manners to Fletcher, that is quite new to her. She feels his superiority, and it may work wonders on her character." "Do you think so, Ellen? — well, — for Fletch- er's sake, — God bless him ! — I '11 hope for the best. I am not an observing person, Ellen ; but I have often remarked, that love, like showers from Heaven, is reviving to the thinnest soil, and every thing is fresh, and sweet, and beautiful for a little while; but the flowers soon fade, — the grass withers, — nature will take a natural course." "But, aunt," replied Ellen, with a smile, "may not grace subdue nature ? " No, my dear, no ; it may help nature on in its own way, but not change it. I am sure I have tried my best for the last six weeks to put down nalure; but it is too strong for me, Ellen." Mrs. Dunbar wiped away a flood of tears, and then went on. " Ellen, I have been thinking this was a good time, while we arc all SECOND THOUGHTS EEST 241 SO wretched, — I mean, while I am, — to speak to Fletcher about looking over that private desk of his father's. Will you take it to him, dear? You know I have never looked into it. Before Btrangiirs come into the family, it is best to have papers that concern no one but us, disposed of. You need not say that to Fletcher ; but I can trust you, dearest child, to say nothing to him that appears unfriendly to Matilda; — just give him the desk and key." Ellen did so ; and, at the first leisure moment, Fletcher sat down to its examination. He found nothing of particular interest till he came to a file of letters, marked, " Correspondence with Selden Fitzhugh." Before transcribing the only two letters of interest to the reader, it is neces- sary to premise, that the elder Dunbar and Fitz- hugh had been intimate from their childhood, and that, after their marriage, the closest friendship united their families. A letter from Fletcher's father to his friend, which seemed to have been written soon after his failure, ran thus : " Dear FiTzatiGir, " My ruin is total. The labors, the enterprises, tlie successes of twenty years, are wrecked, — nothing remains. I am the victim, in part, of the 16 24 2 8KC0ND THOUGHTS BEST. folly of Others, in part, I confess it with shame of my own grasping. I had competence, I de sired riches, and thus it has ended. But the worst is to come, my dear friend. I have made shipwreck of your little fortune, as well as of my own hopes. I have been obliged to give up all my property to satisfy my indorsers, accord- ing to the received notion, that debts to them aro debts of honor, and I have not wherewith to pay a penny of the thirty thousand dollars you trusted to me without bond, mortgage, or security of any sort. This is the requital of your generous, but too rash friendship ! " Fitzhugh, I am a heart-broken man. My hope and energy are gone. If it were not so, I might promise you a day of restitution, — ] should expect it myself; but all before me is dark and dreary. Even now I feel as if a fe\er wiere drying up the fountains of life. Forgive me, — pity me, my dear friend ; I curse my own folly. You will not curse me, but, believe me, 1 would coin my liearl's blood to make you res- titution. "Your miserable friend, "F. DUNBAE.' The /bllowing answer to Mr. Dunbar's leltoi SECOND THOUGHTS BEST 243 was dated at Mr. Fitzhugh's country residence. and written a week later than his. " Dear Dunbar, " I am truly sorry for your misfortunes ; but, my dear fellow, take heart of grace. If you have made a total shipwreck, as you say, why so has many a good fellow before you. The storm will pass, — you can fit out again ; only don't carry quite so much sail, and take out a clearance for some other port than El Dorado. As to my money, believe me, on my honor, after the first surprise and shock were over, the loss has not given me a moment's uneasiness. I would not have put the money at risk for myself, or you, if I had not secured an adequate provision for my good wife, and eight dear little girls, and El- len into the bargain, if ever she comes home to us. Our wants are moderate, and our supplies sufficient ; and, believe me, a few thousand dol- lars to be added to the inheritance of each of my girls would not make one of our bright hours brighter. They will never hear of the loss, for 1 have taken care they should not count upon money that I had subjected to the chances of mercantile life. I have been thus particular to