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THE 
 
 OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 w 
 
 A PRESENT FOR ALL SEASONS 
 
 EMBELLISHED WITH 
 
 ELEVEN COLORED ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 AMELIA W. LAWRENCE. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 
 Ml ('('CXI, VIM. 
 
1/ 
 
 Of 
 
 Entered according to "tire Aif of Cangfes3>"ih" tks-year 1847, by 
 
 CAREY AND HART, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 T. K. AND T. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The "Offering of Beauty" is intended for one of those 
 elegant testimonials of regard and affection which, according 
 to a time-honored custom, constitute a part of the observance 
 of the joyous festivals of Christmas and the New Year. It 
 is, therefore, prepared with a particular view to the gratifi- 
 cation of that innate love of the beautiful and the true, which 
 forms a part of our nature, and is the source of our truest 
 happiness. 
 
 The literary contents of the work, it will be perceived 
 by a reference to the names of the contributors, proceed, 
 from some of the finest minds in the whole circle of literature. 
 The tales and poems are suitable to the occasion. They 
 were abundantly supplied, and it was the easy task of the 
 editor to select and arrange them, 
 
 The pictorial embellishments speak for themselves. It is 
 believed that the reader will find them by no means unworthy 
 of a place in the "Offering of Beauty." 
 
 iJL 
 
LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 SI BJKCT 
 
 
 PAINTER. 
 
 ENGRAVER. 
 
 
 AGNES. . 
 
 • 
 
 . H. Wyatt. . 
 
 . H. Robinson. . Fiiontispjf.ce. 
 
 ALICE. . 
 
 • 
 
 . E. T. Parris. 
 
 . H. Egleton. . 
 
 42 
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 • 
 
 . E. T. Parris. 
 
 . H. Egleton. . 
 
 71 
 
 CALANTHA. . 
 
 • 
 
 . Mrs. Seyfff.rtii. 
 
 . II. RoiHNSON. . 
 
 123 
 
 FLORA. . 
 
 • 
 
 . Miss Sharpe. 
 
 . H. T. Ryall. . 
 
 133 
 
 THE FLOWER 
 
 GIRL. 
 
 . F. Stone. 
 
 . J. Thomson. . 
 
 1.55 
 
 MADELINE. . 
 
 • 
 
 . F. Stone. 
 
 . II. Cook. 
 
 17G 
 
 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 
 
 F. Stone. 
 
 . J. Thomson. . 
 
 212 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 • 
 
 . J. Bcstock. . 
 
 . W. O. Jack -ian. . 
 
 211 
 
 THE PROPHETESS. 
 
 J. Bostock. . 
 
 . L. S. E. Cowpertmw UT. 
 
 -7 i 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Agnes. A Country Tale. By Miss Mittbrd, 13 
 
 Sonnet, 23 
 
 The Countess Lamberti. By Mary How itt, 25 
 
 The Boor of the Brocken. By Miss Jewsbury, 30 
 
 Alice. A West Indian Story, 42 
 
 Verses inscribed in an Album. By Francis Jeffrey, Esq., ... 56 
 
 The Red Man, 57 
 
 Forest Changes. By Derwent Conway, - .70 
 
 Isabel. A Tale of Venice. By Charles Macfarlane, . . . . 71 
 
 Past, Present, and Future. By Dr. Bowring, 88 
 
 Patty Conway. A Story of Irish Life. By Mrs. S. C. Hall, . . 89 
 
 The Absent Ship, 102 
 
 Calantha, 103 
 
 Perugia. By the Rev. Chas. Strong, 122 
 
 The Orphan Family. By Mrs. Hofland, 123 
 
 .My Stella's Return. By H. Brandreth, Esq., 131 
 
 Flora ; or, the Wedding Day, 133 
 
 Hope. By Nicholas Michel], Esq., 143 
 
 The Life of a Hero. By Mrs. Bowdich, 144 
 
 The Flower Girl of Savoy, 155 
 
 The Castle of St. Michael. By William Kennedy. ' . . . . 159 
 
 To and on their approaching Marriage. By William 
 
 Roscoe, Esq., 175 
 
 Madeline. A Legend of Castle Campbell. By Delta 17fi 
 
 The Broken Hkart 190 
 
 The Fisherman of Scarphout. By G. P. R. James, Esq., . . .191 
 
 Julian's Death. By the late Edward Knight, 211 
 
 The Young Artist. By Virginia Deforest 212 
 
 For Spain. By John Banim, 221 
 
 Moonshine. Bj Captain Marryat, 223 
 
 Ophelia. By Miss Jamieson, 244 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Kisiina Komabi, 247 
 
 The Favorite Flower. By the Hon. Mrs. Norton, .... 274 
 
 The Prophetess, 276 
 
 Orsina Brandini, 280 
 
Hfl 
 ( ( ( « 
 
THE 
 
 OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 A COUNTRY TALE. 
 
 BY MISS MITFORD. 
 
 Towards the middle of the principal street in my native 
 town of Cranley, stands, or did stand, for I speak of things that 
 happened many years back, a very long-fronted, very regular, 
 very ugly brick house, whose large graveled court, flanked 
 on each side by offices reaching to the street, was divided 
 from the pavement by iron gates and palisades, and a row 
 of Lombardy poplars, rearing their slender columns so as to 
 veil, without shading, a mansion which evidently considered 
 itself, and was considered by its neighbours, as holding the 
 first rank in the place. That mansion, indisputably the best 
 in the town, belonged, of course, to the lawyer ; and that 
 lawyer was, as may not unfrequently be found in small places, 
 one of the most eminent solicitors in the country. 
 
 Richard Molesworth, the individual in question, was a 
 person obscurely born and slenderly educated, who, by dint 
 of prudence, industry, integrity, tact, and luck, had risen 
 through the various gradations of writing clerk, managing 
 clerk, and junior partner, to be himself the head of a great 
 2 
 
14 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 office, and a man of no small property or slight importance. 
 Half of Cranley belonged to him, for he had the passion for 
 brick and mortar often observed amongst those who have 
 accumulated large fortunes in totally different pursuits, and 
 liked nothing better than running up rows and terraces, re- 
 pairing villas, and rebuilding farm houses. The better half 
 of Cranley called him master, to say nothing of six or seven 
 snug farms in the neighborhood, of the goodly estate and 
 manor of Hinton, famous for its preserves and fisheries, or of 
 a command of floating capital which borrowers, who came to 
 him with good securities in their hands, found almost inex- 
 haustible. In short, he was one of those men with whom 
 everything had prospered through life ; and, in spite of a 
 profession too often obnoxious to an unjust, because sweeping, 
 prejudice, there was a pretty universal feeling amongst all 
 who knew him that his prosperity was deserved. A kind 
 temper, a moderate use of power and influence, a splendid 
 hospitality, and that judicious liberality which shows itself in 
 small things as well as in great ones (for it is by twopenny 
 savings that men get an ill name), served to ensure his popu- 
 larity with high and low. Perhaps, even his tall, erect, portly 
 figure, his good-humored countenance, cheerful voice, and 
 frank address, contributed something to his reputation ; his 
 remarkable want of pretension or assumption of any sort 
 certainly did, and as certainly the absence of everything 
 striking, clever, or original, in his conversation. That he 
 must be a man of personal as well as of professional ability, 
 no one tracing his progress through life could for a moment 
 doubt; but, reversing the witty epigram on our wittiest mo- 
 narch, he reserved his wisdom for his actions, and whilst all 
 that he did showed the most admirable sense and judgment, 
 he never said a word that rose above the level of the merest 
 common-place, vapid, inoffensive, dull, and safe. 
 
 So accomplished, both in what he was and in what he was 
 not, our lawyer, at the time of which we write, had been for 
 
AGNES. 15 
 
 many years the oracle of the country gentlemen, held all 
 public offices not inconsistent with each other, which their 
 patronage could bestow, and in the shape of stewardships, 
 trusts, and agencies, managed half the landed estates in the 
 county. He was even admitted into visiting intercourse, on 
 a footing of equality very uncommon in the aristocratic circles 
 of country society — a society which is, for the most part, quite 
 as exclusive as that of London, though in a different way. 
 For this he was well suited, not merely by his own unaffected 
 manners, high animal spirits, and nicety of tact, but by the 
 circumstances of his domestic arrangements. After having 
 been twice married, Mr. Molesworth found himself, at nearly 
 sixty, a second time a widower. 
 
 His first wife had been a homely, frugal, managing woman, 
 whose few hundred pounds and her saving habits had, at that 
 period of his life, for they were early united, conduced in 
 their several ways to enrich and benefit her equally thrifty 
 but far more aspiring husband. She never had a child ; and, 
 after doing him all possible good in her lifetime, was so kind 
 as to die just as his interest and his ambition required more 
 liberal housekeeping and higher connection, each of which, 
 as he well knew, would repay its cost. For connection, ac- 
 cordingly, he married, choosing the elegant though portionless 
 sister of a poor baronet, by whom he had two daughters, at 
 intervals of seven years ; the eldest being just of sufficient 
 age to succeed her mother as mistress of the family, when 
 she had the irreparable misfortune to lose the earliest, the 
 tenderest, and the most inestimable friend that a young 
 woman can have. Very precious was the memory of her 
 dear mother to Agnes Molesworth! Although six years had 
 passed between her death and the period at which our little 
 story begins, the affectionate daughter had never ceased to 
 lament her loss. 
 
 It was to his charming daughters that Mr. Molesworth's 
 pleasant house owed its chief attraction. Conscious of his 
 
16 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 own deficient education, no pains or money had been spared 
 in accomplishing them to the utmost height of fashion. 
 
 The least accomplished was, however, as not unfrequently 
 happens, by far the most striking ; and many a high-born and 
 wealthy client, disposed to put himself thoroughly at ease at 
 his solicitor's table, and not at all shaken in his purpose by 
 the sight of the pretty Jessy, — a short, light, airy girl, with 
 a bright sparkling countenance, all lilies and roses, and 
 dimples and smiles, sitting, exquisitely dressed, in an elegant 
 morning room, with her guitar in her lap, her harp at her 
 side, and her drawing table before her, — has suddenly felt 
 himself awed into his best and most respectful breeding, 
 when introduced to her retiring but self-possessed elder sister, 
 dressed with an almost matronly simplicity, and evidently full 
 not of her own airs and graces, but of the modest and serious 
 courtesy which beseemed her station as the youthful mistress 
 of the house. 
 
 Dignity, a mild and gentle but still a most striking dignity, 
 was the prime characteristic of Agnes Molesworth in look and 
 in mind. Her beauty was the beauty of sculpture, as con- 
 tradistinguished from that of painting; depending mainly on 
 form and expression, and little on color. There could hardly 
 be a stronger contrast than existed between the marble purity 
 of her finely-grained complexion, the softness of her deep 
 gray eye, the calm composure of her exquisitely moulded 
 features, and the rosy cheeks, the brilliant glances, and the 
 playful animation of Jessy. In a word, Jessy was a pretty 
 girl, and Agnes was a beautiful woman. Of these several 
 facts both sisters were of course perfectly aware ; Jessy, be- 
 cause everybody told her so, and she must have been deaf to 
 have escaped the knowledge; Agnes, from some process 
 equally certain, but less direct ; for few would have ventured 
 to take the liberty of addressing a personal compliment to 
 one evidently too proud to find pleasure in anything so nearly 
 resembling flattery as praise. 
 
AGNES. 17 
 
 Few, excepting her looking-glass and her father, had ever 
 told Agnes that she was handsome, and yet she was as conscious 
 of her surpassing beauty as Jessy of her sparkling prettiness ; 
 and, perhaps, as a mere question of appearance and becom- 
 ingness, there might have been as much coquetry in the 
 severe simplicity of attire and of manner which distinguished 
 one sister, as in the elaborate adornment and innocent show- 
 ing-off of the other. There was, however, between them 
 exactly such a real and internal difference of taste and of 
 character as the outward show served to indicate. Both were 
 true, gentle, good, and kind; but the elder was as much 
 loftier in mind as in stature, was full of high pursuit and 
 noble purpose ; had abandoned drawing, from feeling herself 
 dissatisfied with her own performances, as compared with 
 the works of real artists ; reserved her musical talent entirely 
 for her domestic circle, because she put too much of soul into 
 that delicious art to make it a mere amusement; and was 
 only saved from becoming a poetess, by her almost exclusive 
 devotion to the very great in poetry— to Wordsworth, to 
 Milton, and to Shakspeare. These tastes she very wisely 
 kept to herself; but they gave a higher and firmer tone to her 
 character and manners ; and more than one peer, when seated 
 at Mr. Molesworth's hospitable table, has thought with him- 
 self how well his beautiful daughter would become a coronet. 
 Marriage, however, seemed little in her thoughts. Once 
 or twice, indeed, her kind father had pressed on her the bril- 
 liant establishments that had offered,— but her sweet ques- 
 tions, "Are you tired of me? Do you wish me away?" had 
 always gone straight to his heart, and had put aside for the 
 moment the ambition of his nature even for this his favorite 
 
 child. 
 
 Of Jessy, with all her youthful attraction, he had always 
 been less proud, perhaps, less fond. Besides, her destiny he 
 had long in his own mind considered as decided. Charles 
 Woodford, a poor relation, brought up by his kindness, and 
 
18 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 recently returned into his family from a great office in London, 
 was the person on whom he had long ago fixed for the hus- 
 band of his youngest daughter, and for the immediate partner 
 and eventual successor to his great and flourishing business — 
 a choice that seemed fully justified by the excellent conduct 
 and remarkable talents of his orphan cousin, and by the 
 apparently good understanding and mutual affection that 
 subsisted between the young people. 
 
 This arrangement was the more agreeable to him, as, pro- 
 viding munificently for Jessy, it allowed him the privilege of 
 making, as in lawyer-phrase he used to boast, " an elder son" 
 of Agnes, who would, by this marriage of her youngest sister, 
 become one of the richest heiresses of the county. He had 
 even in his own mind, elected her future spouse, in the person 
 of a young baronet who had lately been much at the house, 
 and in favor of whose expected addresses (for the proposal 
 . had not yet been made — the gentleman had gone no further 
 than attentions), he had determined to exert the paternal au- 
 thority which had so long lain dormant. 
 
 But in the affairs of love, as of all others, man is born to 
 disappointment. " Uhomme propose, et Dieu dispose," is 
 never truer than in the great matter of matrimony. So found 
 poor Mr. Molesworth, who — Jessy having arrived at the age 
 of eighteen, and Charles at that of two-and-twenty — offered 
 his pretty daughter and the lucrative partnership to his penny- 
 less relation, and was petrified with astonishment and indig- 
 nation to find the connection very respectfully but very firmly 
 declined. The young man w T as very much distressed and 
 agitated; "he had the highest respect for Miss Jessy ; but he 
 could not marry her — he loved another !" And then he poured 
 forth a confidence as unexpected as it was undesired by his 
 incensed patron, who left him in undiminished wrath and 
 increased perplexity. 
 
 This interview had taken place immediately after break- 
 fast ; and when the conference was ended, the provoked father 
 
AGNES. 19 
 
 sought his daughters, who, happily unconscious of all that 
 had occurred, were amusing themselves in their splendid 
 conservatory — a scene always as becoming as it is agreeable 
 to youth and beauty. Jessy was flitting about like a butterfly 
 amongst the fragrant orange trees and the bright geraniums ; 
 Agnes standing under a superb fuchsia that hung over a large 
 marble basin, her form and attitude, her white dress, and the 
 classical arrangement of her dark hair, giving her the look of 
 some nymph or naiad, a rare relic of Grecian art. Jessy was 
 prattling gayly, as she wandered about, of a concert which 
 they had attended the evening before at the county town : 
 
 "I hate concerts!" said the pretty little flirt. "To sit 
 bolt upright on a hard bench for four hours, between the 
 same four people, without the possibility of moving, or of 
 speaking to anybody, or of anybody's getting to us! Oh! 
 how tiresome it is!" 
 
 " I saw Sir Edmund trying to slide through the crowd to 
 reach you," said Agnes, a little archly : "his presence would, 
 perhaps, have mitigated the evil. But the barricade was too 
 complete ; he was forced to retreat, without accomplishing 
 his object." 
 
 "Yes, I assure you, he thought it very tiresome; he told 
 me so when we were coming out. And then the music!" 
 pursued Jessy ; " the noise that they call music ! Sir Edmund 
 says that he likes no music except my guitar, or a flute on 
 the water; and I like none except your playing on the organ, 
 and singing Handel on a Sunday evening, or Charles Wood- 
 ford's reading Milton and bits of Hamlet." 
 
 " Do you call that music?" asked Agnes, laughing. "And 
 yet," continued she, "it is most truly so, with his rich Pasta- 
 like voice, and his fine sense of sound ; and to you, who do 
 not greatly love poetry for its own sake, it is doubtless a 
 pleasure much resembling in kind that of hearing the most 
 thrilling of melodies on the noblest of instruments. I myself 
 have felt such a gratification in hearing that voice recite the 
 
20 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 verses of Homer or of Sophocles in the original Greek. 
 Charles Woodford's reading is music." 
 
 "It is a music which neither of you is likely to hear 
 again," interrupted Mr. Molesworth, advancing suddenly 
 towards them; "for he has been ungrateful, and I have dis- 
 carded him." 
 
 Agnes stood as if petrified: "Ungrateful! oh, father!" 
 "You can't have discarded him, to be sure, papa," said 
 Jessy, always good-natured; "poor Charles! what can he 
 have done?" 
 
 "Refused your hand, child," said the angry parent; "re- 
 fused to be my partner and son-in-law, and fallen in love 
 with another lady! What have you to say for him now ?" 
 
 "Why really, papa," replied Jessy, "I'm much more 
 obliged to him for refusing my hand than to you for offering 
 it. I like Charles very well for a cousin, but I should not 
 like such a husband at all ; so that if this refusal be the worst 
 that has happened, there's no great harm done." And off 
 the gipsy ran; declaring that " she must put on her habit, for 
 she had promised to ride with Sir Edmund and his sister, and 
 expected them every minute." 
 
 The father and his favorite daughter remained in the con- 
 servatory. 
 
 "That heart is untouched, however," said Mr. Molesworth, 
 looking after her with a smile. 
 
 "Untouched by Charles Woodford, undoubtedly," replied 
 Agnes, "but has he really refused my sister?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "And does he love another?" 
 
 "He says so, and I believe him." 
 
 "Is he loved again ?" 
 
 "That he did not say." 
 
 "Did he tell you the name of the lady?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know her?" 
 
AGNES. 21 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is she worthy of him ?" 
 
 "Most worthy." 
 
 "Has he any hope of gaining her affections? Oh! he 
 must! he must! What woman could refuse him?" 
 
 "He is determined not to try. The lady whom he loves is 
 above him in every way ; and much as he has counteracted 
 my wishes, it is an honorable part of Charles Woodford's con- 
 duct, that he intends to leave his affection unsuspected by its 
 object." 
 
 Here ensued a short pause in the dialogue, during which 
 Agnes appeared trying to occupy herself with collecting the 
 blossoms of a Cape jasmine and watering a favorite gera- 
 nium; but it would not do: the subject was at her heart, and 
 she could not force her mind to indifferent occupations. She 
 returned to her father, who had been anxiously watching her 
 motions and the varying expression of her countenance, and 
 resumed the conversation. 
 
 " Father ! perhaps it is hardly maidenly to avow so much, 
 but although you have never in set words told me your inten- 
 tions, I have yet seen and known, I can hardly tell how, all 
 that your too kind partiality towards me has designed for your 
 children. You have mistaken me, dearest father, doubly 
 mistaken me ; first, in thinking me fit to fill a splendid place 
 in society; next, in imagining that I desired such splendor. 
 You meant to give Jessy and the lucrative partnership to 
 Charles Woodford, and designed me and your large posses- 
 sions to our wealthy and titled neighbor. And with some 
 little change of persons, these arrangements may still for the 
 most part hold good. Sir Edmund may still be your son-in- 
 law and your heir, for he loves Jessy, and Jessy loves him. 
 Charles Woodford may still be your partner and your adopted 
 son, for nothing has chanced that need diminish your affection 
 or his merit. Marry him to the woman he loves. She must 
 be ambitious, indeed, if she be not content with such a destiny. 
 
22 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 And let me live on with you, dear father, single and unwed- 
 ded, with no thought but to contribute to your comfort, to 
 cheer and brighten your declining years. Do not let your 
 too great fondness for me stand in the way of their happiness! 
 Make me not so odious to them and to myself, dear father! 
 Let me live always with you, and for you — always your own 
 poor Agnes!" And, blushing at the earnestness with which 
 she had spoken, she bent her head over the marble basin, 
 whose waters reflected the fair image, as if she had really 
 been the Grecian statue to w T hich, whilst he listened, her fond 
 father's fancy had compared her: "Let me live single with 
 you, and marry Charles to the woman whom he loves." 
 
 "Have you heard the name of the lady in question? Have 
 you formed any guess who she may be?" 
 
 "Not the. slightest. I imagined from what you said that 
 she was a stranger to me. Have I ever seen her?" 
 
 "You may see her — at least you may see her reflection in 
 the water, at this very moment; for he has had the infinite 
 presumption, the admirable good taste, to fall in love with 
 his cousin Agnes!" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "And now, mine own sweetest! do you still wish to live 
 single with me?" 
 
 "Oh, father! father!" 
 
 " Or do you desire that I should marry Charles to the woman 
 of his heart?" 
 
 "Father! dear father!" 
 
 "Choose, my Agnes! It shall be as you command. Speak 
 freely. Do not cling so around me, but speak!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear father ! Cannot we all live together? I can- 
 not leave you. But poor Charles — surely, father, we may all 
 live together." 
 
 And so it was settled ; and a very few months proved that 
 love had contrived better for Mr. Molesworth than he had 
 done for himself. Jessy, with her prettiness, and her title, 
 
SONNET. 23 
 
 and her fopperies, was the very thing to be vain of — the very 
 thing to visit for a day; — but Agnes, and the cousin whose 
 noble character and splendid talents so well deserved her, 
 made the pride and happiness of his home. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Oh, lady, will it break the brittle spell 
 
 That lingers round the scene where first we met, 
 
 If he whose heart is with his treasure set, 
 
 Cling to the passionate grief he cannot quell, 
 
 Feeling he loves " not wisely but too well?" — 
 
 Oh! hearts grow old by feelings, not by years! 
 
 And are not fairest hopes bedewed by tears 
 
 Till these congeal within their crystal cell? 
 
 Lady, forgive me! and if these strange words 
 
 Strike vainly upon long, long silent chords, 
 
 Whose echoes die in vacancy — forget, 
 
 Or think of me as we had never met ! — 
 
 The wounded hart must to the forest flee, 
 
 And fall without a witness save the greenwood tree ! 
 
THE COUNTESS LAMBERT!. 
 
 BY MART HOWITT. 
 
 She still was young; but guilt and tears 
 On her had done the work of years : 
 'Twas in a house of penitence 
 
 She dwelt ; and, saving unto one, 
 A sorrowing woman meek and kind, 
 
 Words spake she unto none. 
 
 And 'twas about the close of May, 
 When they two sate from all apart, 
 
 In the warm light of parting day, 
 
 That she unsealed her burdened heart. 
 
 " They married me when I was young, 
 
 A very child in years ; 
 They married me at the dagger's point, 
 
 Amid my prayers and tears. 
 
 " To Count Lamberti I was wed — 
 He to the Pope was brother — 
 
 They made me swear my faith to him 
 The while I loved another! 
 
 Ay, while I loved to such excess, 
 
 My love than madness scarce was less! 
 
THE COUNTESS LAMBERTI. 25 
 
 "I would have died for him — and so 
 
 He would have done for me! 
 Lamberti's years were thrice mine own, 
 
 A proud, cold man was he. 
 
 "His brow was scarred with many wounds, 
 
 His eye was stern and grave, 
 He was a soldier from his youth, 
 
 And all confessed him brave — 
 He'd been in many foreign lands, 
 
 And 'mong the Moors a slave. 
 
 "I thought of him like Charlemagne, 
 
 Or any knight of old : 
 When I was a babe upon the knee 
 
 His deeds to me they told. 
 
 "I knew the songs they made of him ; 
 
 I sung them when a child : 
 Giuseppe sung them, too, with me — 
 
 He loved his perils wild. 
 
 "I tell thee, he was stern and gray, 
 
 His years were thrice mine own! 
 That I was to Giuseppe pledged 
 
 To all my kin was known. 
 
 "My heart was to Giuseppe vowed; 
 
 Love was our childhood's lot; 
 I loved him ever — never knew 
 
 The time I loved him not! 
 
 "He was an orphan, and the last 
 Of an old line of pride; 
 
 3 
 
26 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 My father took him for his son — 
 He was unto our house allied. 
 
 "And he within our house was bred, 
 From the same books in youth we read, 
 Our teachers were the same — and he 
 Was as a brother unto me ; 
 
 A brother! — no, I never knew 
 How warm a brother's love might be, 
 
 But dearer every year he grew! 
 
 " Love was our earliest only life : 
 Twin forms that had one heart 
 Were we — and for each other lived 
 . And never thought to part! 
 
 "My father had him trained for war ; 
 
 He went to Naples, where he fought : 
 And then the Count Lamberti came, 
 
 And my hand from my father sought. 
 
 " He wooed me not; I did not know 
 Why he was ever at my side — 
 
 Why, when we rode unto the chase, 
 My father bade me with him ride. 
 
 "No, no! and when Lamberti spoke 
 Of love, I misbelieving heard — 
 
 And strangely gazed into his face, 
 Appalled at every word. 
 
 "It seemed to me as if there fell 
 From some old saint a tone of hell ; 
 As if the hero-heart of pride 
 Giusep' and I had sanctified 
 
THE COUNTESS LAMBERTI. 27 
 
 Among the heroes of old time, 
 Before me blackened stood with crime! 
 
 " That night my father sought my room, 
 And furious betwixt rage and pride, 
 
 He bade me on an early day 
 Prepare to be Lamberti's bride. 
 
 "I thought my father, too, was mad — 
 
 Yet silently I heard him speak; 
 I had no power for word or sign, 
 
 But the hot blood forsook my cheek; 
 
 "And my heart beat with desperate pain, 
 
 The sting of rage was at its core, 
 There was a tumult in my brain, 
 
 And I fell senseless to the floor. 
 
 "At length upon my knees I prayed 
 
 My father to regard the vow 
 Which to Giuseppe I had made — 
 
 Oh God! his furious brow, 
 His curling lip of sneering scorn, 
 
 Like fiends they haunt me now! 
 
 "Ay, spite my vows they made me wed, 
 
 Young as I was in years — 
 At the dagger's point they married me 
 
 Amid my prayers and tears! 
 
 — "Our palace was at Tivoli, 
 
 An ancient place of Roman pride, 
 Girt round with a sepulchral wood, 
 Wherein a ruined temple stood ; 
 
 And there, whilst I was yet a bride, 
 
 I saw Giuseppe at my side ! 
 
28 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "My own Giuseppe! — he had come 
 From Naples with a noble train — 
 
 He came to woo me and to wed! — 
 Would God we ne'er had met again ! 
 
 "Lamberti's speech still harsher grew, 
 And darker still his spirit's gloom ; 
 
 And with a stern and fierce command 
 He hurried me to Rome. 
 
 — "I had a dream — three times it came — 
 I saw, as plainly as by day, 
 
 A horrid thing — the bloody place 
 Where young Giuseppe lay. 
 
 " I saw them in their ancient wood — 
 I heard him wildly call on God — 
 
 I saw him left alone — alone 
 Upon the bloody sod ! 
 
 " I knew the murderers, they were two — 
 I saw them with my sleeping eye, 
 
 And yet I knew them voice and limb — 
 
 I saw them plainly murder him, 
 In the old wood at Tivoli ! — 
 
 Three times the dream was sent to me, 
 It could not be a lie! 
 
 " I knew it could not be a lie — 
 
 I knew his precious blood was spilt — 
 
 I saw the murderer, day by day, 
 Dwell calmly in his guilt! 
 
 "No wonder that a frenzy came! — 
 At midnight from my bed I leapt, 
 
THE COUNTESS LAMBERTI. 29 
 
 I snatched a dagger in my rage — 
 I stabbed him as he slept ! 
 
 "I say I stabbed him as he slept ! — 
 
 It was a horrid deed of blood ; 
 But then I knew that he had slain 
 
 Giuseppe in the wood ! 
 
 "I told my father of my dream, 
 I watched him every word I spake — 
 
 He tried to laugh my dream to scorn, 
 And yet I saw his body quake. 
 
 "They fetched Giuseppe from the wood, 
 
 And a great funeral feast they had ; 
 They buried Count Lamberti too, 
 
 And said that I was mad. 
 
 " I was not mad — and yet I bore 
 
 A curse that was not less; 
 And many, many years went on 
 
 Of gloomy wretchedness. 
 
 " I saw my father how he grew 
 
 An old man ere his prime; 
 I knew the penance-pain he bore 
 
 For that accursed crime. 
 
 "I, too — there is a weight of sin 
 
 Upon my soul — it will not hence! — 
 'Tis therefore that my life is given 
 
 To one long penitence!" 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 
 
 BY MISS JEWSBCRT. 
 
 However knowledge may have dispersed superstition, so 
 
 that in these, our days, the Hartz country itself is considered 
 
 as free from witches and warlocks as the fens of Lincolnshire, 
 
 it is sufficient for my purpose that a contrary opinion was 
 
 once held, and that Etto the boor was bom during its reign. 
 
 The blocks of granite, scattered on the summit of the Brocken, 
 
 were then veritably esteemed the altar and pulpit of sorcerers; 
 
 the spring of clear water was believed to be, what it was 
 
 called, the magic fountain ; and even the beautiful anemone 
 
 that grew thereabouts was placed under a ban, and called 
 
 the sorcerer's flower. Etto's father lived in an ancient wirth- 
 
 shaus on the Brocken, which offered to the chance traveler 
 
 scanty accommodation in the shape of bed, board, and kirsch- 
 
 wasser, but the most voluble of guides in his own person, 
 
 and in the person of his wife the most accomplished narrator 
 
 of legends that ever made an auditor's hair stand on end. 
 
 Accompanying his father in his expeditions as guide, hunting 
 
 when not so employed, and when not hunting, dreaming and 
 
 droning over legends wilder even than the country that gave 
 
 rise to them, Etto grew up to manhood, but not by any means 
 
 the brave romantic vagabond that might have been expected. 
 
 His prominent characteristic was a mean, lazy, wishing-cap 
 
 kind of ambition, that led him to despise the lot to which he 
 
 was born ; made him long to eat dainties, sleep softly, dress 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 31 
 
 sumptuously, and escape, in a word, the boor's life. The 
 boor's mind never troubled him; that he did not desire 
 changed. Frequent visits to the neighboring town of Goslar, 
 and an occasional opportunity of tasting its seven different 
 kinds of beer, invariably made Etto return home more dis- 
 contented than he left it. After gazing on the emperor's 
 state chair, preserved in the cathedral of Goslar, and on the 
 imperial portraits that adorned the windows of that structure, 
 he would soliloquize much in the following manner:— ."Ah! 
 it was worth their while to be men! — but what is life to a 
 poor wretch like myself? only a dull something to be had 
 and lost ! It were brave sport to be a king, and go a-hunting 
 for pleasure; men, horses, and even dogs owning me as lord; 
 then to have the peasants bowing and blessing every time I 
 turned my head, and even the Count Winplingerstrasse proud 
 of my presence in his castle : — the dais-table covered with all 
 manner of dainties, my crown and sceptre laid beside me, a 
 canopy over my head, drums and trumpets sounding at every 
 mouthful, and ever and anon the count saying to me with cap 
 in hand — ' Will your imperial highness try another slice of 
 the venison ? or will your princely majesty honor the wine by 
 taking another goblet? or may it please your gracious mighti- 
 ness to condescend to a flagon of ale?' — Then should I, with 
 a gracious wave of my hand, say — ' Noble vassal ! I have 
 done exceedingly well, make yourself welcome to what re- 
 mains!' Ah, if anything short of selling myself to the evil 
 one, short of spending May-day night with Sir Urian or 
 Mother Baubo, would make a great man of me — Saint Mar- 
 tin, Saint Maximin, St. Hildebrand — what am I talking 
 
 aD0U t" and here Etto would cross himself (but more from 
 
 cowardice than Christianity) to prevent the possible appear- 
 ance of any member of the witch and wizard club. Never- 
 theless, the half-uttered wish was only driven from the lip to 
 the heart, if it were but possible, without sin and scathe, to 
 
32 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 obtain supernatural aid ; for without it, small chance did there 
 appear of his becoming other than Etto the boor. 
 
 The combined workings of discontent and envy made his 
 life like the bread he ate — somewhat black and bitter; more 
 especially when chance threw him in the way of the great 
 man of the neighborhood, Count Winplingerstrasse, who 
 scowled like a dragon, inhabited a castle that looked like a 
 prison, and occasionally hung a vassal to prove his love of 
 justice. One day Etto was sitting on a crag beside his 
 father's door, more discontented than usual, for the puissant 
 Count of Winplingerstrasse had that morning speared his 
 dog, for having presumed to take by the ear a boar which he, 
 the said Count, had intended to kill with his own unassisted 
 hand. Whilst Etto sat musing on the chance that made one 
 man rich and another poor, he was roused from his reverie 
 by observing that an individual stood beside him, who did 
 not stand there the instant before. Etto was therefore reduced 
 to the sagacious conclusion, that the intruder had either 
 dropped from the clouds, or grown out of the earth. The 
 dress of the stranger puzzled him also, for it was framed ac- 
 cording to divers fashions ; the hat being English, the ruff 
 Flemish, the doublet and hose German, whilst the mantle 
 had been cut in the country of long cloaks, though which that 
 was I am unable to say with antiquarian certainty. It was 
 equally impossible, from hisiace, to assign him a birth-place, 
 for he had a look of all nations. In spite, however, of his 
 old garb and features, Etto felt himself in the presence of a 
 much greater personage than Count Winplingerstrasse, and 
 he rose and made a suitable reverence. 
 
 "What makes you look so sulky, friend?" asked the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Please your unknown worship, I'm a poor man," said 
 Etto. 
 
 " I always understood that content dwelt in a cottage," 
 said the odd-looking man. 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 33 
 
 "Please your noble worship," replied Etto, "I only live in 
 a wood hut, where the wind whistles in at the window, and 
 the rain pours down the chimney. I always understood that 
 content dwelt in a castle." 
 
 "I will make a great man of you," said the stranger, with 
 a remarkably grim smile. 
 
 "And without any unlawful conditions?" inquired Etto, 
 bowing within an inch of the ground. 
 
 " Without any other condition than that of continuing what 
 you are, in mind and spirit. Now, what great man will you 
 
 be?" 
 
 " Could your very gracious reverend highness contrive to 
 make me Count Winplingerstrasse ?" said Etto, his eyes ready 
 to fall out of his head with amazement. 
 
 "With all the pleasure in life," rejoined the stranger, tak- 
 ing a pinch of snuff with extraordinary coolness. 
 
 Etto could hardly refrain from shouting his rapture to the 
 hills. — "And will your imperial highness change the count 
 into me ?— make him just as poor and miserable as I was five 
 minutes ago?" 
 
 " Thou art a malicious dog ; but that also will I do. The 
 count has a few sins to atone for as well as thyself— so then, 
 presto!— look yonder— there he comes, Etto the boor to all 
 intents and purposes,— and there art thou, Count Winplinger- 
 strasse.— Ha, ha! most mortal fool, adieu!— a week hence, 
 
 and " 
 
 "And what?" inquired Etto— but the stranger was gone 
 —gone as he had arrived, though the proof of his appearance 
 remained behind ; for Etto now held up his head, wore a 
 brave hunting suit, and looked as if he had been born what 
 he seemed— Count Winplingerstrasse. Without more delay 
 he took the road to the castle, where he was received with all 
 imaginable deference, the servants conceiving him to be the 
 identical master who sallied from it in the morning. The 
 only observable difference was, that he did not bear himself 
 
34 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 near so much like a dragon, and that he was carried to rest 
 much more intoxicated than was esteemed usual. The next 
 day, and the next, and the next, passed off gloriously : hunt- 
 ing, feasting and receiving homage, diversified the time most 
 charmingly; and Etto was never weary of congratulating 
 himself on his change of rank. On the fourth morning he 
 was doomed to understand the cares as well as the pleasures 
 of greatness. He had just arranged the sports for the day, 
 and with hound and horn, bow, baldric, and spear, hunts- 
 man and woodman, horse and foot, was on the point of leav- 
 ing the court-yard for the chase, when a messenger made his 
 appearance, reined up his horse, and, without ceremony, pre- 
 sented a letter on the point of his sword. 
 
 "Fetch Father Zick here," said Etto. Counts were not 
 expected to-read in those days; therefore no disgrace attached 
 to Etto on the score of ignorance. Father Zick made his 
 appearance, deciphered and read the letter. It contained 
 remonstrances, demands, charges and threats, on the part of 
 the noble Baron Seidensticker; spoke of laying waste the 
 domain of Winplingerstrasse, in default of instant redress for 
 all and sundry offences committed by the count and his vas- 
 sals during the last few weeks. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" said'Etto; for his countship's 
 consciousness only went back to the moment of his receiving 
 the dignity. 
 
 The attendants answered by bewildered looks, for they 
 could only account for their lord's ignorance of the matter in 
 hand from his having become suddenly crazed. 
 
 "I wait your answer, count," said the messenger; "am 
 I to tell my noble lord that the butts of wine, the vests, armor, 
 and household gear, stolen by your lordship's followers when 
 on their way to my noble lord's castle, shall be instantly 
 restored, together with a full and suitable apology, and a pro- 
 mise that justice shall be done to the ringleaders in the of- 
 fence, and that furthermore " 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 35 
 
 Etto obeyed the first impulse of his boorish nature, and 
 raising his fist, struck the speaker such a violent blow on the 
 face, that, being unprepared for its force, he was nearly 
 thrown from his horse. The messenger did not wait any 
 further answer, but wheeling his horse round, rode off home- 
 wards at no gentle rate. 
 
 The old seneschal now appeared, thridding his way through 
 the throng, puffing and talking at every step: "He is gone 
 mad— mad, of a surety ! Did he not arrange the foray him- 
 self ?— and the wine— did he not make merry upon it last 
 night, and the night before, and the night before that? — Good 
 my lord (he had by this reached Etto's side), good my lord, 
 be pleased to recollect yourself; and, since we are found out, 
 let justice take its course. — Ah! it was a pity we meddled 
 with Seidensticker, seeing he can revenge himself. — Good, 
 my lord, let us even send the gear back; I can fill the empty 
 butts with beer instead of wine — and two or three idle varlets 
 we can well afford to hang. — Mercy upon us! if Seiden- 
 sticker comes against us, how shall we stand a siege, with only 
 half a score hogs in salt, two oxen, and some small meats for 
 the dais-table? Good my lord, have reason, and we'll have 
 all ready in a trice — the gear, the apologies, and the varlets 
 that must be hanged." 
 
 Here each of the head domestics put in a word of recom- 
 mendation touching some very particular rascal, and the 
 heart of many an underling throbbed with fear. 
 
 The seneschal had spoken under the idea that he addressed 
 his old fiery master, prone to plunge himself into broils, and 
 over-apt to take charge of his neighbor's goods. Etto list- 
 ened in stupid amazement, and in conclusion began to wish 
 that he had made a few inquiries before he jumped so readily 
 into the shoes of Count Winplingerstrasse. 
 
 "Do as ye list," said he, throwing himself from his horse. 
 And having so said, and so done, he paced doggedly into the 
 castle, leaving his attendants in great surprise. 
 
36 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "Markebrunn has quenched the firebrand," muttered the 
 seneschal. "Well, Saint Caspar be praised! we shall lead 
 the quieter life. Howsoever, they shall be a few flagons 
 lower before they travel homewards — those said wine-butts 
 that are yet full." 
 
 By the close of the day, the pacificatory arrangements, as 
 regarded restitution and apology, were in tolerable forward- 
 ness. The selection of the vassals who were to officiate as 
 culprits, in other words be made the scapegoats in this affair 
 of foray, gave both the seneschal and Father Zick consider- 
 able trouble ; insomuch that it was at last agreed, that, if 
 before they reached the gallows, the rogues could contrive to 
 make their escape, the castle of Winplingerstrasse should not 
 shut its gates against them. 
 
 Etto, meanwhile, made, according to his own apprehension, 
 the best use of his time, by emptying flagon after flagon of 
 Seidensticker's wine, till, unaccustomed to such choice liba- 
 tions, he was soon placed by sleep beyond the reach of fear 
 and sorrow. The seneschal had, in like manner, allowed 
 himself a little extra indulgence in consideration of his day's 
 anxiety. Father Zick kept him company out of sheer bene- 
 volence ; and the rest of the household rendered themselves 
 as oblivious to the sense of danger as their several degrees 
 permitted. 
 
 But the following morning brought cool reflection in the 
 guise of two score men-at-arms, accompanied by all the 
 known means of doing battle, and making a noise over it. 
 The warden was of course the first person who perceived 
 their approach, and having multiplied two score by ten, he 
 posted down to apprize the seneschal of the company at hand. 
 The worthies were cabineted together, each occupied in 
 forming conjectures, and giving advice, to which neither 
 listened, when the council was interrupted by the loud blast 
 of a couple of trumpets, and a prodigious knocking on the 
 iron-studded gate of the castle. 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 37 
 
 The seneschal looked out of a loop-hole window, with full 
 as much fear as curiosity ; nevertheless he demanded, with 
 a bold voice, the occasion of the disturbance. 
 
 The messenger of the preceding day then rode forward, 
 and, having commanded silence, addressed the seneschal 
 with true diplomatic dignity: — "In consequence of the ori- 
 ginal offence given by Count Winplingerstrasse to my master, 
 the mighty Baron Seidensticker, — in consideration of the vio- 
 lent reception given yesterday to me, his accredited messen- 
 ger — on behalf of baronial rights in general, and his own 
 insulted dignity in particular, — and finally, in the hope of 
 thereby restoring peace and amity — the mighty Baron Seiden- 
 sticker does here defy Count Winplingerstrasse to mortal 
 combat. But should the said count refuse to avail himself 
 of this opportunity of clearing his honor, the baron, my 
 master, will straightway beat, batter, and burn this castle of 
 Winplingerstrasse, and all connected therewith!" 
 
 The above speech being finished, the trumpeter sounded a 
 flourish, which added greatly to its effect, and the seneschal 
 drew in his head from the loop-hole window, declaring that 
 he would instantly submit the alternative to his master's most 
 serious consideration. On turning round, he found most of 
 the household at his back; for they justly esteemed it a com- 
 mon cause. 
 
 "A very pretty kettle of fish is here!" said the cook and 
 his scullions in chorus. 
 
 "Tra-la-la-lira-la! we are like to be hunted, instead of 
 hunting, to-day," suggested the head ranger. 
 
 "Honesty is certainly the best policy," cried half a dozen 
 rapscallions who had been foremost in the foray. 
 
 "I would I were just now where men robe in cassocks, 
 and not in chain-mail," sighed Father Zick. 
 
 "Fighting is not my vocation, but I will cheer the com- 
 batants with songs," observed the minstrel. 
 
 "And I will weep for those who fall," put in the jester. 
 4 
 
38 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "Hold your several tongues, you prating blockheads!" 
 said the seneschal, in a tone of authority; "our noble master 
 will assuredly do all the fighting himself- Come with me, 
 Father Zick; for we must disturb his slumbers, which it 
 seems these trumpets have respected. Some of you knaves, 
 bid the armorer follow us with the count's battle-suit, and bid 
 the grooms caparison his horse. Do you, Mr. Minstrel, walk 
 before me with a flagon of wine, and you, Mr. Jester, follow 
 with a pasty. Were the count a lion he could not fight fast- 
 ing." 
 
 In a few minutes these various worthies entered the sleep- 
 ing-room, where Etto lay in as sound a slumber as if the clatter 
 outside the castle had been only so much silence. 
 
 " 'After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well,' " said the jester, 
 from whom Shakspeare, a century afterwards, plagiarized the 
 idea. 
 
 "Very true ; but his lordship must, nevertheless, awake like 
 meaner men," said the seneschal. "So-ho! my lord!" 
 
 Etto only gave an additional snore. 
 
 "Humph!" said the seneschal; "it is a case of necessity, 
 and therefore, Mr. Minstrel, put your flagon down, and pinch 
 his lordship's leg. Motley, do thou the same by its fellow. 
 Father Zick, shout lustily in that ear, while I shout in this. 
 Now, then — So-ho! my lord!" 
 
 By these combined efforts Etto was at length roused to a 
 sense of his situation. What his feelings were on the dis- 
 covery made to him, the reader, who is in the secret, may 
 naturally imagine. He will also comprehend the discomfiture 
 and amazement which it exceedingly puzzled the attendants 
 to account for. 
 
 "Will your lordship be pleased to break your fast, and then 
 proceed to arm?" said the seneschal. 
 
 "I tell you, I never engaged in single combat since I was 
 born," replied Etto. 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 39 
 
 "My lord's modesty forgets that I have sung his victories 
 in half a hundred ballads," observed the minstrel. 
 
 " I tell you I never killed a man in my life." 
 
 "I have given your lordship absolution for killing at least 
 a dozen out of the common way," said Father Zick. 
 
 "And here comes your lordship's armor," said the senes- 
 chal, "proof in every joint; and also a newly invented visor 
 — a most brave defence, if your lordship can but breathe in 
 it." 
 
 Etto's head began to swim. 
 
 "And Seidensticker himself is just arrived," cried the 
 armorer, "and with him another score of rogues in steel. As 
 pretty a fellow that baron as ever I saw! — black armor — black 
 steed — black plumes and pennon! — the very image of a 
 thunder-cloud on horseback!" 
 
 Etto felt his heart turning into water. 
 
 "A very worthy antagonist, indeed," said the minstrel, 
 going to the window, and looking carelessly out: "Firm as a 
 rock, tall as a tower. If it were any one but our count who 
 was about to fight him, I would not give a rhyme for his life." 
 
 By this time Etto's teeth chattered audibly. 
 
 "The day wanes — may it please your lordship to rise? 
 And stay! a shirt of mail, in addition to the armor, were not 
 out of place to-day." 
 
 The seneschal's speech was interrupted by a loud and mar- 
 tial summons from without. 
 
 "Hear me!" cried Etto, wringing his hands in utter de- 
 spair. "Seneschal! — Father! — Father Zick! — I have been 
 bewitched! — changed! — I am only Count Winplingerstrasse 
 in body — I am Etto the boor in soul. — I can't fight! — I won't 
 fight! — I don't know how to fight! — Give up the castle! — 
 Give up " 
 
 The trumpets sounded again from without; again the gate 
 was assailed with loud knocks ; and the seneschal, the con- 
 fessor, the minstrel, and the armorer, looked exceedingly per- 
 
40 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 plexed. The jester was the only person who saw his way- 
 through the dilemma. "It is plain," said he, " that this is not 
 our real master, or he would fight for us. If then he be not 
 our real master, we are not bound to fight for him. Further- 
 more, if he has been bewitched, we are not bound to keep 
 terms with him at all; I propose, therefore, that we instantly 
 hang him up in the court-yard, and so make our peace with 
 Baron Seidensticker!" The jester might have learnt logic, 
 and his auditors have understood it, so unanimously was the 
 proposal agreed to, and so quickly were the preparations made 
 for carrying it into effect. 
 
 "Must I die?" said Etto, covering his face with his hands, 
 as the executioner approached. "Must I die, without hav- 
 ing done anything to deserve it too ?" 
 
 "Think again, Count Winplingerstrasse," said the above- 
 named personage ; "and please to put your hands down, 
 that I may tie the noose round your neck. Well, if you won't, 
 I must." 
 
 Horror of horrors! — When his eyes were uncovered, Etto 
 beheld in the executioner the identical stranger who had 
 spoken to him on the Brocken. Yes, he wore the self-same 
 Flemish ruff, the German hose and doublet, the English hat, 
 and the long cloak. 
 
 "Save, save me!" cried Etto, clinging to the last-named 
 article of apparel. 
 
 " It is a very strange thing," said the mysterious execu- 
 tioner, "that people should invariably repent of their bargains 
 with me. Ascend the ladder, count." 
 
 "Save me! save me! — Change me again!" 
 "Into Baron Seidensticker, I suppose. No, indeed; you 
 are too modest ; I will exalt you yet higher. — Mount the lad- 
 der, I say!" and the speaker jerked the rope attached to the 
 culprit, in order to give emphasis to the command. 
 "Life, with bread and water!" groaned Etto. 
 "Thou art a driveler as well as a dolt." 
 
THE BOOR OF THE BROCKEN. 41 
 
 "I am! I am!" 
 
 "Fit only for the station to which thou wert born." 
 
 "Only that— only that!" 
 
 "Dost thou perceive that it is very dangerous to change 
 places with people without knowing their private history?" 
 
 "I perceive it most clearly," said Etto, glancing up at the 
 gallows. 
 
 "And wilt thou ever again desire to be king, prince, baron, 
 count, knight or squire?" 
 
 "Never — never — never more!" 
 
 "Well, then, get back to the Brocken!" And — hey, 
 presto! — in five minutes the whole aspect and condition of 
 things were changed. Etto was again a boor in person as in 
 mind, sitting on the crag beside his father's door: the exe- 
 cutioner in the strange garb was gone ; the gallows was gone ; 
 and in their stead was the real, proper, and true-born Count 
 Winplingerstrasse arming in hot haste. 
 
 That night, the valiant Baron Seidensticker found himself 
 bereft of three teeth, two fingers, and a thumb, which, together 
 with his wine-butts and household gear, he found it impossi- 
 ble to recover. 
 
ALICE. 
 
 A WEST INDIAN STORY. 
 
 Fifty — sixty — seventy (any given number of) years ago, 
 the West Indies were not as they are now, in these days of 
 purity. Then, Lord Dunderhead was Secretary of State for 
 the Colonies, and Mr. Bribely was his secretary. The pains 
 which the former took with his department were prodigious. 
 It was his estate. He had the same care for it, was as jealous 
 of it, and farmed it out precisely in the same manner as a 
 landlord does his acres. John Pitchfork was not, indeed, 
 landlord of Thistledown farm: but General Gubbins, grown 
 gray in the service (by walking daily from the Horse Guards 
 to Bond street), was appointed Governor of Demerara or 
 Berbice; — or Sergeant Kitely was appointed Judge: — and 
 each duly rendered to the " noble Secretary," in the shape 
 of rent, two-thirds of the supposed profits of his appointment. 
 And as Lord Dunderhead mulcted the Governors and Judges, 
 so did Mr. Bribely fleece the underlings; — and as the Gover- 
 nors and Judges paid for their dignities, so did they make 
 the most of them. Imprisonment, flogging, fining, favoring, 
 delaying, — these were the methods of collecting the revenue ; 
 these, too, were the weapons with which their "Arrogances" 
 in black and scarlet, tamed down the spirit of their subjects, 
 and widened the space between the colony and Great Britain. 
 
 The colonists, themselves, were not what they are at pre- 
 
ALICE. 43 
 
 sent ; that is to say, they were not then meek, modest, hu- 
 mane, temperate, independent people, and lovers of liberty ; — 
 on the contrary, they were boastful, and loved Scheidam and 
 pine-apple rum, worshipped their superiors in station, and 
 despised everybody below themselves. Thus the newly im- 
 ported Englishers held the regular colonists in utter contempt ; 
 the colonists (a white race) requited themselves, by contemn- 
 ing the mustees and quadroons : these last, on their parts, 
 heartily despised the half-caste : who, in turn, transmitted the 
 scorn on to the heads of the downright blacks. Whom the 
 blacks despised, I never could learn; but probably all the 
 rest : and, in fact, they seem to have had ample cause for so 
 doing, unless the base, beggarly, and cruel vanity imputed to 
 their "superiors," be at once a libel and a fable. 
 
 Such was the state of things in the colony of Demerara, 
 in the year 17 — , when a young Englishman went there, in 
 order to inspect his newly-acquired property. His name was 
 
 John Vivian. He came of a tolerably good family in 
 
 shire, possessed (without being at all handsome) a dark, 
 keen, intelligent countenance ; and derived, from his mater- 
 nal uncle, large estates in Demerara, and from his father, a 
 small farm in his own county, a strong constitution, and a 
 resolute, invincible spirit. Perhaps, he had too much obsti- 
 nacy of character— perhaps, also, an intrepidity of manner, 
 and carelessness of established forms, which would have been 
 unsuitable to society as now constituted. All this we will 
 not presume to determine. We do not wish to extenuate 
 his faults, of which he had as handsome a share as usually 
 falls to the lot of young gentlemen who are under no con- 
 trol, though not altogether of precisely the same character. 
 In requital for these defects, however, he was a man of firm 
 mind, of a generous spirit, and would face danger, and stand 
 up against oppression, as readily on behalf of others as of 
 himself; and, at the bottom of all, though it had lain hid 
 from his birth, (like some of those antediluvian fossils which 
 
44 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 perplex our geologists and antiquaries,) he had a tenderness 
 and delicacy of feeling, which must not be passed by with- 
 out, at least, our humble commendation. 
 
 Exactly eight weeks from the day of his stepping on board 
 the good ship "Wager," at Bristol, Vivian found himself 
 standing on the shore of the river Demerara, and in front of 
 its capital, Stabroek. In that interval, he had been tossed 
 on the wild waters of the Atlantic — had passed from woollens 
 to nankeens — from English cold to tropic heat — and now 
 stood eyeing the curious groups which distinguish our colo- 
 nies, where creatures of every shade, from absolute sable to 
 pallid white, may be seen — for the trouble only of a journey. 
 
 But we have a letter of our hero's on this subject, written 
 to a friend in England, on his landing, which we will unfold 
 for the reader's benefit. Considering that the writer had the 
 range of foolscap before him, and was transmitting news 
 from the torrid to the temperate zone, it may, at least, lay 
 claim to the virtue of brevity. Thus it runs: — 
 
 " To Richard Clinton, Esq., &c. &c, Middle Temple, Lon- 
 don, England. 
 
 "Well, Dick, — Here am I, thy friend, John Vivian, safely 
 arrived at the country of cotton and tobacco. Six months 
 ago, I would have ventured a grosschen that nothing on this 
 base earth could have tempted me to leave foggy England : 
 but the unkenneling a knave was a temptation not to be re- 
 sisted ; and accordingly I am here, as you see. 
 
 " Since I shook your hand at Bristol, I have seen somewhat 
 of the world. The Cove of Cork— the Madeiras— the Peak 
 of Teneriffe— the flying fish — the nautilus— the golden-finned 
 dorado — the deep blue seas — and the tropic skies — are mat- 
 ters which some would explain to you in a chapter. But I 
 have not the pen of a ready writer ; so you must be content 
 with a simple enumeration. 
 
 "My voyage was, like all voyages, detestable. I began 
 with sea-sickness and piercing winds — I ended with head- 
 
ALICE. 45 
 
 ache and languor, and weather to which your English dog- 
 days are a jest. The burning blazing heat was so terrific, 
 that I had well nigh oozed away into a sea-god. Nothing 
 but the valiant array of bottles which your care provided 
 could have saved me. My mouth was wide open, like the 
 seams of our vessel ; but, unlike them, it would not be con- 
 tent with water. I poured in draught after draught of the 
 brave liquor. I drank deep healths to you and other friends ; 
 till, at last, the devil, who broils Europeans in these parts, 
 took to his wings and fled. Thus it was, Clinton, that I 
 arrived finally at Demerara. 
 
 "But now comes your question of 'What sort of a place 
 is this same Demerara?' I'faith, Dick, 'tis flat enough. The 
 run up the river is, indeed, pretty ; and there are trees enough 
 to satisfy even your umbrageous-loving taste. It is, in truth, 
 a land of woods— at least on one side; and you may roam 
 among orange and lemon trees, and guavas and mangoes, 
 amidst aloes and cocoa-nut and cotton and mahogany trees, 
 till you would wish yourself once more on a Lancashire moor. 
 Stabroek, our capital, is a place where the houses are built of 
 wood ; where melons, and oranges, and pine-apples grow as 
 wild as thyself, Dick; and where black, brown, white, and 
 whitey-brown people, sangaree and cigars, abound. Of all 
 these marvels I shall know more shortly. I lodge here at the 
 house of a Dutch planter, where you must address me under 
 my traveling cognomen . John Vivian is extinct for a season ; 
 but your letter will find me, if it be addressed to 'Mr. John 
 Vernon, to the care of Mynheer Schlachenbriichen, merchant, 
 in Demerara.' That respectable individual would die the 
 death of shame, did he knowthat he held the great < proprietor,' 
 Vivian, in his garret. At present I am nothing more than a 
 poor protege of Messrs. GrefFulhe, come out to the hot lati- 
 tudes for the sake of health and employment. 
 
 " You shall hear from me again speedily : in the meantime, 
 write to me at length. This letter is a preface merely to the 
 
46 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 innumerable number of good things which I design to scrib- 
 ble for your especial instruction and amusement. It bears 
 for you only a certificate of my safe arrival, and the assurance 
 that I am, as ever, your true friend, Vivian." 
 
 Vivian was, in truth, tolerably pleased with the banks of 
 the river, fringed as it was with trees, and spotted with cot- 
 tages; but when he actually trod upon the ground of the New 
 World, and found himself amidst a crowd of black and tawney 
 faces — amidst hats like umbrellas, paroquets, and birds of 
 every color of the rainbow, and children almost as various, 
 plunging in and out of the river like water-dogs or mud- 
 larks — he could not conceal his admiration, but laughed out- 
 right: 
 
 He was not left long to his contemplations, however ; for 
 the sea-port of a West Indian colony has as many volunteers 
 of all sorts as Dublin itself. A score of blacks were ready 
 to assist him with his luggage, and at least a dozen of free 
 negresses and mulattoes had baskets of the best fruit in the 
 world. He might have had a wheelbarrowful for sixpence, 
 and the aid of a dozen Sambos for an insignificant compli- 
 ment in copper. Neglecting these advantages, Vivian made 
 the best of his way to the house of the Mynheer-Schlachen- 
 briichen, the Fleming, which was well known to all the cla- 
 morous rogues on the quay. The merchant was not at home ; 
 having retired, as usual, to sleep at hisjnantation house, a few 
 miles from town. Our hero, however, was received, with slow 
 and formal respect, by his principal clerk, Hans Wassel, a 
 strange figure, somewhat in the shape of a cone, that had origi- 
 nally sprung up (and almost struck root) somewhere near Ghent 
 or Bruges. Holding Vivian's credentials at arms' length, 
 this " shape" proceeded to decypher the address of the letter 
 through an enormous pair of iron spectacles. In due time 
 he appeared to detect the hand-writing of the London corre- 
 spondent ; for he breathed out, "Aw ! Mynheer Franz Gref- 
 fulhe!" and proceeded to open a seal as big as a saucer, and 
 
ALICE. 47 
 
 investigate the contents. These were evidently satisfactory ; 
 for he put on a look of benevolence, and welcomed the 
 new-comer (who was announced as Mr. Vernon) to Stabroek. 
 "You will take a schnap?" inquired he, with a look which 
 anticipated an affirmation. " As soon as you please," replied 
 Vivian; to which the other retorted with another "Aw!" and 
 left the room with something approaching to alertness, in order 
 to give the necessary orders. 
 