tranquillize you, my dear friend. If finally you 244 SECONB THOUGHTS BEST. retrieve your circumstances, you will pay the debt, and all will be well ; — and, if you never pay it, — why it will be just as well. " Ever faithfully yours, " Selden FiTziiucn." " God bless and reward you, noble, dear fri(!nd," was an indorsement on the back of this letter, dated two days before Mr. Dunbar's death, and writteni by himself, evidently with a weak and tremulous hand. Fletcher had read and re-read the letters, and had sat for an half hour meditating on their con- tents, when Matilda, who had called, on an ap- pointment with Ellen, opened the door, and, seeing him deep in occupation, was retreating, when he said, " Pray come in, Matilda, you aro the person I most wished to see." " That, I trust, is not very singular ! But what is the matter, Fletcher } Are you making your will ? " " I am thinking over the disposition of my worldly effects," he replied, with a very faini smile. "Will you read these letters, Matilda .' " " Yes ; but, for Heaven's sake, don't look so solemn ; I should think they were from the dcart ja th.e livinji." SECOND THOUGHTS BEST 243 They are — read them, and tell me what ycu think of them." ]\iatilda read his father's, while Fletche: pe- rused her countena'nee with a far deeper interest than she evinced. " I see nothing very partic- ular in this," she said. " Your poor father seems to have taken his failure sadly to heart. I never heard before that Mr. Fitzhugh lost by him. But the Fitzhughs are very well off for the country, and I suppose it did not matter much. Ellen •was probably adopted by your mother as an off- set." " No ; my mother never knew any thing of the Dusiness." " No ! Oh, I forgot, — Ellen has lived here all her life. But why are you so sad, dear Fletcher, — there is no use in fretting over past troubles ? " " You have read but one of the letters, Matil- da," said Fletcher, coldly, without noticing her last reply ! " So I see ; but I was thinking so much more of you than of the letters ! " She read Mr. Fitz- liugii's. Fletcher's eve was riveted to her face : there was no change of color, no moistening of the eye, the return messages of a kindred spirit to a genero'is action. " How well he tooit it ! " I 246 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. shp said in her ordinary tone of voice. " I have often heard your mother say, that Ellen was just like her father, making the best of every thing, — * from evil still educing good.' " Matilda saw thaf Fleti;her expected something more from hei ; but what, exactly, she could not divine. " Mr. Fitz- hugh's letter must have been a balm to your fa« ihor's wounded spirit, just at that sad time,'* she added, and paused again. A servant entered and filled the awkward interval with some good reason why I\Iiss Ellen could not keep her appointment. " I am not sorry," said Matilda, when the door closed, " for now, dear Fletcher, you will go with me." " No, Matilda, I cannot." " But you will," she urged, laying her hand persuasively on his shoulder, and with a look that would have seemed to defy denial. " Come, come away, Fletcher, from these musty papers, — you will be devoured with blue devils ; come, 1 must go, and I will not go without you." " You must excuse me." " Vou are unkind, Fletcher," said Matilda, and licr starting tears showed that she could fci I keen- ly. Her pride would not brook any furtiicr en- 'jreaty, and she abruptly left the room, not doubt- .ng, however, that she should be intercepted, or SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. '247 inimsdlately followed by her penitent lover. But eiie reached her own home unmolested, ard re- tired to her own apartment, hurt and offended, and resolved, when Fletcher should come to his senses, to be unrelenting. There was ring after ring at the street-door, and visiter after visiter was announced ; but the only one she cared for came not, and to every one else she was denied. At last the servant brought a note from Fletcher. " There must be something more than one note," thought Matilda, as she broke it open. The cur- rent of her feelings was somewhat changed as she read what follows : " My dearest Matilda, " Forgive me, I pray you. I have seemed un- reasonable and sullen to you, and I have done you in my heart more wrong than I have ex- pressed. That heart is wholly yours, and no feeling it harbours shall ever be hidden from you The truth was, that I expected the letters woulo have called forth more feeling than they did. I ought to have reflected (and I liave since), that our feelings depend much on our humors, — that your mini was preoccupied, — and that, having no particular Interest in the parties, you could not participate the strong and painful sympathy 248 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. that then thrilled every nerve in my frame. 1 was wrong, and again, on my knees, I beg you to forgive me! I have bound myself to tell the whole tnitli ; and 1 must confess, that I expected still more, — tltat I expected you would anticipate the conclusions which of course were instinctive with me ; but I should have remembered, my dear Matilda, that women, having no business habits or notions, the duty devolving on me at this mo- ment would not have occurred to you. Tliat duty plainly is, to pay my father's debt to the Fitz- huahs. There is no le";al obligation, but a moral obligation, and an added debt of gratitude, that no human law could make more binding, or could invalidate. If I had a family dependent on me, there might be a question ; but, situated as I am, there can be none. The debt, with its accumu- lation of interest, will swallow up nine tenths of * the property I have acquired ; but, with the rem- nant, with rare experience for three and Iwcnhj, with business talents, and a fair reputation,- I shall soon go forward again. That event, which IS to be the crowning joy of my life, must be deferred for two years. This is no small trial of my philosophy, — of my religion (for I will use the right word) ; but, with this bright reward ever in view, no labors, no diflicultics will daunt my SECOND THOUGHTS REST. 24^ spirit. Dearest, dearest Matilda, forgive me for having for a momenl doubted you. It was the first time. I believe, as I believe in all truth. it will be the last." The following brief note, in pencil, was re* turned by the servant : " Come to me at nine, this evening. I shall be alone and discntraoied then, and not till then. In the mean time, make no disclosures of your intentions to your mother, to Ellen, or to any one." The interval was one of reposeful confidence to Fletcher, and of that celestial joy that springs from an ability, and an immovable resolution, to perform a right action at a great personal sac- rifice. We claim for him no great merit in yielding the money. Any right-minded young man, full of health and hope, and conscious ca- pacity, might have done this without a pang ; but Fletcher was a passionate lover, and he had to encounter the miserable uncertainties of a hope deferred. Lot us see liow the interval was passed by Matilda. After much agitating self-deliberation 250 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. she called her mother to her counsel. IMi-s. Pre* ton was the prototype of her daughter, save that what was but in the gristle with the daugiiter, had hardened into bone with the mother, and save that Matilda, from having had an education very- much superior to Mrs. Preston's, had certain standards and theories of virtue in her mind's eye, that had never entered the mother's field of vision. jMatilda, too, from having been all her short life in fashionable soci-ety, did not estimate it at so high a rate as her mother, who had paid for every inch of ground she had gained there. Matilda related her last interview with Fletch- er, and showed his note. " Do you believe," said Mrs. Preston, after reading it, " that Fletcher Dunbar will be so absurd as to adhere to this plan ? " " I am sure he will, lie is perfectly inflexible when he makes up his mind to what he thinks a duty, however ridiculous it may appear to others." " Of course, my- dear, you are absolved from your engagement." " If I choose to be." " If you choose ! My dear Matilda, you know how much it was against my wishes that you sbould form this engagement, — that you should SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 251 give up the most brilliant match in tin city for wliat, at the very best, would be merely a genteel establishment. But the idea of your going into the s'.'iade at once, giving up every thing, and .ivmg, perhaps, at lodgings, or setting up house- keeping with two servants that you must look after all day, and spend your evenings making your husband's shirts, by a single astral