 The ordinary domestics of the Fleming were much more 
 rapid in their movements ; for Vivian had scarcely time to 
 look round and admire the neatness of the room, when a 
 clatter at the door compelled him to turn his eyes to that 
 quarter. He saw a lively-looking black come in, with a large 
 pipe of curious construction and a leaden box containing 
 tobacco, followed close by his co-mate Sambo, (another 
 "nigritude,") who bore, in both hands, a huge glass, almost 
 as big as a punch-bowl, filled to the brim with true Nantz, 
 tempered but not injured, by a small portion of water. Sambo 
 appeared justly proud of his burden, which he placed on the 
 table in its original state of integrity ; for after looking for a 
 moment lovingly at the liquid, he turned round to Vivian, 
 and said, exultingly, "Dere, massa!" 
 
 But we will not detain the reader with any detail of our 
 hero's movements on his arrival in the colony, excepting one 
 or two, which have direct reference to our present narrative. 
 He was introduced to Mynheer Schlachenbruchen and his 
 wife, each of whom, were our limits larger, might fairly lay 
 claim to commemoration. As it is, we must pass them by, 
 and content ourselves with stating the fact of their (the mer- 
 chant, at all events) treating Vivian with more consideration 
 than his ostensible rank demanded, and introducing him to 
 their acquaintance. The person, however, into whose society 
 Vivian was more especially thrown, was a young girl, who 
 performed the offices of governess, &c. &c, in the house of 
 the Mynheer Schlachenbruchen. The visitors of the family 
 
48 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 avoided her as though she had the plague, (even the Mynheer 
 himself preserved a distance ;) and the consequence was, that 
 Vivian — himself rather looked down upon by the colonial 
 aristocracy — felt himself drawn nearer to the friendless girl, 
 and assiduously cultivated her good opinion. 
 
 This, however, was not a thing to be easily attained. 
 Alice Halstein (for that was her name) had few of the quali- 
 ties commonly ascribed to thriving governesses : she was, 
 indeed, an acute-minded and even an accomplished girl ; but 
 she was as little supple, demure, or humble, as Vivian himself. 
 In fact, she received our hero's advances with indifferent 
 cordiality at first; but the magic of sincerity will win its way; 
 and they accordingly, at last, became excellent friends. The 
 thing which surprised our hero the most was — how it was 
 possible for the dull, gross, unenlightened blockheads of the 
 colony to feel, or even affect, a disdain for one who was 
 evidently so much their superior. At last, the truth came 
 upon him; She was the child of — a quadroon! She was 
 lovely, graceful, virtuous, intellectual, accomplished, modest, 
 — a model for women ; but she had a particle — (scarcely ap- 
 parent, indeed, but still there was a particle or two) — a few 
 drops of blood of a warmer tinge than loiters through the 
 pallid cheeks of a European: and hence she was visited with 
 universal contempt. 
 
 "Ten thousand curses light on their narrow souls!" was 
 Vivian's first exclamation. " She shall be my friend, my — 
 my — sister. The senseless, brutal wretches ! — they little 
 think that, under the mask of Vernon, the wealthiest of their 
 tribe is amongst them, and that he respects the little Pariah 
 beyond the whole of their swollen and beggarly race." A 
 very short time was sufficient for him to form a determination 
 to rescue the object of his admiration from her painful state 
 of servitude. Not being accustomed, however, to deal with 
 the delicacy of ladies, he plunged at once into the matter, 
 with headlong rashness. 
 
ALICE. 49 
 
 "You are badly off, Miss Halstein?" said Vivian to her, 
 one morning, in his very bluntest tone. 
 
 " I do not complain, sir," replied she, coldly. 
 
 "I am sorry for you," said he, hesitatingly, "and would 
 help you." 
 
 "Spare your pity," returned the lady: "we have neither 
 of us much to thank Fortune for. Yet you are content, or 
 seem so; and so also can I be. We will talk on another 
 subject." 
 
 " S'death !" exclaimed the other, recollecting his incognito ; 
 " I had forgot. Pardon me— I was a fool. You will think 
 me mad, with my offers of help, and my show of pity; but 
 it is not so : I am sane enough, and some of these days you 
 shall confess it. Come, — will you not go with us up the 
 river? We are to run up almost as far as The Sandhills to- 
 morrow, to visit the Reynestein estate and the Palm-Groves, 
 which belong to the rich Englishman, Vivian. Perhaps you 
 were never there !" 
 
 " I was born there," was the reply ; and it was somewhat 
 tremulously uttered. 
 
 " Ha ! then you will be delighted to visit the spot, no doubt. 
 Did you know the late proprietor?" 
 
 "Too well," said she; "he was— a villain." 
 "How, madam—?" Vivian was forgetting himself again, 
 at this attack on his uncle's memory: but he hastened to re- 
 cover. "I mean the last owner," he resumed, "whose 
 name was, I think, — Morson." 
 
 "I knew him, sir; and, as I have said, too well. Do you 
 know by what luck it was that he obtained the Palm Groves? 
 No? Then I will tell you, sir. His predecessor was a care- 
 less, easy, and very old man. By a series of unforeseen 
 reverses, by the failure of correspondents, and the roguery 
 of friends, he became involved at last. All that he wanted, 
 however, was a little money for present exigencies; with that, 
 and a course of economy for a few years, he might have re- 
 5 
 
50 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 trieved his broken fortunes. His most intimate friend and 
 neighbor was this Morson. Who, then, was more likely than 
 he to help him with a loan of money? He was rich and 
 childless ; but the old planter whom I have spoken of, had 
 one single child— a girl. Pity, therefore, as well as friend- 
 ship, might move Morson to aid him in his extremity. And 
 he did aid him— at least, he lent him money, at the instiga- 
 tion of his manager — " 
 
 "Seyton?" asked Vivian interrupting her. 
 
 "Yes, Seyton," replied she, " who coveted the old planter's 
 daughter for a wife, and who thought that, if the parent were 
 ruined, his child would be glad of any refuge. He dreamed 
 that she, who had interfered often between him and his 
 victims, would forget all her old abhorrence, and unite her 
 fate with that of the most barbarous tyrant that ever disgraced 
 even a West Indian colony. Well, sir,— to end this tedious 
 
 story — " 
 
 "It is most interesting to me," said Vivian — "deeply, 
 deeply interesting ;" and his glowing eyes and earnest atten- 
 tion were sufficient proofs that he spoke truly. 
 
 "Well, sir, — the end was, that Morson advanced the 
 
 money; that Seyton intrigued with the slaves, and caused 
 
 many of them to revolt and run away into the woods ; and 
 
 that the poor old man fell from trouble into want, and from want 
 
 into absolute despair. His plantations were useless; his 
 
 crops perished on the ground, for want of slaves ; his mills 
 
 and buildings were burnt by unknown hands ; and finally, 
 
 his hard and avaricious creditor, the relentless Morson, came 
 
 upon him, and took possession of all his estates, for a debt 
 
 amounting to one-sixth of their value. The old man" — 
 
 Miss Halstein's voice shook at this part, and betrayed great 
 
 agitation, — " The old man soon afterwards died, and his only 
 
 child was cast upon the world to earn her bitter bread. — This 
 
 is all, sir. I have given you the history of one-half of Mr. 
 
ALICE. 51 
 
 Vivian's property: perhaps the other" (she spoke this with 
 some acrimony) " is held upon a similar tenure." 
 
 "God forbid !" said Vivian. " But Seyton ?— Did he urge 
 his suit?" 
 
 "He did, and -was refused. And therefore it is (for he is 
 a bad and revengeful man) that I am fearful of coming upon 
 an estate of which he is, essentially, the master. In the 
 absence of Mr. Vivian, his power is uncontrolled ; and there 
 is no knowing what claim he might urge against me. He 
 once hinted that I was born a slave on the Palm-Grove estate, 
 and, as such, belonged to his master — I, who am the own 
 daughter of Wilhelm Halstein, to whom all, but a few years 
 ago, belonged." 
 
 " You!" exclaimed our hero, "Are you the person whom 
 Vivian intercepts? He shall do it no more. Rest content, 
 Miss Halstein. Vivian is not the man to injure any one, and 
 least of all yourself. Go with us to-morrow — I beg, I pray, 
 that you will. I pledge my honor — my soul, that you shall 
 not be a sufferer." 
 
 The lady still refused, however, and it was not till the old 
 merchant (Schlachenbruchen, to whom Vivian had spoken in 
 the meantime) had also given his solemn promise to protect 
 her, that she consented to go. She was a little surprised, 
 indeed, at Vivian's urging the matter so vehemently; but as 
 the merchant seconded his requests, she could not continue 
 to refuse. 
 
 A row up the river Demerara, — past Diamond Point, to 
 the Sandhills, need not call for any particular description. 
 We will suppose that the party had arrived at the Palm-Grove 
 estate, which the merchant (authorized by a power transmitted 
 by Vivian from England) had come to overlook. 
 
 The party were introduced to Seyton, a ferocious looking 
 man, of middle age, who, with a mixture of self-consequence 
 and ambiguous civility, welcomed the merchant and his com- 
 panions. He took no notice of Vivian, indeed, but when he 
 
52 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 saw Miss Halstein (who leant on our hero's arm) his eyes 
 sparkled and his lip curled, and turning to the merchant, he 
 said hastily, "Before you leave the estate, there is a point of 
 some consequence that I must take leave to mention, respect- 
 ing this young person:" and he touched her, as he spoke, 
 with the point of the cane that he carried in his hand. 
 
 "Stand off, fellow!" said Vivian angrily, " another touch, 
 or another insolent word, and I will lay you at my feet." 
 
 The other started, and examined our hero's appearance, 
 cautiously and sullenly. He saw nothing, however, except 
 an athletic figure and a resolute countenance, and retreated 
 from collision with so formidable an opponent. He did not, 
 however, retreat from his demand. 
 
 "Observe, Mynheer," said he, addressing the merchant 
 once more — "I speak as the agent only of Mr. Vivian. This 
 — gentleman will scarcely blame me for insisting on the rights 
 of my principal." 
 
 "By no means — by no means," replied the merchant. 
 "All in good time. We will talk of that, presently. In the 
 mean time, we will look at the balances. After that, we 
 will ask what your larder contains ; and then — for the rights 
 you speak of. Eh, Mr. Vernon — is not that the way?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," said Vivian. "Miss Halstein will 
 leave all to you : I am quite sure that she may do so safely." 
 
 Two or three hours were sufficient to overlook the accounts, 
 and to dispose of the refreshments, which were offered with 
 some degree of parade to the visitors, at the expense of the 
 estate. Vivian ate heartily, and without scruple, of the pro- 
 duce of his own property ; and everything unpleasant seemed 
 forgotten, except by Miss Halstein, when the party (which had 
 been augmented, as agreed upon, by the arrival of the Syndic, 
 from Stabroek) prepared to go. 
 
 "Now," said Seyton, "I must once more draw your atten- 
 tion to my demand. I claim this— lady, if you will,— as a 
 
ALICE. 53 
 
 slave. She was born on the estate, has never been made 
 free, and belongs of right to my principal, Vivian." 
 
 "Bah! man," exclaimed the merchant ; "I thought all that 
 was past. Surely, good wine and excellent Nantz must 
 have washed all such bad thoughts out of your head. Come, 
 let us go. Alice, girl, take hold of Mr. Vernon's arm, and 
 
 "By your leave, it must not be so," said Seyton, impera- 
 tively. He rang a bell, and eight or ten black slaves ap- 
 peared. "You are at liberty to go, gentlemen; but the lady 
 remains with me. Have I not the law with me?" added he, 
 addressing the Syndic. 
 
 That officer assented, adding, however, that all depended 
 on the will of Vivian. The lady might, indeed, be entitled 
 to her liberty; but until she proved her freedom, she must 
 remain the property of the planter. 
 
 " That is sufficient," said Seyton, I am Vivian's represent- 
 ative." 
 
 " Then I am lost!" exclaimed Alice. 
 
 "Pardon me," replied the Syndic, "Mr. Seyton is super- 
 seded. Mynheer, here, has the power of appointing a ma- 
 anger over this property. Besides which, Mr, Vivian himself 
 has arrived at Stabroek — " 
 
 "Ha!" — said Seyton, "then no time is to be lost. Super- 
 seded or not, Mr. Vivian shall not lose his property. Do your 
 duty, fellows," added he addressing the slaves. "Seize 
 upon that woman, in the name of your master, Vivian." 
 
 "Back, I say," said our hero, pulling out a brace of pistols, 
 and pointing them towards the advancing negroes. "Back, 
 men, and be wise. And you Mr. Manager, or whatever you 
 are, — take heed how you overstep your duty. Know, sirrah, 
 that your master does not think your false accounts the worst 
 part of your bad history. Your cruelty to these poor slaves 
 beneath you, has come to his ears; and for that he dismisses 
 
 5* 
 
54 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 you his service. For your impudent and unfounded claim 
 upon this lady whom your master loves — 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Alice: but the merchant restrained 
 her surprise. 
 
 "Whom your master loves, wooes, and whom — if heaven 
 is propitious (he says this doubtingly and humbly) he will 
 win — For this atrocious insult there is no punishment great 
 enough. Yet, if any attempt be made upon her, you shall 
 at least be chastised to your heart's content. Be satisfied 
 that I do not jest, and remain quiet." 
 
 "We are all armed, Mr. Seyton," said the merchant; "you 
 had better let us depart quietly." 
 
 "She shall not go," replied Seyton, foaming with rage. 
 "Once more seize upon her, men: seize upon her for your 
 master, Vivian. Till he comes, I will be obeyed at least." 
 
 "He is liereV said Vivian, rushing between Alice and her 
 adversaries — "He is here: he overlooks you, and will punish 
 you. Look, slaves, I am Vivian, — your master! Obey me, 
 as you value the liberty which every man on my estate shall 
 have if he deserves it." 
 
 "What he says is true. This is, indeed, Mr. Vivian," 
 said the merchant; — and the Syndic corroborated his tale. 
 All was quiet in an instant. Yet Alice Halstein still looked 
 overcome. "What is this?" inquired the merchant: "You 
 ought to be rejoiced." 
 
 "I am," she replied. "But, — Mr. Vivian, you have 
 something to forget. Can you forgive me?" 
 
 "I cannot," answered Vivian ; "unless with the Palm- 
 Groves, (which from this moment is all your own), you take 
 an incumbrance with it." 
 
 "And that is — ?" said Miss Halstein, inquiringly. 
 
 " It is myself, Alice," replied Vivian, tenderly. " Prithee, 
 be generous ; and think what a way I have wandered from 
 home. Take pity on me, and give me shelter with you at 
 the Palm-Groves." 
 
ALICE. 55 
 
 " We will talk of this hereafter," said Miss Halstein gently, 
 and dropping her eyes upon the ground. 
 
 "What a strange lover he is," whispered the Syndic to 
 the merchant. 
 
 "That is true enough," answered the other. "Yet would 
 I wager a grosschen that he succeeds. He is a fine, intrepid, 
 persevering young fellow ; and such men seldom fail in any- 
 thing that they set their hearts upon." 
 
 The old merchant was a true prophet, for before three 
 months had elapsed, the pretty Alice became lawful mistress 
 of the heart and household of Vivian. The Reynestein 
 flourished ; but the Palm-Groves became their home. In the 
 course of time, the blacks on their estates were enabled, in 
 pursuance of a system equally wise and generous, to emerge 
 from the condition of bondmen; but they still remained as 
 cultivators, attracted equally by kind treatment, and an equi- 
 table share of the profits of their labors. 
 
 "After all, — the greatest pleasure in the world," said 
 Vivian, one day to his wife, "is conferring pleasure; and 
 the greatest pleasure which one can confer, is to give freedom 
 to one's fellow-man." 
 
VERSES INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM 
 
 BY FRANCIS JEFFREY, ESQ.. 
 
 Why write my name 'midst songs and flowers, 
 
 To meet the eye of lady gay ? 
 I have no voice for ladies' bowers — 
 
 For page like this no fitting lay. 
 
 Yet though my heart no more must bound 
 At witching call of sprightly joys, 
 
 Mine is the brow that never frown'd 
 On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes. 
 
 No — though behind me now is closed 
 
 The youthful paradise of Love, 
 Yet can I bless, with soul composed, 
 
 The lingerers in that happy grove ! 
 
 Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take 
 Where'er amid its charms you roam ; 
 
 Or where, by western hill or lake, 
 You brighten a serener home. 
 
 And while the youthful lover's name 
 Here with the sister beauties blends, 
 
 Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim, 
 That to their list would add a friend's! 
 
THE RED MAN. 
 
 It was at the hour of nine, in an August evening, that a 
 solitary horseman arrived at the Black Swan, a country inn 
 about nine miles from the town of Leicester. He was 
 mounted on a large fiery charger, as black as jet, and had 
 behind him a portmanteau attached to the croup of his saddle. 
 A black traveling cloak, which not only covered his own 
 person, but the greater part of his steed, was thrown around 
 him. On his head he w r ore a broad-brimmed hat, with an 
 uncommonly low crown. His legs were cased in top-boots, 
 to which were attached spurs of an extraordinary length ; and 
 in his hands he carried a whip, with a thong three yards 
 long, and a handle which night have leveled Goliath him- 
 self. 
 
 On arriving at the inn, he calmly dismounted, and called 
 upon the hostler by name. 
 
 "Frank," said he, "take my horse to the stable; rub him 
 down thoroughly; and, when he is well cooled, step in and 
 let me know." And, taking hold of his portmanteau, he 
 entered the kitchen, followed by the obsequious landlord, 
 who had come out a minute before, on hearing of his arrival. 
 There were several persons present, engaged in nearly the 
 
 uiie occupation. At one side of the fire sat the village 
 schoolmaster — a thin, pale, peak-nosed little man, with a 
 powdered periwig, terminating behind in a long queue, and 
 an expression of self-conceit strongly depicted upon his 
 countenance. He was amusing himself with a pipe, from 
 
58 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 which he threw forth volumes of smoke with an air of great 
 satisfaction. Opposite to him sat the parson of the parish — 
 a fat, bald-headed personage, dressed in a rusty suit of black, 
 and having his shoes adorned with immense silver buckles. 
 Between these two characters sat the exciseman, with a pipe 
 in one hand, and a tankard in the other. To complete the 
 group, nothing is wanted but to mention the landlady, a 
 plump, rosy dame of thirty-five, who was seated by the 
 schoolmaster's side apparently listening to some sage remarks 
 which that little gentleman was throwing out for her edifica- 
 tion. 
 
 But to return to the stranger. No sooner had he entered 
 the kitchen, followed by the landlord, than the eyes of the 
 company were directed upon him. His hat was so broad in 
 the brim, his spurs were so long, his stature so great, and his 
 face so totally hid by the collar of his immense black cloak, 
 that he instantly attracted the attention of every person pre- 
 sent. His voice, when he desired the master of the house to 
 help him off with his mantle, was likewise so harsh that they 
 all heard it with sudden curiosity. Nor did this abate when 
 the cloak was removed, and his hat laid aside. A tall, athle- 
 tic red-haired man, of the middle age, was then made mani- 
 fest. He had on a red frock coat, a red vest, and a red 
 neckcloth; nay, his gloves were red! What was more ex- 
 traordinary, when the overalls which covered his thighs were 
 unbuttoned, it was discovered that his small-clothes were red 
 likewise. 
 
 "All red!" ejaculated the parson, almost involuntarily. 
 "As you say, the gentleman is all red!" added the school- 
 master, with his characteristic flippancy. He was checked 
 by a look from the landlady. His remark, however, caught 
 the stranger's ear, and he turned round upon him with a 
 penetrating glance. The schoolmaster tried to smoke it off 
 bravely. It would not do : he felt the power of that look, 
 and was reduced to almost immediate silence. 
 
THE RED MAN. 59 
 
 "Now bring me your boot-jack," said the horseman. 
 
 The boot-jack was brought, and the boots pulled off. To 
 the astonishment of the company, a pair of red stockings 
 were brought into view. The landlord shrugged his shoulders, 
 the exciseman did the same, the landlady shook her head, 
 the parson exclaimed, "All red!" as before, and the school- 
 master would have repeated it, but he had not yet recovered 
 from his rebuke. 
 
 "Faith, this is odd!" observed the host. 
 
 "Rather odd," said the stranger, seating himself between 
 the parson and the exciseman. The landlord was confound- 
 ed, and did not know what to think of the matter. 
 
 After sitting for a few moments, the new-comer requested 
 the host to hand him a nightcap, which he would find in his 
 hat. He did so : it was a red worsted one ; and he put it 
 upon his head. 
 
 Here the exciseman broke silence, by ejaculating, "Red 
 again!" The landlady gave him an admonitory knock on 
 the elbow : it was too late. The stranger heard his remark, 
 and regarded him with one of those piercing glances for 
 which his fiery eye seemed so remarkable. 
 
 "All red !" murmured the parson once more. 
 
 "Yes, Doctor Poundtext, the gentleman, as you say, is all 
 red," re-echoed the schoolmaster, who by this time had re- 
 covered his self-possession. He would have gone on, but 
 the landlady gave him a fresh admonition, by trampling upon 
 his toes ; and her husband winked in token of silence. As 
 in the case of the exciseman the warnings were too late. 
 
 "Now, landlord," said the stranger, after he had been 
 seated a minute, "may I trouble you to get me a pipe and a 
 can of your best Burton ? But, first of all, open my portman- 
 teau and give me out my slippers." 
 
 The host did as he was desired, and produced a pair of red 
 morocco slippers. Here an involuntary exclamation broke 
 out from the company. It began with the parson, and was 
 
60 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 taken up by the schoolmaster, the exciseman, the land- 
 lady, and the landlord in succession. "More red!" pro- 
 ceeded from every lip, with different degrees of loudness. 
 The landlord's was the least loud, the schoolmaster's the 
 loudest of all. 
 
 "I suppose, gentlemen," said the stranger, "you were 
 remarking upon my slippers." 
 
 "Eh — yes! we were just saying that they were red," re- 
 plied the schoolmaster. 
 
 "And, pray," demanded the other, as he raised the pipe 
 to his mouth, "did you never before see a pair of red slip- 
 pers ?" 
 
 This question staggered the respondent : he said nothing, 
 but looked to the parson for assistance. 
 
 " But you are all red," observed the latter, taking a full 
 draught from a foaming tankard which he held in his hand, 
 
 "And you are all black," said the other, as he withdrew 
 the pipe from his mouth, and emitted a copious puff of to- 
 bacco smoke. "The hat that covers your numscull is black, 
 your beard is black, your coat is black, your vest is black ; 
 your small-clothes, your stockings, your shoes are all black. 
 
 In a word, Doctor Poundtext, your are " 
 
 "What am I, sir?" said the parson, bursting with rage. 
 "Ay, what is he, sir?" rejoined the schoolmaster. 
 " He is a black-coat," said the stranger with a contempt- 
 uous sneer, "and you are a pedagogue." This sentence 
 was followed by a profound calm. Not a word was spoken 
 by any of the company, but each gazed upon his neighbor 
 in silence. In the faces of the parson and schoolmaster 
 anger was principally depicted : the exciseman's mouth was 
 turned down in disdain, the landlady's was curled into a 
 sarcastic smile ; and as for the landlord, it would be difficult 
 to say whether astonishment, anger, or fear, most predomi- 
 nated in his mind. During this ominous tranquillity the 
 stranger looked on unmoved, drinking and smoking alter- 
 
THE RED MAN. 61 
 
 nately with total indifference. The schoolmaster "would have 
 said something had he dared, and so would the parson ; but 
 both were yet smarting too bitterly under their rebuff to hazard 
 another observation. 
 
 In the midst of this mental tumult, the little bandy-legged 
 hostler made his appearance, and announced to the rider that 
 his horse had been rubbed down according to orders. On 
 hearing this the Red Man got up from his seat, and walked 
 out to the stable. His departure seemed to act as a sudden 
 relief to those who were left behind. Their tongues, which 
 his presence had bound by a talismanic influence, were 
 loosened, and a storm of words broke forth proportioned to 
 the fearful calm which preceded it. 
 
 "Who is that man in red?" said the parson, first breaking 
 silence. 
 
 "Ay, who is he?" re-echoed the schoolmaster. 
 
 "He is a bit of a conjurer, I warrant," quoth the excise- 
 man. 
 
 "I should not wonder," said the landlord, "if he be a spy 
 from France." 
 
 "Or a traveling packman," added the landlady. 
 
 "I am certain he is no better than he should be," spake 
 the parson again. 
 
 "That is clear," exclaimed the whole of the company, 
 beginning with the pedagogue, and terminating as usual with 
 the host. Here was a pause: at last Doctor Poundtext re- 
 sumed — "I shall question him tightly when he returns; and 
 if his answers are impertinent or unsatisfactory, something 
 must be done." 
 
 "Ay, something must be done," said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Whatever you do," said the landlady, "let it be done 
 civilly. I should not like to anger him." 
 
 "A fig for his anger!" roared her husband, snapping his 
 fingers; "I shall give him the back of the door in the twin- 
 kling of an eye, if he so much as chirps." 
 6 
 
62 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "An^er, indeed!" observed the exciseman; "leave that to 
 rue and my cudgel." 
 
 "To you and your cudgel!" said the stranger, who at this 
 moment entered, and resumed his place at the fireside, after 
 casting a look of ineffable contempt upon the exciseman. 
 The latter did not dare to say a word ; his countenance fell, 
 and his stick, which he was brandishing a moment before, 
 dropped between his legs. 
 
 There was another pause in the conversation. The ap- 
 pearance of the Red Man again acted like a spell on the 
 voices of the company. The parson was silent, and by a 
 natural consequence, his echo, the schoolmaster, was silent 
 also: none of the others felt disposed to say anything. The 
 meeting was like an assemblage of Quakers. At one side 
 of the fire sat the plump parson, with the tankard in one 
 hand, and the other placed upon his forehead, as in deep 
 meditation. At the opposite side sat the schoolmaster, puffing 
 vehemently from a tobacco-pipe. In the centre was the ex- 
 ciseman, having at his right hand the jolly form of the land- 
 lady, and at his left the Man in Red ; the landlord stood at 
 some distance behind. For a time the whole, with the ex- 
 ception of the stranger, were engaged in anxious thought. 
 The one looked to the other with wondering glances, but, 
 though all equally wished to speak, no one liked to be the 
 first to open the conversation. "Who can this man be?" 
 "What does he want here?" "Where is he from, and 
 whither is he bound?" Such were the inquiries which 
 occupied every mind. Had the object of their curiosity been 
 a brown man, a black man, or even a green man, there would 
 have been nothing extraordinary; and he might have entered 
 the inn and departed from it as unquestioned as before he 
 came. But to be a Red Man! There was in this something 
 so startling that the lookers-on were beside themselves with 
 amazement. The first to break this strange silence was the 
 parson. 
 
THE RED MAN. 63 
 
 "Sir," said he, "we have been thinking that you are 
 
 •>■> 
 
 " That I am a conjurer, a French spy, a traveling pack- 
 man, or something of the sort," observed the stranger. 
 Doctor Poundtext started back on his chair, and well he 
 might; for these words which the Man in Red had spoken, 
 were the very ones he himself was about to utter. , 
 
 " Who are you, sir?" resumed he, in manifest perturbation. 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "My name," replied the other, "is Reid." 
 
 "And where, in Heaven's name, were you born?" de- 
 manded the astonished parson. 
 
 "I was born on the borders of the Red Sea." Doctor 
 Poundtext had not another word to say. The schoolmaster 
 was equally astounded, and withdrew the pipe from his 
 mouth: that of the exciseman dropped to the ground; the 
 landlord groaned aloud, and his spouse held up her hands in 
 mingled astonishment and awe. 
 
 After giving them this last piece of information, the strange 
 man arose from his seat, broke his pipe in pieces, and pitched 
 the fragments into the fire ; then, throwing his long cloak 
 carelessly over his shoulders, putting his hat upon his head, 
 and loading himself with his boots, his whip, and his port- 
 manteau, he desired the landlord to show him to his bed, and 
 left the kitchen, after smiling sarcastically to its inmates, and 
 giving them a familiar and unceremonious nod. 
 
 His disappearance was the signal for fresh alarm in the 
 minds of those left behind. Not a word was said till the 
 return of the innkeeper, who in a short time descended from 
 the bed-room over-head, to which he had conducted his guest. 
 On re-entering the kitchen, he was encountered by a volley of 
 interrogations. The parson, the schoolmaster, the exciseman 
 and his own wife, questioned him over and over again. 
 "Who was the man in red? — he must have seen him before 
 —he must have heard of him — in a word, he must know 
 
64 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 something about him." The host protested "that he never 
 beheld the stranger till that hour: it was the first time he had 
 made his appearance at the Black Swan, and, so help him 
 God, it should be the last!" 
 
 "Why don't you turn him out?" exclaimed the exciseman. 
 
 "If you think you are able to do it, you are heartily wel- 
 come," replied the landlord. " For my part, I have no notion 
 of coming to close quarters with the shank of his whip, or his 
 great, red, sledge-hammer fist." This was an irresistible 
 argument, and the proposer of forcible ejectment said no 
 more upon the subject. 
 
 At this time the party could hear the noise of heavy foot- 
 steps above them. They were those of the Red Man, and 
 sounded with slow and measured tread. They listened for 
 a quarter of an hour longer, in expectation that they would 
 cease. There was no pause: the steps continued, and 
 seemed to indicate that the person was amusing himself by 
 walking up and down the room. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the multiplicity of feel- 
 ings which agitated the minds of the company. Fear, sur- 
 prise, anger and curiosity, ruled them by turns, and kept 
 them incessantly upon the rack. There was something mys- 
 terious in the visitor who had just left them — something which 
 they could not fathom — something unaccountable. "Who 
 could he be?" This was the question that each put to the 
 other, but no one could give anything like a rational answer. 
 
 Meanwhile the evening wore on apace, and though the 
 bell of the parish church hard by sounded the tenth hour, no 
 one seemed inclined to take the hint to depart. Even the 
 parson heard it without regard, to such a pitch was his curi- 
 osity excited. About this time also the sky, which had 
 hitherto been tolerably clear, began to be overclouded. Dis- 
 tant peals of thunder were heard ; and thick sultry drops of 
 rain pattered at intervals against the casement of the inn : 
 everything seemed to indicate a tempestuous evening. But 
 
THE RED MAN. 65 
 
 the storm which threatened to rage without was unnoticed. 
 Though the drops fell heavily; though gleams of lightning 
 flashed by, followed by the report of distant thunder, and the 
 winds began to hiss and whistle among the trees of the neigh- 
 boring cemetery, yet all these external sign's of elementary 
 tumult were as nothing to the deep, solemn footsteps of the 
 Red Man. There seemed to be no end to his walkiner. An 
 hour had he paced up and down the chamber without the least 
 interval of repose, and he was still engaged in this occupa- 
 tion as at first. In this there was something incredibly mys- 
 terious; and the party below, notwithstanding their numbers, 
 felt a vague and indescribable dread beginning to creep over 
 them. The more they reflected upon the character of the 
 stranger, the more unnatural did it appear. The redness of 
 his hair and complexion, and, still more, the fiery hue of his 
 garments, struck them with astonishment. But this was little 
 to the freezing and benumbing glance of his eye, the strange 
 tones of his voice, and his miraculous birth on the borders of 
 the Red Sea. There was now no longer any smoking in the 
 kitchen. The subjects which occupied their minds were of 
 too engrossing a nature to be treated with levity; and they 
 drew their chairs closer, with a sort of irresistible and in- 
 stinctive attraction. 
 
 While these things were going on, the bandy-legged hostler 
 entered, in manifest alarm. He came to inform his master 
 that the stranger's horse had gone mad, and was kicking and 
 tearing at everything around, as if he would break his manger 
 in pieces. Here a loud neighing and rushing were heard in 
 the stable. "Ay, there he goes," continued he. "I believe 
 the devil is in the beast, if he is not the old enemy himself. 
 Ods, master, if you saw his eyes: they are like — " 
 
 "What are they like?" demanded the landlord. "Ay, 
 what are they like?" exclaimed the rest with equal impa- 
 tience. 
 
 "Ods, if they an't like burning coals!" ejaculated the 
 
 6- 
 
QQ THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 hostler, trembling from head to foot, and squeezing himself in 
 among the others, on a chair which stood hard by. His in- 
 formation threw fresh alarm over the company, and they were 
 more agitated and confused than ever. 
 
 During the whole of this time the sound of walking over- 
 head never ceased for one moment. The heavy tread was 
 unabated: there was not the least interval of repose, nor 
 could a pendulum have been more regular in its motions. 
 Had there been any relaxation, any pause, any increase, or 
 any diminution of rapidity in the footsteps, they would have 
 been endurable ; but there was no such thing. The same 
 deadening, monotonous, stupefying sound continued like 
 clockwork, to operate incessantly above their heads. Nor 
 was there any abatement of the storm without; the wind 
 blowing among the trees of the cemetery in a sepulchral 
 moan ; the rain beating against the panes of glass with the 
 impetuous loudness of hail ; and lightning and thunder flash- 
 ing and pealing at brief intervals through the murky firma- 
 ment. The noise of the elements was indeed frightful, and 
 it was heightened by the voice of the sable steed like that of 
 a spirit of darkness; but the whole, as we have just hinted, 
 was as nothing to the deep, solemn, mysterious treading of 
 the Red Man. 
 
 Innumerable were their conjectures concerning the cha- 
 racter of this personage. It has been mentioned that the 
 landlady conceived him at first to be a traveling packman, 
 the landlord a French spy, and the exciseman a conjurer. 
 Now their opinions were wholly changed, and they looked 
 upon him as something a great deal worse. The parson, in 
 the height of his learning, regarded him as an emanation of 
 the tempter himself; and in this he w T as confirmed by the 
 erudite opinion of the schoolmaster. As to the hostler, he 
 could say nothing about the man, but he was willing to stake 
 his professional knowledge that his horse was kith and kin to 
 
THE RED MAN. 67 
 
 the evil one. Such were the various doctrines promulgated in 
 the kitchen of the Black Swan. 
 
 "If he be like other men, how could he anticipate me, as 
 he did, in what I was going to say?" observed the parson. 
 
 "Born on the borders of the Red Sea!" ejaculated the 
 landlord. 
 
 "Heard ye how he repeated to us what we were talking 
 about during his absence in the stable?" remarked the ex- 
 ciseman. 
 
 "And how he knew that I was a pedagogue ?" added the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 "And how he called on me by my name, although he never 
 saw nor heard of me before?" said the hostler in conclusion. 
 Such a mass of evidence was irresistible. It was impossible 
 to overlook the results to which it naturally led. 
 
 "If more proof is wanting," resumed the parson after a 
 pause, " only look to his dress. What Christian would think 
 of traveling about the country in red ? It is a type of the hell- 
 fire from which he is sprung." 
 
 "Did you observe his hair hanging down his back like a 
 bunch of carrots?" asked the exciseman. 
 
 "Such a diabolical glance in his eye!" said the school- 
 master. 
 
 "Such a voice!" added the landlord. "It is like the 
 sound of a cracked clarionet." 
 
 "His feet are not cloven," observed the landlady. 
 
 "No matter," exclaimed the landlord; "the devil, when 
 he chooses, can have as good legs as his neighbors." 
 
 "Better than some of them," quoth the lady, looking pee- 
 vishly at the lower limbs of her husband. 
 
 Meanwhile the incessant treading continued unabated, 
 although two long hours had passed since its commencement. 
 There was not the slightest cessation to the sound, while out 
 of doors the storm raged with violence, and in the midst of 
 
68 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 it the hideous neighing and stamping of the black horse were 
 heard with pre-eminent loudness. At this time the fire of the 
 kitchen began to burn low. The sparkling blaze was gone, 
 and in its stead nothing but a dead red lustre emanated from 
 the grate. One candle had just expired, having burned down 
 to the socket. Of the one which remained the unsnufFed 
 wick was nearly three inches in length, black and crooked 
 at the point, and standing like a ruined tower amid an en- 
 velopment of sickly yellow flame ; while around the fire's 
 equally decaying lustre sat the frightened coterie, narrowing 
 their circle as its brilliancy faded away, and eyeing each 
 other like apparitions amidst the increasing gloom. 
 
 At this time the clock of the steeple struck the hour of 
 midnight, and the tread of the stranger suddenly ceased. 
 There was a pause for some minutes — afterwards a rustling 
 — then a noise as of something drawn along the floor of his 
 room. In a moment thereafter his door opened; then it shut 
 with violence, and heavy footsteps were heard trampling down 
 the stair. The inmates of the kitchen shook with alarm as 
 the tread came nearer. They expected every moment to 
 behold the Red Man enter, and stand before them in his 
 native character. The landlady fainted outright ; the excise- 
 man followed her example: the landlord gasped in an agony 
 of terror: and the schoolmaster uttered a pious ejaculation 
 for the behoof of his soul. Doctor Poundtext was the only 
 one who preserved any degree of composure. He managed, 
 in a trembling voice, to call out "Avaunt, Satan! I exorcise 
 thee from hence to the bottom of the Red Sea!" 
 
 "I- am going as fast as I can," said the stranger, as he 
 passed the kitchen-door on his way to the open air. His 
 voice aroused the whole conclave from their stupor. They 
 started up, and by a simultaneous effort rushed to the window. 
 There they beheld the tall figure of a man enveloped in a 
 black cloak, walking across the yard on his way to the stable. 
 He had on a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, top-boots, 
 
THE RED MAN. 69 
 
 with enormous spurs, and carried a gigantic whip in one 
 hand, and a portmanteau in the other. He entered the stable, 
 remained there about three minutes, and came out leading 
 forth his fiery steed thoroughly accoutred. In the twinkling 
 of an eye he got upon his back, waved his hand to the com- 
 pany, who were surveying him through the window, and, 
 clapping spurs to his charger, galloped off furiously, with a 
 hideous and unnatural laugh, through the midst of the storm. 
 On going up stairs to the room which the devil had honored 
 with his presence, the landlord found that his infernal majesty 
 had helped himself to everything he could lay his hands upon, 
 having broken into his desk and carried off twenty-five gui- 
 neas of king's money, a ten pound Bank of England note, 
 and sundry articles, such as seals, snuff-boxes, &c. Since 
 that time he has not been seen in these quarters, and if he 
 should, he will do well to beware of Doctor Poundtext, who 
 is a civil magistrate as well as a minister, and who, instead 
 of exorcising him to the bottom of the Red Sea, may perhaps 
 exorcise him to the interior of Leicester jail, to await his 
 trial before the judges of the midland circuit. 
 
FOREST CHANGES 
 
 BT DERWEXT CONWAY. 
 
 Spring is thy youth, and winter is thy age, — 
 In all thy changes wonderful or fair : 
 Spring doth exhaust her sweets, winter his rage, 
 On thee, thou world of trees that spreadest there. 
 How sweet w T hen young, how venerable, old ! 
 May breathes on thee, — and lo! thy buds unfold 
 Their virgin blossoms to the love-sick air. 
 And summer crowns thee, when no wandering ray 
 Can through thy leafy labyrinth find its way ; 
 While all day long, upon thy solitudes 
 His "chut, chut, chut," the nightingale intrudes. 
 Now autumn sighs, — and summer-green turns pale; 
 And, by-and-by, thy painted leaves hang frail, 
 While in thy depths Decay's small voice is heard, 
 As severed leaves drop on the rustling sward. 
 Last — winter comes to lay thy glories bare ; 
 Yet thy unbending trunks stand proudly there, — 
 Huge, gray, and gnarled, with their fantastic arms, 
 Or white, and sparkling in a world of charms. 
 Spring, — summer, — autumn, — winter, rule thee ever: 
 Thy vesture changeth — but thy beauty never. 
 

wtmrnKKm''' 
 
ISABEL. 
 
 A TALE OF VENICE. 
 
 BY CHARLES MACFAHLANE, 
 
 The sun was sinking behind the dark blue hills of Priuli, 
 and lengthening the shadows of Venice across the rippling 
 waves of the Adriatic, when two Senators, who were taking 
 their evening promenade on one of the murazzi or outer ter- 
 races which the industry of man had gained and secured 
 from a formidable element, perceived a trim galley on the 
 purple line of the horizon, pressing forward towards the city. 
 
 "That should be a vessel of the state," said one of the 
 Signors ; "from whence may she be?" 
 
 "Why not from Constantinople?" replied his companion; 
 "it is time that some of that conquering expedition should be 
 returned to the 'Winged Lion.' " 
 
 "Saint Mark grant that it prove as you say! — But she 
 keeps a gallant course, and will soon be here to speak for 
 herself." 
 
 The two Senators, who, though both advanced in years, still 
 glowed with that patriotic spirit which was destined to raise 
 the low-sunk islets of Venice to such unprecedented glory, 
 leaned against a parapet wall that run along the edge of the 
 murazzi, fixing their earnest gaze upon the vessel, which, 
 rapidly advancing, grew in magnitude to their eyes at every 
 
72 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 minute. She had been laboring on with all her long oars ; but 
 now the sun had set, and an evening breeze, a vento di terra, 
 from the lofty mountains of Dalmatia, roughened the gulf. 
 The sails, already set, were properly bent to catch the favor- 
 ing wind, and another and another sail was hoisted, until the 
 hulk seemed to bear the proportion to them that the body of 
 the sea-fowl does to its widely spreading and pure white 
 wings. Nor could the flight of the gull or the albatross be 
 well more rapid or direct than the sailing of the Venetian 
 galley. She rushed like "a thing of life" over the darken- 
 ing waves, and presently the white foam was seen curling 
 and the phosphoric light flashing before her impetuous bow. 
 As she neared, the last gleams of day showed the proud 
 banner of the republic floating on her lofty stern. 
 
 "My Tebaldo — my son, my only one — fell a victim to the 
 liquid and unextinguishable fire of the Greeks at the first 
 siege of their heretical capital — but there are other fathers 
 than me in Venice, and mothers who love their offspring, and 
 wives who adore their absent husbands, and of a certainty 
 for some of these there is great joy. The galley is the ' Cor- 
 riere' of the great Dandolo, the swiftest vessel of our fleets, 
 and she comes the harbinger of happiness to thousands. The 
 rest will not be far behind." 
 
 The Senator who pronounced these words began in a sub- 
 dued and melancholy tone ; but his voice strengthened and 
 his eye flashed as he continued, losing in the bliss of others, 
 and in the contemplation of the glory of his country, the sense 
 of his private and irremediable misfortune. 
 
 "Viva San Marco! Viva la Santa Chiesa! — and the re- 
 public of Venice that has placed the keys of Saint Peter 
 within the boasted gates of Constantinople!" exclaimed the 
 other Senator. 
 
 "Viva San Marco and the Republic!" rejoined the child- 
 less man. 
 
 Their aged voices had scarcely ceased to vibrate when a 
 
ISABEL. 73 
 
 loud, continuous shout — a shout of transporting joy and tri- 
 umph, rose from the deck and the rigging of the galley, and 
 made itself heard, despite of distance and the lash and roar 
 of the waves that broke in foam at the feet of the two Sena- 
 tors. The next instant that soul-stirring acclamation was 
 answered by another shout that absolutely smothered, while 
 it lasted, the sounds of wind and wave; and turning round, 
 the Senators saw, on the edges of other terraces, and on the 
 scattered islets that afforded the best points of observation, 
 the mass of the population of Venice, gazing like themselves 
 on the returning galley. In an instant numerous barks were 
 seen to glide from the canali, and, dancing in fantastic groups 
 over the heaving sea, to pull with strenuous oars towards the 
 ship ; the patriotism or the more private affections of many, 
 not brooking the delay of a few minutes which would see 
 her at anchor within Venice. 
 
 As she came on, with the breeze that still freshened singing- 
 through her shrouds, a simultaneous display of countless blue 
 lights was launched from her deck high into the heavens, 
 where the crescent moon with "a single star at her side" 
 seemed to smile at these testimonials of joy, and to welcome 
 the wanderers back again. The mimics of heaven's thun- 
 ders, the pealing cannons, were not yet known ; but the roar 
 of voices that again rose from the murazzi, and the ship, and 
 the boats mid-way between them, might almost equal the 
 rimbombo of artillery, than which it was infinitely more replete 
 with meaning, for the united voices of thousands distinctly 
 syllabled the patriotic cry, which was still "Viva San Marco 
 e la citta di Venezia!" 
 
 There was silence for a while. The galley now surrounded 
 by the barks from the shore, glided round one of the islets 
 which had intercepted the prospect, and presently the crew 
 saw all the low houses of the town, with the clear domestic 
 lights gleaming from their lattices, full before them. The 
 transport that then bounded in the hearts of the wanderers, the 
 7 
 
74 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 shout that then rose from the galley deck must have been 
 intense — 
 
 "For what can consecrate the joys of home, 
 Like one glad glance from ocean's troubled foam'?'' 
 
 The two Senators quitted the parapet, and repaired with 
 hasty steps to the galley-quay, where they found many of 
 their order, with most of the leading citizens, already assem- 
 bled, and anxiously waiting to speak with the gallant com- 
 mander of the "Corriere." Soon the welcome vessel stood 
 with her prow a few spans' length from the shore ; and anon, 
 with rapid maneuver, she swung round, and lay with her 
 broad-side against the edge of the quay. Another shout and 
 cry of triumph, and the captain leaped on shore, and bowed 
 before the senators and citizens of Venice. 
 
 "Thou art welcome, Sanuti," said the foremost of the 
 company; "thou art welcome as the confirmer of good 
 tidings, but doubly welcome as a hero who has honored 
 his Venetian blood by his deeds before the walls of Constan- 
 tinople!" 
 
 The Captain bowed more lowly than before. " The Scampa- 
 via of Zani has then brought in safety our lord the Doge's 
 dispatches to the senate of Venice?" inquired he modestly. 
 
 "It has even done so much," replied the senator; " and 
 we have long since learned that the winged lion is flying for 
 the second time over the walls of the capital of the East!" 
 
 "And long may it there fly!" cried Sanuti, " and may the 
 sons of Venice ' plant the lion' — the standard of San Marco 
 and the Republic, over many a conquest as fair as this!" 
 
 The assembled multitude echoed the words of the captain, 
 and the air was rent by shouts of " Pianta hone!" the popu- 
 lar war-cry, which was indeed destined to be heard on many 
 a foreign shore. 
 
 "But, Sanuti," resumed the Senator who had already 
 spoken, "what of the fleet? — A portion certainly should be 
 
ISABEL. 75 
 
 at Venice ere this, were it but to lay the trophies in the tem- 
 ple of our Saint, under whom our arms have so prospered." 
 "I left the fleet to-day at noon — they had gained the 
 height of Cape Torrella, and only let this fair breeze blow till 
 midnight, and we shall see them at the rising of to-morrow's 
 
 sun." 
 
 This news spread with the swiftness of lightning through 
 the multitude, and thence through the whole city ; and the 
 childless Senator had predicted aright when he said "that 
 for some there would be great joy in Venice on this night." 
 There was indeed too much joy — and alas! in many instances 
 too much assured sorrow, or harrowing apprehension, to per- 
 mit of sleep. The affectionate wife with tears in her eyes 
 kissed the little slumberer in its cradle, or assured the half 
 forgetful prattler on her knee that to-morrow he should see 
 his father ; or with provident care she turned over the humble 
 treasures of her coffers, to select fitting raiment for her long 
 absent spouse ; or with diligent hands she prepared the re- 
 storing condiments, so welcome after the privations of a 
 tedious sea-voyage, or she sought the draughts for the wine- 
 cup which "maketh glad the heart of man." The fond 
 mother, whose son had gone to the East, with the red-cross 
 on his breast, rested not on her pillow, but gazing on the 
 flickering lamp, asked a thousand times, "Oh! will the light 
 of to-morrow's sun show me my boy in his strength and his 
 beauty — or assure me that the light of life has for ever quitted 
 his eyes?" The betrothed maiden, or she who had cherished 
 a fond passion, paced her chamber floor with hurried steps, 
 or, gazing out of her casement on the sea-waves, sighed to 
 the strong winds that agitated them as love her young bosom 
 — "And will he come with the morrow? — and will he love 
 me, as when he wentV 
 
 That short summer night seemed of interminable length at 
 Venice ; but the morrow came at last, and in the gray horizon, 
 at the very point where the " Corriere" had first appeared on 
 
76 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the preceding evening, a broad white sail was seen. A sail, 
 and another, and another, rose to the eye from that sober but 
 brightening line, until the whole fleet was in view, and ad- 
 vanced, the orb of day rising in their rear, like a vast flock of 
 wild swans, glancing their long white necks and buoyant 
 white wings in the golden beams of morning. In the city 
 the matin summons to prayer sounded cheerfully on the ear, 
 and in each Christian temple a song of thanksgiving succeeded 
 the words of supplication. Our story is laid in very remote 
 times; but it was not until these religious duties were per- 
 formed, that the people of Venice began their preparations 
 for the triumphal reception of their home-wending heroes, or 
 hastened to meet the objects of their hearts' warm affections. 
 But when, in their weakness and insufficiency, they had paid 
 their due to heaven, they entered on the business of life with 
 zeal, and the city was agitated from one end to the other. 
 Carpenters and other artisans were employed in laying stages 
 for the warriors to tread upon, in their descent from the victo- 
 rious galleys, or in erecting platforms whence the Venetian fair 
 might wave their kerchiefs to the brave, or galleries whence 
 the musicians might hail the return of those who had pre- 
 vailed in the good fight, with the Lion and Saint Mark for 
 their aid ! Women and children ran to gather the scanty 
 supply of verdure and of flowers that the sea-girt city af- 
 forded; but others were dispatched to the main land, to draw 
 the laurel and the rose from the banks of the Brenta. 
 
 Inanimate nature seemed to partake in the joy and triumph 
 of man, and a bright exhilarating sun, a gay blue sky, a sea 
 serene, and a breeze as gentle as the sigh of happy love, 
 were propitious to Venice and her day of rejoicing. 
 
 Meanwhile the fleet came on, spread out into the figure of 
 a crescent. Every ship was distinctly visible through that 
 fine transparent atmosphere: and as they glided over the 
 placid waters towards their place of rest, the appropriate 
 banner of each was clearly seen, and the impatient citizens 
 
ISABEL. 77 
 
 on shore could tell the particular galley In which had sailed 
 a son, a brother or a friend. How many hearts beat at this 
 recognition. "There is the Stella!" cried an old man, "my 
 own brave boy commands there!" "And there the Spe- 
 ranza!" cried another, "and, God be praised! my Fran- 
 cesco's flag still floats on her mast head !" Exclamations 
 like these, and the eloquent outpourings of natural affection, 
 were heard every moment to proceed from the congregated 
 thousands, whilst the speaking faces, the expressive Italian 
 countenances there collected, offered to the eye a picture on 
 which the artist might have dwelt with admiration and de- 
 light. 
 
 The fleet was now so near that the sounds of their warlike 
 music were heard, and every detail, to use the language of 
 the painter, was distinctly made out. The bright and painted 
 shields of the returning knights and squires were arranged on 
 either side of the galleys ; the warriors stood on the deck in 
 their armor of mail, with the silver-inlaid morion on their 
 heads, and the burnished arms in their hands — the broad 
 lance, the battle-axe, and the steel-tipped mace, threw back 
 the rays of the sun with dazzling brightness; the "winged 
 lion," the standard of the republic, flew over their heads ; 
 the bannerets of the patrician families of Venice floated on 
 the elevated stern-quarter of the war-ships ; whilst the prin- 
 cipal galley which had borne the "blind old Dandolo" to the 
 scene of his glory, was distinguished by a vast white banner 
 on which was inscribed in letters of gold, the new, the proud, 
 "the singular but accurate title"* "of lord of three-eighths 
 of the Roman Empire," assumed by the conquering Doge, 
 and afterwards retained by the Venetian republic! 
 
 The instruments of the musicians, of which only the more 
 
 * See Hallam's History of the Middle Ages, vol. i. chap. 3, part ii. 
 
 f The style of the Doges of Venice afterwards was, "Dominus quarlae 
 partis et dimidiae imperii Romani." And this remained unchanged till Gio- 
 vanni Delfino, who was elected in 1 
 
78 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 clangous, as the cymbal or the trumpet, had at first been 
 heard, now were all mingled and audible ; with each passing 
 moment they waxed louder and louder, until they burst on 
 the ear with an overpowering peal — an air of war and triumph, 
 to which the voices of the warriors and mariners formed an 
 accompaniment. Then there rose to heaven a shout from 
 those on shore that made Venice to ring through her hundred 
 islets, and the cymbal and the harp, the shrill trump, the 
 spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, gave back a re- 
 sponse to the galleys that, " gilded by the sun and reflected 
 by the waters," now fast approached land. 
 
 On shore, as on the sea, the spectacle was imposing. 
 Venice, indeed, was not yet the splendid city that claimed 
 the world's admiration ; she could not yet boast that accumu- 
 lation of ancient and modern art which was afterwards to 
 attract the stranger from many a distant land; but so early 
 as this, or at the commencement of the thirteenth century, 
 Venice was a city of importance — as remarkable as she ever 
 could be, from her peculiar situation — even beautiful and 
 stately if compared with the cities, her contemporaries, in 
 any other part of the world than Italy. The Campanile, or 
 lofty tower of St. Mark, did not yet pierce the clouds, nor did 
 the temple then offer to the observer's eye that striking mix- 
 ture of Greek and Saracenic architecture, those long-extend- 
 ing rows of arches, that forest of columns, all of precious 
 marble, and beautiful mosaics, and that general richness and 
 vastness which resulted from after-ages of commerce, wealth 
 and genius. "But the bones of the blessed Apostle, — of the 
 Evangelist whose name, says a Venetian historian, is asso- 
 ciated with all the glories of the republic, had reposed there 
 ever since the eighth century ; and the devotion of the Vene- 
 tians had raised over those sacred relics an edifice really vast 
 in dimensions, and not destitute of beauty. The obelisks 
 of granite, and the elaborately sculptured pillars stood not 
 yet in the piazza or the piazzetta; the horses of bronze — 
 
ISABEL. 79 
 
 those obsequious followers in the train of victory — those 
 records of the mutability of fortune, stood not yet over the 
 door of the temple, though they were soon to be there, for it 
 was this returning fleet that brought them as a trophy from 
 captured Constantinople. In fme, Egypt and Syria, Greece 
 and the isles of Greece, had not yet been conquered and de- 
 spoiled of their glorious remains to ornament the proud "Sea 
 Cybele;" but at the same time, some objects of art and 
 antiquity had been imported ; some improvement from the 
 study of them had been introduced in architecture and sculp- 
 ture ; and Italian genius, destined in after-centuries to rival 
 that of Hellas, had begun to dawn, and Italian taste to show 
 itself in the construction of their habitations, their churches, 
 and public edifices. 
 
 It might be said, perhaps, that at the epoch of our tale, 
 Venice was about equi-distant from what she was at her 
 humble origin, — a collection of low huts scattered on the 
 sea-lashed sand-banks and rocks, whose poor inhabitants, 
 Cassiodorus, the minister of Theodoric, compared to "water- 
 fowl who had fixed their nests on the bosom of the waves" — 
 and what she became after the sixteenth century, when the 
 wealth of the East had been poured in her lap, and the genius 
 of Palladio and others had filled her with beauty. 
 
 But the moral picture offered to contemplation by Venice 
 at that period, was, perhaps, far more interesting and worthy 
 of admiration. In Venice "the art and spirit of commercial 
 industry" had revived, and was then extending its Briarean 
 arms to every shore of the Mediterranean. On the perilous 
 career of conquest she had entered with great eclat, and, 
 considering her origin and position, the influence she exer- 
 cised on the politics of the south and east of Europe, was 
 astonishing. The banners of three subject nations did not 
 yet float before St. Mark's ; but an emperor had knelt there 
 — a pope had been the guest of the republic, and his grati- 
 tude had invested Venice with the nuptial ring with which, 
 
30 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 on each succeeding year, she was to espouse the Adriatic — 
 which she was to wear as the absolute mistress and sovereign 
 
 of the seas.* 
 
 The glorious dawn of liberty among the neighbors of Ven- 
 ice, the Lombard cities— that dawn that was destined never 
 to reach its meridian splendor, but to expire in the night of a 
 despicable and enduring slavery — was even then a faint light 
 compared to that which emanated from the liberal institutions 
 of the republic, where a hard-hearted oligarchy, anxious indeed 
 for the glory of the state, but indifferent to human suffering 
 and crime, had not yet seized absolute power, nor sent its 
 victims in mystery across the "Bridge of Sighs." The city 
 of the isles might at this period be compared to a hero, who, 
 still young, had gallantly advanced on the career of glory ; 
 whose aspirations were lofty, whose shield was not bedimmed 
 with blood ; who had not yet acquired and abused (alas ! why 
 should one be consequent on the other!) extensive and un- 
 controlled power: to whose future successes one might look 
 with confidence; and we, at the distance of centuries, may 
 almost partake in the enthusiasm of the old chroniclers who 
 record the triumph of her conquering sons returned from 
 Constantinople. 
 
 The piazetta, which is situated by the side of the church 
 of Saint Mark, then contained the principal edifices of the 
 republic ; and it was here the knights and the captains of the 
 galleys, that had now come to anchor close to the quay, de- 
 
 * The emperor was Frederic Barbarossa ; the Pope, Alexander III. Any 
 Italian history, or the notes to the 4th Canto of Childe Harold, will acquaint 
 the reader with these singular proceedings. The following are said by a 
 Venetian historian to be the words employed by the pope in presenting the 
 ring to the Doge, in the presence of all the people. " Use it, Venetians, as 
 a chain wherewith to keep the sea subjected to your dominion. Espouse it 
 with this ring every year, and every year on the same day let the celebration 
 of the espousals be renewed, in order that posterity may know that the arms 
 of Venice have acquired the empire of the waves, and that the sea ought to 
 be obedient to her, even as the bride to the husband." 
 
ISABEL. 81 
 
 scended by stairs and platforms prepared for them and covered 
 with laurels and flowers, banners and silks of Tyrian dye — 
 and it was here that anxious feet again touched their native 
 soil, and their relatives and friends received them to their 
 passionate embrace. As one by one they stepped on shore, 
 the people rent the air with their acclamations ; the signiors 
 of the republic, in an open balcony, bowed to them, as a 
 herald repeated their distinguished names ; whilst the bands of 
 music pealed the notes of triumph, and the fair daughters of 
 Venice "looked and smiled a welcome." The general pic- 
 ture of joy and grief— and grief there was in the midst of all 
 these rejoicings, for many returned not to bless the eyes of 
 affection, but remained in the country they had conquered, 
 and many had sped to those regions whence there is no return 
 — this general picture would be far too vast even to be 
 sketched here, and thus we will attach ourselves to the for- 
 tunes and feelings of one who figured in this day's pageantry. 
 Gherardo was the only son of the patrician Zani, and the 
 most gallant youth of Venice. His love of military glory 
 must have been great, for when the Doge, the incomparable 
 Enrico Dandolo, invited him to follow his banner to the East, 
 he was betrothed to Isabel Celsi, as distinguished for her 
 beauty as he for his valor. Yet, on the threshold of the hy- 
 meneal temple, he did not hesitate ; he would go where glory 
 and his countrymen summoned him ; when the Doge's ex- 
 ploits were achieved, he would return to Venice, and, more 
 deserving of her, lay the laurels at the feet of his young 
 bride. He had been, he had prospered — Constantinople had 
 witnessed his valor — and now, returned, the piazzetta echoed 
 with the name of Gherardo. He had received the embrace 
 of his aged father without alarm at his tears — for over-wrought 
 joy will weep even as sorrow does ; he had been pressed in 
 the arms of the friends of his house and his infancy ; and he 
 now advanced to a gentler circle, composed of his female 
 relatives and friends, who, stationed at a balcony, murmured 
 
82 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. ■ 
 
 the hero's name, and his welcome back to Venice. But, 
 what meant the omission ? — Isabel was not among them — 
 Isabel, his spouse, was not there to welcome him with eye 
 and tongue. His voice trembled as he hurriedly asked where 
 she was. An inconsiderate and cruel voice in the crowd 
 answered, " Isabel is no more ! she sleeps with her father in 
 the church of Saint Theodore."* 
 
 "No more!" moaned the young warrior, and his flushed 
 face became pale as the monumental marble, and, but for 
 his friends, he had fallen to the earth like one struck by 
 lightning. When he partially recovered from the first shock, 
 he again raised his eyes to the ladies' balcony ; she was 
 indeed not there — where she must have been, had life and 
 love animated her. That absence confirmed the truth of 
 the ill-omened voice ; his eyes dropped despondingly to the 
 earth, where, now in his youth and his glory, he could have 
 wished to see a grave open for himself. His old father fell 
 on his neck and wept aloud. 
 
 For some moments the mind of Gherardo wandered, and 
 his soul was benumbed ; but the sight of Alessio, the brother 
 of Isabel, advancing through the crowd, recalled him to 
 consciousness and anguish. "Is it even as they say ?" cried 
 he hoarsely, and stretching out his hand to his friend. Alessio 
 grasped his hand with one of his, and dashing away the 
 tears from his averted face with the other, he replied, in a 
 suffocated voice, " Alas ! and alas ! it is even so — Isabel 
 expired yesterday ; and as the galley, your precursor, was 
 appearing, my sister was on her road to the sepulchre !" 
 
 Such irremediable woe where so much bliss was expected 
 — such an awakening from all the ecstatic dreams and aspira- 
 tions that had given him strength in battle, and cheered him 
 over the tedious or stormy waves — such a return — such a 
 welcome — such an end to all his fond and passionate hopes 
 
 * St. Theodore was the patron saint of Venice before St. Mark. 
 
ISABEL. 83 
 
 was not to be supported. With a deep groan he swooned 
 away, and the young hero, so lately the happiest among the 
 happy — the most animated where all were animated, was 
 borne in a lifeless state to the sad halls of his father. 
 
 It was long ere he returned to life and reason ; and oh, how 
 dreadful was his return to the latter ! He would have given 
 the world for some opiate or drug capable of repelling thought 
 and recollection. He closed his eyes to the gray light of the 
 sun — he would have shut out its rays for ever ! He was deaf 
 to the assiduous advice and consolation of his friends who 
 thronged about him — he was mute, too, and asked not a 
 single question as to the malady or decease of his bride. 
 Was it not enough to know that she was for ever torn from 
 him? — dead! — what mattered the mode or the circumstances 
 that had led to such a fearful result ? At last he spoke, but 
 it was only to request his father that he might be left alone. 
 The afflicted Signior, with words of affectionate condolence, 
 and prayers that his son would raise his thoughts to the con- 
 templation of that Being in whose hands were life and death, 
 and to whose omnipotent will it was duty to submit, left the 
 room with tears, and was followed by all the company. — 
 When, in the silence and solitude of his own chamber, Ghe- 
 rardo looked around him, he felt more than ever the extent of 
 his loss. He rose from the couch on which he had been 
 reclining, and advanced to a curtained recess at the end of the 
 room — he drew the curtains — the -sight was a cruel one! 
 There was the talamo, or splendid nuptial bed his friends had 
 prepared and decorated for his return — there, on the rich vel- 
 vet and the flowing silk, were the embroidered rose-wreaths 
 mixed with the laurel-crowns, and the initials of his name 
 entwined with those of his Isabel. And hungry death w T as 
 feeding on her roses, and her name, in the mouths of men, 
 had become a note of woe — in his ear a sound of despair ! 
 He threw himself on the ground at the bed's foot, and, bury- 
 
84 THE OFFERING. OF BEAUTY. 
 
 ino- his burning face in his hands, gave vent for the first time 
 to a copious flood of tears. 
 
 As thus he lay, humbled in the dust, with all his thoughts 
 in the dark and narrow grave, the sun shone brightly on 
 Venice, and her thronging thousands, replete with joy, sang 
 their songs of triumph and shouted the names of their gallant 
 warriors and the captains of their galleys. It could not be 
 that his should be forgotten, for who had borne himself more 
 bravely than he? and as a crowd passed in front of his pater- 
 nal abode, their united voices proclaimed "Gherardo! Ghe- 
 rardo ! Long life and glory to Gherardo, the soldier of St. 
 Mark!" The sounds struck his ears, but now they could 
 elicit only a bitter smile. 
 
 The passing hours did not restore tranquillity to the bereft 
 bridegroom; but, as the shades of night descended, a wild 
 idea, — an uncontrollable impulse invaded him. " And shall 
 my fond eyes obtain not a last glance of that being of love and 
 beauty? Shall my Isabel," reasoned the passionate youth (if 
 such movement of the feelings can be called reason) — " my 
 betrothed, be consumed by vile worms, and I not see the 
 loveliness she must have carried to the grave? She died but 
 yesterday — she must still be beautiful ! — Yes ! I will see her 
 once again ! I will once again press those lips, though they 
 be cold— cold!" 
 
 At a late hour he secretly left his father's house for the 
 well-known church — alas ! he was to have been married there! 
 A handful of gold gained over the sacristano, who unlocked 
 the door of the temple, and retired. Gherardo stood alone, a 
 few paces from Isabel's tomb. A few lamps burned here 
 and there, dimly, before the effigies of the Virgin Mother and 
 of the most conspicuous saints ; the moon shed an uncertain 
 light through the painted glass of the lofty and narrow Gothic 
 windows; but away among the massy columns and through 
 the long aisles of the church, there fell the obscurity of "the 
 valley of the shadow of death ;" and sounds there were none, 
 
ISABEL. 85 
 
 save the fast-coming sighs of the hapless lover. The hour, 
 the spot, the awful stillness, were all calculated to overpower 
 the mind with indescribable emotion; the age was one of 
 extreme superstition, and our young soldier's philosophy had 
 not taught him to rise superior to the popular credence ; the 
 state of his feelings too — and nothing is more imaginative or 
 creative of ideal horrors than a certain stage of grief — con- 
 tributed to delude the senses ; and as the cressets trembled, 
 and the moon-light, strangely colored by the stained glass 
 through which it passed, gleamed now brighter and now 
 fainter — now resting on this object of somewhat grotesque 
 architecture of the church, now on that — he saw, or fancied 
 the spirits of the departed rising one by one, and mournfully 
 waving their hands, as if warning him against a sacrilegious 
 intrusion on the regions of the dead. Through the postern 
 door by which he had entered, and which the sacristano had 
 left ajar, there suddenly blew a gust of the fresh night-breeze, 
 that, moaning among the columns and over the hollow marble 
 pavement of the church, sounded in his ear like a voice, but 
 not of earth — like the united lamentations of sad, or guilt- 
 burdened spirits. He clung to one of the pillars for support, 
 and was for some moments incapable of motion. His natural 
 courage and the intenseness of the feeling and purpose that 
 had brought him thither, soon, however, came to his aid, and 
 he strode with hasty steps to the cappella, or lateral recess 
 of the temple, beneath which was the tomb of his bride's 
 family. Here, in this deep recess, the moon could not shed 
 a beam ; but he was guided to the door of the sepulchre by 
 a lamp that flickered on the altar of the cappella. Hurried, 
 breathless, he laid his hand upon that door ; massy, and 
 bound with heavy iron and with bronze, it required a great 
 effort to open it — he pressed his muscular shoulder against 
 it — it receded ; but as it turned on its unwilling hinges, it 
 produced a hoarse rumbling sound that echoed like thunder 
 in the vault beneath, and caused him to start back with trem- 
 8 
 
86 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 bling limbs and cold sweat on his brow. Again, however, 
 desperation — love — the determination to see the lifeless form 
 of his beloved, conquered his awe and the repugnance for 
 disturbing the peace of the grave ; yet he paused, ere he 
 plunged into the horrible, palpable obscurity that lay beyond 
 the door of the tomb, and, crossing himself, murmured a 
 prayer to the blessed Virgin who saw his woe and might pity 
 or pardon his sacrilegious audacity. He then rushed down a 
 few steps through a short dark passage, — and, himself like a 
 spectre, entered the narrow chamber of death. A lamp 
 beneath a crucifix burned at the head of the avello or sarco- 
 phagus of Isabel, and a grated window near the roof of the 
 vault admitted the rays of the moon, that fell almost perpen- 
 dicularly on that cold white marble. He grasped at once 
 the heavy' cover of the coffin — had he hesitated, he might 
 have been effectually deterred from completing his sad, wild 
 enterprise. His nervous arms removed the weight, and then 
 his eyes rested on the shrouded form of his Isabel, whose 
 head was enveloped in a veil of pure white, and her "decent 
 limbs composed" beneath an ample white robe. His brain 
 reeled at the sight — and the lamp which he had grasped fell 
 from his hand. When he recovered strength to proceed, the 
 light from the grated window fell full in the open coffin; and, 
 as his trembling hands withdrew the veil, a clear broad ray 
 of the moon illumined the face of his lovely bride. * * : And 
 could this be death? — Why even thus she looked when life 
 and love coursed through her young veins ! — even thus, when 
 after a day of joy she slept a balmy sleep, a night of peace! 
 And were not the Ions loose tresses crossed on her innocent 
 bosom the same as erst — and the pale smooth brow, and the 
 broad eyelids, with their long black fringes, and the cherub 
 mouth, with lips slightly apart, as if smiling in some blissful 
 dream ! "No, this cannot be death!" cried Gherardo, deliri- 
 ously. "She sleeps — she only sleeps! — Oh wake! in pity, 
 wake, my Isabel — my love — my wife!" He was silent for a 
 
ISABEL. 87 
 
 moment, and gazed on her beautiful moon -lit countenance, 
 as if expecting she would really rise at his passionate adju- 
 ration. " Isabel!" continued he, " my own Isabel ! why dost 
 thou slumber thus! — dost thou await the warm kisses -of thy 
 lover to awaken thee ? I give them thee !" and throwing himself 
 across the marble coffin, he pressed his quivering lips to 
 hers. But how did his whole soul rush to his mouth, when 
 he fancied he felt the breath of life on those pale lips! He 
 pressed them again — if it was a delusion, it continued — for 
 the mildest, the most subdued of breathing seemed to pass 
 from her lips to his. He raised her from the sarcophagus- 
 he placed his hand on her heart — and language has no power 
 to paint his emotions, when he felt — plainly felt that heart 
 palpitate beneath his hand ! Another moment, and her eyes 
 opened, whilst a low murmur escaped her lips. Gherardo 
 clasped her wildly in his embrace, and leaned for support 
 against the sarcophagus, where, as they stood, mute, motion- 
 less, and pale, almost like statues, in the moon-light, it would 
 have been difficult to tell which of the two, or whether both, 
 had not been awakened from the sleep of death. 
 
 The Chronicler's tale is told. The ignorance of the physi- 
 cians, and the immediate sepulture after death, usual in the 
 south, had consigned Isabel to the grave, from which the 
 passion and impetuosity of her lover saved her so opportunely. 
 The fair Venetian passed almost at once from the marble 
 sarcophagus to the nuptial bed of silk and velvet. The 
 church, where the echoes of her funeral dirge might almost 
 seem yet to linger, pealed with the notes of her hymeneals ; 
 and her bridal coronet of white roses was supplied by the 
 tree that had furnished flowers for her funeral. 
 
PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE 
 
 BY DR. BOWHING. 
 
 I mused while I turn'd on a feverish bed, 
 
 Recalling the changes I've seen; 
 " There is so much of grief and of grievance," I said, 
 
 "In the things and the thoughts that have been, 
 That they canker the budding of hope with their blight, 
 And o'ershadow the future with memory's night." 
 
 Then I counted the joys, and the beautiful dreams, 
 
 Of the sunshine and stars of the past, 
 In the glory-gilt twilight of youth-time, which seems 
 
 To echo back bliss to the last: 
 And I said, "Life's a blessing, and man should be blest, 
 And the sorrows of life are but shadows at best." 
 
 It seem'd that I stood on the verge of the tomb, 
 
 While the flapping of ravens I heard; 
 I felt the sweet calm betw r een gladness and gloom, 
 
 And patiently waited the w T ord — 
 The w r ord which should bid me descend, but my breast 
 Was still as the snows on the mountains that rest. 
 
 Too much I've enjoyed on life's journey, to close 
 
 My pilgrimage free from regret ; 
 And I've suffered too much from its wants and its woes, 
 
 Their scourgings and stings to forget : 
 So come when it will the decree from on high, 
 I am willing to live — but contented to die. 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 
 
 A STORY OF IRISH LIFE. 
 
 BT sins. S. C. HALL. 
 
 " And now she works her mammie's wark, 
 And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; 
 Yet wist not what her ail might be, 
 Or what wad mak' her weel again." — Burns. 
 
 "God brake hard fortune afore any honest man's child!" 
 exclaimed my worthy friend, Abel Conway — as he drew the 
 back of his hand over his eyes, and turned to enter his own 
 farm-house— which, at first sight, more resembled an English 
 than an Irish dwelling. The windows were clean and entire ; 
 the thatch was neatly mended ; the fronting free from dung- 
 hill ; and, above all, the pigs were carefully enclosed in a 
 strongly built sty. 
 
 So much for "the lights"— now for "the shadows." The 
 windows were ill set ; the door hung awkwardly upon its 
 hinges ; there were no flowering shrubs, or sly patches of 
 woodbine and roses, clinging in helpless beauty to the walls; 
 and the pigs were loudly remonstrating against the injustice 
 of condemning them to confinement. By the way, the dif- 
 ference of piggish manners in the two countries is very 
 amusino*: an English pig is a staid sober animal, satisfied 
 with limited boundaries, and of a quiet sort of half grum- 
 bling temperament; the Irish species is active, dirty, and 
 
 8* 
 
90 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 bustling — a lover and talker of liberty — a sworn foe to bounds 
 and order — and everlastingly reveling in mischief and dirty 
 
 water. 
 
 Abel Conway did not approve of these dispositions in his 
 swinish multitude, and, certainly, his farm-yard looked all 
 the better for it. It displayed a considerable portion of rural 
 wealth in oaten, barley, and wheaten stacks, flanked by two 
 substantial turf ricks, and sundry sheds. Three cows were 
 amusing themselves in plucking the hay from a long, irre- 
 gular hay-rack ; while the young and interesting girl who 
 ought to have been occupied in milking them, was leaning 
 over the gate that led into an adjoining paddock, her pail and 
 three-legged stool lying at her feet, and her face buried in 
 her hands, while her throbbing bosom plainly told that she 
 was violently agitated. It was in vain that her mother — the 
 comely and kindly Stacey Conway — endeavored to render 
 her the consolation which she herself evidently needed; the 
 maiden only shook her head at intervals, and listened on in 
 silence. Two or three younger children were grouped near 
 the house* apparently ignorant of the cause, and yet unwilling 
 to pursue their pastime, because those they loved were un- 
 happy. I was grieved to see that the weeping girl was no 
 other than my especial favorite, pretty Patty Conway, oft- 
 times the humble, but intelligent companion of my sea-side 
 wanderings — a merry, but withal, a gentle girl — a creature 
 formed by Nature as if to show how contradictions might not 
 only mingle but harmonize. 
 
 Patty was, by turns, gay and sad, sportive and sedate, 
 tender and severe — a maid of many moods, but not of many 
 minds, for her affections (however her rainbow humors might 
 occasionally tint them) had long been fixed upon Edward 
 Lavery ; and it was the current report of the village, that as 
 soon as somebody or other (I believe, his uncle) died, he 
 would be rich enough to claim the hand of pretty Patty Con- 
 way. I was interested in the progress of this love affair, 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 91 
 
 having most certainly discovered the cause of the occasional 
 fits of absence, awkwardness, and shyness, with which my 
 humble friend became afflicted; and I certainly regarded the 
 entire family, including even little Blaney (most troublesome 
 of cur-dogs), with too much interest not to sympathize with 
 their sorrow. 
 
 Without further ceremony, I entered the cottage ; and ob- 
 served that Abel was seated inside the chimney, on an 
 ancient high-backed settle, his youngest boy clinging to his 
 knee. The father appeared perfectly unconscious of his 
 caresses, for his eyes were fixed upon the curling steam that 
 issued from an iron pot of boiling potatoes ; his middle finger, 
 meanwhile, continued almost mechanically stuffing a short 
 pipe with tobacco, although any one might have perceived 
 that the pipe was as full as it could possibly be. 
 
 "Good even, Aby." (No reply.) "Aby, a kind good 
 
 even to you." 
 
 "Och, my lady, is it you? I ax yer pardon — Bat, darlint," 
 (to the child,) "keep from under my feet, agra! Sure, I'm 
 always proud to see ye — sit down, if you plaze, madam — 
 not with your back to the door, alanah! for fear of the air — 
 here, now, is a clean chair for ye, any how." Abel, with 
 genuine politeness, took off the bob-wig which partially 
 covered a quantity of curling dark hair, and with it carefully 
 dusted the offered seat; then, replacing the caxon on his 
 head, leaned his back against the dresser, and crossed his 
 feet, evidently at a loss how to commence the conversation. 
 
 "I hope, Aby, nothing has occurred to make my young 
 friend, Patty, unhappy? — I saw her crying very bitterly; 
 and, as she is a favorite of mine, I thought" — 
 
 "God bless you, my lady; I hope you'll forgive me for 
 interrupting you ; sure, it's the height o' kindness, yer taking 
 notice of my girl, at all, at all — not but she's a good creature 
 as iver broke bread — only a little — (I ax yer pardon, ma'am, 
 honey! sure, it's yerself knows it's the truth I am telling) — 
 
92 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the least bit, like all faymale women, fond of having her own 
 way. But, why? — that's the luck that's afore every man, 
 whin he enters the holy state o' matrimony, to be contradicted 
 — you understand — and, tho' we see it straight forenint us, 
 we think, whin we're batchelors, that, whin we marry, we'll 
 manage the wives and daughters as asy as kiss my hand ; but, 
 God help us! it all finishes the same as in the ancient time 
 of Adam — the women get the lead of us ; and, in regard of 
 obadience, and all that, upon my conscience, it's myself 
 think's it's worse they're getting, instead of better." 
 
 " I am sorry to find you entertain so bad an opinion of us, 
 Aby." 
 
 "Is it me? Och, ma'am, honey, if you plase, don't lay 
 the color o' that to me. Sure, I'm an Irishman, and my 
 father and mother were so before me ; and wouldn't it be un- 
 natural for me not to love and honor all womankind, hand- 
 some or ugly, rich or poor, the foreigner or one's own. ' Bad 
 opinion!' Sure, I'd die, with all the veins o' my heart, tin 
 times every day of my life, rather nor see a woman in trouble. 
 And that young slip outside — let alone her mother — knows 
 it; so she does, or, I'm thinking, she wouldn't take on so." 
 
 "But what is the cause, good Abel?" 
 
 " That's just what I'm coming to, if you plase, my lady. 
 You see — that is, you know — it was Patty's luck to meet that 
 young wild high-learned chap, Neddy Lavery at every hand's 
 turn; and her luck, I suppose, to pick up with him, con- 
 trary — " 
 
 "Abel Conway" — I interrupted, looking gravely at him, 
 " what do you mean by saying it was Patty's luck?" 
 
 "Annan?" exclaimed the farmer, scratching his puzzled 
 pate, evidently not prepared for the question. 
 
 "What do you mean," I repeated, "by Patty's luck?" 
 
 "Is it her luck! — Why her luck! — sure ye'r sinsible,* my 
 
 * You understand. 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 93 
 
 lady — what's before her, ye know; the Lord save us!" And 
 he crossed himself devoutly. 
 
 "Do you mean," I persisted, "what she cannot avoid?" 
 
 "Jist thin — that's it, sure enough — I b'lieve — ." The 
 last opinion he added doubtingly. 
 
 "If so, Aby, of course it w T ould be unjust to be angry with 
 my young friend for what she could not help." 
 
 "Couldn't help!" repeated the farmer, somewhat angrily; 
 "I didn't say she couldn't help it, did I?" 
 
 "You said it was her luck, which you have just confessed 
 means what is unavoidable ; the same thing as not being able 
 to help it, you know." 
 
 " Yer fine English 's too much for me," he replied, smiling 
 good-humoredly ; "I don't quite understand you, I think." 
 
 "Perhaps Patty w r as encompassed by a spell, which 
 obliged her to meet Edward," I said gravely. 
 
 "You've spoke the true word, my lady — a spell, sure 
 enough — the spell o' love, I suppose : the plague's own spell 
 over the girls, it is — every day's bad luck to it, for bothering 
 'em! and, what's more, all belonging to them!" 
 
 Abel was too intent on Patty's affairs to permit my enter- 
 ing into a disquisition which I had long meditated, concern- 
 ing his favorite tenet of " luck." The Irish peasantry, without 
 understanding the term, are almost, without an exception, 
 predestinarians, and it requires both tact and temper to en- 
 counter them. They have a very provoking way of gaining 
 a victory, (which they call settling an argument,) by some 
 jeu de ?not, or sharp saying, which throws their adversary off 
 guard, and invariably causes a laugh, in which lies more 
 than half of Paddy's triumph. A true Irish laugh is the 
 most irresistible thing in the world : — how different from the 
 rigid, prudent sort of muscular movement which occasionally 
 disarranges the stiff mouth of an Englishman, in which the 
 eyes bear no part, and which creates no sympathy; whereas, 
 the laugh of my dear countrymen is the veritable music of 
 
94 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Momus — it will not be controlled. Heaven preserve unto 
 them their light-heartedness! say I — they have little else to 
 cheer them on life's pilgrimage ; their green hills are covered 
 by the rich man's flocks, while they perish around him ; their 
 fertile valleys are beautiful to look upon, and yield abundant 
 harvests — yet, to taste of the produce of the land is denied 
 the hard-working laborer; their glorious harbors, in which 
 the argosies of many lands ride in riches and in safety ; the 
 wave that, as it sparkles on their shore, might truly say — 
 
 " Bright wealth on my wings, for a hundred kings, 
 From the sea's blue mine I bring ; 
 The loveliest glare that slumbers there 
 I waft like a waking thing — 
 While I strew the strands with diamond sands, 
 And to beauty a pearl I fling."* 
 
 And even — but, alas ! this digression has nothing to do with 
 my story. So, craving my reader's pardon for the undue 
 indulgence of my rambling propensities, and promising (if 
 possible) to keep on in a straightforward way — I will, as an 
 atonement, relate in fewer words than it was told unto me, the 
 cause of the commotion in Abel Conway's household. 
 
 It must be confessed that the farmer (an extraordinarily 
 prudent person, for an Irishman), had, from the first, disap- 
 proved of Edward Lavery as a son-in-law ; not that he could 
 assign any specific reason for disliking the young man, but 
 there were certain symptoms of wildness about him, which 
 Conway feared might grow into unsteadiness. To confess 
 the truth, the youth was somewhat careless in matters 01 
 business, w T as fonder of hurling than of farming, and had 
 unfortunately a poetical talent, of which he was not a little 
 vain ; this vanity, however, was tolerably restrained until, in 
 an unlucky moment, one of his songs, called " The Irish 
 Hunt," found its way into an obscure county paper; and 
 
 * Laman Blanehard. 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 95 
 
 Edward's mother, in the pride of her heart, and with what 
 her neighbors called " dacent spirit," had the whole paper 
 framed, glazed, and hung in all the dignity of glass and gold 
 over the large oak table! This was, perhaps, natural enough, 
 but it certainly did not improve the humility of Edward's 
 demeanor, while it greatly impeded the course of his true 
 love; for Mr. Conway was heard to declare, "that no young 
 man who would give his mind to turning words through one 
 another, after such a useless fashion, could ever come to good; 
 and that it was ten times worse than setting up for a gentle- 
 man." Fortunately for the young people, Mrs. Conway was 
 of a different opinion from her husband. She liked the young 
 man for the very qualities that had given rise to the worthy 
 farmer's disapprobation ; declared "that he came o' dacent 
 people — that he had a good many of the makin's of a gen- 
 tleman about him — that the best wine bubbled the most at 
 first, &c. &c, and finally, that he was just the fit husband 
 for Patty." 
 
 This difference of opinion created, if not positive storms, 
 certainly rough breezes in the family. Stacey would wrangle 
 and talk, advise and declare, until she worked Conway (no 
 difficult task either) into a passion; then the woman, wise 
 and wife-like, would let him stamp and swear until he was 
 out of breath and absolutely tired ; then she would judiciously 
 recommence, exaggerate all he had said, call him cruel and 
 unkind, speak of her own worthiness and his demerits, touch 
 him upon the tender subject, in her own peculiar way — the 
 loves of their past lives, — appeal to him as the father of her 
 children not to make her and them unhappy by his obstinacy, 
 — and conclude her harangue with a shower of tears, which 
 last had the desired effect. Abel of course apologized — gave 
 up the point — until some fresh visit from the lover, some 
 token discovered, or some village chat, renewed his animo- 
 sity, and his wife's defence; then another debate followed 
 on his part, with another resignation. Abel's humility on 
 
96 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 these occasions would really be a useful lesson how to man- 
 age a tyrannical John Bull. 
 
 It so occurred, that after one of these little domestic dis- 
 turbances on the very evening to which my tale relates, 
 farmer Conway had gone, for the benefit of the cool air and 
 comfort, to "Paddy Murphy's Public." Just as he had fin- 
 ished his nice tumbler of punch, and laid down the scarcely 
 legible London paper, that had been in constant request for 
 three weeks at least, who should enter the region of whisky 
 but "bothered Nancy Fay?" Now be it known that "bo- 
 thered" signifies deaf; and Nancy was a little old cranky 
 "bothered" woman, who traveled the country in the quality 
 of a goose-plucker, and consequently news-vender to sundry 
 parishes. She was an extraordinary-looking being, not more 
 than four feet two or three inches in height, with a cunning 
 sharp countenance, a lame leg, and a strong affection for 
 whisky. The feathers, which she either bought or stole, 
 were contained in a blue cloak, sewed into a sack, and when 
 this was strapped across her shoulders, she appeared like a 
 misshapen roll of cloth, moving upon two red spindles, and 
 getting forward on her journey by a swinging sort of move- 
 ment, rather than a regular walk; the feathered bale swelled 
 over her blackened straw hat, and the smoke which curled 
 into the air as it proceeded from her cutty pipe, gave her ap- 
 pearance a most ludicrous effect to those who followed her 
 ambling footsteps. 
 
 "God save all here!" she ejaculated, as, raising herself on 
 the points of her toes, she unfastened the strap, and permit- 
 ted the blue sack to rest on the board that served, in the eco- 
 nomical apartment of Mister Paddy Murphy, for both dresser 
 and counter. 
 
 "Och, Nancy, is that you ?" responded the kind-hearted 
 Conway, at the same time filling out a glass of Irish poison ; 
 "here's something to drive the could out of ye — the stuff 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 97 
 
 that's the rale heart's blood of the country: take it, agra! 
 and tell us the news." 
 
 She deliberately finished "the cappar," and fixing her lit- 
 tle gray Munster eyes upon Abel, replied, "God's blessing 
 be about ye, and the blessing o' the saints, and ray blessing 
 to the back of it, Mister Aby; and sure you're in luck's way 
 this fine evening; for I heard for sartain, (and she lowered 
 her voice confidentially,) — I heard for sartain, that Ned 
 Lavery, the high-go chap, that thought so much of himself 
 and his bits of varses, 'listed with the red-coats in Taghmore, 
 and 's going to quit entirely for foreign parts. So now, 
 astore, ye'll have yer own way for onst, in yer own house." 
 
 Abel literally sprang from his seat. If Edward had indeed 
 enlisted, he certainly was likely to have, what Nancy had 
 maliciously insinuated — his own way; but, perhaps, at that 
 moment, victory was the last thing he thought of. The feel- 
 ing that he had not done justice to Edward's good qualities, 
 and had exaggerated his bad ones, was, perhaps, the first he 
 could define, of the many that crowded his mind : how would 
 poor Patty bear such a cruel desertion? what would his 
 agony, as a father be, if his own son were to enlist? When, 
 in some degree, he conquered his agitation, he loudly and 
 eagerly inquired where Nancy had gained her information. 
 
 "Is it where I hard it, astore? — Sit down, agra! and I'll 
 tell ye. You see" — 
 
 " Thunder and ages!" interrupted Conway; "tell me, out 
 o' the face, and don't squat there, like an ould goose — spake 
 up, and at onst, ye bothered keener!" 
 
 Deaf as old Nancy certainly was, she fully understood the 
 purport of this elegant oration: her little nose assumed a 
 purply tint, and her gray eyes blinked and twinkled with 
 spitefulness and passion. 
 
 " May the Dickons himself be at the trouble of fetching 
 me, Aby Conway, if I say a word more about it to-night, till 
 yer out of the house. I tould ye, for yer own good, what I 
 9 
 
98 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 was full sure ye'd be glad to hear; and thin ye turn as savage 
 as a pluck't gander, for nothin' at all! — 'Bothered keener, 
 agra!' if I'm bothered, may-be there's other people blind! 
 Find out for yerself, if it consarns ye. Or go down and ax 
 yer delicate daughter," she added, grinning; "I jist stept 
 in on my way and tould her." 
 
 "Nancy, ye've no more feeling than yer ould bag," ex- 
 claimed the farmer, at the same time kicking the feather 
 pouch with so much violence, that, in a moment, a cloud of 
 gray and white down mixed with the smoke, and thickened 
 the atmosphere — while Conway added, "The next cappar of 
 whisky ye get from me, to be sure ye'll drink it." 
 
 "Is it throwing yer dirty, weak trash o' spirits in my face, 
 ye are?" retorted Nancy, springing up like a fairy fury; 
 "there it's back for ye," she continued, flinging a penny at 
 his feet; "d'ye think I'm going to be behoulden to the likes 
 o' you?" 
 
 Conway, perfectly aware that no good could be got of the 
 "cankered weazel," while she remained in that humor, re- 
 treated, under the commingled cloud of smoke and goose- 
 down; but the sounds of "My beautiful feathers! I'll make 
 him pay for it!" followed him, even after Nancy had care- 
 fully picked up the penny which, in her indignation, she had 
 flunsr before him. 
 
 When Abel arrived at his own home, Patty could not af- 
 ford him any additional information. Nancy only said, that 
 she heard Edward had enlisted, and was to march with the 
 soldiers the next morning. "Father, dear father! — if you 
 would only'go and see — jist find him out," sobbed the poor 
 girl, as she hid her face on her father's shoulder. "If you 
 would only find him out — and tell him" — 
 
 "That you're dying for him?" — interrupted the father, 
 pushing her roughly from him. 
 
 "Not that," she replied, drawing herself up, in all the 
 pure and conscious dignity of maiden modesty — "not that, 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 99 
 
 father. Many years have we gathered the same flowers, 
 walked in the same sunshine, and danced, heart and feet, to 
 the same music: you thought to put the couldness between 
 us, jist as the briar parts the wild primroses, that grow from 
 the same seed, on the hill-side. It is done now, I suppose ; 
 and you meant it for good; but all I wanted was — jist to hear 
 his own voice say, 'Good by, Patty — 'and, maybe, 'God 
 bless ye!' Father, that was all!"— and she burst into an 
 uncontrolled flood of tears. 
 
 "Me ax him to bid you good by — you that's far too good 
 for him," said Aby, much moved, "whin he knew ye loved 
 him ? I'd suffer the heart to be tore out o' my body first ! 
 Lower a child o' mine in that way! If he's bent on going, 
 let him go." 
 
 "It's easy to say 'let him go,' ye hard-hearted Neabudcad- 
 neazar of a man— and it's all along your fault," ejaculated 
 Mrs. Conway. 
 
 "My fault!" repeated the husband, lifting up his hands, 
 despairingly : " For God's sake, woman, what had I to do with 
 his 'listing? Och meal-a-murder! the blessing and purtec- 
 tion of the Holy Saints be about me entirely!— and what had 
 I to do with it?" 
 
 So saying, Aby turned from the hay-yard to enter his 
 dwelling, but could not avoid casting a "lingering look be- 
 hind," when the sight of his darling child, bitterly weeping 
 on her mother's bosom, drew forth the simple and touching 
 Irish exclamation that I overheard, "God brake hard fortune 
 afore any honest man's child!" 
 
 When the worthy man had told me what I have related 
 after my own fashion, I requested permission to goto the hay- 
 yard, and prevail upon my young friend to enter the house. 
 She accepted my arm, with a stupid, unconscious look, 
 and sat down, apparently without exercising any will of her 
 own: she took no part in the conversation that succeeded, 
 and her swollen eyes were fixed on the ground. Her mother 
 endeavored to entertain me with the usual topics of country 
 
100 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 conversation, but the effort was too plainly visible, too feeble, 
 too slight, to veil the mental anguish under which she suffered. 
 Abel stood in his old position, glancing occasionally at his 
 daughter, with a mingled expression of stern and tender feel- 
 ing, that was at once both comic and tragic. 
 
 Suddenly, a footstep approached the door — it was evidently 
 a known sound to the sorrowing girl, for she sprang forward, 
 and, at the same moment, fell perfectly senseless into the 
 arms of Edward Lavery. Various exclamations followed — 
 and to the general question of " Are ye 'listed ?" he answered, 
 "No, nor sich a thing niver came across me." As Patty 
 recovered, she passed her hand listlessly over Edward's coat, 
 as if to ascertain what alteration it had undergone : a feeble 
 smile passed over her countenance, on finding that his dress 
 was unchanged; and her eye, which still appeared filled with 
 tears, rested for a moment on his hat — when, turning towards 
 her mother, she released herself from his support, and said, 
 "No cockade — no soldier!" 
 
 "Before another word is spoke," observed Conway, "I jist 
 want to spake myself: — Edward Lavery, — you have that in 
 your keeping — and I can't but say I'm sorry for it — that 
 gould nor silver couldn't buy, and that is, the pure and sunny 
 heart of Patty Conway! There, child, don't go for to deny 
 it— though it's my firm belief, now that I'm for ye, yer mo- 
 ther will turn to the other side, jist by way of a change. 
 There is no use of keeping the hand when the heart's gone ; 
 and whether your uncle lives or dies, sure I've enough for 
 both. But be kind to her, Ned— be kind to my girl ; and 
 remember, that a cool look, much more a cool word, is a 
 blight, a bitter blight to woman's love. I will niver gainsay 
 it more — ye have both my blessing and my consint." — Ed- 
 ward and Patty fell at his feet — and, amid tears of joy and 
 tenderness, the old people pronounced an earnest blessing 
 over the trembling pair. 
 
 "How could that old limmer make up sich a story?" said 
 
PATTY CONWAY. 101 
 
 Stacey Conway, wiping her eyes, for the twentieth tinle, With 
 the corner of her checked apron. 
 
 "God bless her for it, the poor sarpint," replied Edward", 
 "for it's ended well for me; and sure, Patty, 'tis only man- 
 ners for ye to ax the lady to the" — Patty placed her hand 
 on his mouth, which prevented his finishing the sentence. 
 
 " It must ha' come thro' this," proceeded Edward — " the 
 sargent's a first cousin o' my mother's half-brother's wife, 
 and, out o' good nature, he trated me at Mick Luke's house ; 
 and while I was sitting there, in came Katty Flin, the ould 
 gossip, and she began telling the misthress how Bothered 
 Nancy was plucking the geese, and was to pay her so much 
 a-piece for them — 'but,' says she, 'for fear she'd pluck the 
 goslins, the craturs that's green yet, and their skin as tinder 
 as May-butter, whin my back's turned, I'd better go watch.' 
 'Do,' says I, glad to get sight of her back, 'and tell her I'm 
 'listed.' " 
 
 Patty Conway and Edward Lavery were married the very 
 next week, and a merry wedding they had. The bridegroom 
 gladdened his father-in-law's heart, by taking an oath against 
 poetry; and Patty presented to her husband's mother a beau- 
 tiful sampler, which, when framed and glazed, made an ad- 
 mirable companion to the "Irish Hunt." 
 
THE ABSENT SHIP. 
 
 Fair ship, I saw thee bounding o'er the deep, 
 Thy white wings glancing in the morning ray, 
 
 And many a sparkling eye in vain did weep 
 For the bold hearts that steer'd thee on thy way 
 
 Long days of grief have linger'd into years: 
 
 Return ! return ! and charm away their tears. 
 
 I listen'd, till the music and the song 
 Died on the waters as she swept along; 
 I watch'd her stately beauty, till it grew 
 A fading shadow on the distant blue ; 
 Less, and still less — the waters are alone ! 
 Queen of the ocean! whither art thou gone? 
 
 The wintry storm has sigh'd itself to sleep, 
 Yet still thou lingerest on the faithless deep ; 
 Have calmer seas, and skies of deeper blue, 
 Charm'd thee to bid thine island home adieu? 
 Long has yon dark-eyed maiden wept in vain : 
 Return! return! and bid her smile again. 
 
 Long may'st thou weep, but never shalt thou see 
 
 Thy fair-hair'd mariner return to thee, 
 
 Clasp thy young beauty in a long embrace, 
 
 And read his pardon in thy happy face : 
 
 Thy gentle prayers, fair mourner, could not save ! 
 
 Thy sailor sleeps within the stormy wave. 
 

 
CALANTHA. 
 
 Cynics may say what they will, and disappointed wooers 
 may pretend to contemn his power, but love, at one time or 
 other, is nevertheless the tyrant of us all. It is in vain to 
 deny this fact; apathy may try to close his heart against it; 
 reason may build up a plausible scheme of life without the 
 boy-god's interference; friendship may extol itself as being 
 superior (and, without doubt, friendship is amongst the dear- 
 est solaces of man's being) ; platonic affection may endeavor 
 to keep itself distinct from the other; men, in short, may vow 
 to live and die free from the tyranny of love ; but the smiling 
 deity mocks at all this vowing, and determining, and reason- 
 ing ; and in a moment, when these mighty masters of the 
 world are least expecting it, he wreathes his rosy chains 
 about their hearts, and brings them humbly to his feet, or 
 rather to the feet of his fair proxy upon earth — lovely woman! 
 
 Such then is love's universal power ; all own it in some 
 way or other; high and low, rich and poor, vile and virtuous, 
 alike bow down before him. One man loves cautiously ; is 
 for years, perhaps, lingering around the object of his regard 
 before he declares his passion ; another loves in a moment, 
 and in a moment breathes forth his vows. Love assaults the 
 breast of one man in a church ; of another in a theatre : this 
 dances himself into the intoxicating passion, and that learns 
 to love while leaning over a harp, and listening to the delight- 
 ful warblings of an earthly angel. Some meet the tender 
 passion in the shady groves and silent retreats of the country; 
 
1Q4 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 while others are caught in the midst of noisy London. Love 
 enters one man's bosom when he sees a splendid female in 
 the midst of a pleasurable scene; while, on the contrary, 
 another is taught to love the gentle girl whom he finds smooth- 
 ing the pillow of declining age, or watching the bed of sick- 
 ness. Love, indeed, is everywhere; and this trivial tale will 
 only add another wreath to the number already bound round 
 the temples of the infant god. 
 
 Edward and Charles Murray were the sons of a gentleman 
 of large property, residing not far from the town of Bury St. 
 Edmunds, in the county of Suffolk ; their father was by birth 
 a Scotchman, but having married an heiress, became a resi- 
 dent in the mansion of his wife's forefathers, which stood in 
 the midst of a beautiful estate in the neighborhood above- 
 mentioned, and where his two sons, his only children, were 
 born. Charles was the younger by two years ; and although 
 Edward would succeed to the landed estates, Mr. Murray 
 had taken care to provide by his will a handsome fortune out 
 of his personal property for Charles. Their mother, who 
 was a beautiful but delicate woman, did not live to see them 
 through the interesting period of their infant years ; for in- 
 exorable death snatched her from a devoted husband and an 
 admiring circle of friends ; Charles being at the time but two 
 years old, and Edward four. 
 
 The inconsolable situation of their remaining parent can 
 only be appreciated by those who have suffered such a 
 loss ; the vivid fancies of a feeling heart may indeed picture 
 something like the first deep despair of such a moment, 
 and such a pang ; but the sad reality no tongue can de- 
 scribe. For a considerable time he felt himself alone in the 
 world ; he seemed to have lost his only solace and support, 
 and remained for many days closely shut up in his room. 
 At length his two boys were introduced to him ; and though 
 their resemblance to their departed mother gave the father a 
 shock, yet their innocent playfulness, and the recollection 
 
CALANTHA. 105 
 
 that he had a sacred duty to perform by them, at length re- 
 stored him to a state of quiescent calmness, if not to happi- 
 ness. 
 
 But soon the want of a mother to direct aright their youth- 
 ful pursuits ; the thousand cares and attentions which none 
 but a mother can administer as they should be administered ; 
 the indifference, the heedlessness, and the frequent vices of 
 servants, to whom young children must of necessity be much 
 intrusted, and after whom a master is often the most unfit 
 person to look ; pressed strongly upon the mind of Mr. Mur- 
 ray the imperative necessity there was for him to find some 
 female who might be adequate to such a charge, and at the 
 same time respectable enough to mingle as one of the family 
 in the society that frequented his mansion. The qualifica- 
 tions for such an office, he was quite aware, could be neither 
 few nor trivial ; but a recurrence to the scenes of his early 
 years, and a recollection of the present situation in life of 
 some part of his own family, soon relieved him from his 
 suspense. A distant relative of his, and about his own age, 
 had been married in Scotland rather improvidently to a sub- 
 altern in the army, who, he had heard, was recently dead, 
 and had left his widow with a miserable pittance, and an 
 infant daughter to support. Mr. Murray well knew the worth 
 of this lady ; he also knew that her education had been of the 
 very first order; that she was even learned as well as ac- 
 complished: her knowledge was not superficial, she had 
 drunk deep at the "Pierian spring," and was therefore well 
 qualified to watch over the advancing years of his two sons ; 
 besides which he had always known her to be of a most mild 
 and amiable temper ; she could bear, and forbear ; and such a 
 disposition is the fittest to manage children. 
 
 Many circumstances had prevented Mr. Murray from having 
 any recent correspondence with this lady; but he now wrote 
 to her, and eventually induced her to become a member of 
 
106 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 his family, together with her blue-eyed infant, Calantha 
 Graham. 
 
 In a short time Mrs. Graham and her beautiful child be- 
 came esteemed by Edward and Charles Murray as a mother 
 and a sister ; and a casual observer, who might have met 
 them in their frequent rambles about the delightful grounds, 
 would have decided that they w T ere so. The charming but 
 difficult task of teaching "the young idea how to shoot," Mrs. 
 Graham always made her chief pleasure ; and Mr. Murray, 
 although he never recovered the severe shock he received in 
 losing his deeply-beloved partner, yet now began to feel a 
 secret silent joy, mingling with his sorrowful sensations. 
 Unalloyed happiness, indeed, was never likely to be his 
 again ; but it certainly lightened his load of grief to perceive 
 the sparkling eyes of his offspring lighted up with intelligence 
 and joy ; and to know that they had not suffered all the be- 
 reavement that a mother's death too frequently brings with 
 it ; for his amiable relative, Mrs. Graham, filled that situation 
 towards them — a situation which often it is so difficult to fill. 
 
 It would be too tedious to dwell on the history of the 
 advancing years of these three children, who will be the 
 principal subjects of my unvarnished story; suffice it 1o say, 
 that during the early part of their lives they mutually im- 
 bibed every good principle, much valuable instruction, and 
 many accomplishments, from their well taught teacher, Mrs. 
 Graham. The best masters were provided for the more ab- 
 struse and difficult branches of education, by all of whom 
 they profited nearly equally ; they constantly shared their 
 tasks and their amusements, and indeed their learning, from 
 the kind endearments of their matronly instructress, was as 
 much their amusement as anything else. We will, therefore, 
 pass over the interval of time till Edward had reached his 
 fourteenth, and Charles his twelfth year; the fair Calantha 
 was about the same age as the latter ; the boys treated and 
 
CALANTHA. 107 
 
 esteemed her as their sister, while she looked upon them — 
 so her young heart thought — as brothers. 
 
 Amone their rambles and rides about the country, the 
 vicinity of the town of Bury, and the venerable remains of 
 its once great and mitred abbey, was their favorite resort ; 
 here they were enabled to compare their architectural read- 
 ings with architectural realities and their magnificent re- 
 mains; the old Saxon tower, now called the Church-gate, 
 though, in fact, quite separate from the church, and the most 
 perfect thing, perhaps, of the kind in England , the uniquely- 
 beautiful ruin called the Abbey-gate ; and all the more muti- 
 lated masses towards the little river Lark, which divided the 
 abbey gardens from its vineyards, once situated on a sloping 
 ground with a fine south-western aspect, and still designated 
 the Vine-fields. Here they loitered away many a summer 
 and autumnal morning, busied with their pencils either in 
 taking sketches of the various ruins, snatching an evanescent 
 grace from the scenery around, or pouring forth in poetic 
 numbers the feelings that were awakened by the contempla- 
 tion of all this decayed grandeur. On this spot once held 
 dominion the stately abbot, ruling the town and neighborhood 
 with a sort of princely sway, and granting to it many of the 
 immunities now enjoyed ; here the cowled monk whispered 
 forth his matin prayer, and chanted his vesper hymn ; hither, 
 to the rich and emblazoned shrine of the sainted Edmund, 
 came troops of pious pilgrims, to make their vows and de- 
 posit their munificent gifts; here for ages religion held her 
 solemn and splendid reign, bowed to by many with the really 
 sanctified spirit, and by others with base hypocrisy — but all 
 is now swept away and buried in oblivion, except the re- 
 mains already spoken of. 
 
 A spot like this was deeply interesting to our juvenile trio: 
 their wonderments; their tracings of the mouldering founda- 
 tions in the grass; their admiration of some of the remaining 
 fragments, which have resisted, as it is said, all the efforts of 
 
108 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 man to destroy them ; their fanciful notions of the manners, 
 habits, &c, of the former occupants of these ruins, were all 
 delightful in their way; and to Edward, who was no mean 
 poet, considering his youth, they gave frequent occasion for 
 the use of his pen. 
 
 Thus years glided away: Calantha became a beautiful 
 woman ; the young men had been sent to college, where the 
 correspondence they kept up with their charming friend, and 
 almost sister, was their greatest solace ; and when, during 
 the vacations, they returned to the mansion of their father, 
 the delight experienced by the whole trio needs an abler pen 
 than mine to portray. They appeared to love one another 
 as we would fancy angelic beings show their affections in the 
 skies ; for certainly little of earth had yet mingled its alloy 
 in their minds. Such, and so lovely, was the appearance of 
 their mutual happiness, when insatiable death claimed the 
 father of the Murrays, and, alas ! snatched him away by the 
 sudden and appalling stroke of apoplexy. Well may we be 
 taught to pray against sudden death ; for though it is some- 
 times argued, that, when a man is well prepared, it matters 
 not how short is the pang that removes him from a life of 
 trouble, and conveys his immortal part to a world of peace ; 
 yet to the survivors it is indeed an awful and a heart-rending 
 calamity. The children who have looked up with confiding 
 affection to a father for support and advice, see that being in 
 a moment prostrated to the earth, and laid in his grave, by, 
 what their sorrows cannot help deeming, a cruel dispensation 
 of Providence. The wife, who loved her husband with 
 more than mortal love, who looked to his protecting arm and 
 endearing regards as all her earthly bliss, is then left a widow 
 indeed ! 
 
 This event called Edward and Charles from their studies: 
 they now, for the first time, left the cloistered walls of Alma 
 Mater with feelings of intense grief; and they left them to 
 return no more. Edward was now twenty-two and Charles 
 
CALANTHA. 109 
 
 twenty ; and as the property of their deceased parent was 
 ample enough to make the choice of a profession quite un- 
 necessary, they determined to give up all thoughts of returning 
 to college, and to enjoy each other's society, and that of their 
 sister-like Calantha and her amiable mother, in their lamented 
 father's mansion. 
 
 Sorrow for a long period stole from them all the blessed 
 calm, the delightful intercourse, that hearts so united as were 
 those of this little family generally enjoy; but time, the great 
 restorer, at length brought "healing on his wings;" and the 
 morning and evening ramble, the amusements of the pen and 
 the pencil, and all their wonted employments, again gave a 
 pleasing zest, and made life more than tolerable, — they made 
 it happy. Sometimes, indeed, the softened but bitter tears 
 of recollection were called forth ; for memory, that busy power, 
 would remind them of the heavy loss they had sustained by 
 the death of father and of friend. 
 
 Two more years had now elapsed, and Calantha's beauty, 
 her talents, and her manners, became the admiration of the 
 surrounding neighborhood. At the subscription assemblies, 
 held in the town of Bury, her form, her face, her dress, and 
 her style of dancing, were at once the delight of the gentle- 
 men and the envy of the ladies: and yet, amid all this adula- 
 tion on the part of one sex and the w T ant of it on the other, 
 she remained the same sweet unsophisticated being as ever ; 
 it was unable to spoil her, — the affections of her soul, 
 
 "Pure as the breath of new-born infancy," 
 
 were divided between a natural love for her affectionate 
 mother, and an undefined sort of regard for Edward and 
 Charles. This regard indeed began, — though a good deal 
 unsuspected, and quite unacknowledged, — to awaken an 
 unusual, and till then unknown, feeling in the bosoms of 
 our young trio; it first showed itself in a restraint of behavior 
 till then unthought-of between them: the brothers were less 
 10 
 
HO THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 confidential in their communications to each other ; and Ca- 
 lantha had a sort of .reserve in her manner towards them 
 that she could not account for even to herself. Yet with all 
 this there was no want of attentions to their fair friend — 
 they were even increased ; but there was a something of 
 formality about them which there had never been before : in 
 truth, it was love that had wrought all this change, and the 
 brothers had confessed it in their own hearts, but knew not 
 how to trust the confession either to each other or toCalantha. 
 They each more than suspected the other of the same love 
 for her, and they each feared that she would favor the other 
 most ; thus every word and every action of hers were scanned 
 by Edward and Charles with the keen scrutiny of a lover's 
 feelings, — while Calantha, though not altogether unconscious 
 of similar thoughts herself, yet imagined that she behaved 
 with equal and undivided regard to both. 
 
 This was an irksome state of things : Mrs. Graham, more 
 used to the world, and more versed in the observation of 
 mankind than either her daughter or her young kinsmen, 
 soon discovered the fact, but was totally at a loss for a remedy. 
 Glad as she would have been to see her dear Calantha hap- 
 pily married to either of the sons of her departed friend, she 
 had too much pride and propriety of feeling to take any step 
 that might forward, or seem to forward, such a result ; and she 
 therefore watched in silence for some disclosure that might 
 give her a legitimate opportunity of acting as a mother ought 
 to act. 
 
 In a short time Calantha's reserve towards Edward in- 
 creased : she shunned her usual walks with him; and if they 
 were by chance left in each other's company, she seemed 
 uneasy till some one joined them. On the contrary, she 
 rather sought the society of Charles — at least it appeared so 
 to Edward, — and when alone with him or w T hen he was of 
 the party, would relax into all her wonted sprightliness. 
 This went to the soul of Edward ; and in his lonely walks he 
 
CALANTHA. HI 
 
 would thus soliloquize : — "It is evident that Calantha loves 
 me not; all my attentions, all my cares, all my fondness, 
 seem but to make her unhappy; she either shuns my society, 
 or keeps a chilling, and to me heart-breaking silence ; while 
 to my brother Charles she is all that the fondest lover could 
 hope for or desire ; — he is sought after, — with him she is happy, 
 — then, and then only, burst forth those sallies, which were 
 once my delight, but which now, when I am convinced they 
 are not meant for me, and when I know and feel she can 
 never be mine, 'harrow up my soul.' It is certain that 
 she loves Charles — dearly loves him ; and shall I stand be- 
 tween the happiness of my brother and that of the woman 
 who, notwithstanding the wretchedness of my fate, I can 
 never cease to adore ? Perish the thought! Edward Murray, 
 though unhappy himself, shall never be the wilful cause of 
 unhappiness to others. I will leave them — leave this once- 
 dear home, sanctified by all my fondest remembrances, and 
 in some distant country try to forget no, that is impossi- 
 ble — but at least to drag on my existence in solitary unshared 
 misery." 
 
 His resolve once taken, Edward hastened to carry it into 
 effect, and with the greatest caution and secrecy, got together 
 the necessary supplies of clothes, money, &c, for a long 
 journey; and in a short trip which he took to London, under 
 a pretence of a very different nature, placed out sufficient 
 funds, in an assumed name, to supply him with a small 
 yearly income, but large enough for his intended mode of 
 life, and which was to be forwarded to him from time to time 
 as he might order. This done, he had to tear himself from 
 his birth-place — his home — the brother of his heart, and the 
 woman whom he loved with an affection pure and unbounded, 
 but, alas, unreturned ! And this was to be accomplished se- 
 cretly : he must steal away, as would a conscience-stricken 
 villain, in the darkness of midnight, from all that he held 
 
112 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 dear upon earth, and cast himself upon the world without a 
 home, and without a friend. 
 
 He did it. In the gloom of a November night, while the 
 moaning wind seemed to sound a requiem for his departure, 
 while the few remaining leaves were scattered around his 
 aching head by the blast, and the dreary desolation of nature 
 seemed to accord with the moodiness of his own bitter feelings, 
 he passed on foot down the long avenue where he had so often 
 gamboled in boyish innocence, but which he now seemed to 
 be leaving for ever. At the end of it he turned to look to- 
 wards the house ; there was still a light in Calantha's window, 
 at which he gazed as though he would send his soul through 
 his eyes, to tell the dear object of his fondest prayers that 
 peace-consuming secret which his lips had never dared to 
 utter. How long he would have remained it is impossible 
 < to conjecture ; but the sound of the wheels of the approaching 
 stage-coach, by which he meant to reach the metropolis, and 
 the twanging of the guard's horn to awaken the drowsy toll- 
 taker at the neighboring turnpike, roused him from his pain- 
 ful reverie, and he turned into the road. He was soon taken 
 up by the coach, and the morning dawned on him in London, 
 where every preparation had been made for his departure to 
 a distance. Here then we must leave the distracted Edward 
 to pursue his uncertain course, and return to the no less dis- 
 tracted family he had left in Suffolk. 
 
 To picture the feelings of Charles Murray, or of Calantha 
 and her mother, on the morning when Edward was missed, 
 would be a vain attempt. Their first vague conjectures led 
 them to fear that he might have destroyed himself, recollect- 
 ing, as they did, his late melancholy demeanor; but this pang 
 was spared them by the finding of letters in his room ad- 
 dressed to Mrs. Graham, her daughter Calantha, and his 
 brother Charles. To all of them he said that he should 
 depart from this kingdom, and endeavor to shroud himself 
 from observation and discovery for the remainder of his life ; 
 
CALANTHA. 113 
 
 to Charles he confided all the estates, saying it was quite 
 unlikely, from the steps he had taken, and from the sort of 
 life he intended to lead, that he should ever be in want of 
 any funds from them ; he also named to him the conviction 
 of his own mind, that Charles loved and was beloved in re- 
 turn by Calantha; and that this step was taken by him solely 
 that he might not by his presence prevent a consummation 
 of that mutual affection which was evidently shown by each 
 to the other. His letter to Calantha was as follows : — 
 
 " Ever dear Calantha, 
 
 "At this moment, when I am quitting all that is most 
 valuable to me upon earth, my mind is in a very unfit state to 
 dictate a disclosure of its own wretched feelings ; but it must 
 be done ; I cannot leave those who have been always so kind 
 and so dear to me without at least attempting to give a reason, 
 however bad it maybe, for my conduct. It would be harrowing 
 up your soul, as well as mine, to recapitulate all the delightful 
 recollections and intercourses of our early years, — recollec- 
 tions that will now form my only solace. Suffice it to say, 
 dearest Calantha, love stole upon me so imperceptibly, that 
 it was long before I could bring my heart to acknowledge 
 that the sensations I experienced proceeded from it. Sat- 
 isfied at length of the deepness and fullness of my affec- 
 tion towards you, I watched you in every situation with the 
 scrutinizing eye of a lover. Despair — deep and inconsolable 
 — seized my breast when I became convinced that my brother 
 Charles had succeeded in obtaining all that regard from you 
 which I would have given worlds to obtain. You shunned 
 me: received my civilities with coldness: in short, Calantha, 
 though I blame you not for loving a brother who is dear to 
 me, yet I found it impossible to stay and be a spectator of 
 your happiness, though I call Heaven to witness that I do 
 most sincerely wish you both every bliss that earth can afford, 
 and to which I shall henceforth be a stranger. It is quite un- 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 certain in what part of the world I shall find a secluded 
 home; but wherever it may be, your name, my beloved Ca- 
 lantha, will linger on my lips amidst every prayer that I 
 shall offer to the throne of Omniscience. Dearest Calantha, 
 farewell for ever! 
 
 " Edward Murray." 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the scene of melancholy 
 confusion which succeeded this event; and, indeed to attempt 
 it would swell this humble tale to too great an extent ; how- 
 ever, when a short time had elapsed, and the first acute feel- 
 ings of distress had in some degree subsided, Mrs. Graham 
 delicately questioned her daughter as to the state of her heart, 
 for, ever since the sudden departure of Edward, poor Calantha 
 had been 
 
 " Like Niobe — all tears." 
 