lamp, ride in an omnibus (you might ride in that splen- did carriage), and treat yourself, perhaps, to one silk gown a year, — and all for what .' To humor the notions of a young man, who is in no respect superior to Garston, except that he is rather taller, and has a straighter nose, and darker, larg- er eyes, not much larger either ! " Mrs. Preston had struck a wrong note. Ma- tilda shrunk back from the path her mother was opening, as the images of her two lovers passed before her. "Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, "there is a norrid difference between them ; and if I only could persuade Fletcher to abandon this no- tion"— " Well, my dear, in my opinion, if he loves you, he will ; — if he does not, why then you lc«8 nothing and gain every thing. Luckily your engagement is a secret, as yet, and you hav« S52 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. taken no irretrievable step. Garston was hci'e this morning, — a look could bring him back to you." " But, mamma, to give up what I have been so lonfT dreaming of? " "Yes, and what every young girl dreams of, and wakes up betimes to pretty dull realities. IIow should you like, for instance, to wash the breakfast things, and stir up a pudding, — to wash and dress your chil- dren, and make a bowl of gruel for your dear mamma-in-law ? " " Oh detestable ! " Matilda pondered for a few moments, and then said, " I really think, if Fletcher loves me, he will sacrifice his feelings to me. I am sure he owes it to me, after the sacrifice I made to him ;— I have certainly prov- ed myself disinterested, but 1 do not like to be treated as if I could be set aside, and wait for the working of any fancy that comes up. I will tell him so, — I am resolved. He must lake the responsibility of deciding it." The evening came, and, when the clock struck nine, Fletcher entered Miss Preston's drawing- room, his fine countenance beaming with the serenity and trustfulness of his heart ; but Matil- da's first look sent a thrill through it, that was like the snapping of the chords of a musical in- Btrument at the moment it is felt to be in perfect q SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. 252 rune. She advanced towards liim, and gave him her hand as usual, and she smiled ; but it was a mere muscular movement, the expression wa any thing but a smile. Her beautiful face had all the rigidity that a fixed and painful purpose could give to it ; but it was a purpose that depended on a contingent, and tc that contingent the smile and the responding pressure of her hand were addressed. Her eyes were red and swollen, and, for the first time, her dress was not elaborately arranged. She spoke first, " You do not love me, Fletch- er ! " " Not love you, Matilda ! God only knows liow tenderly I love you." " No, Fletcher, you do 7wt love me, — the truth has broken upon me with irresistible proof." " What do you mean, Matilda ? AVhat have you heard? Surely it is not — it cannot be" " It is, Fletcher. Your note has nullified our engagement. I have judged you by my own heart. I have questioned, examined that, and I am sure that no fimcled duty, — no absolute duty could have forced me, — much less persuaded me at its first intimation, to expose the ha|)piness tlial ^•as just whhin our grasp to the hazards of time.' Fletcher poured out protestations and prayei-s, i 254 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. and concluded with assuring Matilda, that, "if she would share with him, at the present rt.oment, his abated fortune, if she would at once risk the uncertainties that he must encounter, he should be a happier and prouder man than all the wealth in the world could make him." IMatilda burst into tears. " It is not rifrht, — It is not generous," she said, " to put what you consider a test to me. It is none. You must acquit me of any grovelling care for money. You have but to look six weeks backward to remem- ber, that the first fortune in the city was waiting my acceptance, and fashion, and brilliant family connexions. I sacrificed all, without a shadow of regret, to you, and now I am thought very lightly of in comparison with a fancied duty." " A fancied duty .? Good Heaven ! " " A real duty, then ; but so questionable, that nine men out of ten would pronounce it no duty at all. It is not the money. I care as little for that as you can ; but it is the terrible truth you