 It soon became apparent to this anxious mother that Charles 
 was not really the favored idol of her daughter's affections ; 
 on the contrary, she loved Edward with all the fondness and 
 fervency of a first and only love ; her appearing to shun him 
 — her silence and reserve in his presence — indeed, everything 
 that the unhappy Edward had construed into a want of af- 
 fection, w r ere, in fact, but so many proofs of it. She had 
 become aware of the state of her own bosom, but knew not 
 that of his. Her whole conduct will be well understood by 
 many who have passed through this ordeal of love ; for it is 
 well known that the two persons who are the fondest of each 
 other, are often the last to discover the truth. 
 
 Need it be said that this unhappy circumstance w r as a 
 death-blow to Calantha's hopes and health? The rose soon 
 quitted her lovely cheeks, and the pale lily usurped its place; 
 her vivacity, which had for a long time been forced, left her 
 altogether; she scarcely ever quitted her own room, or if she 
 did it was to steal silently and alone to some of the favorite 
 
CALANTHA. 115 
 
 haunts of her loved, lost Edward, where she would remain in 
 a state of grief, quite unconscious of the lapse of time, till 
 her fond and distressed mother would seek her in her wander- 
 ings, and prevail on her to return. 
 
 Charles Murray, great as was his love for Calantha, had 
 not suffered the soft passion so far to overwhelm his reason, 
 as to sink under the disappointment when he discovered the 
 real state of her affections; he, therefore, at once ceased to 
 pay her any of the attentions expected from a lover, but 
 endeavored to make himself to her indeed as an affectionate 
 brother; and deeply did he lament the sad mischief that was 
 thus innocently done ; nay, he did more, for besides trying 
 all the means in his power to console the suffering maid, he 
 took every possible step to discover his brother's retreat, 
 though in vain, by journeys to London and other places, and 
 by sending letters to every friend he had, to claim their as- 
 sistance in his inquiries. 
 
 On his return from these journeys, he constantly found 
 Calantha w r orse, — her form more attenuated, and her counte- 
 nance paler than before; still he strove to comfort her, and to 
 win her back to peace, but without success ; — neither could 
 her mother prevail better ; — the blow had been too powerful, 
 and the poison had sunk too deep for remedy. Her yet lovely 
 smile and languid voice would thank her friends for all their 
 attentions, and for all their hopes ; but, though she never ex- 
 pressed herself in direct terms to that effect, yet the blank 
 and utter despair, which but too frequently showed itself in 
 her altered features, told the awful tale of approaching decay 
 — perhaps of dissolution ! 
 
 Medicine and medical men had been employed till hope 
 was at an end ; and Calantha's physicians at length advised 
 that she should be taken into Scotland to try the effect of her 
 native air ; an expedient, I fear, too often resorted to when 
 doctors feel that they can do no more for a patient ; some- 
 times, indeed, with what should seem like greater cruelty, 
 
116 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 they are sent to a foreign land, where they too frequently 
 perish among strangers, without a friendly hand to close the 
 dying eye. 
 
 More than a year had elapsed since the flight of Edward : 
 the sun of summer had visited and renovated a smiling world, 
 but came in vain to Calantha Graham ; the snows and frosts 
 of winter had spread desolation around, — but a deeper desola- 
 tion froze the genial current of her veins. The spring was 
 again returning, when this journey was recommended to be 
 taken, in the apparently vain desire of giving health and 
 happiness to a broken heart. Charles Murray offered to at- 
 tend the hapless girl and her mother on their tedious way, 
 which offer was gladly accepted. The journey, upwards of 
 four hundred miles, was of course to be accomplished by 
 short stages ; it was left to Charles to manage the whole : 
 and by taking every possible care as to drivers and horses, 
 and by traveling in the new carriage which had been sent 
 home to Edward just before his departure, and which was 
 exceedingly easy when compared with the wretched vehicles 
 often found on the road, it was managed so as to save Calan- 
 tha from much fatigue ; and she reached the town of , 
 
 in Scotland, better than had been anticipated, though dread- 
 fully ill. 
 
 The magnificent mountain scenery she had beheld on her 
 road to the north, in passing through the counties of West- 
 moreland and Cumberland, and their beautiful lakes, had in 
 some degree interested her mind ; and the district to which 
 she had come being of the same sublime character, the rides 
 which were taken either in the carriage they had brought with 
 them, or in a pony-chaise which was used for the more narrow 
 and difficult roads, always delighted the forlorn Calantha; 
 but mingled with that delight came a corroding feeling that 
 poured bitterness into her soul ; — Edward was wanting to 
 complete every scene. The precipitous glen, the torrent 
 struggling below among the broken rocks ; the blue expan- 
 
CALANTHA. 117 
 
 Sive lake spread beneath the eye, and sleeping in seeming 
 peace ; the distant mountains, spotted with white flocks at 
 their bases, and crowned with snow upon their summits; all 
 were fine, all should have called forth expressions of gratitude 
 and love towards the Almighty Being who formed them. Ca- 
 lantha endeavored to awaken her soul to such feelings, but 
 could not ; or, at least, she felt them but feebly ; every thought 
 suggested, that were Edward but present to share all this 
 magnificence and beauty of nature, her heart would then 
 expand with all its native warmth and happiness. But as 
 this was denied to her, all the pains taken did not advance 
 her recovery ; for though there was no apparent increase of 
 disease, her form seemed to be more wasted, her voice more 
 feeble, and her whole appearance more indicative of danger 
 and of death. 
 
 Charles Murray, having remained with Mrs. Graham and 
 her daughter till he saw them comfortably settled, as far as 
 worldly convenience could make them so, returned to England. 
 Even this was an additional blow to the frail form of Calantha ; 
 for though she loved not Charles with the fervent affection she 
 cherished for Edward, yet she experienced towards him all the 
 feeling that a fond sister could have done ; and, in her deso- 
 late state, his departure occasioned her many a shower of 
 
 tears. 
 
 After he was gone, they frequently observed in their rides 
 a young Highlander, whom they had not noticed before, 
 sporting among the mountains with his dog and gun, or fish- 
 ing in the adjacent lake. At first this circumstance was 
 little thought of; but at length it struck Mrs. Graham as 
 being strange, that journey which way they would, there was 
 the Highlander, first on one hill, and then on another ; for 
 while their carriage had been slowly winding round the foot 
 of a high knoll, he had crossed its summit, and was on the 
 opposite side before them. He never approached very near, 
 but it seemed as if he watched them ; for what purpose it 
 
US THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. • 
 
 was in vain to conjecture. Mrs. Graham's fears sometimes 
 suggested that it might be for a bad purpose ; but the charac- 
 ter of the neighborhood, and her own good opinion of her 
 countrymen, forbade such a supposition ; still it was extraor- 
 dinary, and wanted explaining to her mind. Who, and 
 what was he ? where did he reside ? for she had never seen 
 him in the town. These questions occurred to her; but how 
 were they to be answered ? He had no appearance of ferocity, 
 for there were a grace and elegance about his form that be- 
 spoke him not of the humble class ; and yet, as she knew 
 most of the neighboring gentry, he could not belong to them, 
 she thought. To settle this point, if possible, she determined 
 to make inquiries, but they elicited little to the purpose : the 
 person she had seen was known as Mr. Murdoch, but the 
 most usual name given to him was the Man of the Mountains ; 
 for though he had sojourned in that part for many months, 
 yet he had never entered the town, nor sought society of any 
 kind, save that of a churlish old man, who attended upon 
 him at a distant shepherd's cottage among the hills, which 
 he had hired to reside in, and who now and then came to 
 market for what articles they wanted ; but beyond his being 
 Mr. Murdoch, and having plenty of money, the old man did 
 not, or w T ould not, know anything. 
 
 This was a romantic story, but not quite satisfactory to 
 Mrs. Graham, and her trips were for some time confined to 
 the vicinity of the town ; but on one occasion, when the fine- 
 ness of the day had tempted her to extend their ride, she 
 directed the lad who drove them to go to a certain summit 
 which commanded a fine view of the whole expanse of the 
 lake, and the mountains surrounding it ; the different heads 
 and peaks of which amounted to more than thirty. This 
 was a favorite spot of theirs ; here they had every variety of 
 mountain scenery spread before them, with all those wonder- 
 ful and multifarious tints, which, though perfectly true to 
 nature, are often thought by the inexperienced eye of the 
 
CALANTHA. 119 
 
 lowland Southron, when seen in a picture, to be entirely the 
 work of fancy. Calantha's only occupation now was draw- 
 ing, and hither she came to portray nature in her magnifi- 
 cence and splendor. When near the summit, one of the 
 horses, from the stinging of a fly, became unruly, — a very 
 common but a very dangerous circumstance in hilly and 
 woody countries. The youthfulness of their driver rendered 
 him timid; the road was narrow r , and the hill on each side of 
 it dangerously steep ; one plunge of the horse in a wrong 
 direction might hurl them to destruction. It was a fearful 
 moment, and dreadful consequences might have ensued but 
 for the providential interference of the mysterious Highlander, 
 who was seen hastening from a neighboring hill at the very 
 top of his speed, the sable plumes of his bonnet dancing in 
 the breeze, and his tartan cloak streaming in the wind. He 
 had thrown his gun from him to prevent its impeding his 
 course, and in a very short time stood before the ungoverna- 
 ble steeds ; thus allowing the driver to leave his seat, and 
 hand the ladies from the carriage. Calantha was in an almost 
 fainting state, and her mother could scarcely support her, 
 when, as soon as the driver had returned to his horses, and 
 was leading them to a place of comparative safety, Murdoch, 
 the Man of the Mountains, rushed — rudely, as it seemed — to 
 the support of the trembling fair one. His assistance was 
 useful, but Mrs. Graham liked it not from a stranger, and 
 was about to request that he would not trouble himself longer, 
 as she saw her daughter was recovering, when the stranger, 
 having perceived the same thing, fervently ejaculated "Ca- 
 lantha, dearest Calantha!" but apparently overpowered by 
 his feelings, could not utter more. It was Edward Murray! 
 — The sudden shock again threw Calantha into a state of 
 insensibility, and he cursed his own imprudence and thought- 
 lessness for betraying himself; for as yet he knew not the 
 feelings of the suffering Calantha's heart ; he deemed her 
 illness to have been the result of anything but love for him, 
 
120 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and still imagined that her affections were placed on his bro- 
 ther Charles. Here it may be as well to state, that on his 
 departure from London, Edward had fixed on no particular 
 spot for his residence ; but his wayward fancy led him first 
 to seek his father's country, and his Calantha's birth-place; 
 when the thought struck him that he might here make his 
 home "unknowing and unknown." He had therefore hired 
 the cottage, and the old man as a servant, and continued to 
 live the sort of life we have heard, till surprised by the ap- 
 pearance of Mrs. Graham, her daughter Calantha, and his 
 brother Charles in the neighborhood. He soon discovered 
 that Calantha was ill ; but the fact of Charles being with her, 
 confirmed his idea of their mutual love ; and until his bro- 
 ther had departed for England, he avoided the routes which 
 they took; but after that a feeling too strong to be suppressed 
 drew him across their path, and wherever Calantha and her 
 mother went, he followed. This was a melancholy pleasure 
 to him, and his whole time was passed in watching their 
 movements; he could give no reason to his own heart for this 
 conduct; he was without hope; he meant not to discover 
 himself, and yet he pursued the same course. 
 
 We have seen the chance that betrayed his secret, and his 
 first thoughts were turned upon instant flight. Calantha still 
 continued insensible, and with the assistance of the driver 
 had been placed in the carriage. Edward silently walked 
 by its side till it had reached the level road, when he said to 
 Mrs. Graham: "I have unwittingly placed myself in your 
 way, and I fear my presence has destroyed poor Calantha, 
 who is dear to me as ever ; but I meant it not; I have always 
 wished, and I do still wish her every happiness with my 
 brother Charles. Before sunrise to-morrow I shall quit this 
 place, and this part of the world for ever: — farewell!" So 
 saying, he was turning away, when Mrs. Graham exclaimed : 
 "For God's sake, Edward, be not so rash; for our dear Ca- 
 lantha's, for mine, for your own sake, stay! This is not a 
 
CALANTHA. 121 
 
 place, or a time to explain ; but Calantha's life depends on 
 your remaining! I charge you, Edward, by all your old re- 
 membrances, by the memory of your departed parents, by all 
 your hopes of happiness, to continue in your present abode 
 till to-morrow. In the morning come to me in the town, and 
 I will explain all. God bless you, and remember Calantha's 
 life is in your hands!" 
 
 The carriage slowly proceeded, and Edward returned dis- 
 consolately to his cottage in the mountains. Yet Mrs. Gra- 
 ham's parting words hung upon his memory, with a gleam 
 of returning hope : "Calantha'* s life is in your hands V What 
 could she mean? It must be that she loved him. It proved 
 so. The early morning saw him in the presence of his re- 
 spected friend, Mrs. Graham. She did explain all; and gave 
 back happiness to Edward Murray: Calantha loved him be- 
 yond all on earth! Yet with this intelligence came a pang; — 
 Calantha was dreadfully ill. But over her soul too a balm 
 had spread itself, the only one that could minister to her dis- 
 eased mind; the man of her heart's warmest affections was 
 restored to her by a seeming miracle; again she heard his 
 voice; and now that their loves were confessed, she could 
 rest her head on his shoulder in confidence and peace. 
 
 Health soon returned to her wasted form, spreading its 
 living rose upon her lately pallid cheek; and before she left 
 Scotland, she frequently, with agile step, accompanied by her 
 dear Edward, the Man of the Mountains, sought the hill 
 where he had been restored to her. Charles had been writ- 
 ten to, and with a truly brotherly love, joined the happy party 
 as quickly as a post-chaise and four horses could enable him. 
 Little remains to be said: Edward and Calantha returning 
 to the mansion in Suffolk, were united at the adjoining vil- 
 lage church, and the day of their union was a jubilee to the 
 whole neighborhood. Before Calantha had presented her 
 Edward with their first child, Charles was happily married 
 to the only daughter of a wealthy baronet, and purchased an 
 11 
 
122 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 estate near them ; while the two families continued for many 
 years to be as happy and united as love and friendship could 
 make them. 
 
 PERUGIA. 
 
 BT THE REV. CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 Is this the spot where Rome's eternal foe 
 Into his snares the famous legions drew, 
 Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few, 
 
 A remnant scarcely reach'd her gates of woe? 
 
 Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow, 
 That from the gushing wounds of thousands grew 
 So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue 
 
 Rush'd on the bosom of the lake below? 
 The mountains that gave back the battle-cry, 
 
 Are voiceless now ; perchance yon hillocks green 
 Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie. 
 
 Heaven never gladden'd a more peaceful scene, 
 Never left softer breeze a fairer sky, 
 
 To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene ! 
 
THE ORPHAN FAMILY. 
 
 BY MHS. HOFLAJfD. 
 
 There are inflictions which, from their peculiarity, sud- 
 denness, or severity, call on the sympathies of our nature 
 with a voice so imperative as to be irresistible, and excite the 
 thoughtless, not less than the considerate, to exercise the 
 offices of humanity. Such was the case when farmer Little- 
 wood and his wife died within a few hours of each other 
 from the attack of a virulent fever, which had already carried 
 off the youngest of their children, and reduced to extreme 
 debility the three others who survived them. 
 
 "What can we do for the poor orphans?" said all their 
 late neighbors to each other; and every mother in the little 
 village °of Fulhvood had some treasured recipe, or dainty 
 morsd, that could aid the suffering, and sustain the conva- 
 lescent; and every father was ready to lend a helping hand 
 in the labor required for their grounds and their cattle. Ihe 
 awful circumstance of three funerals issuing from the same 
 house, three pale and helpless children weeping over such 
 accumulated losses, touched every heart, and opened every 
 
 a By decrees the poor children emerged from sickness and 
 sorrow, and their humble friends consulted on what must be 
 their future destination, for the landlord had claimed the right 
 of selling the stock and resuming the land, as they had no 
 relations on either side, save a rich aunt of their mother s, 
 
124 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 who lived in London, and had no intercourse with the de- 
 ceased. It was the wise advice of the schoolmaster that this 
 lady should in the first place be written to; for, since she 
 was a rich woman, and single, it could hardly happen that a 
 circumstance which had impressed them all so deeply would 
 fail in moving her compassion, and obtaining that assistance 
 which was more particularly required for the farmer's only 
 son, then but five years old. 
 
 To this touching appeal the lady granted a prompt reply : 
 she professed herself willing to take a girl, provided " she 
 was too old to be troublesome, clever enough to be capable 
 of accomplishment, and tolerably pretty." The child so 
 taken would be educated as her future heir and present com- 
 panion, and must "on no account hold intercourse with the 
 relatives she was leaving, as such conduct would for ever 
 forfeit her favor, and subject her to a poverty which would 
 necessarily be more painful than that which she was quit- 
 ting." 
 
 Elizabeth, the eldest, was a girl of fourteen, and, before 
 her illness, a blooming, active, lively creature, the " little 
 busy bee" of the household. Alice, the next, was a delicate, 
 timid flower, whom the fond mother was wont to call her 
 " lady-bird," and whom the affectionate sister warmly offered 
 to be chosen as " fit for the purpose, and sure to please a 
 gentlewoman." Nor did her generous renunciation of the 
 "grand offer" stop there; for she anxiously soothed the mind 
 of the weeping child, pointed out to her the future blessings 
 she would ensure, and promised faithfully that she would be 
 a mother to little James, the fondly beloved of both, but to 
 the younger almost an object of idolatry. 
 
 Midst youthful hopes, anxious forebodings, and the bitter 
 tears which follow such severings of affectionate hearts, Alice 
 departed. Well did Elizabeth fulfill her promise to him that 
 remained, by placing all the produce of their sale in the 
 hands of the good schoolmaster, entreating him to take that 
 
THE ORPHAN FAMILY. 125 
 
 and James with it, in order to bring him up decently till he 
 was able to help himself. She then entered into the service 
 of the 'squire's family, as assistant to the housekeeper and 
 dairy-maid, thankful that her unceasing exertions entitled 
 her to the welcome reward of occasionally seeing her little 
 brother, and lavishing on him all the tenderness with which 
 her bosom overflowed, and which his desolate situation de- 
 manded. 
 
 Elizabeth did honor to the education (the purely useful 
 education) she had received from a most exemplary mother. 
 The boast of the housekeeper, "that her butter was the 
 sweetest, her curds the whitest in the village — that she could 
 sew better than the lady's maid, and read the Bible as well 
 as his honor," drew attention to her merits, and secured 
 lighter labors, abundant kindness, and intellectual improve- 
 ment. What was best of all, it enabled her to provide for 
 the increasing wants of the poor boy, who had no other friend 
 or parent. 
 
 The time came, however, when another object claimed a 
 share in the affections of Elizabeth. When she was about 
 nineteen, her master's son, a naval officer, returned from a 
 long absence, attended by one whom he called a servant but 
 treated as a friend ; for they had shared those dangers toge- 
 ther which displayed the virtues, and proved the faithfulness 
 of honest Ben Bloomfield. The frank-hearted sailor was 
 struck a little with Elizabeth's person, which was indeed at- 
 tractive ; but the story of her early misfortunes, and the 
 witnessing of her affection for little James, entirely won his 
 love, and he offered to take both for better and worse, so 
 kindly and sincerely as to prove irresistible in his entreaties. 
 
 The young captain gave Elizabeth away at the altar. Not 
 only the family, but her former neighbors, loaded her with 
 proofs of their affection, and she departed from her native 
 place, with the good wishes of all who had known her, for a 
 residence on the sea-coast, that she might be better able to 
 
 IP 
 
126 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 secure the society of her husband, in those brief intervals 
 allowed by his professional duties; a circumstance the more 
 desirable, because James was determined to accompany him 
 to sea. 
 
 Elizabeth had now a neat home of her own, an income 
 equal to her wishes, and a husband so kind, that he sought 
 to render her sister the companion who should solace her 
 solitary hours; but his attempt was repelled with disdain by 
 the aunt who had taken her, and who informed him in reply, 
 "that Miss Littlewood was about to change her name, and 
 herself to remove, by which means she hoped to escape from 
 unwelcome intrusion." 
 
 The birth of a little girl, whom she named Alice, some- 
 what consoled Elizabeth for this disappointment ; and in a 
 short time her own rapidly increasing family, and the anxiety 
 inseparable from a wife and mother so situated, might be said 
 to engross her wholly. Her husband rose rapidly in the ser- 
 vice, and increased, if possible, in her love and esteem. But 
 with his improved circumstances came also longer absences 
 and increased dangers ; and often would her sinking heart 
 be sensible how possible it is 
 
 " To feel a thousand deaths in fearing one.'' 
 
 It was not, however, her lot (as it is that of many similarly 
 situated) to mourn for those whom they behold no more. 
 Benjamin and James were indeed wrecked on a distant coast; 
 but they escaped with life, and returned in poverty and sick- 
 ness to the afflicted wife and sister. By slow degrees James 
 was restored ; but the fond husband died, and the sorrows of 
 Elizabeth's childhood were renewed in her widowhood, for 
 three desolate children called her mother. 
 
 But far worse was her present situation than the past. 
 Her little savings had been expended before the return of the 
 afflicted wanderers : the expenses of their sickness had taken 
 her furniture; and to procure the decent interment of her 
 
THE ORPHAN FAMILY. 127 
 
 beloved husband, even her clothing had been sacrificed. She 
 was far from her native place, and had formed no acquaint- 
 ance in that where she resided capable of assisting her. Her 
 health was injured by sorrow, and the energy of her mind so 
 impaired by suffering, that whilst she felt herself called upon 
 to live and to labor for the helpless babes around her, she yet 
 felt an utter incapacity for exertion : in the emphatic language 
 of Holy Writ, "the whole head was faint, and the whole heart 
 was sick." 
 
 With affectionate solicitude, and the grateful affection 
 awakened by the memory of the past, did poor James urge 
 her to unite with him in endeavoring to gain even scanty food 
 by making matches and weaving laces and cabbage nets, 
 which he crept out to sell, and by degrees regained sufficient 
 strength to offer himself as an errand-runner, or assistant to 
 the market-gardeners near them. By one of these he was 
 recommended as a poor, but honest lad, who would assist in" 
 weeding the grounds around a handsome villa, which was 
 taken for a month by a wealthy couple, who sought the 
 benefit of residence on the coast during that period. 
 
 To a family "ready to perish," even the daily acquisition 
 of a small sum was an object to awaken not only thankful- 
 ness but hope, and poor Elizabeth roused her mind to devise 
 the means of gaining farther relief through the same channel. 
 But, alas! her strength was gone — the will to labor was un- 
 supported by the power; and when James announced the 
 arrival of the family, she wept bitterly over that weakness 
 which forbade her offering to be their laundress, and that de- 
 plorable appearance which would prevent them from trusting 
 her as a seamstress. "Yet, my dear sister," said James, 
 "I must beg you to cheer up a little, and even to see the 
 lady. I am sure they are good people, for though they knew 
 I was paid by the gardener, they have given me half-a-crown. 
 If they were to see you and the children, who knows how 
 kind they would be?" 
 
128 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Elizabeth faintly smiled, as she looked on the fair faces of 
 her fatherless babes, and felt a mother's pride in their beauty, 
 whilst she inwardly blest the kind hand which enabled her 
 once more to find them a sufficient meal. "When this her 
 first care was over she began eagerly to question James on 
 the subject of his benefactors. 
 
 "You must know, sister, the 'squire is quite an old gen- 
 tleman, lame and infirm, which I take it was the reason why 
 he pitied me for being pale and thin, and called his beautiful 
 young wife to come and look at me ; and she did look with 
 such kind eyes, Elizabeth, I could have thought it was you 
 that gazed upon me." 
 
 " She is a good lady, undoubtedly, James, and perhaps not 
 a very happy one: all have their troubles." 
 
 "I think she had none till she saw me, for her face was 
 smiling and her step light ; but when I told her I was an 
 orphan, with one friend only, and that a widowed sister, the 
 tears came into her eyes, and she turned away her head to 
 hide them. At that moment the old gentleman popped the 
 money into my hand, and said, ' Go away now, my good fel- 
 low ; Mrs. Delville will see you to morrow, and talk about 
 your poor sister.' " 
 
 The next morning Elizabeth, after making her pretty 
 children as neat as she could, struggled for their sakes 
 against the shrinking modesty of her nature, and determined 
 to take the earnest advice of her brother and throw herself 
 before this charitable pair as an object of pity. Still desiring 
 to claim help through any medium rather than that of down- 
 right beggary, she collected her humble merchandize into a 
 basket, which was carried by James, while the hands of little 
 Alice were filled with matches. 
 
 They proceeded by an unfrequented path towards the villa, 
 and whilst they were still at some distance, Elizabeth, over- 
 come with trepidation and the fatigue of carrying her babe, 
 sat down on the wall of a ruined building to rest herself. 
 
THE ORPHAN FAMILY. 129 
 
 Scarcely had she done so, when James saw the garden gate 
 open, and the ill-matched but apparently happy couple ad- 
 vancing towards the spot where they were. "Look up, 
 sister," he exclaimed, "the lady is coming! — see how beau- 
 tiful she is ; her hair light and curling like your own little 
 Alice's, and when she is near, you will see that her eyes 
 are just as blue." 
 
 Elizabeth could not look till the lady stood beside her and 
 addressed her in a voice full of courtesy and kindness — it 
 came over her like the memory of music heard in days gone 
 by. Whilst she was asking herself "if it were possible that 
 this could be one of her young ladies at the Hall?" little 
 Alice interrupted the current of her thoughts by addressing 
 James: "See here, Uncle Littlewood, the good gentleman 
 has given me a white ha'penny for my matches." 
 
 "Littlewood! Littlewood!" cried the lady, in great emo- 
 tion, " can he be James Littlewood of Fullwood? — but surely, 
 surely, it cannot be James!" 
 
 "Yes, madam, it is poor little James, and I am Elizabeth. 
 I now remember you, dear lady! — may God for ever bless you, 
 
 my beloved " 
 
 These words were uttered in extreme trepidation, and the 
 latter in a mere whisper, for the widow, overpowered as she 
 was by joy and surprise, yet dreaded to injure the sister lost 
 so long, yet still held so dear. She would indeed have in- 
 stantly withdrawn, had not Mrs. Delville, equally astonished, 
 but of course far more affected with the discovery, sunk 
 almost fainting in the arms of him who was ill able to sus- 
 tain her — him whom our impoverished family beheld with a 
 timid and deprecating air, as if to beseech his mercy, not 
 for themselves, much as they needed it, but for the lovely and 
 artless one, who had confessed her alliance with poverty like 
 theirs. 
 
 "Alice, my beloved Alice!" said the generous husband, 
 "do not allow yourself to be overpowered thus; you cannot 
 
130 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 doubt my joy in finding your relations, and thereby adding 
 to your happiness." 
 
 "Doubt! oh, no! I cannot, do not doubt your goodness, 
 since it turned the misery of a dependence, worse than even 
 this poverty, into happiness. Still I grieve that I should have 
 allied you to positive beggary, though I am certain such beg- 
 gary is allied to virtue." 
 
 " Hear me, dear Alice ! To me you have been the best gift 
 of Heaven, and you have indeed bestowed on me every comfort 
 save one, an heir. This brother of yours may, if he pleases, 
 become such. — To this widowed sister I will immediately 
 transfer the fortune left by your aunt to you, since your good- 
 ness to me for five long tedious years is more than a sufficient 
 dower. For the present we had better part." 
 
 "Oh yes, sir, certainly, sir," was echoed by all. 
 
 " Take this pocket-book, relieve your wants, remove to 
 London, and on our return we will meet as friends after a 
 long absence. From that time James shall belong to me, 
 but never shall he forget that Elizabeth was the friend of his 
 infancy, any more than my Alice that she resigned the goods 
 of fortune for her sake." 
 
 The friends separated ; when they again met, the shoeless 
 weeding-boy was not recollected in the smart midshipman, 
 and the handsome widow " clothed in silk attire" was deemed 
 a suitable sister for the elegant Mrs. Delville. Health re- 
 visited the benefactor, and never did the bright eyes of his 
 beloved Alice shine with such joy as when she gazed on her 
 infant nieces, save when she turned in a transport of grati- 
 tude to that excellent man whom she loved and honored as 
 the restorer of her dearest connections, the earthly saviour of 
 an Orphan Family. 
 
MY STELLA'S RETURN. 
 
 BT H. BRANDRETH, ESQ.. 
 
 Away care and sorrow, dark visions away- 
 Bright Phoebus is shining, and sweet blooms the May : 
 Away then, nor here let your revels be seen, 
 For cool is the fountain, and fragrant the green. 
 
 But here bring the garland with flow'rets inwove, 
 To grace the fair brow of the maiden I love ; 
 My Stella's return'd— reddest roses entwine, 
 And bid the crown'd goblet blush deeper with wine. 
 
 'Tis well, boon companions, you ask for a toast: 
 Then— "Here's to the girl I've loved longest and most!" 
 Affections, tho' blighted, may still remain true, 
 As clouds dim the sky, yet destroy not its blue. 
 
 And can I e'er banish the fond thoughts that stole, 
 Like music's soft tones, to the depth of my soul ? 
 No, never, my Stella— hope's ray tho' 'tis set, 
 And oceans divide us— we cannot forget. 
 
 It was not thy beauty that dared to entwine 
 Love's chain round my heart, tho' young beauty was thine; 
 But friendship— such friendship as brothers receive 
 From fondest of sisters, to me thou didst give. 
 
132 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 I sought not affection — I knew 'twas in vain — 
 Yet more than mere friendship had dared to remain : 
 Adieu! and may happiness still light thy brow, 
 As I once was happy, oh! ever be thou! 
 
 Yet still if it chance that my name thou shouldst hear, 
 drop, love, in pity to friendship — a tear! 
 And some kindred spirit the gem shall enshrine, 
 And bear it to mingle, my Stella, with mine. 
 
 The sun which now sets, my dear girl, in the west, 
 And sinks in fond transport on Thetis' soft breast, 
 So set when we parted, and bade me ne'er see 
 It so setting again without thinking of thee. 
 
 And oft as I've seen it, so oft has thy form, 
 
 In fancy appearing, assuaged the black storm 
 
 That swelled my proud heart, when some fair one's dark eye 
 
 Flashed triumph as burst from my bosom the sigh. 
 
 Ere long, and to some distant clime I may go, 
 'Twill soothe it, perchance, but not banish my woe ; 
 For memory will still, with the wings of the wind, 
 Seek the home and the friends that are left far behind. 
 

FLORA; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE WEDDING DAY. 
 
 It was a delightful summer's day, and the little village of 
 
 H was a scene of commotion, which evidently showed 
 
 that some event of consequence had happened, or was ex- 
 pected instantly to take place. The inhabitants were bus- 
 tling about with an air of importance and business, resembling 
 that which we often see assumed by one of your visionary 
 politicians, who fancies that he carries the affairs of the nation 
 upon his shoulders, and that he is of the utmost importance 
 to its happiness}- when, sooth to say, no one but himself knows 
 or cares whether such a being exists or not. The three bells 
 in the steeple of the rustic church were (what is technically 
 termed raising) giving indications that a merry peal would 
 shortly be rung upon those national instruments. The bailiff 
 and chief constable, the only official men in the village, were 
 seen hastening across the green to the court-house, attended 
 by their underlings in office, and preparations were making 
 by the inhabitants of all classes for an illumination in the 
 evening; whilst a large pile of fagots, collected upon the 
 green we have before mentioned, and arranged around a lofty 
 staff surmounted by a tar-barrel, denoted that the old Eng- 
 lish mode of, rejoicing, by kindling a bonfire, was not to be 
 forgotten. But, perhaps, the best sight of all was, to see a 
 12 
 
134 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 number of children, girls and boys, running about, whose 
 uniform dress and extreme neatness showed that they be- 
 longed to some charity school, in which great attention was 
 paid to their appearance, and, as was seen by their demeanor, 
 to their conduct also. The girls carried little baskets, and 
 both were evidently engaged in begging flowers, as they 
 were seen to stop at the doors of all the cottages to which 
 gardens were attached, and their store was augmented from 
 each application. We had almost overlooked the village inn, 
 an offence which would never have been forgiven by honest 
 Boniface, the landlord of the Wilson's Arms, wiio was now 
 in his element, scolding here, ordering there, and, perhaps, 
 in a third place, chucking a pretty smiling bar-maid under 
 the chin, (Boniface was a bachelor, I must inform my readers), 
 with a " Come, Bessy, keep a good heart, girl, look to the 
 things briskly ; have everything tidy and in order, and what 
 I calls comfortable, as I once heard a man say in the play, 
 when I went to the play-house at the market-town there ; and 
 who knows, girl, but thou mayest get thee a husband before 
 night?" 
 
 The Wilson's Arms was situated on the south side of the 
 village-green, on which preparations were making for a va- 
 riety of popular sports. Here hung a chemise, richly deco- 
 rated with ribbons, for which a number of rustic Atalantas 
 were to contend in the race ; there was a hat intended as a 
 prize for the victor in a match at jumping at sacks ; a belt, 
 to be given to him whose power in wrestling was superior to 
 that of his competitors, was also displayed; with various 
 other articles, to be bestowed as rewards upon the successful 
 candidates in feats of agility or strength. Three barrels of 
 strong ale, standing in front of the inn, were to be broached 
 in the course of the day; and several brisk lads and lasses 
 were engaged in carrying tressels, planks, forms, &c, to a 
 neighboring barn, that was to serve as a hall f<*r refreshment 
 during the day and a ball-room at night. 
 
FLORA. 135 
 
 In the midst of all these bustling preparations, a humble 
 chaise and pair drove up to the Wilson's Arms : two gentle- 
 men who alighted from it entered the house, requesting to be 
 shown to a room, and to have breakfast sent in immediately. 
 Neither of them was apparently more than thirty years of 
 age, but both bore the marks of travel upon their brows; 
 and it was evident that they were but recently arrived from a 
 much hotter climate than England happily possesses, from their 
 embrowned complexions, on which the sun's rays had appa- 
 rently been acting for some years. The bustle in the village 
 had attracted their notice, as, indeed, it was impossible but it 
 should ; and whilst their breakfast was getting ready, they 
 summoned their host, who entered the room smirking and 
 rubbing his hands with an air of self-satisfaction, which 
 showed that he was perfectly at ease with himself, and with 
 everything around him. 
 
 "Here I am, gentlemen, waiting your commands; and 
 though I say it that should not say it, there are few things you 
 can call for but the Wilson's Arms will furnish. The best 
 inn, sirs, as every traveler will tell you, within forty miles." 
 
 "Well, honest Toby," said the youngest of the strangers — 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir, my name is not Toby; Boniface Barley- 
 corn, sir, at your service. A name, sir, which I have borne, 
 man and boy, these fifty years." 
 
 "Indeed! well, I beg your pardon, Mr. Barleycorn Boni- 
 face" — 
 
 "Boniface Barleycorn, sir." 
 
 " Boniface Barleycorn be it, then. Have you lived here 
 long?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I was born here: here in this very house, and 
 in the chamber, sir, directly above this parlor — the window 
 of which opens to the green, and commands a fine view of 
 the 'squire's house in the distance. Yes, I was born here, 
 sir; and so was my father, and my grandfather, sir ; and my 
 
136 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 great-grandfather; and, for aught I know, all my ancestors 
 as far back as Adam himself." 
 
 "Then you think the Wilson's Arms was in being before 
 the deluge, hey, my fine fellow?" 
 
 "Can't say, sir; I never bother my head with such un- 
 profitable speculations. I take things as I find them ; and 
 don't stop to inquire as to their origin or antiquity." 
 
 "A very sensible practice, upon my word; but we want 
 to know the meaning of all this stir in your village, old 
 Boni." 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir; but I don't like to be called 'Boni:' 
 it puts one in mind of that fellow 'cross the water yonder ; 
 and I'm a true Englishman, sir, and love my king, and detest 
 Bonaparte and all Frenchmen." 
 
 "As a right honest John Bull should do. Give us your 
 hand, my old boy!" and the gay spark seized the broad palm 
 of Boniface, and gave it a hearty shake — so hearty, indeed, 
 that it almost dislocated his elbow. 
 
 "Come, that's not the gripe of one who's lived in idleness 
 all his life, however," said the landlord. 
 
 "No, my honest fellow," said the second stranger, who 
 had not spoken before; "it is the grasp of a soldier who has 
 borne arms in defence of his king almost from infancy; 
 and under whose gay and thoughtless exterior is concealed 
 as brave and honest a heart as ever beat in an Englishman's 
 bosom." 
 
 The sound of this gentleman's voice evidently startled the 
 landlord. He eyed the stranger from head to foot; then 
 muttered — "Strange resemblance of voice! but it can't be. 
 I beg your pardon, gentlemen:" after a minute's pause, he 
 resumed — "you were asking about the stir in the village. 
 The daughter and only child of our worthy landlord, 'squire 
 Wilson, is to be married to-day." The stranger, whose 
 voice had apparently brought back to the landlord's mind 
 some reminiscences of the days that were past, now started 
 
FLORA. 137 
 
 in his turn, and exclaimed, "Indeed!" His emotion, how- 
 ever, was not noticed by Boniface, who proceeded: — 
 
 "She is the pride of our village, sir; so beautiful, so good- 
 humored, and so amiable : then, sir, she is the idol of all who 
 visit the hall — both young and old; and is doted upon by her 
 parents." 
 
 "Is she the only child, did you say?" inquired the stranger 
 who had first spoken. 
 
 "We fear she is," said Boniface. 
 
 "You fear she is ? What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "Why, sir, the story always makes me melancholy — 
 and this is not a day for melancholy reflections ; however, 
 you shall have it. You must know, sir, that our 'squire had 
 another child, a son; a fine boy he was, too, handsome, gene- 
 rous, high-spirited : indeed, he was too high-spirited, as you 
 shall hear. He grew up amongst us, and was beloved by 
 old and young; not a lad in the village but would have laid 
 down his life to serve Master Henry. He was educated at 
 home, his father not approving of public schools; and an 
 orphan cousin, to whom he always behaved with the affection 
 of a brother, was brought up with him. Sirs, this cousin 
 was a villain. (The second stranger here was greatly agi- 
 tated, and listened with increased interest.) He panted to 
 enjoy the wealth and distinctions of his unfortunate cousin ; 
 he envied him the affection and respect of the villagers, 
 which he thought was paid only to his wealth ; and from 
 brooding over the difference which Providence had pleased to 
 make in their situations, he formed the diabolical plan, if 
 possible, to ruin Henry in his father's affections by corrupting 
 that heart which was the seat of honor, and by making him 
 the child of vice and crime. He failed; and though Henry 
 detected his machinations, he generously concealed them 
 from his father, as he knew how dependent his cousin was 
 upon him ; and having earnestly reasoned with him on the na- 
 ture of his offences, he trusted that he had worked a reforma- 
 
 12* 
 
138 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 tion in the depraved mind of Woodbum ; but his heart was 
 the same, and still panted for the ruin of his benefactor. 
 
 "Well, sirs, this ruin he effected by purloining some trink- 
 ets from the room of Mrs. Wilson, which he hid with great 
 care in the bottom of Henry's box; who, never suspecting 
 any one about him of dishonesty, frequently left his keys 
 lying in his room, and thus afforded facility to the execution 
 of his treacherous cousin's devices. Woodburn then procured 
 a girl who lived in the family, over whom he had obtained 
 unbounded power by the basest arts, to be ready, when any 
 inquiry took place, to come forward and swear that she saw 
 Master Henry take the trinkets out of his mother's room. 
 What particular end he meant this rascally trick to answer I 
 don't know, as he could not have expected that if even his 
 parents became convinced Henry had clandestinely stolen 
 the trinkets, they would discard or disinherit him for that. 
 However, unhappily, it fell out too well for the villain. The 
 things were missed ; inquiry was made ; the girl with great 
 apparent reluctance told the cursed tale which had been put 
 into her mouth ; and the noble and honorable-minded Henry 
 was charged with the theft. He positively denied it. His 
 father, who felt thunderstruck at the imputation cast on his 
 son, demanded the keys of his box : Henry, indignant at the 
 idea of being suspected of committing a crime at which his 
 whole soul revolted, refused to deliver them. His father took 
 them by force, and going to his chamber, soon returned with 
 the lost trinkets, which he had found carefully concealed in a 
 corner of his trunk, under his clothes. I cannot describe the 
 scene which followed, though I have often heard poor old 
 Harlowe, the butler, describe it; but it ended in Henry's 
 running out of the room, declaring that he would never stay 
 to be suspected of being a thief. From that time to this he 
 has never been heard of." 
 
 "And how did Mr. Wilson bear up under the loss of such 
 a son?" inquired the first stranger: the other had buried his 
 
FLORA. 139 
 
 face in his hands, and seemed to be listening to the landlord's 
 tale with the most intense interest. 
 
 "I can scarcely tell you, sir. After a little time he seemed 
 like a lost man: the sight of the girl who had accused Henry 
 became hateful to him, and she was obliged to leave the 
 family. My lady was delivered of a daughter soon after ; but 
 still the 'squire was anxious to discover his son : rewards 
 were offered, every search was made, but all to no effect ; 
 and our respected master fell quite into a melancholy way 
 
 like." 
 
 "Well?" said the stranger. 
 
 " Things went on so for two or three years ; when one day 
 the girl who had accused Master Henry came to my house, 
 (it was my father's then, though) and after much crying and 
 fainting, told us the whole story, how she had been seduced 
 by Woodburn to tell the base lie, and that it was all false. 
 Nobody in the village believed it, sir ; but we were happy, 
 nevertheless, at being able so satisfactorily to contradict it. 
 Father hurried away with her to the Hall, where she was 
 confronted with Woodburn, and told the same story. I have 
 often heard father say, what a hang-dog he looked like when 
 the 'squire indignantly ordered him from his presence, but 
 told him that he should have a liberal maintenance to keep 
 him from the necessity of committing crime. This is now 
 fifteen years since, and still nothing has been heard of 
 Master Henry ; yet the good old 'squire, who shook off his 
 melancholy when his son's innocence was made apparent, 
 has always kept up his spirits. He says he is convinced 
 he will return ; for that God who made his innocence mani- 
 fest, will protect him in his wanderings, and restore him, 
 when he sees fit, to his family and friends." 
 "And Woodburn?" said the stranger. 
 " Oh! he lives somewhere in London, I believe: he is yet 
 a pensioner upon the 'squire's bounty; but he never dares 
 to show himself at the village. But, bless my soul, gentle- 
 
140 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 men, I cannot stand talking here any longer ; time flies. 
 The marriage takes place at twelve o'clock: it is now ten, 
 and I have a hundred things to do. You shall have breakfast 
 sent in directly ; but you must excuse me. Your servant, 
 gentlemen." 
 
 "Your servant, Mr. Boniface; and thanks for your inte- 
 resting story." 
 
 The landlord left the room ; and the two friends, whilst 
 discussing their breakfast, arranged the plan of their future 
 operations. 
 
 The hour soon arrived which w T as to behold the blooming 
 Flora Wilson become the wife of Sir George Broomfield, a 
 young baronet of large estates in the neighborhood, and of a 
 character as amiable as her own. The party proceeded to 
 church through a line of villagers formed from the Hall to the 
 sacred edifice, and were preceded by the children we have 
 mentioned, strewing flowers in their path. The ceremony was 
 performed by the venerable parish priest, who had been the 
 tutor of Master Henry, and who had refused all other prefer- 
 ment, that he might remain near the family of his beloved 
 pupil, whom he never ceased to regret, and of whom he was 
 never tired of talking. "When it was concluded, the bride 
 and bridegroom and their friends returned to the Hall, whilst 
 the villagers proceeded to the village, to spend the day in 
 festive mirth and in innocent enjoyment. 
 
 A splendid dejeuner a la fourchette was provided at the 
 Hall for the nuptial party, and they were scarcely seated, 
 when Mr. Wilson was summoned to the library to receive a 
 stranger who wished to see him on particular business. On 
 entering the room, a young man of prepossessing appearance 
 introduced himself to him as Captain Lockhart, and apolo- 
 gized for intruding upon him at such a moment: "But, sir," 
 he continued, "I flatter myself that when I have opened my 
 commission, the intelligence I bring will insure my pardon, 
 and, I trust, increase the happiness which the event of this 
 
FLORA. 141 
 
 day is calculated to confer upon all parties connected with 
 your amiable family." 
 
 "You come to tell me of my son!" tremulously exclaimed 
 the agitated, anxious father: "I can see by your looks that 
 he lives — God be praised!" and he sank upon his knees to 
 return thanks to that Being who had granted his prayers, and 
 fulfilled the only wish, the accomplishment of which was left 
 unattained. The gallant soldier beheld him with reverence 
 and respect; and when he rose from his devotional posture, 
 assured him that his conjectures were correct — that he did 
 bring news of his son, who lived; nay, who was in the vil- 
 lage — in the house. "In your arms, my father!" exclaimed 
 Henry himself, who came forward from a recess where he had 
 remained during this conversation, and threw himself into the 
 ready embrace of his revered parent, who strained him to his 
 heart with a convulsive grasp. Mr. Wilson had not closed 
 the library door when he entered : a servant, who had lived 
 in the family before the disappearance of Henry, happened 
 to be passing down the corridor, and heard the last words. 
 She immediately ran in to the servants, shouting, "Our young 
 master's come back, and is now in the library!" From the 
 servant's hall it was an easy transition to the breakfast par- 
 lor; and the party assembled there, half-incredulous — hoping, 
 yet doubting — proceeded to the library, where they found the 
 father and son still locked in each other's embrace. The 
 scene which followed mocks description. It was some time 
 before composure was restored to any individual in the com- 
 pany ; but at length they again adjourned to the breakfast 
 parlor, where Henry, being seated between his father and 
 mother, accounted for his long absence and apparent neglect. 
 
 On leaving the Hall, he had proceeded to the neighboring 
 sea-port, and enlisted as a drummer in an East India regi- 
 ment, which embarked the next day. He wrote to Wood- 
 burn to tell him of his movements, before the vessel sailed, 
 and to entreat that he would take every opportunity of im- 
 
142 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 pressing his innocence upon his father's mind ; and promised 
 to acquaint him with his proceedings when he arrived at the 
 place of his destination. From that time he had risen through 
 every gradation in the army, till he had reached the rank of 
 Lieutenant-Colonel ; and little did the anxious parents think, 
 when reading of the heroism of Colonel Campbell, that this 
 individual was their deeply-lamented son. He had kept up 
 a constant correspondence with Woodburn, who always re- 
 presented his father as implacable against him ; and assured 
 him that he had invariably refused to read the letters which 
 Henry forwarded to him through his treacherous cousin. 
 These letters Woodburn had destroyed, and thus perpetuated 
 the estrangement he had first created. The peace of 1815 
 was the signal for the recall of Henry's regiment to England ; 
 and, unable any longer to bear the anger of his beloved pa- 
 rent, he resolved to seek his native village, and try the effects 
 of a personal interview. There he arrived, accompanied by 
 his friend Captain Lockhart, on the morning of the day fixed 
 for his sister's marriage ; and from the garrulity of Boniface 
 he learned his cousin's treachery, and received the conviction 
 of his parent's love. He determined not to make himself 
 known till after the ceremony; and, having witnessed its 
 celebration from the reading desk of the church, he and his 
 friend took the road to the Hall. In the hurry and joyous 
 confusion which prevailed, he had no difficulty in reaching 
 the library unobserved, whither, as he expected, Captain 
 Lockhart, on inquiring for Mr. Wilson, was conducted, when 
 the happy explanation took place. 
 
 The news of "Master Harry's return" was soon carried 
 to the village, where it spread like wildfire, and occasioned 
 universal joy. Boniface capered and sung like a madman ; 
 he told the villagers they were welcome to drain every drop 
 of ale in his cellar to the health of their young 'squire ; and 
 he caught Bessy the bar-maid, and gave her such a hearty 
 kiss, that the reverberation of it echoed through the house. 
 
hope. 143 
 
 "Never mind, my girl," said he; "thee and me will be mar- 
 ried to-morrow ; and as long as we live we will keep this 
 day as a jubilee, and never forget to celebrate our young- 
 master's return." 
 
 We need not add that the good news gave an additional 
 zest to the sports of the day. In the evening, all the party 
 at the Hall joined the villagers, and partook of the merry 
 dance with their happy dependents. The morning sun rose 
 before they had retired to their beds; and, in every succeed- 
 ing year, this day has been celebrated as a festival at the 
 village of H . 
 
 HOPE 
 
 BT NICHOLAS MICHELt, ESQ.- 
 
 'Tis dead of night : thick clouds obscure the sky : 
 Loud roar the winds across the wintry plain ; 
 Against the mountain beats the dashing rain ; 
 
 Woe to the traveler if no cot be nigh! — 
 
 Now gaze above! — lo! through the opening gloom, 
 That like a funeral pall o'er nature spreads, 
 A little star its trembling lustre sheds; 
 
 It seems a lamp dim-burning in a tomb ; 
 
 It silvers o'er the haggard brow of night, 
 
 With watery beam illumes the howling wood, 
 And chases horror from the dashing flood. — 
 
 Thus, mid life's gloomiest scenes, Hope sheds her light, 
 Let ills surround us, or let cares oppress, 
 Still she appears, and points to happiness. 
 
THE LIFE OF A HERO 
 
 BT MRS. BOWDICH. 
 
 "I ought to have christened that boy Alexander, instead 
 of Philip, for he is a regular hero," said a half-pay officer 
 to his wife, as he watched the gambols of their youngest son. 
 
 "He will break his neck with his heroism," replied the 
 lady. 
 
 "No, no," returned the husband ; "he was born to be a 
 great man, I am convinced." 
 
 This dialogue was carried on in the jasmine porch of a 
 low, gothic-looking cottage, in the village of H. Its thatched 
 roof and white chimneys; the luxuriant roses and clematis, 
 which covered the green lattice- work over the walls; the 
 ample garden, containing some noble trees ; all bespoke an 
 humble, yet peaceful degree of affluence. A navigable 
 river wound its serpentine course in front, and beyond that 
 was a large meadow, where traces of a battle fought between 
 the Danes and the Saxons still existed. It was in this mea- 
 dow that Philip was at play with his companions, and out- 
 stripping them in every boyish exercise. They tried to chase 
 the horses which were grazing near them, but while the rest 
 were engaged in vain pursuit, Philip jumped on the back of 
 one going at full speed, and, twisting his hand in the mane, 
 darted away like an Arab. Frequently, when his playfellows 
 were hunting him as a stag, and he seemed hemmed in on 
 all sides, had he suddenly plunged into the river, and, diving 
 
THE LIFE OF A HERO. 145 
 
 under the passing barges, risen again upon the opposite bank, 
 to deride his pursuers, who had not dared to follow him. At 
 this time he was twelve years of age, tall, and well-propor- 
 tioned : his muscles, strengthened by constant exercise, ena- 
 bled him to excel in riding, running, swimming, jumping, 
 &c. : his steady, blue eye, occasionally shadowed by the 
 curly locks of his chestnut hair, made him an excellent marks- 
 man ; and the stroke of his broad fist was the terror of many 
 an older and bigger boy than himself. He was dearly loved 
 for his courage and good nature by the whole neighborhood ; 
 and he might be compared to a Newfoundland dog, possess- 
 ing all the power for destruction, and a disposition that 
 prompted only deeds of fun and mercy. One thing above 
 all others seemed to rouse his anger, and that was oppression 
 in every shape ; and he was the champion of the distressed. 
 No surly farmer put the poor, solitary beast of a cottager into 
 the pound, but Philip released it before morning. Complaint 
 was useless : for so surely as it was made, so surely did the 
 farmer find one of his own in the same situation. His edu- 
 cation had been confined to the instructions of the clergyman 
 of the parish: it had not been extensive, but it had been 
 solid. His father, with the discipline of an old soldier, had 
 early taught him and all his household to obey ; and his mo- 
 ther, although she frequently trembled for his life, and 
 mourned over his torn and dripping clothes, dared not check 
 him, and loved him too well to utter more than a gentle re- 
 monstrance when she feared for his safety. 
 
 Philip's first real sorrow was that of parting with his bro- 
 ther; and eagerly did he ask to accompany him. "You are 
 not old enough," replied his father. "I have from length of 
 service, obtained a commission for John, and cannot hope to 
 do the same for you: to purchase one you know is out of the 
 question." 
 
 "I will serve as a volunteer," exclaimed Philip. 
 13 
 
146 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "And who is to support you as such, my son?" was the 
 answer. 
 
 Philip said no more, but from that day became more 
 thoughtful. His questions concerning the battle fought in his 
 favorite meadow, the broken helmets and weapons dug up in 
 it, all served but to heighten his desire for action ; and he 
 spent many hours of the next two years of his life in con- 
 triving to emancipate himself from his narrow sphere. At 
 this time his father received a letter from an old friend, who 
 wrote, "I find you have made a soldier of your eldest son: 
 what say you to making a sailor of your youngest? Send 
 him to me, and I will get him out as a midshipman." Philip 
 had no great desire to be a sailor, but to enter his career was 
 everything ; and the pang of parting with all he held dear 
 was no sooner abated, than his whole soul expanded with the 
 hope of realizing his father's predictions of becoming a 
 hero. He arrived at his friend's house in London ; his outfit 
 was got ready: but great was his consternation at finding 
 that the buttons on his jacket were those of the East India 
 Company, instead of the Royal Navy. He, however, bore 
 his disappointment like a hero, and thus wrote to his father: 
 "If I cannot render myself famous by fighting the French, 
 a life at sea must always demand courage and attention, and 
 I trust I shall not be unworthy of your hopes, even in this 
 situation." To the East Indies Philip went and returned; 
 and the report made of his excellent conduct induced the 
 Company to re-appoint him immediately. Barely had he 
 
 time to fly to H , to close the eyes of his gentle mother; 
 
 but to have been present on this sad occasion was a source 
 of consolation, and he said to his father, as he jumped into 
 the coach which was to take him to town — "All is for the 
 best, my dear sir. Had I been either in the army or navy, 
 the melancholy happiness of receiving my mother's dying 
 blessing might have been denied me, from the impossibility 
 of quitting my post. Another eighteen months, and I shall 
 
THE LIFE OF A HERO. 147 
 
 again see you and my sister." His second voyage afforded 
 him more opportunity of displaying his courage ; for the fleet 
 was attacked by a French squadron ; and as each Indiaman 
 at that time carried guns, to Philip's great delight his vessel 
 was called into the hottest part of the action, and his ready 
 bravery and presence of mind distinguished him above all 
 his companions. Beloved by the sailors, they obeyed his 
 orders with alacrity; and, intrusted by his captain with a 
 post of importance, he had an opportunity of displaying that 
 energy, which in a trading vessel was seldom called forth. 
 Foremost in the action, he was the first, when all was over, 
 to fly down to the trembling female passengers, and assure 
 them of their safety. His conduct was a step to rapid ad- 
 vancement ; his father's eyes sparkled with triumph as he 
 said to the clergyman — "I told you the boy was a hero;" 
 and Philip sailed the next time as third officer. He con- 
 tinued in this station for a few years ; but between every 
 voyage paid a visit to his family. During one of these short 
 sojourns at home, he chose to fall in love with a pretty, lively 
 friend of his sister's. The dancing black -eyes of the ani- 
 mated Bertha, to use his own terms, " soon answered his blue 
 signals;" and seeing only success in the future, the light- 
 hearted couple swore fidelity, till Philip's gains should enable 
 them to confirm their vows at the altar. 
 
 Again he sailed, and again entered the Downs. He wrote 
 to his father, that the moment his vessel was cleared he 
 should be with him. His next letter bore a very different 
 date, for it was written within the walls of Newgate. One 
 morning, at break of day, before he had left his hammock, 
 he was seized by officers of justice, who, seeing him so strong 
 and powerful, heavily ironed him, and told him he was a 
 prisoner on the charge of murder. The conduct of these 
 men, however brutal at first, was soon altered by his calm 
 and gentle submission to their orders. "It is useless," he 
 said, "to assert my innocence to you, but I hope you will 
 
148 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 allow me to secure those things which will afford me some 
 comfort in the dreary abode to which you are about to lead 
 me." They readily complied; and after putting his seal on 
 all his property, and packing up his Bible, money and clothes, 
 he quietly followed them to the carriage which conveyed them 
 to London. 
 
 In going out to India, an inferior officer of the ship, named 
 Caylis, had repeatedly behaved with great insolence to all 
 around him, especially to Philip, whose superiority had ex- 
 cited his envy. One day, when provoked almost beyond 
 bearing, Philip observed to him — "For your public conduct 
 there are plenty of punishments provided by the rules of the 
 service; but for your conduct to me, as an individual, if you 
 persist, I shall take the punishment into my own hands: 
 therefore beware." He walked away; but the coward fol- 
 lowed, and, hitting him a violent blow, tried to escape to the 
 forepart of the vessel. Philip, however, was too quick for 
 him, and, turning round, laid him sprawling on the deck. 
 The whole transaction having been witnessed by the captain, 
 he now interfered, and ordered the offender to be severely 
 punished. He was awed into obedience; the circumstance 
 passed over and was forgotten by all but the wretch Caylis, 
 who vowed eternal revenge against Philip. In the course of 
 the voyage home, a man was ordered into the shrouds for 
 some misdemeanor; he dared to come down before his time 
 expired, and during Philip's watch, who sternly ordered him 
 back again. The culprit obeyed, and a few minutes after 
 was heard to fall into the water, whence, although every effort 
 was made to save him, he never rose again. On this did the 
 malignant Caylis found his charge against Philip, and de- 
 clare that he had pushed the man overboard for disobeying 
 orders. As villains may always be found in every large 
 community, bribes induced some of the sailors to bear out 
 the assertion. Philip had no time to assemble his own wit- 
 nesses, was examined and committed. It was then that he 
 
THE LIFE OF A HERO. 149 
 
 wrote to his father an account of the whole transaction, and 
 begged him to communicate it to his friends. For a mo- 
 ment the poor old man was overcome. "My boy, my hero, 
 to die such a death!" he exclaimed, as he hid his face in 
 his hands. "Impossible!" he resumed, as he started up to 
 prepare for his journey. The news soon spread, and the 
 whole county was set in commotion : men of the highest rank 
 and wealth offered immense sums for his bail; no bail could 
 be allowed for murder, and he stood his trial. Two hearts 
 above all others, longed to be with him in this hour of afflic- 
 tion — those of Bertha and his sister. Their fathers, however, 
 forbade their presence, by saying, "A prison is no place for 
 females, and if Philip were condemned, you could do no 
 more." No prisoner ever went to the bar more numerously 
 escorted ; his father, with his erect and military air, seemed 
 proudly to defy the accusers of his son. His venerable in- 
 structor followed, with his silver hair and benignant counte- 
 nance; the respectable father of his betrothed, and a nume- 
 rous assemblage of men of rank and consequence, attended 
 him to court. Never did a prisoner appear as a capital of- 
 fender, who in his own person excited such interest. His 
 manly figure, his fine elevated forehead, which seemed to be 
 the seat of candor and intelligence, the serene expression of 
 his handsome features, betokened perfect innocence, and 
 when he pronounced the words "Not Guilty" with a clear 
 and steady voice, a murmur of assent ran through the crowd. 
 His captain, and the greater part of the crew, most of whom 
 had volunteered their testimony, the hesitation of some of the 
 suborned witnesses, all confirmed the favorable impression, 
 and after thorough investigation, the jury pronounced him 
 innocent without quitting their box. "Acquitted, most ho- 
 norably acquitted," w r ere the words of the judge. A shout 
 of joy and applause filled the whole court. His father, whose 
 proud bearing was but the mask of intense feeling, was car- 
 ried insensible into the air, where, however, he soon revived ; 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 trfe old clergyman silently and fervently returned thanks to a 
 higher tribunal, and Philip had neither words nor hands 
 enough to return the salutations and congratulations which 
 were showered upon him by friends and strangers. A dinner 
 was given on the same day to celebrate the event, but which 
 Philip left his friends to enjoy by themselves. Bertha and 
 his sister had not been separated since the departure of their 
 parents: communications were regularly made to them, but, 
 notwithstanding their conviction that Philip would be acquit- 
 ted, this awful day had been passed by them in speechless 
 suspense. Every moment brought on the crisis — the period 
 was past — his fate was decided — Oh ! when should they 
 know ? — With violent efforts they assumed a patience which 
 they felt not — hour after hour passed, and at length Mary 
 
 ventured to whisper "How soon may we expect " 
 
 "Hark!" said Bertha. A faint noise was heard — it gradually 
 increased — a chaise and four horses whirled up to the cottage- 
 gate, and they were encircled in the arms of their beloved 
 Philip. 
 
 This event gave him a feeling of disgust to his profession 
 which he could not conquer, and, aided by the idea of its 
 not being sufficiently lucrative to allow of his marriage in a 
 reasonable time, he determined upon leaving the service. 
 His brother was in India, attached to the — dragoons, with 
 the rank of major, and as they were raising recruits for this 
 regiment, he entered it as cornet. The time of departure 
 arrived, and, at his father's request, he, in his farewell visit, 
 appeared in his dragoon uniform. The good man thought he 
 might be a hero after all, when he saw him in the respected 
 paraphernalia of his own profession, and Bertha, although she 
 would not confess it, thought him handsomer than ever. The 
 campaign in India was to fill his purse, and, with the hope 
 of this being their last separation, she parted from him with 
 more resignation than usual. Philip in due time announced 
 his safe arrival, and, early called into action, from that period 
 
THE LIFE OF A HERO. 151 
 
 no letters were received from him. Age was fast creeping 
 upon his excellent father; his constitution was evidently 
 much broken ; yet he still continued, with the aid of specta- 
 cles, to examine the daily papers for news of his children. 
 The gazette soon announced the promotion of the elder to 
 the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and of the younger to that of 
 lieutenant ; frequently were they both spoken of in the most 
 gratifying terms, and at length the bravery of the dauntless 
 Philip, who was described as recovering the colors of his 
 regiment from the enemy, almost by a miracle, shot a ray of 
 joy into his heart which was too strong for the enfeebled 
 frame that enclosed it. The anecdote was told in the most 
 glowing terms, the commanding officer's praises were repeat- 
 ed, and as Mary concluded the paragraph which her father's 
 emotion had prevented him from finishing, he sunk back into 
 his chair, with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven. 
 
 "Thank God!" he fervently exclaimed, "my boy is a 
 hero! — I foretold it : and now, bless you all, my — " The last 
 words faltered on his lips ; a deep-drawn sigh escaped from 
 his bosom — and it was his last. 
 
 The news of his death reached Philip at a time when he 
 had no leisure for the indulgence of his private feelings. 
 The siege of Seringapatam was begun ; every energy was 
 called into the combat ; the — dragoons acted as dismounted 
 cavalry: but as Philip stood, with his men, up to his knees 
 in an intrenchment filled with water, and the tropical sun 
 flamed over his head, he darted a thought of regret back to 
 his home, and uttered a short prayer for the survivors. The 
 city fell and became the spoil of the conquerors. Already 
 did Philip think his wishes were accomplished ; honor and 
 fortune awaited him ; and Bertha was to crown his happiness. 
 But the chastening hand of Providence had ordered it other- 
 wise. His exposure to the sun; his violent exertions; the 
 smoke, heat, and dust of the siege, brought on an inflamma- 
 tion in his eyes, which at length ended in blindness. Still 
 
152 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 he hoped that the calamity was only temporary. The skill 
 of English practitioners he thought would restore him. He 
 asked leave of absence, and it was granted. He received 
 his share of the spoils, and returned home with a wounded 
 brother officer, taking with him his favorite charger. They 
 traveled through a wild country to reach the sea-coast, and 
 frequently suffered from hunger. The inhabitants fled before 
 them ; and often had Philip given up his own meal to supply 
 the appetite of his valued steed. On one of these occasions 
 the rice he abandoned to it was poisoned, and the poor animal 
 died in a few hours. Philip could scarcely feel grateful for 
 his own escape, when he first heard the intelligence ; but, 
 continuing his route on another horse, he arrived at the port 
 without further disaster, and finally landed in England. He 
 staid in London for some time, trying the best operators and 
 advisers; they at length told him that there was not the 
 
 slightest hope ; and sadly did he return to H , without 
 
 the power of beholding the dear forms which he had often 
 contemplated with delight. He had thought that Mary or 
 Bertha might have met him in town, to afford him consola- 
 tion under his heavy trial: but Mary was married, and a 
 mother; and Bertha's parents had forbidden her to see her 
 lover. The agents in India intrusted with the division of the 
 prize-money had taken advantage of his blindness, and given 
 him glass for precious stones ; he was obliged to retire upon 
 half-pay ; and a comparatively trifling pension was granted 
 for his loss of sight. He was no longer, then, a match for 
 their daughter, and they peremptorily ordered her to give him 
 up. 
 
 "No!" exclaimed the heart-broken girl, "I may not marry 
 him in disobedience to your commands; but he is the same 
 Philip whom you once sanctioned as my affianced husband, 
 and I never will give him up." 
 
 Time rolled on. Philip was established, with a servant, 
 in lodgings near his sister; and his stolen interviews with 
 
THE LIFE OF A HERO. 153 
 
 Bertha at her house, and the society of her children, were 
 his sole comforts. Bertha's father died, and left thousands 
 among his wife and sons ; but to Bertha he bequeathed a 
 paltry pittance, and the reversion of her mother's jointure, 
 in case she married with her consent. Resigned as he was 
 to his fate, his health suffered from his struggles and the in- 
 action of his life. The people, as he passed leaning on the 
 arm of a servant, would shake their heads, and mourn over the 
 alteration, thinking it a blessing that " his father had not lived 
 to see what his hero was come to." Could they have searched 
 into his heart, they would have found him a greater hero than 
 ever. His entire resignation to the will of God, his endea- 
 vors to extract happiness from every trifling occurrence, his 
 cheerful conversation, were proofs of a strength that availed 
 much more than bodily exertion. At length, after the lapse 
 of years, Bertha's grandmother died, and left her a small 
 property; she wrung a consent from her mother; and she 
 became the wife of Philip. Then, indeed, did a ray of hap- 
 piness beam, for a few years, over his benighted existence. 
 Her society, her devotion to his wishes, made him declare that 
 he had nothing on earth to desire ; and when he felt that he 
 must prepare for heaven, he proved that he was still a hero. 
 Feeling that he must die, he uttered his last wishes with the 
 most perfect calmness and composure ; and, laying his head 
 upon the arm of his wife, he resigned his magnanimous soul 
 to its Creator. 
 
 Such was the career of the man "born to be a hero;" and 
 so were his father's predictions fulfilled. — And let us learn, 
 from this slight sketch, that there is more true heroism in 
 cheerfully submitting to the privations imposed on us by an 
 unerring Power, than in mounting the breach of a fortress 
 upon the dead bodies of our fellow-creatures. 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL OF SAVOY. 
 
 Fair ladies all, who love to hear 
 
 Of knights sublime, and dragons drear; 
 
 Of caves, where necromancers sleep ; 
 
 Of bowers, where sylphs and genii peep ; 
 
 Of kingdoms won by woman's eyes ; 
 
 Of all the miracles of sighs ; 
 
 Of palfreys, plumes, and lances bent 
 
 By monarchs in the tournament; 
 
 Of banquets gay, and dungeons barr'd, 
 
 Where lies the lover, evil-starr'd, 
 
 From five to fifty tedious years, 
 
 Till, brought to trial by his peers, 
 
 And, all the tyrant's charges parried, 
 
 They pass his sentence — to be married! 
 
 Alas! such strains are too divine 
 
 For this dull age of me and mine! 
 
 Alas, the time! the minstrel's lays 
 Are in the grave of other days! 
 No more the gay Provencal string 
 Makes roofs of royal chambers ring; 
 No more beneath the midnight skies 
 Are sonnets sung to killing eyes; 
 Nor knights, in glittering harness arm'd, 
 Sing songs, catch agues, and are charm'd; 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL OF SAVOY. 155 
 
 Nor ladies fair from galleries peep, 
 Scorning to eat, or drink, or sleep, 
 Till, thanks to the propitious stars, 
 They follow to the Turkish wars. 
 
 Sweet sex ! whom I but live to please, 
 For you I have no themes like these; 
 I offer but a village tale, 
 To tell how truth and love prevail ; 
 How more than proud the heart may be 
 That never left her greenwood tree ; 
 What wealth the bosom may disclose, 
 Whose richest jewel is a rose. 
 
 'Twas eve: the fragrant breezes fann'd, 
 Lake Leman, thy delicious strand ; 
 The sun on Jura's mountain-throne 
 Threw round the land a fiery zone ; 
 A thousand tints of glory dyed, 
 Mont Blanc, thy snowy-mantled side; 
 And, purpling in the sunset glow, 
 Lay the broad lake, a heaven below, 
 With every cloud and every beam 
 In beauty pictured, gleam for gleam — 
 The matchless emblem of that rest 
 Which reigns in woman's maiden breast, 
 Before the heart's wild feelings rise 
 To dim her spirit's summer skies. 
 
 Along the mountain's primrose side 
 A village girl is seen to glide; 
 Now lifting up her deep blue eye, 
 As if she long'd to wing that sky ; 
 Now grazing where the sun's broad limb 
 Seems on the shadowy lake to swim; 
 
156 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Now plunging in the valley bower, 
 Herself the landscape's sweetest flower; 
 To catch within her silken net 
 The butterfly, all dewy wet, 
 Then crop the rose and myrtle's bloom, 
 Unmindful of the deepening gloom, 
 Till the last gleam of dying day 
 In twilight purple fades away. 
 
 Yet more than twilight bathes the hill ; 
 A cloud has gather'd stern and still, 
 And from its depths a sudden spark 
 Darts out, then leaves it doubly dark : 
 The maiden's eyes in terror gaze, 
 As. round her springs the yellow blaze. 
 And now the thunders roar above ; 
 Down to its roots is bow'd the grove ; 
 The lake is ridged with sudden foam ; 
 The tempest in its wrath has come. 
 
 But deeper fears her spirit shake, 
 As on the bosom of the lake 
 She sees, like dust before the gale, 
 A struggling bark, a shatter'd sail : 
 Onward it whirls ; in vain — in vain 
 It toils the little port to gain : 
 In vain the maiden's generous soul 
 Now braves the blast, the thunder-roll; 
 Calls through the storm; from height to height 
 Bounds, with the speed of fairy flight ; 
 Points wildly to the Mountain bay ; 
 The sullen storm will have its prey: 
 Down bursts the whirlwind's tenfold roar — 
 One shriek is heard — and all is o'er! 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL OF SAVOY. 157 
 
 Wet, weary, dash'd with spray and foam, 
 Why seeks she not her cottage-home? 
 W T hy pauses on the shore her tread? 
 What draws she from the surge? — the dead! 
 The dead! — Ah! many a bitter tear 
 Were spared thee, Julie, if it were! 
 
 A month has fled ; 'tis lovely night, 
 The stars are burning broad and bright ; 
 There is no murmur on the lake, 
 The birds are hush'd in bower and brake. 
 But whose the whispers stealing sweet, 
 And whose the lightly treading feet, 
 And whose the quick, heart-breathing sighs 
 That on the garden's echoes rise? 
 Ah, Julie, 'twas a dangerous hour 
 Which brought that stranger to thy bower! 
 Ah, Julie, well for thee the wave 
 Had been the stranger's early grave! 
 Yet innocence is sword and shield, 
 The noble heart is triple-steel'd. 
 In vain love's eloquence is tried 
 To win thee from the parent side : 
 The tempter feels his cause undone, 
 Raves, threatens, sues, is scorn'd, and gone ! 
 
 Another month; the air was balm, 
 The lake in morning glory swam ; 
 But there was woe in Julie's eye, 
 And woe had blanch'd her rosy dye, 
 And on her snowy brow was laid 
 The anguish of a heart betray'd : 
 And like a shape of sculptured stone 
 She sat in beauty, sad and lone. 
 14 
 
158 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 But why shall I the anguish tell 
 With which the spirit says "Farewell?" 
 Why tell the thousand secret stings 
 When truant Love has waved his wings? 
 The arrow through the heart is gone, 
 Yet still the world rolls smoothly on. 
 Nor shall I tell how oft she sought 
 The meeting and the parting spot; 
 How oft, beside the valley-stream, 
 She dream'd love's sweet and bitter dream; 
 How oft, as evening sank to rest, 
 Her foot the lake's green margin prest; 
 How oft, awake before the sun, 
 She sat upon the mountain-throne, 
 And fix'd her melancholy eye 
 Upon her wanderer's distant sky. 
 
 But what along the mountain's side 
 Seems rolling like a golden tide ? 
 Down through the heathflower's purple blooms, 
 Move tissued flags and waving plumes, 
 And many a touch of harmony 
 Proclaims a stately pageant nigh : 
 But, Julie, thine impassion'd glance 
 Saw not the pomp, the charger's prance, 
 Heard not the trumpet's echo borne 
 Along the living winds of morn! 
 For one is kneeling at thy feet, 
 With lips where pride and passion meet ; 
 With lips where passion masters pride — 
 What noble wooes thee for his bride? — 
 The stranger, whom thy pity saved, 
 The stranger, whom thy virtue braved. 
 And did his penitence prevail? 
 Pray you, sweet maidens, end my tale ! 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM KENNEDY. 
 
 I. 
 
 My family, by the paternal side, was originally of Berne, 
 in Switzerland, whence a branch of it removed to the Milan- 
 ese, to improve its fortunes. The name of Reding — well 
 known in the Cantons— was sustained with credit by my 
 father. He inherited a thriving mill and farm, about a 
 quarter of a league from the straggling village and venerable 
 castle of St. Michael, within sight of the Tyrolese Alps. 
 Traveling to Zurich, where he had distant connections, he 
 returned with a companion who weaned him from the desire 
 of wandering any more. She was the daughter of a pious 
 pastor on the borders of the lake. From him she derived 
 a dower of upright principles and solid acquirements, which 
 it was her dearest wish to transmit with interest to her chil- 
 dren, all of whom died early, except my sister and myself. 
 
 The Castle of St. Michael, with the estate on which our 
 little property was situated, belonged to an Austrian noble, 
 who managed it by deputy, and lived in courtly splendor at 
 Vienna. Count Mansfeldt was equitably represented by his 
 steward, Engel; and under him, our house enjoyed prosperity 
 from the days of my grandsire. 
 
 We were the only persons in the place who professed the 
 
160 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Protestant faith. My father's temperate conduct gained him 
 the unrestrained indulgence of his opinions. The dread of 
 proselytism did not preclude my entrance into a Catholic 
 school. The teacher, a liberal Piedmontoise, was a lover of 
 learning, and separated austerity from instruction. He ob- 
 served, and gratified, my partiality for history and the classics, 
 and thus unconsciously assisted in the formation of my future 
 character. 
 
 My mother was the sole superintendent of my sister's 
 education ; she thought the feminine mind, so susceptible of 
 impressions, should never be spontaneously consigned to 
 foreign culture. Katherine was worthy of her preceptress. 
 It is not for me to dilate upon her excellence — a portrait by 
 my hand might be deemed the glowing creation of a brother's 
 fondness. It is enough to mention the strength of our attach- 
 ment. I was two years her senior; and when her age quali- 
 fied her for sharing in childish pastimes, she was the welcome 
 partner of all my amusements. I showered into her lap the 
 first flowers of spring, and brought her the wild strawberry 
 from heights where few would venture. In her friendship I 
 reposed the confidence of ripening boyhood — frequently were 
 the overflowings of a sanguine temperament repressed by her 
 mildness. "With innocent wiles she endeavored to veil my 
 errors from parental eyes: when I did incur displeasure, her 
 accustomed gayety was gone, and the voice that recalled her 
 truant smile was ever that which pardoned the offender. 
 
 A cheerful home is the paradise of the young: our's was 
 illuminated by mutual love. The lightsome moments spent 
 by the domestic hearth, form the only period of my life that I 
 would willingly live over again. The music of the camp 
 and of the theatre, heard in after years, failed to awaken the 
 emotions I experienced long ago, when my mother sang the 
 plaintive melodies of her mountain land. I have seen the 
 most renowned generals of an age memorable for strife — 
 among them, one to w T hom an astonished world did reverence 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 161 
 
 — but no warrior have I beheld to rival my conceptions of 
 William Tell. The peasant of Uri was the hero of our fire- 
 side. When the casement shivered to the gusts of winter, 
 and the headlong flood thundered down the ravine, we called 
 to mind the intrepid hand that steered the bark of Gesler 
 over the stormy waters. Altorf and the Austrians were to 
 us exhaustless themes ; and I prayed that I might yet have 
 the opportunity of imitating the courage of my namesake, 
 Albert, the Patriot's unshrinking son. 
 
 II. 
 
 I was entering my twentieth year, when our situation 
 underwent an important change. Our landlord was gathered 
 to his ancestors, having bequeathed his Lombardy estate to 
 his second son, Count Rainer. Engel, the good old steward, 
 was soon after dismissed from office, and retired, with the 
 fruits of faithful service, to his native town in Carniola. 
 
 Count Rainer was a captain in the imperial army. He 
 was with his regiment at Pavia when informed of his father's 
 death. Devolving his authority on an emancipated sergeant of 
 hussars, the purveyor of his libertine pleasures, he dispatched 
 him to St. Michael to wring money from the tenantry and 
 prepare for his reception. 
 
 Ludolf was a swaggering bravo, emulous, at middle age, 
 of the vices of profligate youth. On his arrival, he circulated 
 a pompous intimation that he came vested with full powers 
 to treat with the vassals of the Count, and renew their engage- 
 ments. 
 
 My sister had gone to the village to make purchases, and 
 I left the mill at vesper chime with the intention of meeting 
 her. The path was abrupt, and little frequented. I was 
 cherishing discontent at the husbandman's unvaried exist- 
 ence, when I was roused by the distant accents of a female 
 in distress. They were clearly distinguishable, and I rushed 
 to the quarter whence they proceeded. In a corner of an 
 
 14* 
 
162 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 open spot, backed by a deep ditch, fenced with luxuriant 
 underwood, Katherine was keeping a man, unknown to me, 
 at bay: he was above the middle size, and in his beard and 
 costume affected the fashion of the military. He faced me 
 as I approached, and my sister, with disordered dress and 
 agitated frame, flew to my side. Defenceless as I was, my 
 first impulse was to chastise the ruffian, though he wore a 
 sabre ; but consideration for the terrified girl, who clung to 
 me imploringly, induced me to forego my purpose. We had 
 not receded many paces, when Katherine relinquished her 
 hold, and uttered a warning cry : — the hand of violence was 
 already at my throat ; and a harsh voice, unsteady from rage 
 or intemperance, demanded why a contemptible slave dared 
 to interfere with the representative of Count Rainer. 
 
 Unequal to my opponent in bulk and inert force, T was far 
 above him in activity and the resources of a vigorous con- 
 stitution. A sudden jerk freed me from his hold, and a well- 
 applied push sent him reeling to the verge of the ditch. He 
 drew his weapon with a rapidity on which I had not calcu- 
 lated: Katherine's coolness saved my life: she arrested his 
 arm in its sweep. Ere he could disengage himself, I col- 
 lected all my energy for one buffet, and laid him supine in 
 the reservoir of mud. 
 
 III. 
 
 Count Rainer was greeted at St. Michael with the show of 
 rustic rejoicing usual on the appearance of a new master. 
 He was accompanied by a train of riotous associates. The 
 roar of bacchanalian merriment shook the dusky halls of his 
 patrimonial fabric, which, in the blaze of unwanted festivity, 
 seemed to have renewed its youth. Naught, from the evening 
 of the rencounter, had we heard or seen of Ludolf. His 
 rudeness might have originated in the coarse jocularity of a 
 soldier, stimulated by too fervid an application to the bottle. 
 Prudence required that I should abstain from needlessly 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 163 
 
 irritating a man whose enmity might mar my father's ar- 
 rangements with his lord : I therefore avoided the chance of 
 collision. 
 
 I was strolling about the fields with my gun on my 
 shoulder, when a pet pigeon of Katherine's whirred past me, 
 pursued by a hawk. I fired at the bird of prey, which 
 dropped in an adjoining meadow. Springing across the 
 intervening hedge, I found myself in the presence of a group 
 of mounted sportsmen and their attendants. One of the 
 horsemen was examining the dead hawk ; his attention was 
 directed towards me by a retainer, in whose brawny pro- 
 portions, husky voice, and ferocious moustachios, I recognized 
 my adversary, Ludolf. 
 
 My gun was demanded, in the name of Count Rainer: I 
 refused to surrender it. The party formed a circle around, 
 pinioned me, and wrested it from me, ere I could attempt 
 resistance. "Mr. Steward," said the Count, "you may now 
 acquaint your friend with the consequences of destroying a 
 nobleman's falcon." 
 
 The ready villian and his servile followers dragged me to 
 the earth ; they profaned my person by stripes. When they 
 left me in my abasement, the air felt pestilent with their 
 brutal laughter. 
 
 I lay with my face to the greensward long after their de- 
 parture. My brain was eddying in a hell-whirl. I could 
 have welcomed the return of chaos, that the circumstance of 
 my shame might be obliterated in the clash of contending 
 elements. Had the sun been blotted from the heavens, and 
 the summer earth turned to blackness and desolation, I 
 should have thought them fit and natural occurrences. I 
 raised my burning brow ; but the orb of day was riding high 
 in his glory, and the meadow grass and wild flowers were 
 fresh and fragrant as if they had not witnessed the act of 
 degradation. I discovered that a stranger had been regard- 
 ing me with a vigilant eye. I confronted him, and darted at 
 
164 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 hira a devouring glance; his firm, contemplative look re- 
 mained unaltered. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he said, 
 "Albert Reding, consider me your friend." 
 
 " I know you not," I answered, "nor care to know you." 
 He smiled benevolently: "Young man, I am no Austrian. 
 I shall be with you to morrow." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The stranger kept his word — on the ensuing day he came 
 to our dwelling. Making, he said, a tour through the North 
 of Italy, the picturesque scenery tempted him to prolong his 
 sojourn at St. Michael. In his excursions, he had chanced 
 to hold random converse with my father, whom he professed 
 to value as the worthy descendant of an independent and 
 intelligent people. 
 
 I had forborne to grieve my family by the story of my dis- 
 grace, nor had it yet been detailed to them by the officious 
 communicativeness of pretended friends. Our visitor made 
 no allusion to it, but expatiated very agreeably on topics of 
 general interest. He described the passes of the Alps with 
 the accuracy of a mountaineer, and displayed an intimacy 
 with the localities of the Cantons that filled my parents with 
 pleasure and surprise. In pursuit of knowledge, he had 
 traversed the most remarkable sections of the globe ; and his 
 observations, affluent in instruction, proved that his wander- 
 ings had been of a different order from the capricious migra- 
 tions of sight-seeking wealth. 
 
 The warmth with which I seconded some of his sentiments 
 appeared to please him. He complimented my father on my 
 education; adding, that the judgment with which I developed 
 its resources designated me for a wider sphere of action than 
 belonged to a tiller of the soil of Lombardy. I had been 
 vain enough to entertain the same opinion ; and its confirma- 
 tion, by a competent authority, was balm to my spirit. Gladly 
 I acceded to his request, of guiding him to the Baron's Font, 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 1G5 
 
 a romantic cascade, where, to use his own language, he 
 sighed to offer allegiance to Nature. 
 
 The Baron's Font was distant about three leagues, among 
 the hills. Rustic tradition ascribed the origin of its name to 
 the cruelty and profanity of a feudal noble, who, in mockery 
 of the Christian's initiatory rite, precipitated the objects of 
 his ferocity from an impending cliff into the basin of the 
 waterfall. My companion noted the peculiarities of the route, 
 and committed to writing the information I furnished respect- 
 ing the district. We rested on the summit of a steep, skirted 
 by the foaming stream of the cascade, beyond which rose 
 wooded grounds in bold acclivity, mellowing with their dusky 
 greenness the gloomy grandeur of a mouldering tower. 
 
 The stranger abruptly adverted to the hateful humiliation 
 of the preceding day. He descanted on the contumely I 
 had suffered, with a vehement bitterness that chafed my 
 young blood to flame. I denounced endless hostility against 
 the Count and his minions. He calmly commented on the 
 futility of the threat. In the frenzy of exasperation, I insinu- 
 ated the possibility of resorting to the darkest means of ac- 
 complishing revenge. He replied, that in cooler moments I 
 would spurn the idea of Italian vengeance. Requiring a 
 pledge of secresy, he proceeded to point out an honorable 
 mode of lowering the crest of the oppressor. 
 
 "My name," he said, "is Philippon— my profession, a 
 military engineer, in the service of the French Republic. 
 The armies of Liberty only await the capture of Toulon to 
 sever the chains of Italy. I am terminating a secret journey 
 of observation through Piedmont and the Milanese. Come 
 with me to Paris, and join the standard of Freedom. In 
 France no parchment barrier excludes untitled youth from 
 fame and fortune; draw a blade in her cause, and relieve the 
 place of your nativity from the thraldom of its petty tyrant. 
 These brutal and stolid Austrians must be driven to their 
 land of hereditary bondage— justice demands it. The time 
 
IQQ THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 has gone by for insulted and injured Humanity to shed 
 tears in secret. Five dreary years I pined in the dismal 
 solitudes of the Bastile— I saw it fall, amidst the curses of 
 my countrymen; and never shall the spirit of a liberated 
 nation taste repose, until every stronghold of remorseless 
 power is patent to the winds of heaven as yon grim old 
 fortress, where the Count Rainers of the past outraged with 
 impunity the natural equality of man!" 
 
 The majesty of generous indignation irradiated his brow: 
 the eloquent thunders of the Roman forum seemed to roll 
 around me. — I agreed to attend him to the capital of the 
 young republic. 
 
 V. 
 
 Bent on entering the field of martial adventure, I antici- 
 pated much difficulty in obtaining the concurrence of my 
 father. A lover of tranquillity, he had sickened at the san- 
 guinary measures that crimsoned the cradle of the French 
 Revolution. Yielding also to age and infirmity, he had been 
 accustomed to the prospect of resigning to me the chief 
 management of our affairs. The narrative of my shame, 
 however, which led him to tremble for the consequences, 
 determined him against opposing my departure. Of my 
 military project, and the pursuits of my patron, I made no 
 disclosure— I barely stated the fact, that he had promised to 
 provide for me at Paris, and proposed, in the mean time, 
 giving me employment as an amanuensis. 
 
 Sorrow and Joy are twin daughters of Affection. Notwith- 
 standing the excitement of curiosity and ambition, reluctantly 
 and despondingly I crossed our humble threshold. I went 
 away at night, and this added to the melancholy character of 
 the separation. My mother was unwell, and at her bedside 
 I received her blessing. The features of my gentle-natured 
 sister gave dim and pallid testimony to the fullness of her 
 affliction. When I had parted with my parents, she escorted 
 
THE CASTLE-OF ST. MICHAEL. 167 
 
 me to the extremity of the orchard. "Oh, Albert!" were 
 the only words she had power to utter; and her face looked 
 so mournful — so heart-appealing, in the moonlight — that to 
 desert her smote me as a sin. One embrace, and I bounded 
 off like a chamois — then paused, till weeping relieved my 
 soul — Katherine ! Katherine ! 
 
 Through provinces where every man appeared fearful of 
 his fellow, we journeyed to the metropolis of France. That 
 city, the great political heart of the empire, more than par- 
 ticipated in the feverishness of its members. Armed artizans 
 patroled the streets; the shrine of St. Guillotine had left the 
 Romish Kalendar destitute of homage, and ecclesiastical pro- 
 cessions were rendered obsolete by the morning march to the 
 scaffold. Terror stalked gigantic in the citadel of Freedom: 
 the dead were thrown into unhonored graves, and the living 
 cowered timorously in corners to lament them. I entered 
 the Assembly, whose decrees had struck down the proud and 
 elevated the lowly. Here, thought I, are sages congregated 
 worthy of creation's golden sera ! The chiefs of the conven- 
 tion pronounced their orations: — Proscription! Proscription! 
 was the cry; and, as the elements of discord raged, the 
 scene resembled a hideous melee of savage beasts in an an- 
 cient amphitheatre. 
 
 I could not conceal from Philippon the extent of my dis- 
 appointment: "You talk of regenerating the world," I ex- 
 claimed, "and you have revived the horrors of the Trium- 
 virate!" 
 
 "Your's," he replied, " is the decision of inexperience, 
 that condemns the fruit ere it has had time to ripen. The 
 healthful wind, which ministers to the drooping frame of Na- 
 ture, at the same moment dissipates contagion and whelms 
 the mariner in the deep. Neither political nor physical good 
 is gratuitously granted ; rather let our fields be irrigated with 
 blood than that their harvests should be gathered by the hands 
 of bondmen! What is the doubtful lease of life — this brief 
 
168 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and irksome tenure — to the happiness of posterity? Were I 
 to linger here for centuries, would not my native land still 
 survive me with its millions of kindred beings, to whom 
 social law must prove the mighty instrument of evil or of 
 good?" 
 
 VI. 
 
 I remained about a year in Paris in the house of my patron. 
 Toulon had fallen, and the army of Italy had commenced ope- 
 rations by a successful movement on the Sardinian frontier. 
 Profiting by the opportunity I possessed of studying the 
 theory of the military art, I was rewarded with a commission 
 in a regiment of the line — one of those destined for the inva- 
 sion of the Milanese. I received, with alacrity, the order to 
 proceed to Nice. I was shocked and disgusted by the dreary 
 spectacle of civil broil, and I thirsted for distinction. The 
 memory of wrong also rankled in my bosom, and in my 
 dreams I planted the revolutionary banner on the battlements 
 of St. Michael, and heard myself hailed in the halls of the 
 insolent Austrian with the acclamations due to a hero. 
 
 I joined my regiment and learned, not many months after, 
 that my protector, Philippon, had fled to England, to escape 
 the fate which, as a philosophic patriot, he affected to disre- 
 gard. His exile grieved me. I had shared largely in his 
 favors; and he had never neutralized their influence by the 
 slightest alloy of unkindness. 
 
 A government weakened by vacillations in its form, and 
 dissensions in the capital, permitted the army, with which 
 my hopes were associated, to languish ill-appointed and 
 inactive. Instead of running a career of glory, it was forced 
 to contend with the most depressing privations. — In my de- 
 spondency, a long-delayed letter arrived from my father. Its 
 contents were almost limited to the earnest request that I 
 would immediately hasten home. 
 
 Its emphatic urgency, unaccompanied by explanation, as- 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 169 
 
 sured me that all went not well. I would fain have obeyed 
 the summons, but it was impracticable. The Directory, 
 established in authority, ordered the army of Italy to the 
 field. General Bonaparte, an officer in his twenty-sixth year, 
 marshaled the way to the Alps. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Napoleon's campaigns in 1796 are familiar to all Europe. 
 It was my fortune to be present in the most remarkable en- 
 gagements, and to escape without a wound. When Wurm- 
 ser, after repeated defeats, succeeded in recruiting his forces 
 in the Tyrol, a strong body of our troops, headed by the 
 commander-in-chief, advanced against a division of 20,000 
 Austrians stationed at Roveredo. Our line of march lay 
 through the district of my birth. A few hours before we were 
 in motion I was summoned to the quarters of the General. 
 It was the well-known characteristic of this extraordinary 
 man scrupulously to ascertain the extent of his resources, 
 even to the qualifications of an individual soldier. 
 
 Aware of my knowledge of the country he was about to 
 penetrate, he wished to make it subservient to his purpose. 
 He questioned me as to the correctness of some local infor- 
 mation which, I perceived, had been derived from the docu- 
 ments of Philippon. Satisfied on these points, he sportively 
 inquired if I had any dislike to act as his herald to my old 
 neighbors. I related my obligations to our German superior, 
 and he promised me ample powers for discharging them in 
 full. 
 
 We were evidently unexpected. No artificial obstacle 
 opposed our progress, and we proceeded with unexampled 
 celerity. Our advanced posts were only separated from St. 
 Michael by a few miles of broken ground, when I was dis- 
 patched with a detachment to surprise it. The troops halted 
 in a chestnut grove, about half a league from the mill, while I, 
 grappling a fowling-piece, assuming a light hunting cap, and 
 15 ~ 
 
170 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 covering my uniform with an ordinary cloak, went forth to 
 reconnoitre the place, and to provide for the safety of my 
 relatives. 
 
 I skirted round the village and castle, which I found were 
 occupied by a company of Hungarian infantry under Count 
 Rainer. Not anticipating the irruption of an enemy into 
 their secluded fastness, camp indulgences had relaxed order. 
 My informer, a poor peasant, seemed afraid of confiding to a 
 stranger his opinion of the Count and his followers. I asked 
 concerning my family, but with the name of Reding he was 
 unacquainted. 
 
 It was the beginning of September. There had been a 
 continuance of unusually sultry weather, and the melting of 
 the mountain snows had swelled the stream at St. Michael 
 to an impetuous torrent. Twilight was approaching when I 
 reached a sheltered position on the bank opposite the castle. 
 The waters dashed furiously against the base of the building, 
 and the crazy supports of the antiquated bridge quivered like 
 a harpstring. 
 
 I resolved on a nocturnal attack, and was about to seek a 
 passing interview with the dear domestic circle, when, look- 
 ing towards the castle, I saw what stayed my step. A fe- 
 male ran wildly to the stream, pursued by some menials, in 
 the rear of whom, on horseback, came the Count their mas- 
 ter. The fugitive cleared the bridge just as her pursuers 
 gained it. At that moment the centre of the infirm structure 
 gave way to the torrent. Concealed among the trees, I per- 
 ceived the female on bended knees, distractedly blessing God 
 for her deliverance ; and I knew that it was Katherine, my 
 only — my beloved sister! 
 
 I fired a shot at him who had been foremost in the chase — 
 the infamous Ludolf — as he clambered up a remnant of the 
 shattered bridge. He stood unhurt amidst the group that 
 surveyed me, while I sheltered the dove of my boyhood in 
 my bosom. In the confusion I exposed my uniform; the 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 171 
 
 alarm was given, and every instant became precious. I sup- 
 ported Katherine until out of sight of the foe. "Fly!" I 
 cried, "fly to our parents, dear sister! tell them I shall bring 
 glad tidings in the morning!" 
 
 I counseled in vain. The sense of injury had unsettled 
 her mind — she hung helplessly upon me — her lips moved but 
 I could distinguish nothing of what she spoke, save the repe- 
 tition of the words "Home! I have no home!" — Oh God! 
 she was sadly altered! 
 
 A bugle echoed among the cliffs. I bore her to a cavern, 
 the discovery of my youth, and wrapt her in my cloak. 
 Hurrying, by familiar paths, with a speed I had never before 
 exerted, I rejoined my associates. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 An intricate and circuitous track brought us, at midnight, 
 to the isolated church of St. Michael, commanding the vil- 
 lage and the narrow road to the castle. We crouched in the 
 churchyard, until every sound ceased, and the lights that had 
 blazed in different directions w r ere no longer visible. Leav- 
 ing part of my force to intercept the communication with the 
 village, I led the remainder to a point of the fortress which I 
 had scaled in my youthful rambles. 
 
 The pacing of the sentinels, and the noisy vigils of the 
 Count and his guests, w^ere clearly audible as I descended 
 the ivied wall. My party followed, one by one, and our suc- 
 cess would have been signally complete, but for the acci- 
 dental discharge of a musket. This was answered by a 
 volley from the guard, the din of arms, and the hasty gather- 
 ing of a tumultuous body of defenders. Ordering my men to 
 keep close and follow me, we pressed forward to a private 
 door that opened into the body of the pile. 
 
 This barrier was quickly shattered by a shower of balls, 
 and in a second the great hall resounded with the groans of 
 the dying and the shouts of the triumphant. In that arena 
 
172 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 of slaughter I was collected as I am now. Once had Rainer's 
 bloated visage confronted me in the fray, but the baleful 
 meteor vanished, and bootless to me was the issue of the con- 
 flict, until blade or bullet did its work on him and his subor- 
 dinate. 
 
 The hall gave indications of a carousal. The red wine 
 streaming from flagons overturned in the struggle, mingled 
 with the life-drops of the wassailers. Death derived a more 
 appalling aspect from the relics of recent revelry. Some in- 
 toxicated wretches had been bayonetted with the goblets in 
 their hands. One had fallen backwards on the hearth above 
 the burning embers ; he was mortally wounded, and the blood 
 gushed freely in the flames. I stooped to raise him from his 
 bed of torture. The streaks of gore did not disguise the 
 lineaments of Ludolf. The reprobate had closed his reckon- 
 with mortality. 
 
 Victory was ours, but discipline was at an end; I could 
 with difficulty muster sentinels for the night; the cellars 
 were ransacked, and weariness and intemperance soon pro- 
 duced their effects. Sending confidential messengers to at- 
 tend to my sister's safety and convey intelligence to my 
 father, 1 prepared to await the dawn of morning. 
 
 Feverish from anxiety, I felt no inclination to grant my 
 wearied limbs repose. My brain was racked with the thought 
 of Katherine, and apprehension for my parents. I had seen 
 enough to convince me that Rainer had done his worst. — 
 What confederate demon had enabled him to escape me? 
 
 I paced from post to post, execrating the sluggish march 
 of time. Leaning over an eminence near the broken bridge, 
 I listened to the turbulent music of the waters. A subter- 
 raneous opening cut in the rocky soil below communicated 
 with the vaults of the castle. Hearing the echo of a foot- 
 fall, I bent cautiously over the outlet. A lamp glimmered 
 beneath. A muffled figure raised it aloft to guide its egress, 
 then extinguished it hastily. The light fell on the face of the 
 Count. 
 
THE CASTLE OF ST. MICHAEL. 173 
 
 I grasped his cloak as he emerged, but, slipping it from 
 his shoulders, he retreated towards a shelving wood-walk on 
 the margin of the stream. Had he gained it, the darkness 
 must have saved him. Both my pistols missed fire. I out- 
 stripped him in the race, and bore him back to the very edge 
 of the ravine. He made a thrust at me with his sword. I 
 neither paused for a trial of skill, nor attempted to ward off 
 the weapon; the butt end of a pistol found its way to his 
 forehead; not a sound passed his lips; down he went — down 
 — down — passively bounding over the jagged declivity, till a 
 heavy plash told that he was whirling with the torrent. 
 
 Vengeance was satisfied: I recoiled involuntarily from the 
 scene of the encounter. Suddenly arose an explosion, as if 
 a volcano had torn up the foundation of the castle : I was 
 felled to the earth ere I could speculate upon the cause. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My Campaigns were over. Rainer had laid a train, and 
 fired the powder magazine of his captured hold. The bravest 
 of my men perished ; and I, crushed beneath a fragment of 
 the toppling towers, lived to curse the art that returned me, 
 mutilated and miserable, to a world in which I was hence- 
 forth to have no portion. 
 
 I left the hospital a phantom, and set forth on a pilgrimage, 
 the performance of which was the only business that remained 
 to me in life. The tide of battle had ebbed from St. Michael, 
 when I crawled up its steep — the church and castle were 
 blackened ruins — the habitations of the villagers roofless and 
 deserted — the mill a shapeless mass of timber and stones. 
 Our orchard was unfolding the buds of spring — I fancied 
 that the hoary apple trees wore the aspect of friends — the 
 voice of singing floated on my ear, as I neared the dwelling 
 of my infancy, and the fountain of my heart re-opened. 
 
 Close to the spot where our pretty porch once stood, a ma- 
 tron, in the garb of extreme penury, was bending over the 
 
 15* 
 
174 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 trampled remains of a plot of flowers. Her features were 
 only partially revealed, but the mountain melody she sang 
 could not be mistaken — I fell at my mother's feet ! Shading 
 back the hair from my scarred temples, she asked me if I had 
 come from her children ! 
 
 Mercy was vouchsafed to her and to me. She soon slumber- 
 ed with the clods of the valley. My father had died ere my 
 departure from France ; and the story of our injuries from 
 the Austrian lightened the burden of remorse for the shedding 
 of blood. I have discovered no trace of Katherine since I 
 quitted her at the cave. 
 
 X. 
 
 My day has been without a meridian — divided between 
 eventide and morn : heavy were the clouds that eclipsed its 
 sunshine, but they are fleeting away ; and, now that night is 
 waxing apace, my up-turned soul beholds its moon rising 
 resplendent with hope. 
 
 If I have not experienced felicity in the friendly shades of 
 the Lake of Zurich, I have at least cast off the poisoned gar- 
 ment of reflection. Ever be they blessed, the kind ones who 
 smoothed the pillow of the spirit-broken ! 
 
 War has been over the globe. The arch-destroyer and a 
 myriad of the unnoted slain are wrapt alike in the undis- 
 cerning dust, yet man is still unredeemed from bondage. 
 When shall Peace go forth as a conqueror, arrayed in the 
 panoply of Wisdom ? 
 
TO AND 
 
 ON THEIR APPROACHING MARRIAGE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESd- 
 
 'Tis not the cymbal's silver sound, 
 'Tis not the tabor's light rebound ; 
 Nor all that music's stores supply, 
 Can touch the soul with genuine joy. 
 
 'Tis the calm bliss, the pure delight, 
 When hearts with virtuous hearts unite ; 
 The conscious feeling, heaven-approved, 
 That loves, and knows itself beloved. 
 
 Yet one mild voice the silence breaks, 
 From yon blue tract of air it speaks— 
 " Go on, my children! trusting go! 
 And prosperous be your course below. 
 
 Go on, in tried affection dear, 
 In humble hope— in holy fear ; 
 Tread in the steps your fathers trod, 
 And be your rest your fathers' God. 
 
MADELINE. 
 
 A LEGEND OF CASTLE CAMPBELL. 
 
 BT DELTA. 
 
 Sir John de Campbell, a young and gallant knight of 
 Argyleshire, had long sued for the hand of the fair Lady 
 Madeline, daughter of the Duke of Rothsay, at that time resi- 
 dent at the Scottish court, at Dunfermline ; but, owing to 
 family differences, his suit had been unavailing, although the 
 affections of the gentle lady were well known to be his. The 
 power and infiuenceof the Rothsay family, together with their 
 alliance to royalty, rendered a daughter of that line an object 
 of politic ambition among the young nobles; and, if the fair 
 young creature remained single until twenty summers had 
 shone in her blue eyes, it may be veritably set down to a 
 determinate resolution of her own, and not to lack of suitors. 
 In connection with our little narrative, however, it need only 
 be remarked, that among the rivals was Lord Duffus, a gal- 
 lant of handsome person, but of loose manners and dissolute 
 conduct. He was soon destined to find himself in the bad 
 graces both of sire and child ; his suit, amounting to impor- 
 tunity, received a flat negative; and the discarded wooer 
 gave way to feelings of revenge and affronted pride. 
 
 At this remote and unsettled era of Scottish legislation, a 
 freebooter, named Jasper Kemp, whose daring deeds and 
 personal prowess rendered him the terror of all the surround- 
 

 bj Ec 
 
MADELINE. 177 
 
 ing districts, occupied the Castle of Gloom, a magnificent 
 fortalice, situated in a gorge at the foot of the Ochills, in the 
 parish of Dollar, Clackmannanshire. Although in the imme- 
 diate precincts of the royal court, many attempts for ejecting 
 him had failed ; the natural and artificial strength of his situa- 
 tion rendered his castle almost impregnable, especially when 
 defended by spirits so bold and daring; while success, hardi- 
 hood, and immunity from punishment, had combined to render 
 the outlaw so fearlessly resolute, that he is said once, for a 
 wager, to have burst with his band, in open daylight, into the 
 palace of Dunfermline itself, and succeeded in carrying off 
 the dinner from the king's table. 
 
 This person had collected about him men of determined 
 courage and desperate fortunes — ruffians who set death at 
 defiance, and who were ready for hire to put all to the last 
 stake ; indeed, so extensive were their rapines and so unfeel- 
 ing the cruelties they exercised, that they were never known 
 to be abroad without the neighboring country quaking in 
 terror and alarm. Strong, as we have said, in its natural 
 site — the Castle of Gloom being surrounded, except at one 
 approachable point, by picturesque mountains, towering to 
 the clouds— Kemp felt, after the royal troops had ineffectually 
 invested it twice or thrice, that his principal risk of being at 
 any time obliged to capitulate must arise from being cut off 
 from his supply of water ; but the energetic mind of the out- 
 law determined on overcoming even this mighty deficiency ; 
 and he accomplished the gigantic task of cutting downwards 
 through the solid rock to the bed of a rivulet, a descent of 
 more than a hundred feet; the frightful chasm, almost closed 
 with weeds and brambles, remaining to this day a monument 
 of his enterprise and perseverance. 
 
 To this determined and resolute character Lord Duffus 
 communicated his design of carrying away by force the fair 
 Lady Madeline de Rothsay; and, by a large bribe, he suc- 
 ceeded in bringing him over to his designs. The plan was 
 
178 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 laid in secresy, and managed with Kemp's usual adroitness; 
 for, soon afterwards, when the lady, escorted by two female 
 attendants, w T as one summer evening riding in apparent se- 
 curity along the plain towards Inverkeithing, she was sud- 
 denly surrounded by an armed train, which burst from a 
 neighboring copse, bound her on her palfrey, separated her 
 from her maidens, and hurried her furiously along the coast, 
 in the direction first of Culross, then of Alloa. Kemp, imme- 
 diately on getting her into safe possession, threw off his cloak 
 of disguise, and rode by her side in splendid armor, mounted 
 on a war-horse proportioned to his Herculean bulk ; and, 
 notwithstanding the ferocity of his exterior, he behaved to- 
 wards his fair and fainting prisoner with a courtesy unwonted 
 to his nature. On nearing the hamlet of Dollar, the party 
 wound along a wooded path, picturesquely overhung with 
 rocks, where, in an opening between the Ochills, the magni- 
 ficent Castle of Gloom frowned before them in the fairy dusk 
 of twilight. At the accustomed signal the gates were thrown 
 open ; the train entered ; the heavy portcullis fell behind 
 them ; and the heart of Madeline died within her, when she 
 found that the Castle of Gloom was to be her prison, and that 
 her captor was none other than Kemp, the dreaded freebooter. 
 The better to cloak his designs, and to obviate all suspicion 
 of his partnership in this nefarious transaction, Lord Duffus 
 remained at court — the boon companion of the dissolute and 
 extravagant; while he appeared to enter with more than 
 common feeling into the general sorrow that overhung it, on 
 the news of Lady Madeline's forcible abstraction ; and, such 
 an adept was he in the arts of hypocrisy and cunning, and 
 he played his part so well, by making protestations of service 
 to the duke, that even the idea of his being the main-spring 
 of the enterprise seems not for a moment to have been enter- 
 tained by his most vigilant enemies. So, when week after 
 week of fruitless search had elapsed, when liberal rewards 
 had been offered, and offered in vain, and, when the buzz of 
 
MADELINE. 179 
 
 alarm began to subside, even hope itself becoming extinct, 
 Lord Duffus found, or fancied, that he might now venture to 
 act with greater boldness, and risk his projected visit to the 
 Castle of Gloom itself. 
 
 It were vain to attempt a description of what must have 
 been the feelings of Lady Madeline in her awful and forlorn 
 situation: but a few weeks ago the pride of her father's eye, 
 the ornament of a royal court, " the observed of all observers ;" 
 and now, separated from her friends, shut up in a secluded 
 castle, and the prisoner of a lawless ruffian, of whose ultimate 
 designs against her nothing good could possibly be surmised, 
 however present circumstances might concur to keep them 
 concealed. She had no doubt of Kemp being her captor, 
 and what was she to expect from such a man? Meanwhile, 
 though he paid her only a short and respectful visit every 
 day, inquiring into her comforts, and offering the fulfilment 
 of every wish she might breathe consistent with her situation 
 as a prisoner, her heart died within her when she thought of 
 her forlorn and awful situation, and that the present calm 
 could only be a prelude to the bursting of the terrible tempest- 
 cloud. A dismal mystery overhung her, which was soon to 
 be dispelled. Duffus she never suspected, and De Campbell 
 how could she suspect? — "Ah!" thought she, "if De Camp- 
 bell knew my situation, neither gates of brass, nor bolts of 
 steel, would deter him from accomplishing, or at least at- 
 tempting my rescue. But that is never to be, and I am 
 destined to — no, I will not be dishonored — to perish here!" 
 
 Stoicism is an article beyond the creed of human nature; 
 the coldest bosom has embers which may be fortuitously 
 kindled up, and there is no calculating on the power of 
 female beauty over the heart of man. Kemp himself, the 
 daring and desperate outlaw, whose cruelties and atrocities 
 were proverbial, was touched with the divine loveliness of his 
 victim, whose tears and whose tenderness began at length to 
 melt his rugged spirit. But with passion ambitious designs 
 
180 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 also entered his bosom ; and these were fostered by the im- 
 pression, that either Duffus was too much suspected at court 
 to be able to visit his unfortunate prisoner; or that he had 
 that nobleman sufficiently in his power to compel him to hush 
 up the matter, whatever might be the result. Kemp there- 
 fore determined to play a bold game ; and, screwing up his 
 resolution to the point, he at once made an offer of his services 
 to Lady Madeline, on particular conditions. It is almost 
 unnecessary to add, that these conditions were instantly and 
 indignantly refused; and, finding that he had committed 
 himself, by proceeding too precipitately and too far, he had 
 some difficulty in managing with Lord Duffus, who arrived 
 at the Castle of Gloom that very evening, with the intention 
 of visiting his victim, and communicating to her his plan of 
 carrying her beyond seas — a vessel, hired for the express 
 purpose, being at the time riding off the coast. The bandit 
 was taken unawares, but, under some shrewd pretence or 
 other, he prevailed upon him to defer his visit until the suc- 
 ceeding day, when, as he said, Lady Madeline had agreed 
 voluntarily to afford him an opportunity of explanation. 
 
 Kemp now found that his fortune w T ith regard to his beau- 
 tiful captive must at once be put to the die. Through a 
 sleepless night he revolved his dark schemes in his mind, 
 until he had fixed on one that seemed most likely to help him 
 to their bloody issue. 
 
 A great quantity of game abounding at that time in the 
 neighborhood of the Castle of Gloom — there being much 
 wood and thicket, as well as shelter and inequality of ground 
 — Kemp summoned his guest, at daybreak, to the chase, and 
 a gallant hunting train, with hound, and hawk, and bugle, 
 issued from the gates into the morning sunlight. Kemp led 
 the way up the defile, and they winded along the pathways 
 from grove to glen, until a buck was started. The animating 
 notes of pursuit were sounded ; and, after a short but rapid 
 run, the animal was taking to his accustomed ford, with the 
 
MADELINE. 181 
 
 dogs close upon him, when Kemp, who was immediately be- 
 hind Duffus, spurred furiously upon him, and, without utter- 
 ing a syllable, put forth his whole gigantic force in the thrust 
 of his spear. He transfixed him, and bore him from his 
 saddle to the ground. It was but one shriek of agony, and 
 then the coldness, the stiffness, the repose, of death. 
 
 'Twas now the month of September; the foliage withering 
 on the forest-trees was silently preaching to man of the vicis- 
 situdes of time, and, by a premature decline of the season, 
 the evening rains had already degenerated into snow-showers, 
 when two or three of Kemp's trustiest followers, coming to 
 the place where the body of the unfortunate wretch had been 
 hid at morning in the thicket, spread out a mantle on the 
 ground, in which they enveloped the corpse, and bore it away 
 on their shoulders, through the dusk of twilight, to the ad- 
 joining sequestered burial-ground. The sun had sunk behind 
 the far western Grampians ; — the night-hawk gave his faint 
 aerial scream as he flitted over the forbidding orgies ; — the 
 evening became clear and starry ; — and a north wind sweeping 
 over the layer of snow hardened its surface into a polished 
 iciness. They reached the lonely burial-ground, which they 
 entered in silence. The grave had been already dug — the 
 body was tumbled into it — the earth shoveled over; — and a 
 quantity of leaves, collected for the purpose, were scattered 
 around, to prevent any traces of recent digging being ob- 
 servable. 
 
 The ruffian Kemp, seemingly untouched by a feeling of 
 remorse, had in person beheld this last consummation of his 
 atrocious deed; and now, exulting in the security of success, 
 he returned through the copse by a direct path to the postern 
 door of the Castle, which he entered, followed by his bravoes, 
 who sat down to their prepared and promised carousal. 
 
 The fears of Lady Madeline were, in the meantime, deep- 
 ening into despair — the hopes that sustained her were gra- 
 dually waning away, like the traces of sunset from the west — 
 16 
 
182 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and, after brooding over the misery of the preceding evening, 
 her heart sank within her, and she began to give up every- 
 thing for lost. Worn out by hope deferred, and by tears, 
 and terror, and agitation of mind, she felt driven to utter 
 desperation ; and, rising from her knees, after imploring the 
 pardon of Heaven, she gazed forth on the stars, twinkling in 
 the serenity of the blue sky, as it were for the last time, and 
 hid in her bosom the dagger with which, should necessity 
 urge, she had come to the terrible determination of putting 
 a period to her sufferings. 
 
 The night was now far advanced — the wine-cup had circled 
 freely — the sounds of wassail cheer waxed louder in the hall, 
 while song and jest went round till the roofs rang, when a 
 loud and hasty summons shook the gate, and a herald, with 
 an armed band, demanded, in the king's name, the surren- 
 der of the person of Lord Duffus. Heated with wine, and 
 exasperated with rage, Kemp appeared on the battlements, 
 and told them that they had been sent on a false errand — 
 that Lord Duffus was not in his keeping — and that if they 
 w T ould find him, they must seek him elsewhere. He then 
 made some scoffing remarks on their embassy, wished them 
 a pleasant ride back, and returned to his companions. 
 
 Some clue to the sudden disappearance of Lady Madeline 
 de Rothsay having been given by one of the attendants of 
 Lord Duffus, who had been privy to his secret meetings with 
 the notorious Kemp, and had afterwards been dismissed from 
 his service in a drunken frolic, the suspicions of her friends 
 had been suddenly awakened; while the king, who had long 
 in private favored the suit of De Campbell, contrived to have 
 that young knight sent on this mission to recover the lost fair 
 one. 
 
 De Campbell having traced the journey of Lord Duffus to 
 the neighborhood of Castle Gloom, his suspicions were more 
 forcibly awakened. Aware, however, of the daring and 
 desperate character of the freebooter, and knowing that the 
 
MADELINE. 183 
 
 tocsin of alarm had been now sounded in his ears, to put him 
 upon his guard, he judged it best, the night having become 
 dark and gloomy, to leave the rugged and dangerous by-paths, 
 and proceed without delay in the direction of Clackmannan 
 Tower, where he was assured of hospitable accommodation 
 for the night. Here, too, if requisite, he could readily aug- 
 ment his force, so that he might invest the place in the morn- 
 ing with better chance of success. 
 
 The party had not proceeded far over the rugged hill-paths 
 among the trees, when, by the light of the torches, by which 
 they were necessarily preceded, the track of recent footsteps 
 in the snow attracted their attention, and a sudden thought 
 struck De Campbell, that, by following the foot-prints, they 
 might discover something of Duffus, who, he strongly sus- 
 pected, must be lurking somewhere in the neighborhood. 
 They pursued the traces on and on, until they led first round 
 the edge of an ancient quarry, then off by the skirts of a copse- 
 wood, and then, leaving the common track, away to the left, 
 down a dell, to the sequestered burial-ground. There, tying 
 their horses to the yew-trees, they groped about with their 
 lights, until, at the northeast corner, they came to the scat- 
 tered leaves, and remarked the traces of recent digging. 
 Suspicion, strong before, now became still stronger. Can it 
 be, thought De Campbell, that the monsters have murdered 
 the beautiful Madeline de Rothsay, and buried her fair body 
 here in this lone and dreary spot? A cold sweat burst over 
 his limbs, his helmet pressed with a heavier weight on his 
 forehead, and his heart shrunk within his breast. Words 
 may not describe his emotions, as the grave was re-opened, 
 and the body discovered and disinhumed. The torchlight, 
 playing on the cheek of De Campbell, showed it to be pale 
 as the snow at his feet ; for, as they were unwrapping the 
 war-cloak, he every moment dreaded to see, from the attire, 
 some dreadful token that the lady of his love slept within it. 
 His terrors, however, were removed, but his amazement 
 
184 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 certainly increased, when he recognized on the instant the 
 blood-bedabbled features of Duffus ; and, in the bosoms of 
 all, commiseration for his untimely and wretched fate almost 
 stifled the memory of his failings and his crimes. 
 
 Having so far unriddled a most mysterious business, the 
 next step was to track the foot-marks round the enclosures. 
 These, after some little tediousness of search, were found to 
 lead to an opening in the hedge of evergreens, evidently but 
 very recently made, as was observable from some detached 
 branches and berries, which lay on the ground unbesprinkled 
 with the snow, and which must have been torn off subse- 
 quently to the shower. Through the thicket behind, the 
 traces were found to lead onwards to the postern gate of the 
 castle, beside which De Campbell, having collected his men, 
 held them in readiness for effecting a forcible entry. 
 