have forced on me, — you do not love me." "Matilda, you wrong yourself, — you wrong me." " Prove it to mc, then, Fletcher. Let our rela- tions be what they were yesterday, — burn tliose letters, and forget them." SECOND THOUUHTS BEST 2F>5 '■ Never ! " cried Fletcher, indignantly, *' so nelp me God, — never." " Then the tie that bound us is sundered, — our engagement is dissolved.'" '' Amen ! " said Fletcher, and he rushed fron the house, — his mind confused and maddened with broken hopes, disappointed afTcction, and dissolving delusions. There is one painful but sure cure for love. The slow-coming, resisted, but irresistible con- viction of the unworthincss of the person be- loved. A little more than two years had passed away, when one bright morning, at the hour of ceremo- nious visiting, a superb carriage, looking more like a ducal equipage than one befitting a weal- thy citizen of a republic, drew up at Mrs. Dun- bar's door. The gilded harness was emblazoned with heraldic devices, and a coat of arms was embroidered in gold on the hammer-cloth, and pamted on the pannels. The coachman and footman, in fresh and tasteful liveries, were in the dickey, and the proprietor of the equipage (in appearance a very inferior part of it) waa seated on the box with a friend. Within the 56 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. coach was a lady, magnificently dressed in the latest fashion. Siie seemed " A perfect wom.in, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ;" Dut she liad thwarted the plan, — she had exiin« guished the " angel light," — she had herself closed the gates of Paradise, and voluntarily cir- cumscribed her vision to this world. She had foregone the higher element for which she was destined ; but the wings she had folded for ever betrayed by their fluttering her disquietude with the way she had chosen. The face that, turned heavenward, would have reflected Heaven, was fixed earthward, and the dark spirits of Discon- tent and Disappointment brooded over it. There is a baser trafinc going on in this world of ours, than that which -the poet has immortal- ized in his history of Faust, carried on under the forms of law, and witli the holy seal and super- scription of marriage. The lady alighted from the coach and was on the door-step, awaiting her husband. He did not move. The footman had rung the bell, and Mrs. Dunbar's servant stood awaiting the en(rce. " Are you not going in with mc, Ned } " s\\9 whed. "Not!, — 1 hate bridal visits." SECUNU THOUGHTS BEST. ^fw * Oh, come with me, I entreat yon," she said, earnestly. " It 's a bore ! I can't. Bob and I will drive rcund the square, and take you up as we reluni." The lady looked vexed and embarrassed ; but there seemed no alternative. " Is there much company in the drawing-room, Danici ? " she asked. " None, ma'am. Miss Ellen, that is, Mrs. Dim- bar, the bride, — Miss Ellen that was, — don't see company in a regular way, as it were." " No ? 1 heard she did. I '11 leave my card now." While she was taking it from her card-case the door opened, and Fletcher Dunbar, with a man- ner the most frank and unembarrassed, advanced, and offered her his hand. " Pray, Mrs, Garston," he said. " do not turn us off with a card ; we are at home, and, like all happy people, most happy to hear congratulations." Matilda Garston had not been under Mrs. Dun- bar's roof since the memorable morning, when she found Fletcher at his father's desk. How changed was life now to all parties ! Fletcher had awakened from the dream of boyhood to a reality of trustful love, to which his " ripened judgment" had set its seal 17 258 SECOND THOUGHTS BEST. Ellen, wlx) had resigned her hope of reigning in Fletcher's heart, was now its elected and en- throned queen. She looked like the embodied spirit of home, and domestic love and happiness The two young women contrasted like the types of the spiritual and material world. Our good friend, Mrs. Dunbar, was at the acme of felicity. It would have been in vain for her to try to repress the overflowing of her heart, and try she did not. It sparkled and ran over like a brimming glass of champagne. " I am truly glad to see you here again, Matil- da. — Mrs. Garston, I mean," she said ; " I really am, my dear. And now we have met, old friends together, I will tell you, that I never had one hard thought, no, not one, at your breaking ofT with Fletcher. It was