 With the greatest secresy and silence, the party reached 
 the postern gate of Castle Gloom, which, to their surprise, 
 was unlocked and unguarded ; either so careless of conse- 
 quences were Kemp and his associates in the midst of their 
 villany, or so secure did they feel as to deem themselves 
 beyond the reach of surprise. Accompanied by only one 
 trusty yeoman, De Campbell explored his way in darkness, 
 sword in hand, along the winding passages, while his band 
 kept possession of the postern, in order to assure his retreat, 
 if necessary. For some time he wandered aimlessly in shade 
 and bewilderment, until struck by the sounds of revelry and 
 riot beneath him in the hall. These he neared, and at length 
 was attracted towards the eastern angle of the building, in 
 one of the lattices of which he had, from without, discerned a 
 light. While standing to listen, the tones of a human voice 
 were indistinctly heard, sometimes elevated, as in loud alter- 
 cation, and at others, as if melting into the tender pathos of 
 persuasion. He trode along as on swan's down, and reached 
 the doorway unmolested. 
 
 "Yield to thy fate!" said some one, in whose address 
 
MADELINE. 185 
 
 assumed mildness could not entirely conquer native ferocity, 
 "yield with a good grace, fair maiden; and it will be well 
 for thee. Thou shalt be mistress of all around thee. As for 
 rescue, foster not a hope of that. It is needless to indulge 
 in vain imaginings. Make the best of thy present situa- 
 tion, and know thyself inevitably in my power. Nay, weep 
 not ; thou must be aware, that what thou refusest I can take ; 
 that thou art my prisoner, the bondswoman of Jasper Kemp ; 
 that thy fate must ever remain a mystery; that Lord Duffus 
 is dead; and that of this castle and these demesnes I am sole 
 master. Think not that the force of man, or the fear of man, 
 can ever compel me to deliver up them or thee ; for against 
 the king and the might of his kingdom I could hold them 
 with bloodshed and battle to my opponents for a year and a 
 day.— Consider then well, fair lady. Yet would I compel 
 thee not : give me a ray of hope — say that thou wilt be mine, 
 be it to-morrow, or next day, or the day after that ; and all I 
 ask of thee now is, the delight of pressing that fair soft hand 
 to my rude lips." 
 
 A faint female shriek ascended as the ruffian approached. 
 " Advance not another step ! or, behold, I plunge this dagger 
 into my bosom!" cried a female voice, suffocating in the 
 agony of indignation and terror. " Know that I am prepared 
 for the worst; and if you do not desist from your purpose, 
 and on the instant leave this chamber, into which you have 
 brutally intruded on a defenceless woman, I hold unsheathed 
 in my hand the instrument, which shall dye the rushes of its 
 floor with my heart's blood!" 
 
 "He! he! Lady Madeline," sneered the bandit, "I know 
 thy pretty secret. Shall I send for De Campbell to comfort 
 thee?" 
 
 The listener could no more: the door was impetuously 
 burst open, and, armed cap-a-pie, De Campbell stood, spectre- 
 like, before his panic-struck adversary. "Wretch!" he 
 cried, "I need not to be sent for; lo, Heaven hath waited 
 
 16- 
 
186 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 me hither to defend innocence and to punish guilt! Take, 
 then, the reward due to your atrocities!" 
 
 Kemp quivered through all the fibres of his gigantic frame, 
 and gnashed his teeth in rage, as, grasping round for his 
 weapon, he felt himself unarmed ; but, with the presence of 
 mind for which he was ever remarkable, he touched a spring 
 in the paneling, and instantly disappeared, the blow of De 
 Campbell falling on the half-closed door, through which the 
 freebooter had eluded him. 
 
 All was at once uproar and alarm. Bells rang, voices 
 shouted, and the jangle of armor resounded above and be- 
 low, while the party of De Campbell rushed pell-mell into the 
 castle, and, barricading the entrances to the hall, effectually 
 prevented the revelers from assisting their master in the de- 
 fence of the place. Confused and terror-struck, Kemp soon 
 found that matters had come to a desperate pass ; and, igno- 
 rant of the extent of force brought against him, he judged it 
 best to attempt escape with a few collected followers: a plan 
 which he could not have effected, but from his intimate 
 knowledge of localities. De Campbell, on the other hand, 
 equally ignorant as to the real state of matters, and well aware 
 of the intrepidity of the opponent whom he had so fortuitously 
 and unexpectedly surprised, judged it best, for the safety of 
 his lovely and beloved charge, to make every preparation for 
 departure by the earliest light of morning. 
 
 The surprise, the joy, the rapture, of the Lady Madeline, 
 on being so providentially rescued from the jaws of destruc- 
 tion, at such a critical juncture, and by him in whom her 
 whole happiness on earth was centred, cannot be expressed. 
 Her blood-forsaken cheek now glowed with a crimson be- 
 yond the most delicate tints of the carnation, and her faded 
 eye kindled with an eloquent lustre, whose silence spoke the 
 depth of her gratitude and affection. She would have thrown 
 herself at his feet— but at her feet he knelt, and raising her 
 hand to his lips, he declared that even his life-blood had been 
 
MADELINE. 187 
 
 cheerfully poured in attempting her deliverance ; and that, 
 while his cuirass wore her badge, his arm should ever be 
 ready to wield a sword in her service. 
 
 The reveling and riotous banditti having been secured, 
 and the castle left in the keeping of Ramage, De Campbell's 
 lieutenant, scarcely had the sun, rising from the great Ger- 
 man Ocean, purpled the eastern heavens above the Bass and 
 May islands, when the horses, saddled and caparisoned, were 
 led out before the gate leading into the court, and Lady Made- 
 line de Rothsay, escorted by her deliverer and his gallant 
 train, set out towards Dunfermline. All were armed and on 
 the look-out; for, until gaining the champaign, they were not 
 without suspicion of an attack by Kemp and his infuriated 
 gang. Well it was for them that they kept as much aloof 
 as the paths admitted from the wooded overhanging rocks, 
 and from the narrow defiles, where they were most liable to 
 be stopped or overwhelmed : for, with a falcon eye, the bandit 
 had tracked their route ; and, on approaching the ford of the 
 Devon, his well-known and far-feared trumpet-call was 
 heard. It sounded before, and was answered from behind ; 
 and, as the troop of De Campbell paused to listen, the tramp- 
 ling of approaching horses was heard amid the adjoining 
 copse woods. 
 
 The time called for instant decision. "On! — on! — let us 
 onwards!" cried the young knight, spurring his charger to 
 the gallop, and seizing the rein of Lady Madeline's palfrey. 
 "Our only safety is in pushing onwards to Dunfermline, 
 through the opposers in front. To halt is to be surrounded — 
 delay is destruction; then onwards, onwards, my merry men! 
 Balfour," said he, turning round to one of his trustiest fol- 
 lowers, while bidding his fair ward be of good cheer, he 
 handed to him the rein of Lady Madeline's palfrey — "Bal- 
 four, to thee I commend the safeguard of this lady; and see 
 that thou act as becomes a Scottish soldier, to whom a pre- 
 cious charge is committed." Then, addressing: his train, he 
 
188 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 added — "Let us keep around her, my gallants, till we have 
 wedged our way through yonder caitiffs ; and while we face 
 round and hold thern at bay, do thou, Balfour, with an escort, 
 hurry on thy journey, and Heaven grant that thou deliver up 
 thy charge in safety!" 
 
 Just as he had finished these words, and the horses were 
 put to a hand gallop, an armed troop appeared guarding the 
 ford on the hither side of the Devon ; and in the centre rode 
 the redoubted Kemp himself, conspicuous by his gigantic 
 size and the lofty plume of his helmet. Everything was now 
 at stake, and De Campbell shrank not from the encounter, 
 as, putting his spear in rest, he bore full on in the teeth of 
 his formidable antagonist. In the twinkling of an eyelash 
 both parties had closed in deadly combat, men and horses 
 were overthrown, blows rang on cuirass and casque, and the 
 life-blood flowed from many a gallant heart. Balfour, with 
 Lady Madeline, was at first necessitated to fall back into the 
 rear, from the imminent danger of forcing a passage through 
 a strait so completely blockaded ; but, alive to the import- 
 ance and honor of his trust, he watched his opportunity when 
 the contest was hottest, and, seizing the reins of the alarmed 
 palfrey, clove down the only bandit who endeavored to bar 
 his path, plunged into the water, and gained the opposite 
 bank. He then threw aside his heavy armor, put spurs to 
 his horse, and carried his fair and fainting charge triumph- 
 antly beyond the din of conflict and the reach of her pursuers. 
 
 Having calculated on a deep and easy revenge, Kemp 
 became completely infuriated at the resistance he had so 
 unexpectedly encountered ; but when he perceived the escape 
 of his beautiful captive — the tender being towards whom his 
 own rude feelings seemed to have been so unaccountably 
 attracted — his self-possession entirely forsook him, and he 
 rushed headlong on De Campbell, to sacrifice him to his 
 frenzy. As is customary in cases of over-excitement, he 
 overshot the mark; and De Campbell, though much his in- 
 
MADELINE. 189 
 
 ferior in mere brute strength, had by far the vantage-ground 
 of him in science and coolness. For a while he contented 
 himself in parrying the savage thrusts of his assailant, and, 
 when the exhausting vigor of the monster gave him some 
 chance of success, he rushed at him full tilt, and with a tre- 
 mendous blow of his battle-axe smote him from his horse into 
 the river. With a gurgling groan the ponderous corse sank 
 in the still deep waters under the projecting hazel-bank, and 
 the spot of the Devon, which was the scene of this sanguinary 
 achievement, is called "Kemp's Pool" to this day. 
 
 It is almost unnecessary to add that, immediately on the 
 death of their commander, the followers of the bandit were 
 discomfited, and made but a feeble resistance. A consider- 
 able number were already wounded or slain, and the remain- 
 der, finding opposition unavailing and success without an 
 aim, threw down their arms and betook themselves to flight. 
 Meanwhile, faithful to his trust, Balfour had carried his lovely 
 charge in safety to Dunfermline, where she was received with 
 ecstasy by her despairing friends ; and when De Campbell 
 arrived — oh, may true love be ever so rewarded!— he was 
 waited upon by the Duke of Rothsay, who, grateful beyond 
 the reach of unmeaning family pride, or the power of words, 
 for the recovery of his lovely and beloved child, quenched 
 the remembrance of former differences, and generously gave 
 his sanction to her union with her deliverer. 
 
 The king was himself present at the ceremony, which in a 
 brief space followed at the Chapel Royal; and, on giving 
 away Lady Madeline de Rothsay, he said to the bridegroom 
 —"The life of this fair lady you have gallantly preserved; 
 and my friend the duke has acted but with justice, in bidding 
 you be blessed together. As her dower, accept from me the 
 Castle of Gloom and its domains, the usurped property of the 
 sanguinary monster from whom you have freed my kingdom. 
 Lady, that castle was the scene of your miseries. Sir knight, 
 that castle was the scene of your gallantry. To both, be it 
 
190 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the scene of the felicities, which, I pray Heaven to shower 
 down bounteously on your heads! Let guilt and gloom abide 
 in its halls no more; but, in remembrance of the beauty that 
 adorns and the valor that won it, be it henceforth and forever 
 known by the appellation of Castle Campbell." 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 When the knell, rung for the dying, 
 
 Soundeth for me, 
 And my corse coldly is lying 
 
 'Neath the green tree ; 
 When the turf strangers are heaping, 
 
 Covers my breast, 
 Come not to gaze on me weeping ; — 
 
 I am at rest ! 
 
 All my life, coldly and sadly 
 
 The days have gone by ; 
 I, who dream'd wildly and madly, 
 
 Am happy to die. 
 Dear friend, my heart hath been breaking, 
 
 Its pain is all past ; 
 A term hath been set to its aching, — 
 
 Peace comes at last! 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT 
 
 TWO CHAPTERS FROM AN OLD HISTORY. 
 
 BT G. P. H. JAMES, ESQ.. 
 
 Author of ' ; Richelieu," " Gipsy," &c. &c. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 About midway between Ostend and Sluys, exposed to 
 all the fitful wrath of the North Sea, lies a long tract of 
 desolate shore, frowning no fierce defiance back upon the 
 waves that dash in fury against it ; but — like a calm and even 
 spirit, which repels by its very tranquil humility the heat of 
 passion and the overbearing of pride — opposing naught to 
 the angry billows, but a soft and lowly line of yellow sands. 
 There nothing grows which can add comfort to existence ; 
 there nothing flourishes which can beautify or adorn. Torn 
 from the depths of ocean, and cast by the storm upon the 
 shore, sea shells, and variegated weeds will, indeed, some- 
 times deck the barren beach, and now and then a green 
 shrub, or a stunted yellow flower, wreathing its roots amidst 
 the shifting sand, will here and there appear upon the low hills 
 called Dimes. But with these exceptions, all is waste and 
 bare, possessing alone that portion of the sublime which is 
 derived from extent and desolation. It may be well con- 
 ceived that the inhabitants of such a spot are few. Two 
 small villages, and half a dozen isolated cottages are the 
 
192 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 only vestiges of human habitation to be met with in the 
 course of many a mile ; and at the time to which this tale 
 refers, these few dwellings were still fewer. That time was 
 long, long ago, at a period when another state of society 
 existed in Europe; and when one class of men were sepa- 
 rated from another by barriers which time, the great grave- 
 digger of all things, has now buried beneath the dust of other 
 years. Nevertheless, the inhabitants of that tract of sandy 
 country were less different in habits, manners, and even ap- 
 pearance from those who tenant it at present, than might be 
 imagined; and in original character were very much the 
 same, combining in their disposition traits resembling the 
 shore on which their habitations stood, and the element by 
 the side of which they lived — simple, unpolished, yet gentle 
 and humble, and at the same time wild, fearless, and rash as 
 the stormy- sea itself. 
 
 I speak of seven centuries ago — a long time, indeed! but 
 nevertheless then, even then, there were as warm affections 
 stirring in the world, as bright domestic love, as glad hopes 
 and chilling fears as now — there were all the ties of home 
 and kindred, as dearly felt, as fondly cherished, as boldly 
 defended as they can be in the present day; and out upon 
 the dull imagination and cold heart that cannot feel the link 
 of human sympathy binding us to our fellow beings even of 
 the days gone by! 
 
 Upon a dull, cold melancholy evening, in the end of 
 autumn, one of the fishermen of the shore near Scarphout 
 gazed over the gray sea as it lay before his eye, rolling in, 
 with one dense line of foaming waves pouring for ever over 
 the other. The sky was bleak and heavy, covered with 
 clouds of a mottled leaden hue, growing darker towards the 
 north-west, and the gusty whistling of the rising wind told of 
 the coming storm. The fisherman himself was a tall, gaunt 
 man, with hair of a grizzled black, strongly marked, but not 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 193 
 
 unpleasant features, and many a long furrow across his broad, 
 high brow. 
 
 The spot on which he stood was a small sandhill on the 
 little bay formed by a projecting ridge of Dunes, at the ex- 
 treme of which stood the old castle of Scarphout, even then 
 in ruins, and at the time of high tide separated from the land 
 by the encroaching waves, but soon destined to be swept 
 away altogether, leaving nothing but a crumbling tower here 
 and there rising above the waters. Moored in the most shel- 
 tered part of the bay, before his eyes, were his two boats; 
 and behind him, underneath the sand hills that ran out to the 
 old castle, was the cottage in which he and his family had 
 dwelt for ten years. 
 
 He stood and gazed; and then turning to a boy dressed 
 in the same uncouth garments as himself, he said, " No, 
 Peterkin, no! There will be a storm — I will not go to-night. 
 Go, tell your father and the other men I will not go. I ex- 
 pect my son home from Tournay, and I will not go out on a 
 stormy night when he is coming back after a long absence." 
 The boy ran away along the shore to some still lower cot- 
 tages, which could just be seen at the opposite point, about 
 two miles off; and the fisherman turned towards his own 
 dwelling Four rooms were all that it contained ; and the 
 door which opened on the sands led into the first of these: 
 but the chamber was clean and neat; everything within it 
 showed care and extreme attention ; the brazen vessels above 
 the wide chimney, the pottery upon the shelves, all bore evi- 
 dence of good housewifery ; and as the fisherman of Scarphout 
 entered his humble abode, the warm blaze of the fire, and the 
 light of the resin candles, welcomed him to as clean an apart- 
 ment as could be found in the palace of princes. He looked 
 round it with a proud and satisfied smile; and the arms of 
 his daughter, a lovely girl of fourteen, were round his neck 
 in a moment, while she exclaimed in a glad tone, speaking 
 17 
 
194 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 to her mother who was busy in the room beyond, " Oh, mo- 
 ther, he will not go out to sea to-night!" 
 
 Her mother, who had once been very beautiful — nay, was 
 so still — came forth, and greeted her husband with a calm 
 glad kiss; and sitting down, the father pulled off his heavy 
 boots, and warmed his strong hands over the cheerful blaze. 
 
 The wind whistled louder and louder still, the sea moaned 
 as if tormented by the demon of the storm, and few, but dash- 
 ing drops of heavy rain, came upon the blast, and rattled on 
 the casements of the cottage. 
 
 "It will be a fearful night!" said the fisherman, speaking 
 to his daughter. " Emeline, give me the book, and we will 
 read the prayer for those that wander in the tempest." 
 
 His daughter turned to one of the wooden shelves; and 
 from behind some very homely articles of kitchen furniture, 
 brought forth one of the splendid books of the Romish church, 
 from which her father read forth a prayer, while mother and 
 daughter knelt beside him. 
 
 Higher still grew the storm as the night came on ; more 
 frequent and more fierce were the howling gusts of wind ; 
 and the w T aves of the stirred-up ocean, cast in thunder upon 
 the shore, seemed to shake the lowly cottage as if they would 
 fain have swept it from the earth. Busily did Dame Alice, 
 the fisherman's wife, trim the wood fire ; eagerly and carefully 
 did she prepare the supper for her husband and her expected 
 son ; and often did Emeline listen to hear if, in the lulled 
 intervals of the storm, she could catch the sound of coming 
 steps. 
 
 At length, when the rushing of the wind and w r aves seemed 
 at their highest, there came a loud knocking at the door, and 
 the fisherman started up to open it, exclaiming, "It is my 
 son!" He threw it wide; but the moment he had done so, 
 he started back, exclaiming, "Who are you?" and pale as 
 ashes, drenched with rain, and haggard, as if with terror and 
 fatigue, staggered in a man as old as the fisherman himself, 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 195 
 
 bearing in his arms what seemed the lifeless body of a young 
 and lovely woman. The apparel of either stranger had, at 
 one time, cost far more than the worth of the fisherman's cot- 
 tage and all that it contained ; but now, that apparel was rent 
 and soiled, and upon that of the man were evident traces of 
 blood and strife. Motioning eagerly to shut the door — as 
 soon as it was done, he set his fair burden on one of the low 
 settles, and besought for her the aid of the two women whom 
 he beheld. It was given immediately ; and although an air 
 of surprise, and a look for a moment even fierce, had come 
 over the fisherman's countenance on the first intrusion of 
 strangers into his cottage, that look had now passed away ; 
 and, taking the fair girl, who lay senseless before him, in his 
 strong; arms, he bore her into an inner chamber, and placed 
 her on his wife's own bed. The women remained with her; 
 and closing the door, the fisherman returned to his unexpected 
 guest, demanding abruptly, "Who is that?" 
 
 The stranger crossed his question by another — " Are you 
 Walran, the fisherman of Scarphout?" he demanded, "and 
 will you plight your oath not to betray me?" 
 
 "I am Walran," replied the fisherman, " and I do plight 
 
 my oath." 
 
 " Then that is the daughter of Charles, Count of Flanders !" 
 
 replied the stranger. "I have saved her at the risk of my 
 
 life from the assassins of her father!" 
 
 "The assassins of her father!" cried the fisherman. "Then 
 
 is he dead?" 
 
 "He was slain yesterday in the church — in the very 
 
 church itself at Bruges! Happily his son was absent, and 
 
 his daughter is saved, at least if you will lend us that aid 
 
 which a young man, who is even now engaged in misleading 
 
 our pursuers, promised in your name." 
 
 "My son!" said the fisherman. "His promise shall 
 
 bind his father as if it were my own. But tell me, who are 
 
 you ?" 
 
196 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "I am Baldwin, Lord of Wavrin," replied the stranger. 
 "But we have no time for long conferences, good fisherman. 
 A party of assassins are triumphant in Flanders. The count 
 is slain; his son, a youth, yet unable to recover or defend his 
 own without aid: his daughter is here, pursued by the mur- 
 derers of her father; she cannot be long concealed, and this 
 night — this very night, I must find means to bear her to the 
 shores of France, so that I may place her in safety; and, as 
 a faithful friend of my dead sovereign, obtain the means of 
 snatching his son's inheritance from the hands of his enemies, 
 ere their power be confirmed beyond remedy. Will you ven- 
 ture to bear us out to sea in your boat, and win a reward such 
 as a fisherman can seldom gain?" 
 
 "The storm is loud!" said the fisherman; "the wind is 
 cold ; and ere you reach the coast of France, that fair flower 
 would be withered never to revive a^ain. You must leave 
 her here." 
 
 " But she will be discovered and slain by the murderers of 
 her father," replied Baldwin. " What, are you a man and a 
 seaman, and fear to dare the storm for such an object?" 
 
 "I fear nothing," answered the fisherman, calmly. "But 
 here is my son! Albert, God's benison be upon you, my 
 boy," he added, as a young man entered the cotlage, with 
 the dark curls of his jetty hair dripping with the night rain. 
 " Welcome back! but you come in an hour of trouble. Cast 
 the great bar across the door, and let no one enter, while I 
 show this stranger a refuge he knows not." 
 
 "No one shall enter living," said the young man, after 
 returning his father's first embrace: and the fisherman, taking- 
 one of the resin lights from the table, passed through the 
 room where the fair unhappy Marguerite of Flanders lay, 
 recovering from the swoon into which she had fallen, to a 
 recollection of all that was painful in existence. "Should 
 they attempt to force the door," whispered the fisherman to 
 his wife, " bring her quick after me, and bid Albert and 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 197 
 
 Emiline follow." And striding on with the Lord of Wavrin, 
 into the room beyond, he gave his guest the light, while 
 he advanced towards the wall which ended the building on 
 that side. It had formed part of some old tenement, most 
 probably a monastery, which had long ago occupied the spot, 
 when a little town, now no longer existing, had been gather*" I 
 together at the neck of the promontory on which the fort oi 
 Scarphout stood. 
 
 This one wall was all that remained of the former habita- 
 tions ; and against it the cottage was built ; though the huge 
 stones of which it was composed were but little in harmony 
 with the rest of the low building. To it, however, the fisher- 
 man advanced, and placing his shoulder against one of the 
 enormous stones, to the astonishment of the stranger it moved 
 round upon a pivot in the wall, showing the top of a small 
 staircase, leading down apparently into the ground. A few 
 words sufficed to tell that that staircase led, by a passage 
 under the narrow neck of sandhills, to the old castle beyond ; 
 and that in that old castle was still one room habitable, 
 though unknown to any but the fisherman himself. "Here, 
 then, let the lady stay," he said, " guarded, fed, and tended 
 by my wife and children ; and for you and me, let us put to 
 . I will bring you safe to Boulogne, if I sleep not with 
 you beneath the waves; and there, from the King of France, 
 you may gain aid to re-establish rightful rule within the 
 
 land." ' 
 
 " To Boulogne," said the stranger, " to Boulogne ? Nay, 
 let us pause at Bergues or Calais, for I am not loved in 
 Boulogne. I once," he added boldly, seeing some astonish- 
 ment in the fisherman's countenance, "I once wronged the 
 former Count of Boulogne — I scruple not to say it — I did him 
 wrong; and though he has been dead for years, yet his 
 people love me not, and I have had warning to avoid their 
 dwellings." 
 
 "And do you think the love or hate of ordinary people cau 
 
 17* 
 
198 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 outlive long years?" demanded the fisherman; "but, never- 
 theless, let us to Boulogne; for there is even now the King 
 of France : so said a traveler who landed here the other day. 
 And the king, w r ho is come, they say, to judge upon the spot 
 who shall inherit the long vacant county of Boulogne, will 
 give you protection against your enemies, and aid to restore 
 your sovereign's son to his rightful inheritance." 
 
 The Lord of Wavrin mused for a moment, but consented, 
 and all was speedily arranged. The fair Marguerite of 
 Flanders, roused and cheered by the care of the fisherman's 
 family, gladly took advantage of the refuge offered her, and 
 found no terrors in the long damp vaults or ponderous stone 
 door that hid her from the world ; and feeling that she herself 
 was now in safety, she scarcely looked round the apartment 
 to which she was led, but gave herself up to the thoughts of 
 her father's bloody death, her brother's situation of peril, and 
 all the dangers that lay before the faithful friend who, with a 
 father's tenderness, had guided her safely from the house of 
 murder and desolation. He, on his part, saw the heavy stone 
 door roll slowly to after the princess, and ascertaining that an 
 iron bolt within gave her the means of securing her retreat, 
 at least in a degree, he left her, with a mind comparatively 
 tranquillized in regard to her, and followed the fisherman 
 towards the beach. There was found already the boat pre- 
 pared, with its prow towards the surf, and one or two of the 
 fisherman's hardy companions ready to share his danger. 
 The Lord of Wavrin looked up to the dark and starless sky ; 
 he felt the rude wind push roughly against his broad chest ; 
 he heard the billows fall in thunder upon the sandy shore ; 
 but he thought of his murdered sovereign, and of that sove- 
 reign's helpless orphans, and springing into the frail bark, 
 he bade them push off, though he felt that there was many a 
 chance those words might be the signals for his death. 
 Watching till the wave had broken, the three strong men 
 pushed the boat through the yielding sand; the next instant 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 199 
 
 she floated ; they leaped in, and struggling for a moment 
 with the coming wave, the bark bounded out into the sea, 
 and was lost to the sight of those that watched her from the 
 shore. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 There were tears in the blue eye of the morning, but they 
 were like the tears of a spoiled beauty when her momentary 
 anger has gained all she wishes, and the passionate drops 
 begin to be checkered by smiles not less wayward. Gradu- 
 ally, however, the smiles predominated ; the clouds grew less 
 frequent and less heavy, the sun shone out with shorter 
 intervals, and though the wind and the sea still sobbed and 
 heaved with the past storm, the sky was momently becoming 
 more and more serene. Such was the aspect of the coming 
 day, when the unhappy Marguerite of Flanders again opened 
 her eyes, after having for a time forgotten her sorrow in but 
 too brief repose. For a moment she doubted whether the 
 past were not all a dream ; but the aspect of the chamber in 
 which she now found herself, very different from that which 
 she had inhabited in her father's palace, soon recalled the 
 sad reality. And yet as she gazed round the room, there 
 was nothing rude or coarse in its appearance. Rich tapestry 
 was still upon the walls ; the dressoir was still covered with 
 fine linen and purple, and many a silver vessel — laver, and 
 ewer, and cup, stood ready for her toilet. The small grated 
 windows, with the enormous walls in which they were set, 
 the faded colors of the velvet hangings of the bed in which 
 she had been sleeping, the vaulted roof, showing no carved 
 and gilded oak, but the cold, bare stone, told that she was 
 in the chamber of a lone and ruined fortress; but one that 
 less than a century before had contained persons in whose 
 veins flowed the same blood that wandered through her own. 
 Rising, she gazed out of the window, which looked upon the 
 
200 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 wide and rushing sea, and she thought of the good old Lord 
 of Wavrin and his dangerous voyage ; and, like the figures 
 in a delirious dream, the forms of the old fisherman, and his 
 beautiful daughter, and fair wife, and handsome, dark-eyed 
 son came back upon her memory. A slight knock at the 
 door roused her; but her whole nerves had been so shaken 
 with terror that she hardly dared to bid the stranger enter. 
 At length, however, she summoned courage to do so, and the 
 fair and smiling face of Emiline, the fisherman's daughter, 
 appeared behind the opening door. Torn from the fond, ac- 
 customed things of early days, left lone and desolate in a 
 wild and unattractive spot, surrounded by dangers, and for 
 the first time exposed to adversity, the heart of Marguerite 
 of Flanders was but too well disposed to cling to whatever 
 presented itself for affection. Emiline she found kind and 
 gentle, but though younger, of a firmer mood than herself, 
 having been brought up in a severer school ; and to her Mar- 
 guerite soon learned to cling. But there was another com- 
 panion whom fate cast in her way, from whom she could not 
 withhold the same natural attachment, though but too likely 
 to prove dangerous to her peace. Morning and evening, 
 every day, Albert, the fisherman's son, who had been left 
 behind by his father to afford that protection which none but 
 a man could give, visited her retreat in the company of his 
 sister; and Marguerite was soon taught to long for those visits 
 as the brightest hours of her weary concealment. 
 
 But in the meantime the fisherman returned no more. 
 Day passed after day; morning broke and evening fell, and 
 the boat which had left the shore of Scarphout on that event- 
 ful evening, did not appear again. The eye of the fisher- 
 man's wife strained over the waters, and when at eventide 
 the barks of the other inhabitants of the coast were seen 
 approaching the shore, his children ran down to inquire for 
 their parent — but in vain. About the same time, too, frag- 
 ments of wrecks — masts, sails, and planks, were cast upon 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 201 
 
 the sands, and dark and sad grew the brov.'s of the once 
 happy family at the point of Scarphout. The two other men 
 whom he had chosen to accompany him were unmarried, but 
 their relations at length gave up the last hope, and the priest 
 of Notre Dame de Blankenbergh was besought to say masses 
 for the souls of the departed. The good old man wept as he 
 promised to comply, for though he had seen courts, and lived 
 in the household of a noble prince, he loved his simple flock, 
 and had ever been much attached to the worthy man whose 
 boat was missing. Marguerite of Flanders, with a fate but 
 too intimately interwoven with that of the unfortunate family 
 at Scarphout, had been made acquainted with the hopes and 
 fears of every day, had mingled her tears with Emiline, and 
 had even clasped the hand of Albert, while she soothed him 
 with sympathetic sorrow for his father's loss. " Mine is an 
 unhappy fate," she said, " to bring sorrow r and danger even 
 here, while seeking to fly from it myself." 
 
 " Grieve not, lady, in that respect," replied Albert, raising 
 her hand to his lips; " we have but done our duty towards 
 you, and our hearts are not such as to regret that we have 
 done so, even though we lose a father by it. Neither fear 
 for your own fate. The times must change for better ones. 
 In the meanwhile you are in safety here, and should need 
 be, I will defend you with the last drop of my blood." 
 
 The morning that followed, however, wore a different as- 
 pect. Scarcely were matins over, when the good old priest 
 himself visited the cottage of the fisherman, and proceeded 
 to those of his companions, spreading joy and hope where- 
 ever he came. What, it may be asked, was the source of 
 such joy? It was but a vision! The old man had dreamt, 
 he said, that he had seen the fisherman of Scarphout safe and 
 well, with a net in his hand, in which were an innumerable 
 multitude of fishes. And this simple dream was, in that age, 
 sufficient to dry the eyes of mourning and bring back hope 
 to bosoms that had been desolate. Albert flew to communi- 
 
202 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 cate the tale to Marguerite of Flanders, and there was spoken 
 between them many a word of joy — joy that so often entwines 
 its arms with tenderness. He now came oftener than ever, 
 for the old priest by some means had learned that he took an 
 interest in all the changing fortunes of the state of Flanders, 
 and daily the good man brought him tidings, which sometimes 
 he felt it a duty, sometimes a pleasure to tell to the lonely 
 dweller in the ruined castle. He found, too, that his presence 
 cheered her, and that his conversation won her from her grief. 
 She began to cling even more to him than to his sister ; for 
 he knew more of the world, and men, and courts than Enii- 
 line, and he thought it but kind to afford her every solace 
 and pleasure he could give. Each day his visits became 
 more frequent, and continued longer. Sometimes he would 
 liberate her, after a sort, from her voluntary prison, by taking 
 her, with Emiline, in his boat upon the moonlight sea, or 
 even by leading her along, under the eye of Heaven's queen, 
 upon the smooth sands, when the waves of a calm night 
 rippled up to their feet. At other times he would sit upon 
 the stones of the old battlements, rent and rifted by the war- 
 fare of ages, and would wile her thoughts away from herself 
 by tales of other days, w r hen those battlements had withstood 
 the assault of hosts, and those halls had been the resort of 
 the fair and brave, now dust. Then, again, he would give 
 her tidings which he had gained while dwelling at Namur or 
 at Tournay ; reciting the gallant deeds of the servants of the 
 Cross in distant Palestine, or telling of the horrors of captivity 
 in Paynimrie ; and then, too, he would sing, as they sat 
 above the waters, with a voice, and a skill, and a taste 
 which Marguerite fancied all unequaled in the world. Day 
 by day, and hour by hour, the fair inexperienced princess 
 of Flanders felt that she was losing her young heart to the 
 youth of low degree ; and yet what could she do to stay the 
 fugitive, or call him back to her own bosom from his hope- 
 less flight. It was not alone that Albert was, in her eyes 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 203 
 
 at least, the most handsome man she had ever beheld ; it was 
 not alone thai he was gentle, kind, and tender, but it was 
 that on him alone was she cast for aid, protection, amuse- 
 ment, information, hope ; that her fate hung upon his word, 
 and that while he seemed to feel and triumph in the task, 
 yet it was with a deep, earnest, anxious solicitude for her 
 peace and for her security. And did she think, that with 
 all these feelings in her bosom, he had dared to love her in 
 return — to love her, the princess of that land in which he 
 was alone, the son of a poor fisherman ? She knew he had — 
 she saw it in his eyes, she heard it in every tone, she felt it 
 in the tender touch of the strong hand that aided her in their 
 stolen wanderings. And thus it went on from day to day, 
 till words were spoken that no after-thought could ever recall, 
 and Marguerite owned, that if Heaven willed that her father's 
 lands should never return to her father's house, she could, 
 with a happy heart, see state and dignity pass away from 
 her, and wed the son of the Fisherman of Scarphout. 
 
 But still the fisherman himself returned not; days had 
 grown into weeks, and weeks had become months, yet no 
 tidings of him or his companions had reached the shore, and 
 men began to fancy that the vision of the old priest might 
 be no more than an ordinary dream. Not so, however, the 
 family of the fisherman himself. They seemed to hold the 
 judgment of the good man infallible, and every day he vi- 
 sited their cottage, bringing them tidings of all the events 
 which took place in the struggle that now convulsed the land. 
 By this time, the King of France had roused himself to 
 chastise the rebels of Flanders, and to reinstate the young 
 count in his dominions. He had summoned his vassals to 
 his standard, and creating two experienced leaders marshals 
 of his host, had entered the disturbed territory with lance in 
 the rest. Little armed opposition had been made to his pro- 
 gress, though two or three detached parties from his army 
 had been cut off and slaughtered. But this only exasperated 
 
204 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the monarch still more, and he had been heard to vow that 
 nothing but the death of every one of the conspirators would 
 satisfy him for the blood of Charles the Good, and of the faith- 
 ful friends who had fallen with him. Such was the tale told 
 by the good priest to Albert, the fisherman's son, one day 
 towards the end of the year, and by him repeated to Margue- 
 rite of Flanders, who heard it with very mingled feelings ; 
 for if a momentary joy crossed her heart to think that the 
 murderers of her father would meet their just reward, and her 
 brother would recover the coronet of Flanders, the fear, the 
 certainty that she herself would be torn from him she loved, 
 overclouded the brief sunshine, and left her mind all dark. 
 The next day, however, new tidings reached Albert, and 
 filled his heart with consternation and surprise. Burchard, 
 the chief murderer of the dead count, had, it was said, dis- 
 patched a messenger to the King of France, to bid him either 
 hold off from Bruges, or send him a free pardon for himself 
 and all his companions, lest another victim should be added 
 to those already gone from the family of the dead count. " I 
 have in my power," he had added, " the only daughter of 
 Charles, called by you the Good. I know her retreat — I 
 hold her as it were in a chain, and I shall keep her as a 
 hostage, whose blood shall flow if a hard measure be dealt to 
 me." 
 
 Albert fell into deep thought. Could it be true, he asked 
 himself, that Burchard had really discovered Marguerite of 
 Flanders ? If so, it were time, he thought, to fulfil one part 
 of his father's directions concerning her, at any cost to him- 
 self; and as those directions had been, in case danger me- 
 naced her in her retreat, to carry her to sea, and landing on 
 the coast of France, to place her in the hands of the king or 
 his representative, it may easily be conceived that the exe- 
 cution thereof would be not a little painful to one for whom 
 each hour of her society was joy. The more he pondered, 
 however, the more he felt that it must be done ; but for the 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 205 
 
 last three days four or five strange sail had been seen idly 
 beating about not far from the coast, and Albert determined, 
 in the first instance, to ascertain their purpose. With some 
 young men from the neighbouring cottages, he put to sea, 
 and finding an easy excuse to approach one of the large ves- 
 sels which he had beheld, he asked, as if accidentally, to 
 whom they belonged, when, with consternation and anxiety, 
 he heard that they were the ships of " Burchard, Prevot of St. 
 Donatien." Returning at once to the shore, he dismissed 
 his companions and sought his father's cottage ; but there he 
 found that tidings had been received that the King of France 
 had advanced upon Bruges, and that Burchard had fled with 
 his troops ; but the same report added, that the rebels, hotly 
 pursued by the chivalry of France, had directed their flight 
 towards the sea-shore. Time pressed — the moment of dan- 
 ger was approaching ; but still great peril appeared in every 
 course of action which could be adopted. The escape by 
 sea was evidently cut off; the retreat of Marguerite of Flan- 
 ders was apparently discovered ; and if a flight by land were 
 attempted, it seemed only likely to lead into the power of the 
 enemy. With her, then, he determined to consult, and pass- 
 ing through the vaults, he was soon by the side of the fair 
 unfortunate girl, whose fate depended upon the decision of 
 the next few minutes. He told her all ; but to her as well 
 as to himself, to fly seemed more hazardous than to remain. 
 The high tide was coming up ; in less than half an hour the 
 castle would be cut off from the land ; the King of France 
 was hard upon the track of the enemy, and various events 
 might tend to favor her there. " I would rather die," she 
 said, " than fall living into their hands ; and I can die here 
 as well as anywhere else, dear Albert." 
 
 "They shall passover my dead body ere they reach you," 
 answered he. " Many a thing has been done, Marguerite, 
 by a single arm ; and if I can defend you till the King ar- 
 rives you are safe." 
 18 
 
206 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " But arms!" she said. "You have no arms." 
 
 "Oh! yes, I have," he answered. " No one knows the 
 secrets of this old castle but my father and myself; and there 
 are arms here, too, for those who need them. Wait but a mo- 
 ment and I will return." 
 
 His absence was as brief as might be ; but when he came 
 back, Marguerite saw him armed with shield and helmet, 
 sword and battle axe ; but without either haubert or coat of 
 mail, which, though they might have guarded him from 
 wounds, would have deprived him of a part of that agility 
 which could alone enable one to contend with many. 
 
 "If I could but send Emiline," he said, as he came up, 
 " to call some of our brave boatmen from the cottages to our 
 assistance here, we might set an army at defiance for an 
 hour or two." 
 
 Marguerite only answered, by pointing with her hand to a 
 spot on the distant sands, where a small body of horsemen, 
 perhaps not a hundred, were seen galloping at full speed 
 towards Scarphout. Albert saw that it was too late to call 
 further aid; and now only turned to discover where he could 
 best make his defence in case of need. There was a large 
 massy wall, which, ere the sea had encroached upon the build- 
 ing, ran completely round the castle, but which now only 
 flanked one side of the ruins, running out like a jetty into the 
 waters which had swallowed up the rest. It was raised 
 about twenty feet above the ground on one side, and perhaps 
 twenty-five above the sea on the other ; and at the top, be- 
 tween the parapets, was a passage which would hardly con- 
 tain two men abreast. Upon this wall, about half way 
 between the keep and the sea, was a small projecting turret, 
 and there Albert saw that Marguerite might find shelter, 
 while, as long as he lived, he could defend the passage against 
 any force coming from the side of the land. He told her his 
 plans ; and for her only answer, she fell upon his neck and 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 207 
 
 wept. But he wiped her tears away with his fond lips, and 
 spoke words of hope and comfort. 
 
 " See !" he said, " the sea is already covering the chaussee 
 between us and the land, and if they do not possess the se- 
 cret of the vaults, they cannot reach us till the tide falls." 
 When he turned his eyes to the shore, the body of horsemen 
 were within a mile of the castle ; but then, with joy inex- 
 pressible, he beheld upon the edge of the sand-hills, scarcely 
 two miles behind them, a larger force hurrying on as if in 
 pursuit with banner and pennon and standard displayed, 
 and lance beyond lance bristling up against the sky. 
 
 " The King of France ! the King of France !" he cried ; 
 but still the foremost body galloped on. They reached the 
 shore, drew up their horses when they saw that the tide was 
 in; turned suddenly towards the cottage ; and the next mo- 
 ment Albert could see his mother and Emiline fly from their 
 dwelling across the sands. The men-at-arms had other mat- 
 ters in view than to pursue them ; but Albert now felt that 
 Marguerite's only hope was in his own valor. 
 
 " To the turret !" my beloved !" he cried, " to the turret!" 
 And half bearing, half leading her along, he placed her under 
 its shelter, and took his station in the pass. A new soul 
 seemed to animate him, new light shone forth from his eye ; 
 and, in words which might have suited the noblest of the 
 land, he exhorted her to keep her firmness in the moment of 
 danger, to watch around, and give him notice of all she saw 
 from the loop-holes of the turret. Then came a moment of 
 awful suspense, while in silence and in doubt they waited 
 the result ; but still the host of France might be seen drawing 
 nearer and more near ; and the standard of the king could be 
 distinguished floating on the wind amidst a thousand other 
 banners of various feudal lords. Hope grew high in Al- 
 bert's breast, and he trusted that ere Burchard could find 
 and force the entrance the avenger would be upon him. He 
 hoped in vain, however, for the murderer was himself well 
 
20S THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 acquainted with the spot, and had only paused to secure 
 the door of the vaults, so that his pursuers could not follow 
 by the same means he himself employed. In another minute 
 loud voices were heard echoing through the ruin, and Albert 
 and Marguerite, concealing themselves as best they could, 
 beheld the fierce and blood-thirsty Prevot with his compan- 
 ions seeking them through the castle. Still onward bore the 
 banners of France ; and ere Burchard had discovered 
 their concealment, the shore at half a bow shot distance was 
 lined with chivalry. So near were they, that, uninterrupted 
 by the soft murmur of the w r aves, could be heard the voice of 
 a herald calling upon the rebels to surrender, and promising 
 pardon to all but the ten principal conspirators. A loud shout 
 of defiance was the only reply ; for at that very moment the 
 eye of Burchard lighted on the form of Albert as he crouched 
 under the wall, and the men-at-arms poured on along the 
 narrow passage. Concealment could now avail nothing ; 
 and starting up with his battle-axe in his hand, he planted 
 himself between the rebels and the princess. The French 
 on the shore could now behold him also, as he stood with 
 half his figure above the parapet ; and instantly, seeming 
 to divine his situation, some cross-bow r men were brought for- 
 ward, and poured their quarrels on the men of the Prevot as 
 they rushed forward to attack him. Two or three were struck 
 down ; but the others hurried on, and the safety of Albert 
 himself required the cross-bowmen to cease, when hand to 
 hand he was compelled to oppose the passage of the enemy. 
 Each blow of his battle-axe could still be beheld from the 
 land ; and as one after another of his foes went down before 
 that strong and ready arm, loud and grat dating shouts rang 
 from his friends upon the shore. Still others pressed on, 
 catching a view of Marguerite herself, as, in uncontrollable 
 anxiety for him she loved, she gazed forth from the turret 
 door, and a hundred eager eyes were bent upon her, certain 
 that if she could be taken, a promise of pardon, or a death of 
 
THE FISHERMAN OF SCARPHOUT. 209 
 
 vengeance at least, would be obtained ; but only one could 
 approach at a time, and Albeit was forming for himself a 
 rampart of dead and dying. At that moment, however, 
 Burchard, who stood behind, pointed to the castle-court be- 
 low, where a number of old planks and beams lay rotting in 
 the sun. A dozen of his men sprang down, caught up the 
 materials which he showed them, planted them against the 
 wall beyond the turret, and soon raised up a sort of tottering 
 scaffold behind the place where Marguerite's gallant defender 
 stood. He himself, eager in the strife before him, saw not 
 what had happened ; but she had marked the fatal advantage 
 their enemy had gained, and, gliding like a ghost from out 
 the turret, she approached close to his side, exclaiming, 
 " They are coming! — they are coming from the other side! — 
 and we are lost!" 
 
 Albert turned his head, and comprehended in a moment. 
 But one hope was left. Dashing to the earth the next oppo- 
 nent who was climbing over the dead bodies between them, 
 he struck a second blow at the one beyond, which made him 
 recoil upon his fellows. Then casting his battle-axe and 
 shield away, he caught the light form of Marguerite in his 
 arms, sprang upon the parapet, and exclaiming, " Now God 
 befriend us!" plunged at once into the deep sea, while, at 
 the very same moment, the heads of the fresh assailants ap- 
 peared upon the wall beyond. A cry of terror and amaze- 
 ment rang from the shore ; and the King of France himself, 
 with two old knights beside him, rode on till the waters 
 washed their horses' feet. Albert and Marguerite were lost 
 to sight in a moment ; but the next instant they appeared 
 again; and, long accustomed to sport with the same waves 
 that now curled gently round him as an old loved friend, 
 bearing the shoulders of Marguerite lifted on his left arm, 
 with his right he struck boldly towards the shore. On — on he 
 bore her ! and like a lamb in the bosom of the shepherd, she 
 lay without a struggle, conquering strong terror by stronger 
 
 18* 
 
210 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 resolution. On — on he bore her! Glad shouts hailed him 
 as he neared the shore ; and with love and valour lending 
 strength, he came nearer and more near. At length his feet 
 touched the ground, and throwing both arms round her, he 
 bore her safe, and rescued, till he trod the soft dry sand. Then 
 kneeling before the monarch, he set his fair burden softly on 
 the ground — but still he held her hand. " Hold ! nobles — 
 hold !" cried the King of France, springing from his horse. 
 " Before any one greets him, I will give him the greeting he 
 well has won. Advance the standard over us ! Albert of 
 Boulogne, I dub thee Knight! Be ever as to-day, gallant, 
 brave, and true. This is the recompense we give. Fair 
 lady of Flanders, we think you owe him a recompense like- 
 wise ; and we believe that, according to our wise coast laws, 
 that which a fisherman brings up from the sea is his own by 
 right. Is it not so, my good Lord of Boulogne?" and he turned 
 to a tall old man beside him. " You, of all men, should 
 know best ; as for ten years you here enacted the Fisherman 
 of Scarphout." 
 
 The nobles laughed loud, and with tears of joy the old 
 Count of Boulogne, for it was no other, embraced his noble 
 son, while at the same time the Lord of Wavrin advanced, 
 and pressed Marguerite's hand in that of her deliverer, say- 
 ing, "Her father, sire, by will, as you will find, gave the 
 disposal of her hand to me, and I am but doing my duty to 
 him in bestowing it on one who merits it so well. At the 
 same time it is a comfort to my heart to offer my noble lord, 
 the Count of Boulogne, some atonement for having done him 
 wrong in years long gone, and for having, even by mistake, 
 brought on him your displeasure and a ten years' exile. He 
 has forgiven me, but I have not forgiven myself; and as an 
 offering of repentance, all my own lands and territories, at 
 my death, I give, in addition, to the dowry of Marguerite of 
 Flanders." 
 
 We will not pause upon the death of Burchard, Prevot of 
 
JULIAN'S DEATH. 211 
 
 St. Donation. It was, as he merited, upon a scaffold. Ex- 
 planations, too, are tedious, and the old history tells no more 
 than we have here told, leaving the imagination of its readers 
 to fill up all minor particulars in the life of the Fisherman of 
 Scarphout. 
 
 JULIAN'S DEATH. 
 
 BY THE LATE EDWARD KNIGHT, ESft. 
 
 An acorn was planted at Julian's birth, 
 That resisted the blights of the weather ; 
 
 The youth grew in strength, like the oak from the earth, 
 And they flourish 'd in beauty together. 
 
 The youth being forced to a far distant shore, 
 The leaves fell like tears to the ground ; 
 
 The breeze seemed to murmur, young Julian's no more, 
 And the oak droop'd like death at the sound. 
 
 The branches were perish'd, the axe was applied, 
 Which fell'd its proud head to the ground ; 
 
 And the maiden who loved him, in sorrow she sigh'd — 
 Such a fate has my Julian found ! 
 
 Alas ! and alas ! at the very same hour 
 
 Came news that suspended her breath ; 
 The tree was now IevePd, and so was the flower, 
 
 For the news was young Julian's death. 
 
THE YOUNG ARTIST. 
 
 BY VIRGINIA DEFOREST. 
 
 Fanny Farquhar was the most persevering girl I ever 
 knew. She was gay and lively, but not volatile. She did 
 not fly off from a pursuit, nor even an amusement, until she 
 had accomplished her purpose, or "played out the play." 
 With a character of great energy, she was perfectly inge- 
 nuous, and as docile and obedient as mapy young ladies are, 
 who have, as Pope slanderously says of most of our sex, "no 
 characters at all." 
 
 When she first came to the "young ladies' seminary," 
 where we were school-fellows, she commenced drawing; and 
 Mr. Mason soon pronounced her one of his most promising 
 pupils. She was not content with copying the productions 
 of others ; and her judicious instructor encouraged her deter- 
 mination to learn the art of designing, by drawing from real 
 objects. So when she had exhausted all his models — his 
 wooden globes, and cubes, and pyramids, and cylinders, and 
 piles of blocks, and bronze figures of greyhounds and lions, 
 she forthwith commenced sketching landscapes from nature ; 
 and wherever we went visiting, Maying, or botanizing, 
 Fanny always had her sketch-book or her Bristol boards and 
 pencil ; and while the rest of us frolicked, she drew pictures. 
 This went on so constantly, that at last she came to be 
 designated amongst us as "the Sketcher," just in the same 
 way as we denominated Marion Raymond "the Poet," and 
 
> > 
 
 ' * > » 
 
THE YOUNG ARTIST. 213 
 
 Fanny's sister, Harriet, "the Pianist," because they took 
 the lead of us all, in poetry and music. 
 
 So long as Fanny confined herself to sketching landscapes, 
 we thought it a mere matter of girlish fancy ; but when, after 
 a severe course of drawing the human figure from models, 
 she actually took up oil colors and painted good portraits of 
 her sister and myself, we began to think there was some 
 serious object in view, although the large fortune of Colonel 
 Farquhar, her father, entirely excluded the idea of its being 
 a mercenary one. 
 
 One day, when we were above, in her little chamber, 
 puzzling out a hard Latin lesson, I took the opportunity to 
 question Fanny about it, in a bantering way, as though it 
 were just for idle gossip. 
 
 " Pray, Fanny," said I, " what could possess you, to soil 
 your delicate hands and spoil, I don't know how many silk 
 aprons, with those horrible oil colors ? I never heard of such 
 a thing!" 
 
 " Oil colors are more easily managed than water colors ; 
 and they certainly produce much stronger effects." 
 
 " I should think they would, at least, on one's olfactories, 
 — turpentine ! oil ! pah !" 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing. It is very easy to keep one's studio 
 nice, if one only takes pains. You perceive nothing offen- 
 sive here now, I believe." 
 
 " Certainly not. But I see no signs of painting, except 
 your little easel there, in the corner." 
 
 "But all the materials that I find necessary for my pur- 
 pose, are locked up in yonder closet." 
 
 "What a world of trouble it must be to clear them away 
 i very time you paint. I cannot conceive what should induce 
 you to carry this matter so far." 
 
 " Oh! I like it. Besides, it pleases my father." 
 
 "Well, it is very odd," said I, resorting to that stupid 
 
214 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 remark, which one is so apt to make when one does not very 
 well know what to say next. 
 
 "Papa," she replied, "has some peculiar notions, indeed. 
 Do you know, that when he placed Harriet and me at this 
 school, before going to Europe, he said, ' Now, girls, I wish 
 each of you to have a truly liberal education in the belles- 
 lettres and the sciences ; but I do not wish you to fritter 
 away your time on a variety of frivolous accomplishments. 
 If one of you will learn drawing well enough to design 
 cleverly, and the other will learn the piano thoroughly, I 
 shall like it much better than for you both to attempt and 
 half learn a dozen different things of the same class. It is 
 better to do one thing well, than to do forty things after the 
 trumpery fashion that most girls are satisfied with learning.' 
 This was quite a long speech for papa, who, you know, is a 
 man of few words. So, after he was gone, as Harriet was 
 fond of music, and I of pictures, we determined to follow out 
 the hint which he had given, as literally as possible." 
 
 So here was the grand secret. Filial affection, literal, 
 exact obedience and perseverance, had already made Fanny 
 Farquhar a sketcher — nay more, an artist of no mean power. 
 The same motives had rendered her sister one of the most 
 accomplished amateur performers on the piano in the whole 
 city. Certainly, this of itself, was a sufficient compensation 
 for their ignorance of embroidery, and rug work, and poonah, 
 and net work, and gingerbread work of all kinds, with silk 
 and floss, and worsted, and beads ; and those other indescri- 
 bable labors of Arachne, which puzzle the brains and torture 
 the fingers of innocent young ladies, who, in other respects, 
 hardly know their right hand from their left. 
 
 Do not let my readers suppose that Fanny was negligent 
 of the ordinary feminine accomplishments. She was a good 
 seamstress, and her neatness and taste in dress w T ere remark- 
 able ; and she had such a noble spirit, and such a feeling 
 heart, I did love her; and when the colonel came home from 
 
THE YOUNG ARTIST. 215 
 
 Europe, and carried her and her sister off with him to his 
 estate in Mississippi, I sat down and had a good hearty cry- 
 ing spell, which lasted me two hours. Sentiment was not 
 out of fashion then. 
 
 Fanny, as if it were to relieve my sorrow, turned out a 
 very regular and persevering correspondent ; and it is by 
 means of her letters, continued through a series of years, that 
 I am enabled to tell the rest of her story. 
 
 The family were hardly settled at home, before the colonel 
 set off again for Europe, taking Fanny with him, and leaving 
 Harriet in charge of an aunt, who resided in their neighbor- 
 hood. I never could exactly make out, from Fanny's letters, 
 whether her father's motive for his repeated visits to Europe 
 was business or pleasure; but he traveled about a great deal, 
 and had intercourse with the merchant princes of England, 
 the banker king of France, and the trading nobles of Italy; 
 so that Fanny saw all sorts of society, and had plenty of 
 subjects for sketches, some of which, done with a crow quill, 
 adorned her letters, and now form the most unique and at- 
 tractive ornament of my scrap-book. 
 
 One winter they stayed in Rome, as Fanny said, "to 
 enjoy themselves and see the sights." There she had her 
 studio, and made sketching excursions among the ruins, and 
 indulged her fondness for an art, which had become her 
 favorite pursuit, with all the enthusiasm which it was calcu- 
 lated to inspire, in a city consecrated by so many recollec- 
 tions of ancient glory and power. Suddenly her dream of 
 happiness was sadly terminated by a series of unloosed for 
 calamities. Her father received information from home, that, 
 in consequence of extensive speculations, in which he had 
 been concerned, his whole fortune was irretrievably lost. 
 The blow was too much for one of his sanguine temperament. 
 It broke his heart. He fell into a rapid decline, and in a few 
 months breathed his last, leaving his daughter in a strange 
 
216 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 land, surrounded with all the difficulties which are attendant 
 on pecuniary destitution and an unprotected situation. 
 
 Unfortunately there were, at the time of Colonel Farquhar's 
 decease, no Americans in Rome with whom Fanny was ac- 
 quainted. Unable to communicate speedily with her sister, 
 and knowing no one upon whom she could call for aid, she 
 was thrown entirely upon her own resources for support, 
 until she could receive remittances from her friends, to en- 
 able her to return to her own country. 
 
 It was fortunate for Fanny that, at this trying period, she 
 had resources of her own, which were fully adequate to the 
 occasion. Her father's foresight in recommending to her the 
 complete acquisition of one art, was now apparent. Her 
 pencil furnished the means of independence. An English 
 lady, with whom she had become acquainted during her 
 residence in Rome, offered her an asylum in her palazza; 
 and when she learned that Fanny had resolved to make her 
 art the means of her support, she exerted herself with effect 
 to afford her ample opportunities for disposing of her produc- 
 tions among the British residents in the Eternal City. 
 
 A young English gentleman, who frequently visited Mrs. 
 Vinton, Fanny's friend, had, with much entreaty, prevailed 
 upon her to obtain permission for him to sit by Fanny's 
 easel, while she was painting the portrait of a beautiful 
 flower girl, the figure being introduced into a group which 
 was intended to adorn the gallery of some nobleman. They 
 very naturally fell into conversation on the arts. This led to 
 some disquisitions on literature and science ; and before the 
 sitting was over, Mr. Mordaunt became not a little impressed 
 with the extraordinary extent and variety of Fanny's know- 
 ledge. He had expected to find a mere artist, ignorant of 
 everything but that which pertained immediately to art; but 
 he discovered a mind, rich with the stores of poetry and 
 history, a taste which could appreciate the finer beauties of 
 literature, and a feeling heart, filled with the noblest enthu- 
 
THE YOUNG ARTIST. 217 
 
 siasra for all that is beautiful and grand, not only in the 
 physical, but the moral world. 
 
 It may be readily supposed that he became interested in 
 no ordinary degree. Having once obtained the entree of 
 Fanny's studio, he repeated his visits every day, and soon 
 found that the fair artist had, without intending it, made an 
 impression on his heart, which rendered it necessary to his 
 happiness to gain her own, or beat a hasty retreat. 
 
 In this state of things, he had recourse to Mrs. Vinton, of 
 whom he formally demanded permission to pay his addresses 
 to Fanny. As his character was unblemished, and his for- 
 tune ample, she referred him at once to his own family, and 
 to the fair object of his attentions. As to the former, he was 
 independent, and he determined to follow the bent of his 
 own inclinations. How to break the matter to Fanny, was 
 a question which required " a mighty deal of nice considera- 
 tion." 
 
 Fanny was not without her share of pride, and she would 
 have rejected addresses in her present situation from one 
 apparently her superior in station, which she might have 
 accepted, w'hen she could in every point have claimed 
 equality. Poor Mord aunt was over head and ears in love; 
 and, for the life of him, he could not contrive a mode of dis- 
 closing his passion without alarming the pride and delicacy 
 of Fanny. Day by day did he watch the movements of her 
 pencil, and endeavor by every art of which he was master to 
 sound the depths of a heart, which was all unconscious of 
 his devotion, vainly wishing that it were as easy to trace the 
 course of her thoughts as it was to follow the movements of 
 her hand. Fanny was so completely engrossed with her art, 
 that she took little heed of the progress of her lover's attach- 
 ment ; and there was something about her so frank, so calm, 
 so quiet, that the trumpery gallantry so frequently played off 
 upon ordinary girls, was entirely out of the question in her 
 case. All that Mordaunt could do, was to admire unnoticed, 
 19 
 
218 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and to sigh unheeded. Fanny thought him unusually fond 
 of paintings; but never dreamed that he was still more partial 
 to the painter. She recognized a devotee to the arts, but not 
 a devoted slave to the artist. As for Mrs. Vinton, who might 
 have been supposed ready enough to inform Fanny of her 
 conquest, she had the delicacy never to mention it. She 
 chose to let the affair take its own course, determined that in 
 a matter of such importance to her friend, no interference of 
 hers should influence her decision, or expose her own motives 
 to misconstruction. 
 
 "While things were going on in this way, it happened one 
 evening that Mordaunt, in returning from an excursion in 
 the neighborhood of Rome, was attacked by banditti, and 
 badly wounded. He was brought to his hotel, and confined 
 some weeks, before he was able to go out. When, at last, 
 he was released by his physician from the confinement of his 
 room, his first visit was to Mrs. Vinton's. During his illness 
 he had hoped that some unusual expression of interest in his 
 misfortune might reach from that quarter, whence it would 
 have been most welcome; but nothing, beyond what a com- 
 mon acquaintance would have manifested, presented itself. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at, then, that when accidentally 
 left alone with Fanny, in Mrs. Vinton's boudoir for a few 
 moments, he should have appeared unusually dejected. 
 Fanny, good soul, as was very natural, began to inquire of 
 him what it was which was weighing so heavily on his mind. 
 She hoped he had heard no bad news from England, or that 
 nothing had happened to that splendid Carlo Dolce which he 
 was so good as to show her a few days before his wound had 
 been received. 
 
 "It was clear enough to her apprehension," she said, 
 " that something was the matter. Pray, what could it be ?" 
 
 " To tell you the truth," said Mordaunt, " I am placed in 
 a most unfortunate and trying dilemma." 
 
 " How? If it is not improper to inquire." 
 
THE YOUNG ARTIST. 219 
 
 " By no means. You are very good, Miss Farquhar, to 
 take sufficient interest in ray affairs to ask. Know, then, 
 that since my residence here, in Rome, I have become most 
 devotedly attached to a lady, who is one of the most noble 
 and lovely of her sex " 
 
 " Oh, of course. You need not describe her. All ladies 
 are paragons, under the same circumstances." 
 
 "But I must describe her," replied Mordaunt, rallying a 
 little, at this unexpected sally ; " I must describe her, in 
 order that you may understand something of the difficulty of 
 the case." 
 
 "Very well. Go on, since it must be so." 
 
 " This lady is in mental and moral endowments infinitely 
 my superior, and so beautiful! In her own country, she 
 ranks among the highest ; and the elevation of her character 
 is such, that I reverence as much as I love her. But she 
 knows not of my attachment, and there is, I fear, an insu- 
 perable barrier placed between us by the position which she 
 at present occupies. A circumstance exists which I regard 
 as not of the slightest moment, which ought not to prevent her 
 accepting my devotion ; but which, I fear, will be sufficient 
 to occasion her not listening for a moment to my suit." 
 
 " Are you certain that she is not aware of your prefer- 
 ence ?" 
 
 " Quite certain ; and I know not how to declare myself. 
 I dare not speak to her upon the subject. If she should repel 
 me, it seems to me that I should die upon the spot." 
 
 "I should think, from what you say, that this terrible bar- 
 rier is altogether an imaginary one — nothing real. The lady 
 is not engaged to any one else, I hope?" 
 
 " I certainly have no reason to suppose that she is ; and 
 the difficulty arises altogether from the high-toned ideas of 
 the lady upon certain points." 
 
 "Why not declare yourself at once? She will not have 
 
220 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the heart to refuse you now, just rescued as you are from the 
 dasrcrer of the assassin." 
 
 "Would you plead my cause for me? Would you lend 
 me your benevolent aid?" 
 
 " I would with all my heart, if only I knew who the lady 
 
 was." 
 
 "Know, then, Miss Farquhar — Fanny — it is yourself! 
 You hold in this fair hand the keys of life and death for me." 
 
 With a sudden impulse he had seized her hand, and 
 pressed it to his lips. He durst not look up to read his 
 destiny in her face. The turn the conversation had taken, 
 had hurried him into a declaration, which, a moment before, 
 he had not intended at that time to make ; and the tumult of 
 emotions, combining with the weakness occasioned by his 
 wound, was so powerful that he fell prostrate at her feet in a 
 
 swoon. 
 
 ******* * 
 
 The wooing sped rather more agreeably than it began. 
 It took many months, however, for the lover to win Fanny's 
 consent to abandon the prospect of returning to reside among 
 her own kindred in her own beloved country. But Mor- 
 daunt's perseverance in his suit, was as unremitted as 
 Fanny's had been in her sketching at school; and at last 
 they were married, and went to reside on Mr. Mordaunt's 
 estate in Kent ; and, last summer, when I was in England, 
 Fanny took me with her on a sketching excursion to the Isle 
 of Wight, accompanied by her husband, who is a fine, spirited 
 looking fellow, although he did falsify the adage, that " a 
 faint heart never won a fair lady." 
 
FOR SPAIN! 
 
 BT JOHN IIIMK. 
 
 I. 
 
 For Spain ! that crushed the Infidel beneath her mountain 
 
 war, 
 
 And bade his crescent wane in blood, and broke his scy- 
 
 metar, 
 And in her naked strength stood up on Zaragossa's walls, 
 The hour that shall be kept for aye in Freedom's festivals. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sword! the sword again! and cast the scabbard far 
 
 away! 
 And naked bear the blade in hand — as naked as the day — 
 Naked as the right it guards, or as the wrong it braves — 
 As the hearts of true freemen, or as the heads of slaves! 
 
 III. 
 
 Standout! standout! and fear them not! remember where 
 
 you stand — 
 Upon the bulwark of your cause — upon your native land : 
 Remember what you stand ibr there — that she may yet be 
 
 free — 
 For all she is — for all she was — for all she yet must be! 
 
 19* 
 
222 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For all she clothes in bliss and bloom unto your hearts and 
 eyes — 
 
 The smiles and tears, the hopes and fears, she shades and 
 sanctifies — 
 
 For home and hearth, and children's love — for renovated 
 mind — 
 
 For Freedom — Spain — Humanity! — for Spain and for Man- 
 kind! 
 
MOONSHINE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF PETER SIMPLE. 
 
 Those who have visited our West India possessions, must 
 have often been amused with the humor and cunning which 
 occasionally appear in a negro more endowed than the gene- 
 rality of his race, particularly when the master also happens 
 to be a humorist. The swarthy servant seems to reflect his 
 patron's absurdities ; and having thoroughly studied his cha- 
 racter, ascertains how far he can venture to take liberties 
 without fear of punishment. 
 
 One of these strange specimens I once met with in a negro 
 called Moonshine, belonging to a person equally strange in 
 his own way, who had, for many years, held the situation of 
 harbor-master at Port Royal, but had then retired on a pen- 
 sion, and occupied a small house at Ryde, in the Isle of 
 Wight. His name was Cockle, but he had long been ad- 
 dressed as Captain Cockle ; and this brevet rank he retained 
 until the day of his death. In person, he was very large and 
 fat — not unlike a cockle in shape: so round w T ere his pro- 
 portions, and so unwieldy, that it appeared much easier to 
 roll him along from one place to another, than that he should 
 walk. Indeed, locomotion was not to his taste : he seldom 
 went much farther than round the small patch of garden 
 which was in front of his house, and in which he had some 
 pinks, and carnations, and chrysanthemums, of which he 
 was not a little proud. His head was quite bald, smooth, 
 
224 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and shining white ; his face partook of a more roseate tint, 
 increasing in depth till it settled into an intense red at the 
 tip of his nose. Cockle had formerly been master of a mer- 
 chant vessel, and from his residence in a warm climate had 
 contracted a habit of potation, which became confirmed dur- 
 ing the long period of his holding his situation at Port Royal. 
 He had purchased Moonshine for three hundred dollars, when 
 he was about seven years old, and, upon his return to Eng- 
 land, had taken him with him. 
 
 Moonshine was very much attached to his master, very 
 much attached to having his own way, and was, farther, very 
 much attached to his master's grog bottle. 
 
 The first attachment was a virtue, the second human na- 
 ture, and the third, in the opinion of old Cockle, a crime of 
 serious magnitude. I very often called upon Captain Cockle, 
 for he had a quaint humor about him which amused ; and, 
 as he seldom went out, he was always glad to see any of his 
 friends. Another reason was, that I seldom went to the 
 house without finding some entertainment in the continual 
 sparring between the master and the man. I was at that 
 time employed in the Preventive Service, and my station was 
 about four miles from the residence of Cockle. One morning 
 I stalked in, and found him, as usual, in his little parlor on 
 the ground floor. 
 
 "Well, Cockle, my boy, how are you?" 
 " Why, to tell you the truth, Bob, I'm all wrong. I'm on 
 the stool of repentance; to wit, on this easy chair, doing 
 penance, as you perceive, in a pair of duck trowsers. Last 
 night I was half seas over, and tolerably happy; this morn- 
 ing, I am high and dry, and intolerably miserable. Carried 
 more sail than ballast last night, and lost my head ; this morn- 
 ing I've found it again, with a pig of ballast in it, I believe. 
 All owing to my good nature." 
 " How is that, Cockle ?" 
 " Why, that Jack Piper was here last night ; and rather 
 
MOONSHINE. 225 
 
 than he should drink all the grog and not find his way home, 
 I drank some myself— he'd been in a bad way if I had not, 
 poor fellow! — and now, you see, I'm suffering all from good 
 nature. Easiness of disposition has been my ruin, and has 
 rounded me into this ball, by wearing away all my sharp 
 edges, Bob." 
 
 " It certainly was very considerate and very kind of you, 
 Cockle, especially when we know how much you must have 
 acted at variance with your inclinations." 
 
 " Yes, Bob, yes, I am the milk-punch of human kindness; 
 I often cry — when the chimney smokes ; and sometimes — 
 when I laugh too much. All the women at Port Royal used 
 to say that I was a man of feeling. You see I not only give 
 my money, as others will do, but, as last night, I even give 
 my head to assist a fellow-creature. I could, however, dis- 
 pense with it for an hour or two this morning." 
 
 " Nay, don't say that ; for although you might dispense 
 with the upper part, you could not well get on without your 
 mouth, Cockle." 
 
 " Very true, Bob; a chap without a mouth, would be like 
 a ship without a companion hatch ; — talking about that, the 
 combings of my mouth are rather dry — what do you say, Bob, 
 shall we call Moonshine?" 
 
 "Why, it's rather broad daylight for Moonshine." 
 
 " He's but an eclipse — a total eclipse, I may say. The 
 fact is, my head is so heavy, that it rolls about on my shoul- 
 ders ; and I must have a stiffener down my throat to prop it 
 up. So, Moonshine, shine out, you black-faced rascal!" 
 
 The negro was outside, cleaning his knives : — he answered, 
 but continued at his work. 
 
 " How me shine, Massa Cockle, when you neber gib me 
 shiner V 
 
 "No: but I'll give you a skinner on your lower limb, that 
 shall make you feel planet-struck, if you don't show your 
 ugly face," replied Cockle. 
 
226 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " Massa Cockle, you full of dictionary dis marning." 
 
 " Come here, sir!" 
 
 " Why you so parsonal dis marning, sir?" replied Moon- 
 shine, rubbing away at the knife-board — " my face no shine 
 more dan your white skull widout hair." 
 
 " I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole 
 my grog, and now they are all gone. — Hairs ! what should 
 I do with heirs, when I've nothing to leave?" continued 
 Cockle, addressing me — "hairs are like rats, that quit a ship 
 as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long 
 that rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and 
 gave him his freedom — but give an inch and he takes an ell. 
 Moonshine, I begin to feel angry — the tip of my nose is red 
 already." 
 
 "Come directly, Massa Cockle." 
 
 Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then 
 made his appearance. 
 
 "You call me, sar?" 
 
 " What's the use of calling you, you black rascal?" 
 
 "Now, sar, dat not fair — you say to me, ' Moonshine, 
 always do one ting first' — so I 'bey order and finish knives — 
 dat ting done, I come and 'bey nest order." 
 
 " Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers." 
 
 Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then 
 walked out of the room, grinning at me. 
 
 " Moonshine, where are you going, you thief? — When did 
 you ever see me drink cold water, or offer it to my friends?" 
 
 " Nebber see you drink it but once, and den you tipsy, and 
 tink it gin ; but you very often gib noting but water to your 
 friends, Massa Cockle." 
 
 "When, you scoundrel?" 
 
 " Why, very often you say dat water quite strong enough 
 for me." 
 
 " That's because I love you, Moonshine. Grog is a sad 
 enemy to us." 
 
MOONSHINE. 227 
 
 "Massa Cockle real fine Christian — he lub him enemy," 
 interrupted Moonshine, looking at me. 
 
 " At all events, I'm not ashamed to look mine enemy in 
 the face — so hand us out the bottle." 
 Moonshine put the bottle on the table. 
 "Now, Bob," said Cockle, "what d'ye say to a seven 
 bell-erf Why, hallo! what's become of all the grog?" 
 
 "All drank last night, Massa Cockle," replied Moon- 
 shine. 
 
 " Now, you ebony thief, I'll swear that there was half a 
 bottle left when I took my last glass ; for I held the bottle up 
 to the candle to ascertain the ullage." 
 
 " When you go up 'tairs, Massa Cockle, so help me Gad ! 
 not one drop left in de bottle." 
 
 "Will you take your oath, Moonshine, that you did not 
 drink any last night ?" 
 
 " No, Massa Cockle, because I gentleman, and nebber tell 
 lie — me drink, because you gib it to me." 
 
 " Then I must have been drunk, indeed. Now, tell me, 
 how did I give it to you ? — tell me every word which 
 passed." 
 
 " Yes, Massa Cockle, me make you recollect all about it. 
 When Massa Piper go away, you look at bottle and den you 
 say, ' 'Fore I go up to bed, I take one more glass for coming 
 upS — Den I say, ' 'Pose you do, you nebber be able to go 
 up.' Den you say, ' Moonshine, you good fellow (you always 
 call me good fellow when you want me), you must help me.' 
 You drink you grog — you fall back in de chair, and you 
 shut first one eye and den you shut de oder. I see more grog 
 on de table : so I take up de bottel and I say, 'Massa Cockle, 
 you go up stairs?' and you say, ' Yes, yes — directly.' Den 
 I hold de bottel up and say to you, ' Massa, shall I help you?' 
 and you say, 'Yes, you must help me.' So den I take one 
 glass of grog, 'cause you tell me to help you." 
 
228 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " I didn't tell you to help yourself, though, you scoun- 
 drel!" 
 
 " Yes, massa, when you tell me to help you with de bottel, 
 I 'bey order, and help myself. Den, sar, I waits little more, 
 and I say, ' Massa, now you go up 'tairs,' and you start up 
 and you wake, and you say, 'Yes, yes;' and den I hold up 
 and show you bottel again, and I say, 'Shall I help you, 
 massa?' and den you say, 'Yes.' So I 'bey order again, and 
 take one more glass. Den you open mouth and you snore — 
 so I look again, and I see one littel glass more in bottel, and 
 I call you, ' Massa Cockle, Massa Cockle,' and you say, 
 ' high — high !' — and den you head fall on you chest, and you 
 go sleep again — so den I call again, and I say, 'Massa 
 Cockle, here one lilly more drop, shall I drink it?' and you 
 nod you head on you bosom, and say noting — so I not quite 
 sure, and t say again, ' Massa Cockle, shall I finish this lilly 
 drop ?' and you nod you head once more. Den I say, ' all 
 right,' and I say, 'you very good helt, Massa Cockle ;' and 
 I finish de bottel. Now, massa, you ab de whole tory, and 
 it all really for true." 
 
 I perceived that Cockle was quite as much amused at this 
 account of Moonshine's as I was myself, but he put on a 
 bluff look. 
 
 " So, sir, it appears that you took advantage of my help- 
 less situation, to help yourself." 
 
 "Massa Cockle, just now you tell Massa Farran dat you 
 drink so much, all for good nature to Massa Piper — I do 
 same, all for good nature." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Moonshine, I must have some grog," replied 
 Cockle, " and as you helped yourself last night, now you 
 must help me ; — get it how you can, I give you just ten 
 
 minutes " 
 
 " 'Pose you gib me ten shillings, sar," interrupted Moon- 
 shine, " dat better." 
 
 " Cash is all gone. I haven't a skillick till quarter-day, 
 
MOONSHINE. 229 
 
 not a shot in the locker till Wednesday. Either get me some 
 more grog, or you'll get more kicks than halfpence." 
 
 " You no ab money— you no ab tick— how I get grog, 
 Massa Cockle? Missy O'Bottom, she tell me, last quarter 
 day, no pay lohole bill, she not half like it; she say you d— n 
 deceiver, and no trust more." 
 
 " Confound the old hag! Would you believe it, Bob, that 
 Mrs. Row-bottom has wanted to grapple with me these last 
 two years — wants to make me landlord of the Goose and 
 Pepper-box, taking her as a fixture with the premises. I 
 suspect I should be the goose, and she the pepper-box ; — but 
 we never could shape that course. In the first place, there's 
 too much of her ; and, in the next, there's too much of me. 
 I explained this to the old lady as well as I could; and she 
 swelled up as big as a balloon, saying, that, when people 
 were really attached, they never attached any weight to such 
 trifling obstacles." 
 
 " But you must have been sweet upon her, Cockle!" 
 
 " Nothing more than a little sugar to take the nauseous 
 taste of my long bill out of her mouth. As for the love part 
 of the story, that was all her own. I never contradict a lady, 
 because it's not polite; but since I explained, the old woman 
 has huffed, and won't trust me with a half quartern— will 
 she, Moonshine?" 
 
 "No, sar: when I try talk her over, and make promise, 
 she say dat all moonshine. But, sar, I try 'gain— I tink I 
 know how." And Moonshine disappeared, leaving us in the 
 dark as to what his plans might be. 
 
 "I wonder you never did marry, Cockle," I observed. 
 
 " You would not wonder if you knew all. I must say, that 
 once, and once only, I was very near it. And to whom do 
 you think it was? — a woman of color." 
 
 " A black woman ?" 
 
 " No : not half black, only a quarter— what they call a 
 20 
 
230 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 quadroon in the West Indies. But, thank Heaven! she re- 
 fused me." 
 
 " Refused you ! hang it, Cockle, I never thought that you 
 had been refused by a woman of color." 
 
 " I was, though. You shall hear how it happened. She 
 had been the quadroon wife (you know what that means) of 
 a planter of the name of Guiness ; he died, and not only be- 
 queathed her her liberty, but also four good houses in Port 
 Royal, and two dozen slaves. He had been dead about two 
 years, and she was about thirty, when I first knew her. She 
 was very rich, for she had a good income and spent nothing, 
 except in jewels and dress to deck out her own person, which 
 certainly was very handsome, even at that time, for she 
 never had had any family. Well, if I was not quite in love 
 with her, I was with her houses and her money ; and I used 
 to sit in her verandah and talk sentimental. One day I made 
 my proposal. ' Massa Cockle,' said she, ' dere two ting I 
 not like: one is, I not like your name. 'Pose I 'cept you 
 offer, you must change you name.' 
 
 " ' Suppose you accept my offer, Mistress Guiness, you'll 
 change your name. I don't know how I am to change 
 mine,' I replied. 
 
 " ' I make 'quiry, Massa Cockle, and I find that by act 
 and parliament you get anoder name.' 
 
 "'An act of parliament!' I cried. 
 
 " 'Yes, sar; and I pay five hundred gold Joe 'fore I hear 
 people call me Missy Cockle — dat shell fish,' said she, and 
 she turned up her nose. 
 
 " ' Humph !' said I ; ' and pray what is the next thing which 
 you wish?' 
 
 " ' De oder ting, sar, it you no ab coat am arms, no ab 
 seal to your watch, wid biru and beast pon 'em ; now 'pose 
 you promise me dat you take oder name, and buy um coat 
 am arms; den, sar, I take de matter into 'sideration.' 
 
 " 'Save yourself the trouble, ma'am,' said I, jumping up; 
 
MOONSHINE. 231 
 
 ' my answer is short — I'll see you and your whole generation 
 hanged first !' " 
 
 " Well, that was a very odd sort of a wind-up to a pro- 
 posal; but here comes Moonshine." 
 
 The black entered the room, and put a full bottle down on 
 the table. 
 
 "Dare it is, sar," said he, grinning. 
 
 " Well done, Moonshine, now I forgive you ; but how did 
 you manage it ?" 
 
 " Me tell you all de tory, sar — first I see Missy O'Bottom, 
 and I say, 'how you do, how you find yousel dis marning? 
 Massa come, I tink, by an by, but he almost 'fraid,' I said. 
 She say, 'What he 'fraid for?' 'He tink you angry — not 
 like see him — no lub him any more : he very sorry, very sick 
 at 'art — he very much in lub wid you.' " 
 
 "The devil you did!" roared Cockle; " now I shall be 
 bothered again with that old woman; I wish she was moored 
 as a buoy to the Royal George." 
 
 " Massa no hear all yet. I say, ' Miss O'Bottom, 'pose 
 you no tell?' ' I tell.' — ' Massa call for clean shirt dis morn- 
 ing, and I say, it no clean shirt day, sar;' he say, ' bring me 
 clean shirt;' and den he put him on clean shirt, and he put 
 him on clean duck trowsers; he make me brush him best blue 
 coat. I say, ' What all dis for, massa?' He put him hand up 
 to him head, and he fetch him breat hand say — ' I 'fraid Missy 
 O'Bottom no hear me now — I no ab courage;' and den he 
 sit all dress ready, and no go. Den he say, ' Moonshine, 
 gib me one glass grog, den I ab courage.' I go fetch bottel, 
 and all grog gone — not one lilly drop left ; den massa fall 
 down plump in him big chair, and say, 'I nebber can go.' 
 'But,' say Missy O'Bottom, 'why he no send for some?' 
 'Cause,' I say, 'quarter-day not come — money all gone.' — 
 Den say she, 'If you poor massa so very bad, den I trust you 
 one bottle — you gib my complimens and say, I very 'appy 
 to see him, and stay at home.' — Den I say, ' Missy O'Bottom, 
 
9.32 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 'pose massa not come soon as he take one two glass grog, cut 
 my head off.' Dat all, sar." 
 
 " That's all, is it? A pretty scrape you have got me into, 
 you scoundrel ! What's to be done now ?" 
 
 "Why, let's have a glass of grog first, Cockle," replied 
 I, "we've been waiting a long while for it, and we'll then 
 talk the matter over." 
 
 " Bob, you're sensible, and the old woman was no fool in 
 sending the liquor — it requires Dutch courage to attack such 
 a Dutch-built old schuyt ; let's get the cobwebs out of our 
 throats, and then we must see how w T e can get out of this 
 scrape. I expect that I shall pay ' dearly for my whistle' 
 this time I wet mine. Now, what's to be done, Bob?" 
 
 " I think that you had better leave it to Moonshine," 
 said I. 
 
 " So I will. — Now, sir, as you've got me into this scrape, 
 you must get me out of it. — D'ye hear?" 
 
 "Yes, Massa Cockle, I tink — but no ab courage." 
 
 " I understand you, you sooty fellow — here, drink this, and 
 see if it will brighten up your wits. He's a regular turnpike, 
 that fellow ; everything must pay toll." 
 
 "Massa Cockle, I tell Missy O'Bottom dat you come soon 
 as you ab two glass grog; 'pose you only drink one." 
 
 " That won't do, Moonshine, for I'm just mixing my 
 second; you must find out something better." 
 
 " One glass grog, massa, gib no more dan one tought — 
 dat you ab — " 
 
 " Well, then, here's another. — Now recollect, before you 
 drink it, you are to get me out of this scrape; if not, you get 
 into a scrape, for I'll beat you as — as white as snow." 
 
 " 'Pose you no wash nigger white, you no mangle him 
 white, Massa Cockle," added Moonshine. 
 
 " The fellow's ironing me, Bob, ar'n't he?" said Cockle, 
 laughing. " Now, before you drink, recollect the condi- 
 tions." 
 
MOONSHINE. 233 
 
 "Drink first, sar, make sure of dat," replied Moonshine, 
 swallowing off the brandy; " tink about it afterwards. — Eh! 
 I ab it," cried Moonshine, who disappeared, and Cockle and 
 I continued in conversation over our grog, which, to sailors, 
 is acceptable in any one hour in the twenty-four. About 
 ten minutes afterwards Cockle perceived Moonshine in the 
 little front garden. " There's that fellow, Bob; what is he 
 about?" 
 
 " Only picking a nosegay, I believe," replied I, looking 
 out of the window. 
 
 " The rascal, he must be picking all my chrysanthemums. 
 Stop him, Bob." 
 
 But Moonshine vaulted over the low pales, and there was 
 no stopping him. It w r as nearly an hour before he returned ; 
 and when he came in, w r e found that he was dressed out in 
 his best, looking quite a dandy, and with some of his mas- 
 ter's finest flowers, in a large nosegay, sticking in his waist- 
 coat. 
 
 "All right, sar, all right; dat last glass grog gib me fine 
 idee; you nebber ab more trouble 'bout Missy O'Bottom." 
 
 "Well, let's hear," said Cockle. 
 
 " I dress mysel berry 'pruce, as you see, massa. I take 
 nosegay — " 
 
 " Yes, I see that, and be hanged to you." 
 
 " Nebber mind, Massa Cockle. I say to Missy O'Bottom, 
 ' Massa no able come, he very sorry, so he send me ;' 'Well,' 
 she say, 'what you ab to say? sit down, Moonshine, you very- 
 nice man.' Den I say, 'Massa Cockle lub you very much; 
 he tink all day how he make you 'appy ; den he say, Missy 
 O'Bottom very fine 'oman, make very fine wife.' Den Missy 
 O'Bottom say, "Top a moment,' and she bring a bottel from 
 cupboard, and me drink someting did make 'tomach feel 
 really warm ; and den she say, ' Moonshine, what you massa 
 say?' den I say, Massa say, 'You fine 'oman, make good 
 wife;' but he shake urn head, and say, 'I very old man, no 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 good for noting; I tink all day how I make her 'appy, and I 
 find out — Moonshine, you young man, you 'andsome feller, 
 you good servant, I not like you go way, but I tink you make 
 Missy O'Bottom very fine 'usband ; so I not care for myself; 
 you go to Missy O'Bottom, and tell I send you, dat I part 
 wid you, and give you to her for 'usband.' " 
 
 Cockle and I burst out laughing. " Well, and what did 
 Mrs. Rowbottom say to that ?" 
 
 " She jump up, and try to catch me hair, but I bob my 
 head, and she miss; den she say, 'You filthy black rascal, 
 you tell you massa, 'pose he ever come here, I break his 
 white bald pate; and 'pose you ever come here, I smash you 
 woolly black skull.'— Dat all, Massa Cockle; you see all 
 right now, and I quite dry wid talking." 
 
 " All right! do you call it ! I never meant to quarrel with 
 the old woman; what d'ye think, Bob — is it all right?" 
 
 " Why, you must either have quarreled with her, or mar- 
 ried her; that's clear." 
 
 " Well, then, I'm clear of her, and so it's all right. It a'n't 
 every man who can get out of matrimony by sacrificing a 
 nosegay and two glasses of grog." 
 
 " Tree glasses, Massa Cockle," said Moonshine. 
 "Well, three glasses; here it is, you dog, and it's dog 
 cheap, too. Thank God, next Wednesday 's quarter day. 
 Bob, you must dine with me — cut the service for to-day." 
 
 " With all my heart," replied I ; " and I'll salve my con- 
 science by walking the beach all night ; but, Cockle, look- 
 here, there is but a drop in the bottle, and you have no more. 
 I am like you, with a clean swept hold. You acknowledge 
 the difficulty?" 
 
 " It stares me in the face, Bob ; what must be done?" 
 "I'll tell you — in the first place, what have you for 
 dinner?" 
 
 " Moonshine, what have we got for dinner?" 
 
MOONSHINE. 235 
 
 ''Dinner, sar? me not yet tink about dinner. What you 
 like to ab, sar?" 
 
 "What have we got in the house, Moonshine?" 
 " Let me see, sar; first place, we ab very fine piece pick- 
 lum pork ; den we hab picklum pork ; and den— let me tink 
 — den we ab, we hab picklum pork, sar." 
 
 " The long and the short of it is, Bob, that we have no- 
 thing but a piece of pickled pork ; can you dine of that ?' 
 " Can a duck swim, Cockle ?" 
 
 " Please, sar, we ab plenty pea for dog baddy,''' said Moon- 
 shine. 
 
 " Well, then, Cockle, as all that is required is to put the 
 pot on the fire, you can probably spare Moonshine, after he 
 has done that, and we will look to the cookery ; start him off 
 with a note to Mr. Johns, and he can bring back a couple of 
 bottles from my quarters." 
 
 " Really dat very fine tought, Massa Farren ; I put in pork, 
 and den I go and come back in one hour." 
 
 " That you never will, Mr. Moonshine ; what's o'clock 
 now ? Mercy on us, how time flies in your company, Cockle ; 
 it is nearly four o'clock ; it will be dark at six." 
 
 " Nebber mind, sar, me always ab moonshine whereber I 
 go," said the black, showing his teeth. 
 
 " It will take two hours to boil the pork, Bob ; that fellow 
 has been so busy this morning, that he has quite forgot the 
 
 dinner." 
 
 "All you business, Massa Cockle." 
 
 "Very true ; but now start as soon as you can, and come 
 back as soon as you can ; here's the note." 
 
 Moonshine took the note, looked at the direction, as if he 
 could read it, and in a few minutes he was seen to depart. 
 
 "And now, Cockle," said I, "as Moonshine will be 
 gone some time, suppose you spin us a yarn to pass away the 
 
 time." 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Bob, I am not quite so good at that as I 
 
236 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 used to be. I've an idea that when my pate became bald, 
 my memory oozed away by insensible perspiration." 
 
 " Never mind, you must have something left ; you can't 
 be quite empty." 
 
 " No, but my tumbler is ; so I'll just fill that up, and then 
 I'll tell you how it was that I came to go to sea." 
 
 " The very thing that I should like to hear above all others." 
 
 "Well, then, you must know that, like cockles in general, 
 I was born on the sea-shore, just a quarter of a mile out of 
 Dover, towards Shakspeare's Cliff. My father was a fisher- 
 man by profession, and a smuggler by practice ; all was fish 
 that came to his net ; but his cottage was small; he was sup- 
 posed to be very poor, and a very bad fisherman, for he sel- 
 dom brought home many ; but there was a reason for that, 
 he very seldom put his nets overboard. His chief business 
 lay in taking out of vessels coming down channel, goods, 
 which were shipped and bonded for exportation, and running 
 them on shore again. You know, Bob, that there are many 
 articles which are not permitted to enter even upon paying 
 duty, and when these goods, such as silks, &c, are seized 
 or taken in prizes, they are sold for exportation. Now, it was 
 then the custom for vessels to take them on board in the river, 
 and run them on shore as they went down channel, and the 
 fishing-boats were usually employed for this service; my 
 father was a well-known hand for this kind of work, for not 
 being suspected he was always fortunate ; of course, had he 
 once been caught, they would have had their eyes upon him 
 after he had suffered his punishment. Now the way my 
 father used to manage was this : there was a long tunnel drain 
 from some houses used as manufactories, about a hundred 
 yards above his cottage, which extended out into the sea at 
 low water mark, and which passed on one side of our cottage. 
 My father had cut from a cellar in the cottage into the drain, 
 and as it was large enough for a man to kneel down in, he 
 used to come in at low water with his coble, and make fast 
 
MOONSHINE. 237 
 
 the goods, properly secured from the wet and dirt in tarpaulin 
 bags, to a rope, which led from the cellar to the sea through 
 the drain. When the water had flowed sufficiently to cover 
 the mouth of the drain, he then threw the bags overboard, 
 and, securing the boat, went to the cottage, hauled up the 
 articles, and secured them too ; d'ye understand ? my father 
 had no one to assist him but my brother, who was a stout 
 fellow, seven years older than myself, and my mother, who 
 used to give a helping hand when required ; and thus did he 
 keep his own counsel, and grow rich : when all was right, 
 he got his boat over into the harbor, and having secured, 
 her, he came home as innocent as a lamb. I was then about 
 eight or nine years old, and went with my father and brother 
 in the coble, for she required three hands, at least, to manage 
 her properly, and, like a tin-pot, although not very big, I 
 was very useful. Now it so happened that my father had 
 notice that a brig, laying in Dover harbor, would sail the 
 next day, and that she had on board of her a quantity of lace 
 and silks, purchased at the Dover Custom-house for exporta- 
 tion, which he was to put on shore again to be sent up to 
 London. The sending up to London we had nothing to do 
 with ; the agent at Dover managed all that ; we only left the 
 articles at his house, and then received the money on the 
 nail. We went to the harbor, where we found the brig 
 hauling out, so we made all haste to get away before her. 
 It blew fresh from the northward and eastward, and there 
 was a good deal of sea running. As we were shoving out, 
 the London agent, a jolly little round-faced fellow, in black 
 clothes, and a bald white head, called to us, and said that 
 he wanted to board a vessel in the offing, and asked whether 
 we would take him. This was all a ruse, as he intended to 
 no on board of the brie: with us to settle matters, and then 
 return in the pilot boat. Well, we hoisted our jib, drew aft 
 our foresheet, and were soon clear of the harbor; but we 
 found that there was a devil of a se'a running, and more 
 
238 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 wind than we bargained for; the brig came out of the har- 
 bor with a flowing sheet, and we lowered down the foresail 
 to reef it — father and brother busy about that, while I stood 
 at the helm, when the agent said to me, 'when do you mean 
 to make a voyage ?' ' Sooner than father thinks for,' said I, 
 ' for I want to see the world.' It was sooner than I thought 
 for too, as you shall hear. As soon as the brig w T as well 
 out, we ran down to her, and with some difficulty my father 
 and the agent got on board, for the sea was high and cross, 
 the tide setting against the wind ; my brother and I were left 
 in the boat to follow in the wake of the brig ; but as my 
 brother was casting off the rope forward, his leg caught in 
 the bight, and into the sea he went ; however, they hauled 
 him on board, leaving me alone in the coble. It was not of 
 much consequence, as I could manage to follow before the 
 wind under easy sail, without assistance ; so I kept her in 
 the wake of the brig, both of us running nearly before it at 
 the rate of five miles an hour, waiting till my father should 
 have made up his packages, of a proper size to walk through 
 the tunnel drain. 
 
 " The channel was full of ships, for the westerly winds 
 had detained them for a long time. I had followed the brig 
 about an hour, when the agent went on shore in a pilot boat, 
 and I expected my father would soon be ready ; then the 
 wind veered more towards the southward, with dirt ; at last 
 it came on foggy, and I could hardly see the brig, and, as 
 it rained hard and blew harder, I wished that my father was 
 ready, for my arms ached with steering the coble for so long 
 a while. I could not leave the helm, so I steered on at a 
 black lump, as the brig looked through the fog ; at last the 
 fog was so thick that I could not see a yard beyond the boat, 
 and I hardly knew how to steer. I began to be frightened, 
 tired, and cold, and hungry I certainly was. Well, I steered 
 on for more than an hour, when the fog cleared up a little, 
 and then I saw the stern of the brig just before me. My 
 
MOONSHINE. 239 
 
 little heart jumped with delight ; and I expected that she 
 would round to immediately, and that my father would prasie 
 me for my conduct ; and, what was still more to the purpose, 
 that I should get something to eat and drink. But no : she 
 steered on right down channel, and I followed for more than 
 an hour more, when it came on to blow very hard, and I 
 could scarcely manage the boat — she pulled my little arms 
 off, and I was quite exhausted. The weather now cleared 
 up, and I could make out the vessel plainly ; and I imme- 
 diately discovered that it was not the brig, but a bark which 
 I had got hold of in the fog, so that I did not know what to 
 do ; but I did as most boys of nine years old would have done 
 who were frightened; I sat down and cried, still, however, 
 keeping the tiller in my hand and steering as well as I could. 
 At last, I could hold it no longer ; I ran forward, let go the 
 fore and jib haulyards and hauled down the sails ; drag them 
 into the boat I could not, and there I was, like a young bear 
 adrift in a washing-tub. I looked all round me, and there 
 were no vessels near ; the bark had left me two miles astern ; 
 it was blowing a gale from the s. e., with a heavy sea; the 
 gulls and sea birds wheeled and screamed in the storm; and, 
 as I thought, when they came close to me, looked at me 
 with their keen eyes, as much as to say, ' What the devil 
 are you doing there ?' The boat was as light as a cork, and 
 although she was tossed and rolled about so that I was 
 obliged to hold on, she shipped no water of any consequence, 
 for the jib in the water forward had brought her head to-wind, 
 and acted as a sort of floating anchor. At last there was 
 nothing in sight, so I laid down at the bottom of the boat 
 and fell asleep. It was daylight before I awoke, and then 
 I got up and looked round me — it blew harder than ever ; 
 and, although there were some vessels at a distance, scud- 
 ding before the gale, they did not mind, or perhaps see me. 
 I sat very melancholy the whole day; the tears ran down my 
 cheeks; my eyes were full of salt from the spray — I saw at 
 
240 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 last nothing but the roaring and tumbling waves. I prayed 
 every prayer I knew, that is, I said the Lord's Prayer, the 
 Belief, and as much of the Catechism as I could recollect. 
 It rained in torrents — I was wet, starving, and miserably 
 cold. At night I again fell asleep from exhaustion. The 
 morning broke again, and the sun shone; the gale was break- 
 ing off, and I felt more cheered ; but I was now ravenous 
 from hunger, as well as choking from thirst, and I was so 
 weak that I could scarcely stand. I looked round me every 
 now and then, and lay down again. In the afternoon I saw 
 a large vessel standing right for me ; this gave me courage 
 and strength. I stood up and waved my hat, and they saw 
 me — the sea was still running very high, but the wind had 
 gone down. She rounded-to so as to bring me under her 
 lee. Send a boat she could not, but the sea bore her down 
 upon me, and I was soon close to her. Men in the chains 
 were ready with ropes, and I knew that this was my only 
 chance. At last, a very heavy sea bore her right down upon 
 the boat, lurching over on her beam ends ; her main chains 
 struck the boat and sent her down, while I was seized by 
 the scuff of the neck by two of the seamen, and borne aloft by 
 them as the vessel returned to the weather-roll. They hauled 
 me in, and I was safe. It was neck or nothing with me 
 then, wasn't it, Bob ?" 
 
 "It was, indeed, a miraculous escape, Cockle." 
 
 "Well, as soon as they had given me something to eat, I 
 told my story : — and it appeared that she was an East India- 
 man running down Channel, and not likely to meet with any 
 thing to send me back again. The passengers, especially 
 the ladies, were very kind to me: and as there was no help 
 for it, why, I took my first voyage to the East Indies." 
 
 "And your father and your brother?" 
 
 " Why, when I met them, which I did about six years 
 afterwards, I found that they had been in much the same 
 predicament, having lost the coble, and the weather being 
 
MOONSHTNE. 241 
 
 so bad that they could not get on shore again. As there 
 was no help for it, they took their first voyage to the West 
 Indies ; so there was a dispersion of a united family — two 
 went west, one went east, coble went down, and mother, 
 after waiting a month or two, and supposing father dead, 
 went off with a soldier. All dispersed by one confounded 
 gale of wind from the northward and eastward, so that's the 
 way that I went to sea, Bob. And now it's time that Moon- 
 shine was back." 
 
 But Moonshine kept us waiting for some time : when he 
 returned it was then quite dark, and we had lighted candles, 
 anxiously waiting for him ; for not only was the bottle empty, 
 but we were very hungry. At last we heard a conversation 
 at the gate, and Moonshine made his appearance with the 
 two bottles of spirits, and appeared himself to be also in high 
 spirits. The pork and peas pudding soon were on the table. 
 We dined heartily, and were sitting over the latter part of 
 the first bottle in conversation, it being near upon the ele- 
 venth hour, when we heard a noise at the gate — observed 
 some figures of men, who stayed a short time and then dis- 
 appeared. The door opened, and Moonshine went out. In 
 a few seconds he returned, bringing in his arms an anker of 
 spirits, which he laid on the floor, grinning so wide that his 
 head appeared half off. Without saying a word, he left the 
 room and returned with another. 
 
 "Why, what the devil's this?" cried Cockle. 
 
 Moonshine made no answer, but went out and in until he 
 had brought six ankers in, one after another, which he placed 
 in a row on the floor. He then shut the outside door, bolted 
 it, came in, and seating himself on one of the tubs, laughed 
 to an excess which compelled him to hold his s^des ; during 
 which Cockle and I were in a state of astonishment and 
 suspense. 
 
 " Where the devil did all this come from ?" cried Cockle, 
 21 
 
242 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 actually getting out of his easy chair. " Tell me, sir, or 
 by " 
 
 " I tell you all, Massa Cockle : — you find me better friend 
 dan Missy O'Bottom. Now you ab plenty, and nebber need 
 scold Moonshine 'pose he take lilly drap. I get all dis pre- 
 sent to you, Massa Cockle." 
 
 I felt a great degree of anxiety, and pressed Moonshine to 
 tell his story. 
 
 " I tell you all, sar. When I come back wid de two bottel 
 I meet plenty men wid de tubs: dey say, 'D — n you, who 
 be you?' I say, 'I come from station: bring massa two 
 bottel, and I show urn.' Den dey say, ' Where you massa ?' 
 and I say, ' at una house at Ryde.' Den dey tink dat you 
 my massa, Massa Farren, so dey say, ' Yes, we know dat, 
 we watch him dere; but now you tell, so we beat you dead.' 
 Den I say, ' What for dat ; massa like drink, why you no gib 
 massa some tub, and den he never say noting, only make 
 fuss some time, 'cause of Admirality.' Den dey say, 'you 
 sure of dat?' and I say, ' quite sure massa nebber say one 
 word.' Den dey talk long while ; last, dey come and say, 
 'You come wid us and show massa house.' So two men 
 come wid me, and when dey come to gate, I say, ' Dis massa 
 house when he live at Ryde, and dere you see massa ;' — and 
 I point to Massa Cockle, but dey see Massa Farren — so dey 
 say, ' All very good ; tree, four hour more, you find six tub 
 here ; tell you massa dat every time run tub, he alway hab 
 six;' den dey go way, den dey come back, leave tub ; dat 
 all, massa." 
 
 " You rascal !" exclaimed I, rising up, " so you have com- 
 promised me; why I shall lose my commission if found out." 
 
 "No, sar; nobody wrong but de smuggler; dey make a 
 lilly mistake; case you brought to court-martial, I gib evi- 
 dence, and den I clear you." 
 
 "But what must we do with these tubs, Cockle?" said I, 
 appealing to him. 
 
MOONSHINE. 243 
 
 " Do, Bob ; why they are a present — a very welcome one, 
 and a very handsome one in the bargain. I shall not keep 
 them, I pledge you my word ; let that satisfy you — they shall 
 all \at fairly entered." 
 
 " Upon that condition, Cockle," I replied, " I shall of course 
 not give information against you." (I knew full well what 
 he meant by saying he would not keep them.) 
 
 " How I do, Massa Cockle ?" said Moonshine, with a grave 
 face ; " I take um to the custom-house to-night or to-morrow 
 marning?" 
 
 " To-morrow, Moonshine," replied Cockle; "at present 
 just put them out of sight." 
 
 I did not think it prudent to make any further inquiries; 
 but I afterwards discovered that the smugglers, true to their 
 word, and still in error, continued to leave six tubs in old 
 Cockle's garden whenever they succeeded in running a cargo, 
 which, notwithstanding all our endeavors, they constantly 
 did. One piece of information I gained from this affair, 
 which was, the number of cargoes, which were run com- 
 pared to those which were seized during the remainder of 
 the time I was on that station, and found it to be in the pro- 
 portion of ten to one. The cargoes run were calculated by 
 the observations of old Cockle, who, when I called upon him, 
 used to say very quietly, " I shouldn't wonder if they run 
 a cargo last night, Bob, in spite of all your vigilance — was 
 it very dark?" 
 
 " On the contrary," replied I, looking at the demure face 
 of the negro, "I suspect it was Moonshine." 
 
OPHELIA 
 
 BT MRS. JAMIESON. 
 
 Ophelia — poor Ophelia! oh, far too soft, too good, too fair, 
 to be cast among the briars of this working-day world, and 
 fall and bleed upon the thorns of life! What shall be said 
 of her? For eloquence is mute before her! Like a strain 
 of sweet sad music which comes floating by us on the wings 
 of night and silence, and which we rather feel than hear — 
 like the exhalation of the violet dying even upon the sense 
 it charms — like the snow-flake dissolved in air before it has 
 caught a stain of earth — like the light surf severed from the 
 billow, which a breath disperses — such is the character of 
 Ophelia: so exquisitely delicate, it seems as if a touch would 
 profane it ; so sanctified in our thoughts by the last and worst 
 of human woes, that we scarcely dare to consider it too 
 deeply. The love of Ophelia, which she never once con- 
 fesses, is like a secret which we have stolen from her, and 
 which ought to die upon our hearts as upon her own. 
 
 Her sorrow asks not words, but tears; and her madness has 
 precisely the same effect that would be produced by the 
 spectacle of real insanity, if brought before us : we feel in- 
 clined to turn away and veil our eyes in reverential pity and 
 too painful sympathy. * * * It is the helplessness of 
 Ophelia, arising merely from her innocence, and pictured 
 without any indication of weakness, which melts us with 
 such profound pity. Ophelia is so young, that neither her 
 
J 
 
 , .. ... 
 
OPHELIA. 245 
 
 mind nor her person has attained maturity; she is not aware 
 of the nature of her own feelings; they are prematurely de- 
 veloped in their full force before she had strength to bear 
 them, and love and grief together rend and shatter the frail 
 texture of her existence like the burning fluid poured into a 
 crystal vase. She says very little, and what she does say 
 seems intended rather to hide than to reveal the emotions of 
 her heart; yet in those few words we are made as perfectly 
 acquainted with her character, and with what is passing in 
 her mind, as if she had thrown forth her whole soul with all 
 the glowing eloquence of Juliet. * * Besides its in- 
 
 trinsic loveliness, the character of Ophelia has a relative 
 beauty and delicacy, when considered in relation to that of 
 Hamlet, which is the delineation of a man of genius in con- 
 test with the powers of this world. Ophelia, the young, fair, 
 inexperienced girl, facile to every impression, fond in her 
 simplicity, and credulous in her innocence, loves Hamlet; 
 not for what he is in himself, but for that which he appears to 
 her — the gentle, accomplished prince, upon whom she has 
 been accustomed to see all eyes fixed in hope and admiration, 
 the star of the court in which she moves, the first who has 
 ever whispered soft vows in her ear; and what can be more 
 natural? In the soliloquy, where she says, 
 
 "And I of la I t deject and wretehe I 
 
 That sucked the honey of his music vows," 
 
 are the only allusions to herself and her own feelings in the 
 course of the play; and these, uttered almost without con- 
 sciousness on her own part, contain the revelation of a life 
 of love, and disclose the burden of a heart bursting with its 
 own unuttered griefs. She believes Hamlet crazed ; she is 
 repulsed, she is forsaken, she is outraged, where she had 
 bestowed her young heart, with all its hopes and wishes; her 
 father is slain by the hand of her lover, as it is supposed, in 
 
 21* 
 
246 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 a paroxysm of insanity ; she is entangled inextricably in a 
 web of horrors which she cannot even comprehend, and the 
 result seems inevitable. 
 
 Of her subsequent madness what can be said ? What an 
 astonishing — what an affecting picture of a mind utterly, 
 hopelessly wrecked! Past hope— past cure! There is the 
 frenzy of excited passion — there is the madness caused by 
 intense and continued thought — there is the delirium of 
 fevered nerves ; but Ophelia's madness is distinct from these ; 
 it is not the suspension, but the utter destruction of the rea- 
 soning powers; it is the total imbecility, which, as medical 
 people well know, too frequently follows some terrible shock 
 to the spirits. 
 
 Her sweet mind lies in fragments before us — a pitiful 
 spectacle! Her wild, rambling fancies; her aimless, broken 
 speeches ; her quick transitions from gayety to sadness — each 
 equally purposeless and causeless ; her snatches of old bal- 
 lads, such as perhaps her nurse sang her to sleep with in her 
 infancy — are all so true to the life, that we forget to wonder 
 and can only weep. It belonged to Shakspeare alone so to 
 temper such a picture that we can endure to dwell upon it. 
 
 That in her madness she should exchange her bashful 
 silence for empty babbling, her sweet maidenly demeanor 
 for the impatient restlessness that spurns at straws, and say 
 and sing precisely what she never would or could have 
 uttered had she been in possession of her reason, is so far 
 from being an impropriety, that it is an additional stroke of 
 nature. It is one of the symptoms in this species of insanity, 
 as we are assured by physicians. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI 
 
 A TALE OF RAJAST HAN. 
 
 BY LEITCH RITCHIE. 
 
 Among the many romantic passages which adorn the bloody 
 page of Rajpoot history, the story of Kishna and her Bracelet 
 is one of the most interesting. Colonel Tod, in his Annals 
 of Rajast'han, lately published,* has opened to the European 
 reader a vast fund both of amusement and instruction, 
 hitherto guarded from curiosity by the difficulties of a foreign 
 language, and scattered over the immense surface of India 
 in local tradition, and in the songs of the wandering min- 
 strels. 
 
 Kishna was the daughter of the Raja of Shapoora, one ot 
 the most powerful of the chiefs of Mewar. She was said to 
 be the most beautiful damsel of Rajast'han; and although the 
 number of those who had seen her was of course small, no 
 face had been better known or more minutely described than 
 hers since the days of the celebrated Meera Bae. Her mo- 
 tion was described by some as resembling the graceful pace 
 of the young Elephant ; others likened her eyes to the blue 
 
 • It is to this highly valuable work that the author of these pages ha- been 
 
 mainly indebted tor e in tin- following episode in the border In 
 
 .Mewar. here | I as exhibiting some very striking illustrations of the 
 
 manners and chara :tei of the military caste of Hindostan. 
 
248 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 water-lily gleaming through the dew of early morning, while 
 others again compared them to those of the fawn-eyed Radha, 
 the mortal love of Heri. This precious gem was intended by 
 her father to ornament the rawula* of the Lord of Pokurna, 
 a turbulent and powerful chief, whose family had long been 
 a thorn in the side of the Ranas of Oodipoor. The projected 
 union, like that of most marriages in Rajast'han, was a mere 
 political alliance ; and Kishna, who was of royal descent, 
 was understood to be a peace-offering to the Pokurna chief. 
 
 Not long before, however, very different views had been 
 entertained by her father on this subject; and it was thought 
 that in yielding to the influence of his royal kinsman, the 
 Rana, he had acted a part more consistent with public than 
 with personal policy. The Komari of the house of Shapoora,f 
 in fact, had been looked upon from her birth as the future wife 
 of the Ranawut chief of Amergurh, between whom and the 
 raja one of those deadly feuds had existed for half a century, 
 which in India can only be put an end to by the offer of a 
 daughter in marriage from the aggressor. So serious was 
 the enmity between the two houses that the whole country 
 was shaken by it. Commerce was interrupted, and agricul- 
 ture nearly destroyed. A wide area, embracing the borders 
 of the two demesnes, seemed like a battle common, a de- 
 batable land of strife and bloodshed, where midnight fires 
 pointed out to the alarmed peasant the track of the plunderer, 
 and where in the day time the banners of the rival houses 
 
 * Harem. 
 
 t Our heroine must not be confounded with another Kishna Komari (the 
 virgin Kishna) daughter of the Rana Bheem, by a mother of the Chawura 
 race, the ancient kings of Anhulwara. This young princess was sought in 
 marriage by the whole chivalry of India at the same moment, who flew to 
 arms to make good their claim. Foor Kishna, in all the loveliness and inno- 
 cence of sixteen, was at length ruthlessly murdered by A jit Sing, her father's 
 minister, as the only expedient he could hit upon to settle the claims of tin 
 rivals. This dreadful villain, we believe, still pollutes the atmosphere of the 
 world with his accursed breath. 
 
KISIINA KOMARI. 249 
 
 flaunted in the sunbeam, as the chiefs led on the chivalry of 
 their tribes to battle. 
 
 At first view the contest might have been thought to be 
 exceedingly unequal. The raja was a man of vast posses- 
 sions, and high court influence ; his plains were enriched 
 with fifty villages ; and at the sound of his sankh* two thou- 
 sand men girded on their swords. His silleh-khanehf was 
 said to be the most complete in Mewar. There might be 
 seen every species of armor known in India, arranged with 
 the nicest regularity. The match-lock of Boondi, inlaid with 
 mother of pearl and gold — the shield of the rhinoceros hide, 
 beautifully painted and enameled — the bow of the buffalo 
 horn — the favorite sirohi, slightly curved like the blade of 
 Damascus — with a thousand varieties of spear, sabre, and 
 dagger — all glittered in their appointed place, and all were 
 distinguished by peculiar names commemorative of some 
 passage in their history. His palace, as a work of architect- 
 ure, was unrivaled out of Yoginipoor.ij: Its lengthened suites 
 of colonnaded and sculptured halls, and its vast terraces slop- 
 ing with marble steps to the river's edge, gave one the. idea 
 of some enchanted fabric described in the songs of the poets ; 
 while its gardens, no less worthy of admiration, were studded 
 with fountains and reservoirs, and diversified with a hundred 
 rivulets, which leaped in every direction across their bosom. 
 There the golden chump a diffused its feverish aroma, so 
 overpowering, that if the leaves are laid on the pillow at 
 night, they will produce headache ; the mogra, too, and the 
 chamaili or jasmine, hung their rich blossoms around; and 
 the bara-masha, the very queen of flowers, presented with its 
 undying bloom an image of the joys of Paradise. 
 
 The character of the raja might be guessed from that of 
 his possessions. The stern simplicity of ancient times had 
 given way before the voluptuous example of the Mohani- 
 
 * War-shelL f Armory. J Delhi. 
 
250 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 medan tribes. The houris of an earthly heaven had usurped, in 
 the dreams of the Rajpoot warrior, the place of those celestial 
 apsaras, whose eyes, beaming from the world of bliss, had 
 once been the guiding stars which led on his ancestors to con- 
 quest or death. He vied with the other nobles of the Rana's 
 court rather in the costliness than the sharpness of his 
 kirban ;* and his forays among the neighboring chiefs were 
 directed not to the enemies of his policy or honor, but to 
 those whose rawula was said to boast a fair wife or a black- 
 eyed daughter. Ample as were the estates of Shapoora, the 
 revenue of their lord could but ill supply the extravagance 
 of so voluptuous a housekeeping; and recourse, therefore, 
 was had with reckless tyranny to the Rekwalee, answering 
 to the salvamento of feudal Europe, and in some respects to 
 the Black Mail of the Scottish Highlands. Sums were levied 
 for protection from the very disturbances caused by the 
 raja's own troops; ruinous tolls were demanded on every 
 article of commerce passing through his territory; and to 
 such an extent of petty extortion was the system carried, that 
 throughout his demesne not only fees on marriages were 
 taken, but a dish of good fare bargained for at every wedding 
 feast. For the rest, although feared and hated by his depend- 
 ants, he was reckoned a brave man, and a loyal Rajpoot, 
 and in times of public danger no member of his court was 
 relied on more implicitly by the Rana than the prince of 
 Shapoora. 
 
 On the other hand, the Ranawut chief, the lord of little 
 more than his own rude doorg,f perched like an eagle's eyrie 
 on the cliff, was a man of altogether another stamp. Resist- 
 ing, either from obstinacy or principle, the stream of effemi- 
 nate corruption which was daily sweeping away some new 
 portion of those ancient landmarks of Rajpoot character, 
 described by the historians of Europe as incapable of change 
 
 * One of the many kinds of swords. f Mountain fortress. 
 
KISIINA KOMARI. 251 
 
 or decay, he formed a rampart in himself against the en- 
 croachments of foreign manners, as venerable, and seemingly 
 as secure as his own castled mountains, which looked frown- 
 fully down upon the plains. In peace his trade was hunting; 
 in war, his simple economy was amply supplied from the full 
 barns of the foe. An unsparing enemy, a devoted friend, a 
 condescending master, he united in his character everything 
 which could win the love or command the respect of his bre- 
 thren and followers. Secure in his mountain fastness, perched 
 on the bare pinnacle of a rock, and defended by large swivels, 
 but still more by immense belts of forest, he laughed at the 
 vain threats of the raja. The roads which led to this alpine 
 retreat were few and intricate. They winded through enor- 
 mous chasms of the mountain, susceptible of defence at every 
 step. Sometimes a hut built upon the edge of the cliff would 
 be seen watching, as if with prying eyes, the unfrequent 
 traveler, and a half naked boy, after gazing for a moment 
 through the brushwood, would spring off like a wild ante- 
 lope, to announce at the next station the approach of a 
 stranger. More frequently, however, the gaunt wolf, looking 
 down with a glare, half of fear, half of wistful hunger, was 
 the only sentinel visible in the rude demesne ; and the visitor, 
 as with poised spear he pursued his path darkened with eter- 
 nal shadow, wished the distance shorter and the road less 
 dreary to the doorg of Amergurh. 
 
 Near the plains, the scene was wildly beautiful. A large 
 stream winded at the base of the hills, overhung by shady 
 evergreens. Farther up appeared some sloping patches of 
 rice and maize, or, in autumn, of Indian corn, glancing 
 through the dark mangoes which clothed the sides of the 
 mountain. These in some places were mingled with the 
 goolar,* the sitaphal,t and the aroobadam;| and in others 
 with the larger trees, such as the picturesque tamarind, the 
 
 • Wild fig. t Custard apple. J Almond peach. 
 
252 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 sacred peepul, and the burr, or Indian fig. Amidst this 
 luxuriant vegetation the stunted neem-tree occasionally ap- 
 peared, a picture of deformity and decay; seeming to point 
 with its uncouth branches to some ravaged field, or ruined 
 hut, where the destroyers had left the print of their footsteps 
 in blood and ashes. 
 
 Samarsi, the heir of this wild domain, and once the in- 
 tended husband of Kishna, was one of those romantic cha- 
 racters, in whom the rudeness of the feudal age is so tem- 
 pered and polished by a spirit of fantastic honor, that the 
 reader of history, confounding unconsciously the genius of 
 the period with that of the individual, is apt to fancy what is 
 called the era of chivalry — but which is really the era of 
 barbarism — to be the very golden age of lofty sentiment and 
 generous emprize — of brave men, and fair women. The 
 restless mind of Samarsi was by no means bounded by the 
 mountain retreat of his fathers. He had visited the court of 
 his prince ; claimed the hospitality of the most powerful chiefs 
 throughout the plains of Hindostan ; and repaid the welcome 
 which all were eager to extend to the noble mountaineer, 
 with the service of his sword. He had listened in his wan- 
 derings to the masters of the lyre till he himself became a 
 poet ; he had performed a pilgrimage to Gya, the Jerusalem 
 of the Hindoos ; and roused by an insult to his honor and 
 faith, had smote the Islamite with his sword within the sacred 
 gates. Although still a very young man, his fame had already 
 gone abroad in the country. When the deeds of Pirthi Raj 
 were sung by the bards, the name of Samarsi was mentioned 
 at least as that of an imitator of the Rajpoot Rolando; and 
 while the damsels of the princesses of Rajast'han were 
 wreathing flowers in their mistresses' hair, the word whispered 
 in their ear was answered by a sigh as soft yet as ardent as 
 the aroma of the golden chumpa. 
 