providential all round. Fine pictures should have fine Trames ; — you, my dear, just lit the one you are set in, and our little Ellen was made to be worn, like a miniature, close to the heart. I used to be a believer in (Irst love, now I think ' second thoughts best,' ' THE FAIRIES' DANCE The moon is full, the stars are bright, Tiie monks are all asleep; Now gayly come the Fays to-night, Their revelry to keep. They love the abbeys old and gray. Whence the vesper song is heard, And the matin hymn at break of day Awakes the sinnring bird. With waving torch, and tiny shout, The nimble foot they ply, And Fairy laughs are ringing out Beneath the midnight sky ; — Then mortals hear the merry peals, And wonder at the sound, ."So like the chiming of harebells, When light winds steal around. A joyous race the Fairies are, In gossamer bediglit. With diamonds twined among their hair, And gleaming in the ligiit. They sport themselves beneath the sea, Where the stormy wind comes not, — Where phosphor gleams from the coral tree To light up the crystal grot. iJbU THE FAIRIES DAiNCE. In bowers of odorous amber made, The sca-spriles love to dwell, — The floor with mother-of-pearl inlaid, And gleams of the bright, pink shell. There the sea-fan waves above their head, With many a {jorgeous gem. And the glorious things 'neath the ocean spread Are known to only them In the mountain cave, where diamonds burn, Tlie Fairies' home is made ; They bathe themselves in the flow'ret's urn, in the still, lone forest shade ; Wherever her spell hath Beauty wove, The Fairy is sure to be, — In the silent cave, in the palmy grove, Or the deep, blue, boundless sea. But most they love, in the starry night, From ocean and air to hie. And sport themselves in the soft moonlight, 'Neath the still, still midnight sky. And then do they love the hallowed ground, Whence prayer was wont to rise, — For a holier sspcll is bn-atiied around, In the blessed evening skies. They prop the walls with pious care. When touched by the hand of time And bid round the altar, worn and bare, The clinging ivy climb; THE FAIRIES' DANCE, 261 And thus, though ages should pass away, It stands in its ivy veil, And Fairies under its arches play, In the moonlight clear and pd.« « THE PORTRAIT BY H. F. GOULD. Well, thou art done, cold, silent thing; Unconscious, — breathless, — yet with powet A flood of feelings deep to bring, Unknown until the present hour And wherefore done to life so true ? Not human pride nor vanity Could cause the artist hand to do And show the world a deed like tliee ! And was it simple, most, or kind. To have upon tlie canvass cast My semblance ; thus to leave beliind My shadow, when myself am past ? 1 view thee as a piece composed To last when I am gone from sight, — When time and earth to me are closed, To be in time and cartlily light ■■r I know not if another eye S Will ever weep beside thee more K: Than mine does now, I know not why,— It never dropped such tears before. TUB POKTKAIT 263 'T is this, perhaps, that makes me weep, — The tliought that I may pass away. And those who have thee then to keep Will glance at thee, and still be gay But why should grief be felt by me, For fear that others will not grieve? And what to others, then, will be A shade of life that I may leave ^ But, Btill resistless from their spring, Gush up these hot, mysterious tears, Whilst thou, cold, stoic, heartless thing, Dost wear a smile that 's set for years ' Years! Ah! but t!ien, when years uhall wipe From being every line of tlice, The spirit, wh-fh thy prototype Enshrined, shall live eternally GUESS MY NAME! Go, gather from the laughing wave, AVliere rip(>les briglit o"cr sea-shells shine J Tho sweetest tone thine ear can crave, — A sweeter voice than this is mine. Go, listen to the dancing leaves, When summer's wooing winds are nigh; M7 brenlh, a softer music, weaves Around the heart its magic sigh. In every land where young hearts feel. Love holds my service very dear, — And many a bond 1 'm called to seal, Wo witness, but the parlies, near. Both dear and cheap, at once am I,— A thing that love will give away, And flhining gold can hardly buy. Oh, need I now my name display t I" 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 2i'k.'fAl 33 ^ '- itat* HOVl'^'b^-' ?PWv 1 1 1 1 (pjl6028l0)476B Berkeley 9' l'>761 . ^j^h THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY %: u\ \.\^: Mt^l ■■._W'-