 Samarsi had never seen his once intended wife, the lovely 
 Komari of Shapoora, but fame had done ample justice to her 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 253 
 
 merits. Her image was early enshrined in his heart; and it 
 grew in loveliness with the growth of his imagination, like 
 an idol, which is adorned more richly every day according to 
 the waxing fortunes of the worshiper. What his feelings 
 were when he heard of the rupture of the negotiations — when 
 he learnt that Kishna was to be offered up a victim to the 
 Pokurna chief— may be conceived. Wounded pride added 
 tenfold bitterness to disappointed love, and revenge rose 
 rankling in his bosom like a poisonous weed among flowers. 
 He contracted the circle of his wanderings, and confined his 
 visits to the neighboring chiefs, heretofore the allies, or at 
 least the neutral spectators of his father's feuds. He accus- 
 tomed the immediate followers of the house to his presence, 
 mingling freely in their games, and exhibiting in the various 
 exercises, such as riding in the ring, and firing with the 
 matchlock at a mark, a degree of dexterity which appeared 
 to partake almost of the marvelous. The musters of the 
 clan became speedily so frequent, and the shout of mimic 
 war so loud on the heights of Amergurh, that the raja's 
 friends warned him to beware. " The old eagle of the rock," 
 said they, "is pluming his feathers;" and the hand of the 
 Shapoora prince instinctively grasped the scimitar at his gir- 
 dle at the ominous intelligence. 
 
 Kishna, in the meantime, although she felt as a woman, 
 exhibited in her outward manner the spirit of a Rajpoot 
 daughter. It was not in the nature of things that the repu- 
 tation acquired by Samarsi could have failed in its effect on 
 a sensitive heart like hers. She had watched the progress of 
 her future husband — whom she had never yet seen — with an 
 interest increasing every day. A glow of loftier pride, at 
 every new triumph, illumined her beautiful countenance; a 
 thrill of more tumultuous pleasure ran through her veins at 
 every repetition of his name in the songs in which the soldier- 
 bard was accustomed to extol the beauty of his unseen mis- 
 tress above that of the fairest among the princesses of Ra- 
 22 
 
254 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 jast'han. He was the unceasing theme of conversation 
 among the damsels. His face — his figure — his gallant bear- 
 ing — hi s noble horsemanship — his strength — his feats of arms 
 — all were detailed with unwearied minuteness, till at length 
 the image of the young hero of Amergurh was engraved upon 
 her heart as indelibly as the figures seen upon the walls of 
 the marble caves of Elephanta, which can never be oblite- 
 rated except by the destruction of the rock itself. Yet when 
 tidings were brought to her of the change in her father's 
 intentions, and when she knew that that beautiful dream 
 which had been interwoven so closely with the thread of her 
 mortal existence, must now be torn away — no word of com- 
 plaint escaped her lips. 
 
 It is true, the clear and sparkling blood was seen no more 
 through the light transparent olive of her cheek; the circle of 
 musk painted upon her forehead, looked, in that region, of 
 the paleness of death, like some ominous sign more fit to 
 awaken fear than admiration ; and her eyes, when their 
 native brilliancy was heightened by the line of unjum drawn 
 upon the edges of the lids, exhibited something so wildly 
 beautiful in their expression that her very maidens paused in 
 the middle of their task to gaze upon her. It was observed 
 too, that when she walked, the sound emitted by her anklets of 
 golden bells betrayed an abruptness and agitation which might 
 have been sought in vain in her calm and lofty deportment; 
 and her damsels, with the fine instinct of penetration peculiar 
 to their sex, in spite of her apparent indifference, broke the 
 silence which respect for their lord had imposed, and mur- 
 mured loudly against the cruelty of his decrees. One flush 
 on her pale cheek, which, passing away, left the cheek still 
 paler — one wild and momentary throb of her bosom, were 
 the only tokens by which the heart of Kishna answered to 
 the name of power they pronounced; but with a slight catch- 
 ing of the breath she addressed them in a few firm but gentle 
 words. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 255 
 
 "Am not I a Rajpootni?" she said; " am not I a daughter 
 of the princely house of Shapoora? Shall Kishna say to her 
 father, 'My lord, why dost thou this?' We are set apart for 
 sacrifice from our birth. When our eyes first open upon the 
 light, if the cunning- woman say not, 'Behold, a man-child 
 is born to thy house!' the opiate straight is mixed in the bowl, 
 and the first food we receive is our last. That I have lived 
 so many years I owe to the goodness of the raja; and if my 
 death were required this moment by his policy, I feel that I 
 should not disgrace by a single shudder the blood of a line 
 of kings." It was of death Kishna spoke, not of marriage! 
 
 The vengeance of Amergurh at length broke like a thunder- 
 storm upon the Shapoora plains. A fortress, one of the few 
 defences of the raja's territory on the mountain borders, was 
 carried by assault, and the garrison put to the sword ; the 
 neighboring villages were plundered, and their inhabitants 
 scattered upon the plains, with the exception of the wealth- 
 ier few, who were carried off to partake of the hospitali- 
 ties of the mountain chief, till their friends could collect a 
 fitting ransom ; fires blazed and swords flashed in every di- 
 rection ; and although the assailants w T ere but a handful com- 
 pared with the host of defenders, so quick were their motions, 
 so sure their information, and so deadly the meditated blow 
 where it fell, that the whole feudal power of Shapoora seemed 
 unable to arrest the progress of him who had been deridingly 
 termed "the old robber of the rock." It was then the war- 
 like education of Samarsi was duly appreciated. Nothing 
 had escaped his keen eye in the policy of the Indian states, 
 whether Hindoo or Mohammedan; no improvement in mili- 
 tary tactics, no invention in arms and accoutrements was un- 
 familiar to him; and when the raja's followers had formed 
 their .simple lines for the reception of enemies as rude and 
 simple as themselves, they saw to their dismay the advance 
 of a power, still more formidable than that of the Mussulman 
 conqueror. 
 
256 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Over the whole struggle, however, fierce and bloody though 
 it was, there was thrown a relieving air of chivalrous gal- 
 lantry, not uncommon in the wars of the Rajpoots. This was 
 a feud of love more than of hate ; and the rudest soldier in 
 Samarsi's ranks knew how to distinguish between the cause 
 of the Komari and that of her father. Kishna and Samarsi, 
 in fact, had long been twin names in the imagination. The 
 romance had already commenced ; the line of its story had 
 been carried on through a succession of years; and now this 
 striking incident — involving, perhaps, the catastrophe — be- 
 came the subject of deep and concentrated interest. 
 
 When intelligence of this sudden awaking of the slumber- 
 ing feud reached the raja, he was enjoying, with his family, 
 the pleasures of a country residence, near the borders of his 
 territory. He contented himself, at first, with ordering a 
 detachment of his troops against the "old robber;" but 
 alarmed at length at the repeated disasters which befel the 
 Shapoora arms, he resolved to take the field in person. De- 
 termining, however, that the hopes of Samarsi, both in love 
 and war, should be overthrown in one day, he dispatched 
 messengers to his intended son-in-law, the Pokurna chief, 
 requiring him to repair with his whole chivalry to the fortress 
 of Chulwa, for the purpose of escorting his bride to Shapoora, 
 where the nuptials were to be immediately celebrated. For 
 the farther security of the fair traveler, as well as to swell 
 the pomp of the procession, he also issued orders to his 
 own adherents, with the exception of the body employed 
 in keeping Samarsi in check, to muster at Chulwa; and hav- 
 ing arranged, by the aid of constant couriers, the prepara- 
 tions at Shapoora, the raja at length fixed a day on which the 
 important rites were to be performed, with a magnificence 
 hitherto unknown, except in the marriages of kings. 
 
 All w T as bustle at Chulwa. No sooner did the sun rise on 
 the hills, than the sound of the nakarra,* reverberating like 
 
 * Great kettle drum. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 257 
 
 distant thunder, gave notice of the approach of successive 
 bodies of guests or troops, speeding to the centre of attrac- 
 tion from all points of the compass. As they came nearer, 
 the crimson banner of Shapoora, floating over many of the 
 bands, distinguished the liege-men of the raja ; while others 
 bore conspicuously the galla'nt ensigns of the house of Po- 
 kurna. Not a few, too, of the neighboring chiefs appeared 
 winding down the hill sides, at the head of their followers ; 
 and here and there a solitary cavalier, armed at all points, 
 was seen galloping across the plain. This brilliant picture 
 was filled up by innumerable figures of brahmins, astrologers, 
 mendicants, dancing-women, and the whole host of super- 
 numeraries who crowd with equal eagerness to a wedding 
 and a sati. As the various groups approached the gates of 
 the fortress, the forms of reception, modified by their different 
 ranks, gave a new animation to the scene. The hill-war- 
 riors striding over the marble courts, their armor rattling as 
 they walked, were seen to throw .glances around, half of 
 admiration, half of affected contempt. Gallant and grave, 
 the older chiefs paced steadily along, measuring with a sol- 
 dier's eye the almost perfect appointments of the place ; while 
 the younger, as the lattices of this temporary palace of beauty 
 caught their wandering glances, might have been observed 
 to throw back their heads with soldier-like dignity, or ring 
 their Boondi matchlocks on the marble pavement with an air 
 ofcelegant negligence. Haughtily waved the peacock's fea- 
 ther on many a dinted helmet, as the array seemed to be 
 gradually swallowed up by the magnificent portals; and loud 
 and long at intervals rose the peal of the warlike sankh, and 
 the thunder of the hoarse nakarra. 
 
 The reception of the guests was such as befitted the luxu- 
 rious hospitality of the raja. Seated under painted and gilded 
 ceilings supported by serpentine pillars, which were reflected 
 in walls forming a single mass of mirrors, the chiefs drank at 
 their pleasure, from golden vessels, the flower of the Mawa 
 
 ■2-y 
 
25S THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 tree, the infusion of the poppy, or the thousand arracks, or 
 distilled waters, which lull the soul of the Hindoo into forget- 
 fulness of its cares. Some repaired in detached groups to 
 colonnaded refectories placed on the water's edge ; others 
 refreshed themselves in marble baths; and others, wandering 
 into the orange and lemon groves which intervened between 
 the buildings, lay down beneath the spreading tamarind, or 
 ever-green kheenee to sleep off their noon-day opiate. 
 
 The denizens of the rawula, in the mean time, were not 
 exempted from the agitation of the time. Kisbna's damsels, 
 delighted with any incident which relieved the usual mono- 
 tony of their lives, leaped backwards and forwards like young 
 antelopes, seeking and conveying intelligence of every new 
 arrival. Sometimes they would peep through the lattices to 
 obtain a distant view of the throng, and sometimes, ascending 
 to the top of the building which contained their apartments, 
 look stealthily over the battlements. Their young mistress, 
 herself, appeared to be affected by the general commotion. 
 She started at every blast of the sankh, as it smote upon her 
 ear, and watched with an unquiet air the echoes of the 
 nakarra, as they thundered through the courts of the palace- 
 fort, and died among the distant hills. Even the soft voice 
 of the shehna,* as in the evening it floated from the lofty ter- 
 races, in many a sweet, wild tuppa of her country, was in- 
 effectual in soothing the agitation of her mind ; and when 
 the night set in, and the warder's tourraye,f rising with its 
 intense and magnificent swell from some lonely turret, had 
 received the answer it challenged, her heart seemed to die 
 within her as the deep hem! hem! proclaimed "all's well!" 
 
 Then, encircling with her arm the waist of her foster-sister, 
 who was the favorite maiden, she wandered to a distant 
 apartment, and throwing open the lattice, stooped to inhale 
 the scent of the thousand lotus flowers which gemmed the 
 
 * Hautboy. | Trumpet. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 259 
 
 bosom of the lake below. At the instant a passing bird of 
 prey dropped the quarry he held in his beak, into the water. 
 The foster-sister shrieked at the fatal omen — but her shriek 
 was silenced by the voice of a shial,* which rose in a wild 
 howl of lamentation from the neighboring forest; and the 
 maiden, shocked at the double signal of despair, which no 
 Rajpoot nor Rajpootni could witness without horror, hid her 
 pale face in her mistress's bosom. 
 
 "A tale — a tale!" cried Kishna, with a sudden effort, "a 
 tale of the days of other years ! But let it be as wild, my 
 Punna, as the cry of the shial sounding at night, and as sad 
 as — as — " and she pressed her hand convulsively to her 
 breast, and leaning her fair brow on her confidant's shoulder, 
 gave way, for the first time, to a burst of tears. They sank 
 down upon the carpet together ; and in obedience to her mis- 
 tress's commands, Punna examined the stores of her memory, 
 to bring forth some of those pleasing, but melancholy tales, 
 which had so often beguiled the wearisome hours of the 
 rawula. The hue of night, however, was spread even over 
 her mind, and her gloomy thoughts could find only images of 
 gloom. In vain she endeavored to transport her imagination 
 to the days of Pirthi-Raj, and to steep her soul in the recol- 
 lected melodies of the minstrel Chund. 
 
 "Happy days!" she exclaimed, "when the high-born 
 damsel, sitting on her cushioned throne, in the midst of her 
 assembled suitors, threw the Bur-malaf to the lover of her 
 heart. No father's stern decree — no policy of state — forbade 
 the tying of the garments when souls were already united; 
 love, love alone, was the lord of the period, and woman's 
 will his only minister on earth!" At this moment another 
 blast of the tourraye swept with a wailing sound through the 
 air, and dying away among the distant hills, left behind a 
 silence so awful, that Punna trembled at her own breathing. 
 
 * Jackal. f Garland of marriage. 
 
260 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 At the whispered command of her mistress she spoke again ; 
 but forgetting her theme, it was of fear, and foreboding, and 
 destiny, and despair, that was formed the burden of her tale. 
 She told of that unhappy Rana who fell, with his eleven 
 sons, amidst the ruins of Cheetore — and of the spectre-ge- 
 nius, who, advancing between the granite columns, stood by 
 his sleepless bed by the dim light of the cheragh,* and ex- 
 claimed Myn bhooka ho! "I am hungry still!" — and of the 
 fair Pudmani, who, with the queens and princesses, and ladies 
 of Cheetore, walked in magnificent procession to the subter- 
 ranean palace, when all hope of defending the city was 
 abandoned — where they were so securely built up from Tar- 
 tar lust, that no particle of smoke escaped to tell the fearful 
 story of their doom! Insensible of the lapse of time, Kishna 
 and her damsel continued to feed their gloomy fancies with 
 such stories, till the faint light of their lamp was lost in the 
 beams of the dawn, and a thousand living sounds in the 
 fortress proclaimed that preparations were already making 
 for the journey to the raja's capital — that the day was indeed 
 arrived, when the Komari of Shapoora was to bid a last 
 adieu to those long-cherished hopes which even now only 
 flitted around her heart like the shahaba of Hindoo super- 
 stition — the spectre-lights of the grave. 
 
 Soon all was in motion in the fortress of Chulwa, and the 
 scene presented in the spacious courts was in the highest 
 degree imposing. Masses of moving figures were observed, 
 some already forming in the order of the march, and others 
 still immersed in all the hurry of preparation. Here a 
 Sanyasi, with his orange-colored unga, or tunic, flowing 
 loosely round his limbs, and his turban of the same hue, 
 ornamented with a necklace of the lotus kernel, might be 
 seen wandering through the crowd, counting his beads, and 
 repeating the name of his favorite deity aloud, in apparent 
 
 Lamp. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 261 
 
 abstraction from all worldly concerns ; there a young chief, 
 adjusting hurriedly the heron plume, or peacock's feather in 
 his helmet, as he turned a stealthy look towards the distant 
 lattices of the rawula; beside him, two rival bards, disputing 
 on some point of distant genealogy; and here and there, 
 walking with unsteady pace, and staring vacantly around, a 
 figure, whose hollow eyes, and uncared-for apparel, pro- 
 claimed that he had already, even at that early hour, been 
 indulging in the darling opiate. Turbans of all hues and 
 forms might be seen floating through the area, some deco- 
 rated with feathers, and some with branches of different 
 shrubs sacred to the God of war ; while the clusters of arms 
 scattered everywhere around, lances, matchlocks and buc- 
 klers, — steeds snorting and pawing the ground, as if proud of 
 their scarlet trimmings, — and pennons fluttering gayly over 
 head, — conferred a character of animation upon the half- 
 warlike pageant, which could scarcely be equaled in any 
 other than a Rajpoot festival. The very elephants sympa- 
 thized on the joyous occasion, signifying their delight in that 
 shrill and indescribable cry which is peculiar to them ; and 
 the yells of the camels, in spite of their monstrous defiance 
 of all musical proportion, spoke a language by no means 
 untranslatable by the human heart. 
 
 Kishna and the whole train of the rawula were at length 
 mounted in their litters, and all things were ready. The 
 fortunate hour agreed upon by the astrologers arrived, and 
 the sankh was thrice sounded, and three rounds of thunder 
 elicited from the nakarras. The Pokurna chief, a plain, 
 middle-aged, soldier-like man, approached the covered vehi- 
 cle which contained his bride, and having ordered around it 
 an escort, the noblest of his retinue, the raja passed the orders 
 to march. 
 
 At this moment, a single horseman, who a few minutes 
 before had been spurring with frantic speed down the neigh- 
 boring hills, plunged, in spite of the shouts and menaces ot 
 
262 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the guards, into the midst of the group of chiefs, and threw 
 himself at the raja's feet, while his horse reeled, fell, and 
 expired at the same instant. The intruder was a young man 
 whose dress and color denoted him to be an Abyssinian slave ; 
 and he held in his hand the fragments of a silver ring, such 
 as is worn round the left ankle by the golas, or military slaves 
 of the Hindoo chiefs. What his natural appearance and 
 physiognomy might be, it was impossible to determine ; for 
 his face was so begrimed with blood and the marks of travel, 
 and his scarf so torn, and twisted round his body, that little 
 else could be gathered from this sudden apparition than that 
 it bore the figure and aspect of a man. 
 
 Being ordered to speak, the young man rose up, and cover- 
 ing his face, related in a broken voice a story of outrage and 
 dishonor. His wife had been torn from his arms by the very 
 master who was bound to protect him — and whom he had 
 
 often protected at the hazard of his life. She had been 
 
 (the lips of the slave refused to utter the word) — and the 
 complaints wrung from his burning heart by fury and de- 
 spair, had been answered by public stripes! 
 
 An exclamation of horror ran through the listeners at the 
 tale, without the exception even of the libertine raja himself. 
 
 "Dust on his head!" cried they with one voice — " may he 
 die childless, and his name die with him!" 
 
 "By my sword and shield!" exclaimed the Pokurna chief, 
 striking furiously the two weapons together, "if the dastard 
 be but within reach, it were a fortunate deed to wipe out this 
 stain upon the Rajpoot race, on our way to Shapoora!" A 
 cry of savage joy escaped from the white lips of the Abys- 
 sinian at the words; and prostrating himself again upon the 
 earth, he besought the chiefs to aid him in his revenge. 
 
 "Name him!" said they. 
 
 "Samarsi of Amergurh!" 
 
 It may be imagined that the virtuous wrath of the raja 
 was no whit appeased by this identification of the perpetrator 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 263 
 
 of the outrage with his personal foe; and few doubted his 
 word when he swore solemnly by his favorite sword, kneel- 
 ing before it on the earth, that he took the feud of the Abys- 
 sinian upon himself. 
 
 "Be it mine, then," said the latter, "to point your way 
 to a double conquest — a triumph at once over your enemy 
 and mine. In the pass of Alhiran, Samarsi, like a couched 
 tiger, waits your coming. Let the main body of your troops 
 march boldly but warily through the pass, while a chosen 
 band makes a circuit by the plain-ward side. At the signal 
 of attack, which will be given by a shower of rocks descend- 
 ing from the brow of the cliff, let the main body push gal- 
 lantly up the steep, while their comrades on the other side, 
 warned by the shout of war, scale the ridge to their assist- 
 ance. Thus between two fires will Samarsi perish, without 
 possibility of escape; for his force, you must be aware, even 
 including his Bhil allies, is not a tenth part of yours. As for 
 the bride," continued the Abyssinian, in an altered voice, 
 while his frame trembled with half-suppressed emotion, 
 caused no doubt by the remembrance of his wrongs, " let 
 the princess, protected by a suitable escort, take the nearer 
 and narrower pass of Aravulli, and — " 
 
 "Ha!" interrupted the Pokurna chief, "by the steel, here 
 is a goodly adviser! Why, slave, would you separate the 
 princess from the strength of her friends?" and he bent upon 
 the Abyssinian a searching and suspicious gaze. The gola 
 stood collected under the scrutiny for some moments, and 
 then modestly withdrawing his eyes, answered in a submissive 
 
 tone. 
 
 "My lord is the director of the will of mankind! I but 
 hinted at a separate route for the females, lest the eagerness 
 of your troops, when attacked by the enemy, might leave 
 them unprotected in the gorge of the mountains ; and be- 
 cause in the pass I have named, too narrow for more than 
 three men to walk abreast, and too wild and rugged for the 
 
264 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 purposes of pleasure, no human being would think of looking 
 for the marriage cavalcade of a daughter of the house of 
 Shapoora. The ridge of mountain, besides, which separates 
 the two passes, is not high enough to prevent a halloo, not to 
 talk of the report of a matchlock, from being heard from 
 one to another. Howbeit, if it is the will of my lord that the 
 bride be carried through fire and smoke to her wedding — " 
 
 ''Silence, slave!" interrupted the raja, "it may be — if 
 one may reason from that daring tongue and insolent eye — 
 that the heir of Amergurh had better excuse for his conduct 
 than the beauty of a gola's wife — he is my enemy, however, 
 and you are the tool which I shall use to crush him." Then 
 turning to the other chiefs, he proposed apart to them a plan 
 of operations, which it was hoped would deliver Samarsi and 
 his whole force into their hands. It was determined that the 
 Abyssinian's advice should be taken ; that the litters of the 
 females, strongly escorted, should proceed by the pass of 
 Aravulli, and that he himself, at once their guide and pri- 
 soner, should head the procession, between two soldiers with 
 lighted matches. 
 
 Having arranged also the order of the main body, the 
 march was again about to be commenced, when the astrolo- 
 gers, uttering a cry of warning, reminded the chiefs that the 
 fortunate hour was passed by. 
 
 "Behold," said they, "our witness!" as they pointed with 
 meaning finger to the heavens — and many a bold heart 
 quailed with fear at the sight of some spots on the broad disk 
 of the sun. To propitiate the powers which watch over the 
 fate of armies, a buffalo was sacrificed with great pomp in 
 front of the lines ; and this ceremony over, which is seldom 
 omitted by the Rajpoot warrior, when any considerable inter- 
 val elapses between the sounding of the instrument and the 
 march of the troops, three blasts on the sankh were again 
 blown, and the nakarra thrice struck, and the huge proces- 
 sion was at length in motion. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 265 
 
 The Abyssinian slave, apparently unmoved by fear or any 
 other ordinary feeling of human nature, had remained during 
 the whole time seated on the ground, his face buried in his 
 hands, crossed on the top of his shield, which rested perpen- 
 dicularly on his knees. When summoned to his place in the 
 ranks, he slung his matchlock on his back, crossed his arms 
 in his ample scarf, and strode forward between his two 
 guards, without raising his eyes from the ground. 
 
 In due time the little army divided, the main body taking 
 the pass of Alhiran, while the litters of the females, escorted 
 by a considerable number of troops, and followed by the un- 
 armed supernumeraries of the procession, plunged into the 
 deep gorge of Aravulli. This, Kishna thought, was the least 
 unpleasant part of the journey; and in contemplating a scene 
 so new and striking to her imagination, she almost forgot the 
 load of griefs which had pressed upon her heart like a tomb- 
 stone. 
 
 Their route was along the bed of a torrent, which cooled 
 the air by its perpetual spray ; and through the branches of 
 the tamarind and burr, which canopied the path, they could 
 see at intervals the bare and fantastic projections of the rocks, 
 basking in the sun, several hundred feet above their heads. 
 The sounds with which this natural solitude was filled, were 
 the more striking, from their very incongruity. Mingling 
 with the roar of the mountain-river, modified every moment 
 by the varying volume of the water, and the height of suc- 
 cessive falls, came the clattering of arms, the hoarse shouts 
 of men, and the yells of camels ; while the cry of a thousand 
 wild-birds, startled from their ancient domain by so unusual 
 a phenomenon, was emulated by the shrieks of women, 
 stumbling among the fragments of rocks, and the shrill 
 laughter of children chasing one another up the sides of 
 the steep. 
 
 The van of the procession had reached the loftiest part of 
 the path, where the road was seen to divide into two branches; 
 23 
 
266 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and the Abyssinian and his guards halted for a few moments, 
 as if to choose between them. A simultaneous pause took 
 place in the whole body, and all eyes were bent upon the 
 conductors. Among these at length, a stir was observed — 
 hardly comprehended at first by the nearest ; but one of the 
 guards was seen to fall suddenly over the rocks into the tor- 
 rent, while the other sunk lifeless at the foot of the steep. 
 The Abyssinian, clashing together two daggers, which had 
 just drank the blood of both their bosoms — held them up to- 
 wards the mountain ; the signal was answered by a single shot 
 which rung across the pass, and was followed almost instanta- 
 neously by the descent of an enormous rock, into the midst 
 of the troops which guarded the litter of the princess. The 
 startled soldiers fired their matchlocks at random among the 
 trees; and as if conjured by the sound, every branch gave 
 forth its sprite in the shape of a foe. These were seen to a 
 man arrayed in the saffron robes, which indicate that the 
 wearers will neither give nor receive quarter, but must either 
 conquer or die ; and, with the wild hurt hurl the battle-shout 
 of the Rajpoot warrior, they rushed down the steep upon their 
 prey. 
 
 The guard in advance was cut to pieces, as if by one blow ; 
 and as the assailants swept on to the attack of the main body 
 of the detachment, which surrounded and followed the litters, 
 and was commanded by the Pokurna chief in person, Kishna, 
 moved by an uncontrollable impulse, drew aside the curtains, 
 and gazed with fearful curiosity upon the boiling tide of bat- 
 tle. In a moment her eyes were riveted, as if by some ma- 
 gical charm, upon the figure of the Abyssinian slave, who 
 seemed to be the evil genius of the slaughter. He had torn 
 the dark scarf from his breast, which now exhibited the 
 saffron ensign, at once of indomitable courage and reckless 
 despair. He was the star of the battle, to whom all hearts 
 were turned, either in love or deprecation. His steps were 
 on the dead and dying; wherever he trod, blood bubbled 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 267 
 
 up beneath his feet ; his course through the fight was as that 
 of a reaper on a harvest field. In a few moments he had cut 
 his way towards the litter of the princess, and the bridegroom 
 sprung to meet him. Terrible was the clash of the warriors 
 when they met; but at the instant, one of the assailing party, 
 who lay mortally wounded below, seized on the foot of the 
 Pokurna chief, and in the strong agonies of death dragged 
 him to the earth. The Abyssinian's sword circled round his 
 head, like a bird of prey, about to stoop upon his quarry; 
 but in descending, its swoop was arrested by a shriek from 
 Kishna, and, raising the dripping blade to his lips, the gola 
 bowed himself to the earth and turned away. The cry of 
 hurt hurl arose with renewed ardor at the fall of the Po- 
 kurna chief, and w r as answered with a yell, at once of fear 
 and fury, by his adherents, "For the bride of Shapoora!" 
 shouted the terrible Abyssinian, in a voice of thunder, as he 
 passed the litter. "Amergurh! Amergurh!" answered his 
 followers, and the tide of battle rolled past. 
 
 Stupefied by the crowd of contending emotions, stirred up 
 in her mind by the last battle-cry, which informed her that 
 Samarsi's friends were warring desperately and unequally 
 for the possession of her hand, Kishna hardly saw which way 
 the fortune of the battle went. She felt the curtains of her 
 litter drawn closely round, and perceived by the motion that 
 she was again on her journey, over ground still more rugged 
 than before. The voices of war by degrees died away be- 
 hind her, and the panting of the men by whom she was borne, 
 was at length the only sound which met her ear. After tra- 
 veling in this manner for a considerable time, the litter was 
 set down, and the fair prisoner perceiving that the fastenings 
 were withdrawn, threw open her curtains and looked round. 
 
 Some wild-looking men, panting and gasping with fatigue, 
 were hanging eagerly over a rivulet, which trickled from a 
 rock; and further on a single soldier, armed and equipped 
 at all points, appeared to be acting as a sentry. No stir nor 
 
268 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 confusion was anywhere visible; the late battle seemed to 
 be but a dream, and everything in the secluded valley in 
 which she found herself, shaded by some mountain trees, and 
 defended by a circle of singularly shaped rocks, appeared so 
 calm and pleasant, that she might have fancied herself some 
 heroine of a tale, journeying alone on a mission of adventure 
 and love. When the sense of novelty, however, was past, 
 more disagreeable ideas occurred to the mind of the Rajpoot 
 maiden. The very stillness and method of the arrangements 
 at length disgusted and irritated her. 
 
 "Insolent!" she exclaimed, after pondering for some time, 
 Avith a gradually heightening color, on the affairs of the morn- 
 ing; "not satisfied with humbling the pride of my father, his 
 paltry vengeance must alight upon me! He sends by a vile 
 slave for the daughter of Shapoora — succeeds in his mission 
 by means of a lying tale and a cowardly artifice — and now, 
 oh Mata! without being vouchsafed a view even of my mas- 
 ter's face, far less being treated to the usual jargon which on 
 such occasions disguises fraud and sweetens force, I am to 
 be carried to his abode like a piece of merchandize, — even I, 
 Kishna Komari! — and presented a passive slave, at the feet 
 of the lordly heir of Amergurh!" With flushing cheek and 
 Hashing eyes, Kishna concluded her soliloquy; but the next 
 moment no bystander could have perceived the traces of 
 emotion in her calm face. Her hand grasped the hilt of a 
 dagger in her girdle, and in her heart she vowed that she 
 never, while living, should enter by human force the doorg of 
 Amergurh. 
 
 In a short time a change of bearers was effected, and the lit- 
 ter again in motion. Anxiously did the eyes of the Rajpootni 
 wander over the wilderness of rocks in which she journeyed; 
 and more fell grew her purpose as the opening shades of 
 distance began to reveal, in the form of a fortress, an object 
 which she had hitherto taken for the fantastic ridge of one of 
 the cliffs which were faintly sketched upon the northern sky. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 269 
 
 At this moment a party of horsemen appeared in the distance, 
 threading the mazes of the rocks, and the possibility of escape 
 for the first time suggested itself to her mind. The strangers, 
 however, might be friends as well as enemies; their number 
 might even contain Samarsi himself; and a soft glow rose 
 into Kishna's cheeks at the thought. Who knows whether 
 she most dreaded or desired the tardy interview ? But the 
 horsemen turned away in another direction, and the maiden's 
 cheek grew paler than before. " They are neither the friends 
 nor the party of my ravisher," she exclaimed; "at all events 
 they are Rajpoots, and for the rana's, if not for honor's sake, 
 they will protect a kinswoman of their prince's house." So 
 saying she threw up a thin handkerchief into the air, and had 
 the satisfaction of finding that the signal was immediately 
 observed. 
 
 The horsemen, scattering in all directions, forsook the 
 regular route, and pursued the paths over the rocks w T hich 
 seemed best to each ; and as their graceful figures at times 
 rose above the horizon, and were painted upon the silver sky 
 behind, Kishna's thoughts reverted to the golden age of Hin- 
 doo chivalry, when beauty was the only star which ruled the 
 tides of man's bosom. This lightning of her mind, however, 
 illumined but for an instant the glorious picture, and then 
 fading as suddenly left all dark as before. The next moment 
 the leader of the party, dashing down a precipitous steep, 
 reined up his horse within a few paces of the litter, with a 
 force which threw the animal back on his haunches; and 
 then leaping lightly off, inquired, with a profound obeisance, 
 what were her commands. Kishna gazed for a moment on the 
 stranger, who was a young man of a noble and lofty bearing, 
 armed at all points as became an accomplished cavalier, and 
 bearing in his helmet a heron's plume, the sign of nobility; 
 but recollecting herself with ablush, she speedily drew down 
 her veil in token of respect, and stepped from the litter. 
 
 "I do not inquire," said she, "to what house you belong; 
 
 23* 
 
270 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 it is sufficient that your air and dress, your retinue and ban- 
 ner, inform me you are noble. I call upon you as a man 
 to protect the oppressed, and as a Rajpoot to save the blood 
 of your rana from dishonor!" The blood of the stranger 
 mounted into his face at this address, and he looked fiercely 
 round as if to seek the cause of her complaint ; but seeing 
 only the peaceful bearers by her side, and the single sentry 
 maintaining his post in advance, he turned a look of per- 
 plexity upon the fair supplicant. 
 
 Mistaking simple perplexity for hesitation, Kishna drew 
 aside her veil, and looked imploringly in his face ; but as a 
 .sudden thought flashed upon her mind she unclasped one of 
 her bracelets, formed of gold chains and gems, and threw it 
 across the unresisting arm of the stranger. " I have im- 
 plored you," said she, proudly, "as a man and a Rajpoot; I 
 now command you as my Rakhi-bund Bhae* to perform the 
 behests of a sister!" Pride, joy, and astonishment swept by 
 turns across the stranger's face, but without removing in 
 their swift career its perplexity. He sunk upon his knees, 
 and raising his dagger to his forehead, pledged himself so- 
 lemnly to obey her commands whatever they might be, were 
 rhey even to plunge that dagger in his heart. Kishna bent 
 over the young warrior with clasped hands, and pronounced 
 The asees or blessing, only to be conferred by a woman or a 
 priest; and then, waving above his head a rich jewel which 
 she plucked from her hair, presented it with graceful dignity 
 to the attendant who stood nearest. 
 
 " My brother," said she, drawing back, "I am Kishna, 
 The Komari of Shapoora, and the service I require of you is 
 to conduct me to my father, from whom this morning I was 
 basely and treacherously abducted." The stranger continued 
 gazing in her face for some time after the words had passed 
 her lips, apparently without any conception of their meaning; 
 and when at length he rose up, the stare he threw around was 
 
 * Bracelet-bound brother. 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 271 
 
 so ghastly and bewildered, that Kishna was half tempted to 
 believe he was paralyzed by fear of the adventure. 
 
 "Can it be," said she, "that I am mistaken — that I have 
 bound with the sacred rakhi one who is insensible of its value, 
 or ignorant of the duty it imposes on every man of courage, 
 piety, and honor?" While she spoke, the face of the stranger 
 became as calm as polished marble, and as cold. A slight 
 tremor of the lip, indeed — a scarcely audible catching of the 
 breath remained, but only for a moment, to indicate the 
 existence of emotion within, and he answered with a steady 
 voice — 
 
 "You are not mistaken; the service you require shall be 
 performed, whatever sacrifice it may involve. So help me 
 heaven, T will be true to the faith of a Rajpoot!" And so 
 saying, he conducted his charge to her litter, drew around 
 her the curtains with his own hand, and in another moment 
 Kishna was on her return from the mountains. 
 
 When the necessity of action was over, the thoughts of 
 Kishna began to prey upon themselves. The events of this 
 important day passed in review before her, and her busy 
 imagination traced a connection and relationship between 
 things, which in their acted moments had appeared the result 
 of accident. The Abyssinian, that strange and terrible gola, 
 by whose enchantment the adventures of the day seemed to 
 have arisen, occupied a prominent place in these waking 
 dreams ; and the young and handsome stranger, who was 
 just exerting a no less powerful influence over her destiny, 
 seemed by the very force of contrast to be inseparably linked 
 with him in her fancy. A strange suspicion flashed across 
 her brain, as the shadowy figures glided before her; but it 
 w r as so indistinct and confused that she seemed appalled 
 rather with the sense of some unknown misfortune than ter- 
 rified at any obvious evil. Her heart sickened as she felt 
 herself hurried along to the arms even of a father and a 
 husband, and oppressed with the confusion of her thoughts, 
 
272 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 which she had not courage to examine and arrange, the Raj- 
 pootni, who an hour before would have plunged with steady 
 hand a dagger into her heart, leant back in her trembling 
 litter and gave way to her tears. 
 
 In another hour she heard her conductor challenged by 
 voices which she recognized as those of her father's attend- 
 ants, and she started up and drew aside the curtain. No 
 sooner had her eye caught the figure of the stranger, who, 
 with drawn sword, and in an attitude of fierce menace, thrust 
 aside the weapons of his challengers, than a flash of light- 
 ning darted through the chaos of her brain. 
 
 "The Abyssinian! the Abyssinian!" she almost shrieked; 
 but at this moment the litter was set down — a hand grasped 
 her, she knew not wherefore, nor by whom, — she tottered, 
 rather than walked, into the raja's tent, — and on the stranger's 
 presenting her to her father, while the assembled chiefs ex- 
 claimed in voices of astonishment, " Samarsi of Amergurh!" 
 she sank fainting upon the ground. 
 
 The next moment, however, the noise of the swords, which 
 rattled instinctively from their scabbards at the appearance 
 of so formidable an enemy, awoke the maiden of Shapoora 
 from her trance, although without restoring her recollection. 
 
 The delicacy of her sex — the honor of her house — the pro- 
 prieties of time, place, rank — all vanished from before her 
 eyes; she saw but a host of blades pointed against the bosom 
 of her Rakhi-bund Bhae, and with a scream which startled 
 the hardiest warriors of that wild group, she threw herself 
 before him, and encircling with one arm his neck, pointed 
 with the other her jeweled dagger against his enemies. The 
 swords of the Rajpoots fell instantaneously, as if by word 
 of command, with a heavy clank upon the ground ; and 
 Kishna startled from her dream, covered her face with her 
 hands, and sank lifeless at Samarsi's feet. 
 
 The fury and dismay of the raja cannot be adequately de- 
 scribed ; he dashed down his turban, swore, and blasphemed, 
 
KISHNA KOMARI. 273 
 
 and was only withheld by main force from poniarding his 
 daughter upon the spot. The emotions of the Pokurna chief 
 were less violent but more manly. 
 
 "My conqueror in love as well as in arms," said he, ap- 
 proaching Samarsi, "you this morning presented me with my 
 forfeited life, and now you restore my captured mistress! 
 Let us henceforth be rivals only in generosity ; and let us 
 now seize an opportunity, when so many chiefs are assembled 
 for the purpose of social enjoyment — when so many bosoms 
 are warmed by a living picture of that love and honor which 
 were wont to live only in the songs of the bards — to unite, 
 in brotherly alliance, those brave hearts and daring hands 
 whose disunion has been the cause of so many evils to our 
 lost but still lovely Rajast'han." This generous speech was 
 followed by a burst of applause, which became still louder, 
 when the Pokurna chief signified solemnly his unqualified 
 adherence to the political concessions which were to have 
 been purchased by the hand of Kishna; and the raja, happy 
 to preserve the honor of his family, while he extinguished a 
 troublesome and dangerous feud, without sacrificing the 
 interest of the rana, was easily prevailed upon to extend the 
 right hand to Samarsi, and revert to his original intentions in 
 the disposal of his daughter's hand. 
 
 Meanwhile the alarm was given by the outposts of the 
 camp, and the troops of Amergurh, with their Bhil allies, a 
 rude and savage race, armed only with bows and arrows, 
 were seen taking their station in great force upon the neigh- 
 boring heights. The chief, having received intimation of his 
 son's frenzied adventure, had hastened to protect or revenge 
 him. It may be conceived that only a few words from the 
 full heart of Samarsi were necessary to induce his father to 
 descend the steep with his sheathed sword ; and when the 
 fine old man entered the camp of his heretofore enemy, the 
 extemporaneous songs of the bards already met his ear, cele- 
 brating the fierce wars and faithful loves of Shapoora and 
 Amergurh. 
 
THE FAVORITE FLOWER 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 "In the East, the poppy is used to express passion ; the rosebud (as else- 
 where) is die emblem of hope." — Langage ties Fleurs. 
 
 Twine not the rose, the thorny rose, 
 
 To wreath around that gentle brow, 
 Nor tax thy loving heart to choose 
 
 An offering thy regard to show ; 
 Ah! vainly for thy lover's breast, 
 
 Thou cullest from that perfumed store 
 Some bud more crimson than the rest — 
 
 Thou hast not guess'd the Favorite Flower! 
 
 Thine be the starlike jasmine, pale 
 
 And cold as cloister'd maiden's face; 
 Thine be the lilac, faint and frail, 
 
 And thine the clustering rosebud's grace. 
 But me the burning poppy bring, 
 
 Which evermore with fever' d eye, 
 Unfreshen'd by the dews of spring. 
 
 Stands gazing at the glowing sky: — 
 
 Whose scarlet petals flung apart 
 
 (Crimson'd with passion, not with shame), 
 
 Hang round his sear'd and blacken'd heart, 
 Flickering and hot, like tongues of flame! 
 
THE FAVORITE FLOWER. 275 
 
 Scentless, unseemly though it be, 
 
 That passion-lorn and scorch 'd up flower, — 
 
 'Tis dearer far to love and me, 
 Than those which twine ev'n round thy bower. 
 
 For well its burning tablets say 
 
 What words and sighs would vainly speak: — 
 My Zoe ! turn not thus away 
 
 Thy downcast eye and kindling cheek; 
 Too oft thy patient slave hath caught 
 
 Hope's emblem from thy playful hand — 
 When will "the Favorite Flower" be brought, 
 
 The Poppy of our eastern land? 
 
THE PROPHETESS. 
 
 The character of Cassandra, as represented by Shakspeare, 
 has been considered rather a barren and uninteresting one ; 
 but like all the other creations of the great master spirit of 
 the drama, it is equal to the occasion, and true to history ; 
 or, as it may be more exactly expressed, true to the very 
 apocryphal legends and verses which record the fall of Troy. 
 Up to the moment when she presents herself as one of the 
 dramatis persona of " Troilus and Cressida," she is simply 
 the maiden, cursed by Apollo, and made to utter true pro- 
 phecies which should never be believed. 
 
 Could we suppose a female possessing this power of look- 
 ing into the future, hearing the voices of the spiritual world, 
 conscious of this power, and constantly derided and dis- 
 believed, she would present herself to the imagination, pre- 
 cisely as she is represented in the following brief but striking 
 scene where she interrupts the conversation of Priam, Troilus 
 and Hector. 
 
 Cas. [Within.] Cry, Trojans, cry! 
 
 Pri. What noise ? what shriek is this? 
 
 Tro. 'Tis our mad sister, I do know her voice. 
 
 Cas. [Within.] Cry, Trojans! 
 
 Hect. It is Cassandra. 
 
, . . « > 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
 t » ■ 
 
 !■* 
 
 . > 
 
THE PROPHETESS. 277 
 
 Enter Cassandra, raving. 
 
 Cas. Cry, Trojans, cry! lend me ten thousand eyes, 
 And I will fill them with prophetic tears. 
 Hect. Peace, sister, peace. 
 
 Cas. Virgins, and boys, mid-age, and wrinkled old, 
 Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, 
 Add to my clamors! let us pay betimes 
 A moiety of that mass of moan to come. 
 Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears! 
 Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand ; 
 Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. 
 Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen, and a woe: 
 Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. [Exit. 
 
 Hect. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains 
 Of divination in our sister work 
 Some touches of remorse ? or is your blood 
 
 So madly hot, that no discourse of reason, 
 
 Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, 
 
 Can qualify the same ? 
 
 Tro. Why, brother Hector, 
 
 We may not think the justness of each act 
 
 Such and no other than event doth form it ; 
 
 Nor once deject the courage of our minds 
 
 Because Cassandra's mad; her brain-sick raptures 
 
 Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel 
 
 Which hath our several honors all engag'd 
 
 To make it gracious. For my private part, 
 
 I am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons: 
 
 And Jove forbid, there should be done amongst us 
 
 Such things as might offend the weakest spleen 
 
 To fight for and maintain ! 
 
 Again, when she appears, endeavoring to dissuade her 
 brother, Hector, from going to the field, when she knows that 
 if he goes out to meet the enemy he will never return alive. 
 24 
 
278 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Enter Cassandra, with Priam. 
 
 Cas. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast : 
 He is thy crutch ; now if thou lose thy stay, 
 Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, 
 Fall all together. 
 
 Pri. Come, Hector, come, go back: 
 
 Thy wife hath dream'd ; thy mother hath had visions; 
 Cassandra doth foresee ; and I myself 
 Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt, 
 To tell thee that this day is ominous : 
 Therefore, come back. 
 
 Hect. ./Eneas is a-field ; 
 
 And I do stand engag'd to many Greeks, 
 Even in the faith of valor, to appear 
 This morning to them. 
 
 Pri. Ay, but thou shalt not go. 
 
 Hect. I must not break my faith. 
 You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, 
 Let me not shame respect ; but give me leave 
 To take that course by your consent and voice, 
 Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. 
 
 Cas. Priam, yield not to him. 
 
 And. Do not, dear father. 
 
 Hect. Andromache, I am offended with you: 
 Upon the love you bear me, get you in. 
 
 [Exit Andromache. 
 
 Tro. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl 
 Makes all these bodements. 
 
 Cas. farewell, dear Hector. 
 
 Look, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns pale! 
 Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents ! 
 Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out! 
 How poor Andromache shrills her dolor forth! 
 Behold destruction, frenzy, and amazement, 
 
THE PROPHETESS. 279 
 
 Like witless antics, one another meet, 
 
 And all cry— Hector! Hector's dead! Hector! 
 
 Tro. Away! — Away! 
 
 Cas. Farewell.— Yet, soft.— Hector, I take my leave: 
 Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. [Exit. 
 
 Hect. You are amaz'd, my liege, at her exclaim : 
 Go in, and cheer the town ; we'll forth, and fight ; 
 Do deeds worth praise, and tell you them at night. 
 
 Pri. Farewell: the gods with safety stand about thee! 
 [Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. 
 
 Here we see the power of the master. The delineation 
 would seem forced, exaggerated, if she were not a prophetess. 
 Under other circumstances, Cassandra's language would 
 seem pure rant and fustian. But let us for a moment con- 
 ceive her to have the whole death-scene vividly portrayed to 
 her spiritual vision, and the language she utters is perfectly 
 natural and unforced. It is ever thus with Shakspeare. 
 The more carefully — rigidly we examine his delineations of 
 character, the more evidence do we discover of his intuitive 
 knowledge of the human heart. 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY MART BOTLE. 
 
 The overture had scarcely commenced, when Lady Aber- 
 ford, accompanied by her husband and his nephew, entered 
 her opera-box, on the eventful night of a new prima donna's 
 first appearance. After having remarked with pleasure that 
 the curtain was still down, she entreated her two companions 
 with playful earnestness, to remain by her side, and not to 
 cede their places to any who entered until the conclusion of 
 the first act at least. 
 
 "I promise myself much pleasure," she said, " and shall 
 experience none unless you are both here. You know how 
 often we have anticipated this night, and how often we have 
 talked over the young debutante ; and I must own that the 
 story I heard of her misfortunes, the other evening, has 
 greatly added to the interest I always feel in a first ap- 
 pearance." 
 
 "My dear aunt," replied Henry Brudenell, " you forget 
 that I never heard the Brandini's story ; and although to 
 please you I am prepared to clap off my hands in her service, 
 to fall in love with her before she appears, and to take out 
 my pocket handkerchief as often as I see yours lifted to your 
 eyes, I should be more likely to do all these things con 
 amove, if I were acquainted with all the miseries which are 
 the necessary ingredients in the composition of a heroine." 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 281 
 
 " Her miseries would make a long story, I am afraid, if 
 all were told," replied Lady Aberford; "but all that is 
 known upon the subject may go into shorter space, and 
 yet be quite enough to stir up the spirit of romance at the 
 bottom of your heart, Henry; so listen till the curtain rises." 
 
 It appeared from her account, that Orsina Brandini was 
 the natural child of a German count, who deserted her 
 mother either before or very soon after the child's birth. 
 That unfortunate woman, it seemed, had brought up the little 
 girl in a most exemplary manner, and instilled into her mind 
 those precepts of morality and virtue which she herself had 
 so fatally transgressed. She had been a singer, but retired 
 from the stage previous to her acquaintance with the Count; 
 and after their separation, her talent enabled her to support 
 herself and her child by singing at private houses, until her 
 death, which happened at an age when the care and vigi- 
 lance of a mother are most needed. The poor orphan knew 
 not where to fly for protection in her destitute situation; but 
 
 a lady, the Marchesa C , who had patronized her mother, 
 
 sent for her, and rescued her from distress. 
 
 Orsina possessed a magnificent voice, far superior to that 
 of her mother, who had, however, cultivated and improved 
 this desirable talent; but dreading lest her darling child 
 should enter on the same dangerous profession as herself, 
 she had impressed upon the mind of Orsina that her voice 
 was not sufficiently good to be tolerated in society, although 
 valuable as an amusement to herself. It was by chance, 
 
 therefore, that the Marchesa C discovered the fact; and 
 
 after taking the opinion of some connoisseurs, she came to 
 the decision that the stage was the only field of success that 
 was open to her protegee ; and as she and her husband had 
 already determined on a journey to England, they agreed to 
 conduct the young Brandini thither. They gave her the 
 best masters that the large towns afforded, and lost no oppor- 
 
 24* 
 
282 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 tunity of her singing in public; so that ere she arrived in 
 London her fame had preceded her, and the director of the 
 Opera-house, after some persuasion, one or two private even- 
 ings, and several letters of recommendation from the conti- 
 nent, at last decided on engaging her for the ensuing spring, 
 which he was the more willing to do, as the famous , 
 
 with whom he was in correspondence, refused to sing under 
 a sum more exorbitant than had ever been recorded in the 
 annals of the drama. 
 
 " They tell me," said Lady Aberford, " that since the death 
 of the Marchesa's husband, which happened a few months 
 ago, her manner is much changed towards her protegee, 
 whom she is continually taunting with the obligations under 
 which she lies. This I can scarcely believe ; but at all 
 events we have heard enough for both Aberford and myself 
 to become interested in her fate; and you also, Harry, I 
 think," she said, laughing; "for you look so attentive, I am 
 quite flattered at the success of my long story." 
 
 "Hush! hush!" exclaimed Lord Aberford ; "the curtain 
 is rising, and I cannot afford to lose one bar of the Norma." 
 
 The two first scenes seemed longer than usual; but when 
 the beautiful march and solemn chorus of the Druids, which 
 preceded the entry of the priestess, were first heard, Lady 
 Aberford bent forward over the box, and Henry Brudenell's 
 eyes were fixed intently on the altar, behind which she was 
 to appear. It was a breathless moment; the chorus con- 
 cluded — the symphony was played twice; when a stunning 
 round of applause, that seemed to roll backwards and for- 
 wards from each side of the house, announced her entry. 
 Henry Brudenell's countenance fell as he first beheld her, 
 for she did not equal the picture his enthusiastic imagination 
 had drawn; but he made no audible remark. Her entry 
 was neither composed nor timid ; it seemed as if a high ex- 
 citement lent her a courage that was foreign to her nature. 
 It would be exaggeration to call her beautiful, or to say that 
 
0R3INA BRANDINI. 283 
 
 she looked the character she personified on that evening; yet 
 the plain white drapery fell gracefully round her young form, 
 and the snowy veil and oaken wreath contrasted well with 
 her dark brown hair. It was a face that in repose was not 
 striking — it might have passed in a multitude without drawing 
 a remark either way from a casual observer ; but when she 
 ascended the Druidical stone, and gazed around her for one 
 moment — when, waving the magic sickle over her head, she 
 commenced the recitative — it appeared as if she had forgotten 
 that on that moment depended the hopes of her future life — 
 that ears were open to criticise, and tongues ready to con- 
 demn the slightest fault — the slightest misconception of her 
 part. Many might, and many did misjudge her, and con- 
 demned the unparalleled boldness that characterized the first 
 appearance of a girl of eighteen. But Lady Aberford was 
 one accustomed to study the human countenance. She had 
 seen the momentary tremor of the girl's first appearance; she 
 had seen a tear wiped away at the burst of applause ; and 
 she judged the young debutante differently, and more cor- 
 rectly than others did. The opera w r ent on, and, carried 
 away by the magic of the scene, the enthusiasm of the au- 
 dience and the powers of the actress seemed to increase 
 together. How concentrated w r as the expression she gave 
 to the one line, " Ma punirlo il cor non sal" 
 
 Her interview with her unconscious rival was as success- 
 ful as the former scene, but her triumphant moment was that 
 in which she first beholds their mutual lover. Unlike too 
 many of her profession who forget the actress in the singer, 
 she stood transfixed at his entry: her slender form appeared 
 visibly to increase in height — her eye flashed — her lip curled, 
 and she appeared the embodying of disdain ! The few 
 moments of silence w r ere awful, and when her voice was 
 again heard, the tone was utterly changed — low, deep, as 
 though choked by internal emotion. She approached him 
 with a gesture at once menacing and dignified, and bade him 
 
284 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 tremble for himself, for his children and for her! All the 
 tenderness of her manner had vanished in that moment of 
 bitter anguish, when, seizing the arm of her rival, she com- 
 pelled her to look on the man that had obscured the " morning 
 of her day." Had any one gazed on her at that moment and 
 thought of her first entry, they could hardly have recognized 
 her as the same. She left the stage with undisguised marks 
 of agitation; and the party in Lady Aberford's box looked 
 
 and listened with breathless attention till the curtain fell. 
 
 ***** 
 
 At an earlier hour than usual, Henry Brudenell entered 
 his aunt's drawing-room the next morning, and found her, 
 to his great satisfaction, alone. "I am come," he said, "to 
 talk over Norma with you, for it is in vain attempting to do 
 so with my mother, who is, as we all know, a most excellent 
 and high-bred dame; but one who is utterly incapable of 
 understanding my flights of enthusiasm ; she only perceives 
 in last night's performance, a successful prima donna, and 
 when I begin to speak on the subject, she looks up from her 
 tambour-frame, and asks if I am going to fall in love with an 
 actress. Now, I know your opinions are different, and there- 
 fore we may converse without danger of misunderstanding 
 each other." 
 
 "You need not fear my want of enthusiasm on the sub- 
 ject," replied his aunt; "I have already decided that a little 
 concert, with our Brandini to sing, will be the most agree- 
 hlefete I can offer on Lord Aberford's birthday, and have 
 determined on arranging one, in which task you shall as- 
 sist me." 
 
 Lady Aberford was one of those peculiarly happy beings, 
 whose life flows on in one uninterrupted course of prosperi- 
 ty. — The only daughter and heiress of a noble family, she 
 passed her childhood in the enjoyment of parental fondness, 
 and only surrendered the happiness of a beloved daughter for 
 that of an adored wife. — Married at an early age to the man 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 285 
 
 her heart had chosen, who was alike distinguished by 
 his birth, fortune, and talents, she knew well how to value 
 such a destiny, and added fresh lustre to the name she bore. 
 She found in the society of her husband an attraction far su- 
 perior to any that could be afforded by the amusements of a 
 London life, and devoted herself entirely to rendering him 
 happy; nor did she ever regret that his taste led him to reside 
 principally at their country seat, which, during a long minority, 
 had been greatly neglected. Under a stern and apparently 
 cold demeanor, Lord Aberford concealed a warm heart and 
 a somewhat hasty temper, but since his marriage, the gentle 
 influence of his wife, who loved, respected, and appreciated 
 him, controlled this foible, and mitigated a resentful spirit, 
 which had sometimes in early life obscured his nobler quali- 
 ties. One grief, for so it was, in spite of Lady Aberford's 
 endeavors to persuade herself of the contrary, alone decreased 
 the measure of their happiness. They had no children, and 
 Lady Aberford, endowed with all the qualities which are so 
 invaluable in a mother, deeply regretted the denial of the 
 blessing. 
 
 Henry Brudenell, her husband's heir, and the only son of 
 her widowed sister-in-law, Lady Isabella, stood indeed in the 
 relation of a son to Lady Aberford, who loved him with all 
 the ardor of maternal attachment; but his actual parent was 
 so complete a contrast to the rest of the family, that little 
 pleasure could be derived from her society. Her pride was 
 not that pride of birth which urges a parent to impress on 
 the mind of his child the necessity of prolonging the respect- 
 ability of an illustrious name : it was a selfish, narrow-minded 
 pride, that led her to despise many who were far above her 
 in the scale of intellect and excellence. — She loved her bro- 
 ther, because he was her brother, and the chief of the name 
 she gloried in. — She courted her sister-in-law for the same 
 reason; but no sympathy existed between them; nor was 
 it without some degree of jealousy that she perceived the 
 
286 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 affection which Henry entertained for an aunt who in no 
 way resembled her. 
 
 The eventful evening of the concert arrived; and the 
 
 Brandini appeared, preceded by the Marchesa C , a 
 
 handsome, haughty-looking woman, who presented her, with 
 an air of protection, which added not a little to her confusion ; 
 indeed, her timidity was excessive, and she colored deeply, 
 on perceiving how many eyes were fixed upon her. — She 
 was dressed with perfect simplicity, and Henry Brudenell 
 remarked that she appeared much younger off the stage, and 
 that her manner had something almost childish in its charac- 
 ter. Lady Aberford was obliged to converse with the Mar- 
 chesa, by which means the Brandini fell to the share of 
 Lady Isabella, whose abrupt and somewhat ill-timed ques- 
 tions were not calculated to restore the self-possession of a 
 timid girl. At a sign from his wife, Lord Aberford stepped 
 forward, and led the young songstress to the piano-forte, 
 with an encouraging smile; and, once more launched on the 
 ocean of song, all traces of confusion vanished, and she 
 became the inspired priestess that had before charmed all 
 ears. She ceased ; and as the Marchesa was now encircled 
 by a little knot of her own compatriotes, Lady Aberford con- 
 ducted Mdlle. Brandini to a seat near herself, expressing her 
 entire approbation of the performance, at the same time 
 regretting that she was but a bad Italian scholar, and could 
 therefore say but half she wished on the subject. — But the 
 other replied in very good English, and assured her how 
 much she wished to improve herself in that language. 
 
 "You are very kind to me," she said, " and have taken 
 away all fear, that I at first felt, in coming here and singing 
 before so many strangers; and the more so as the marchesa 
 told me she feared my voice would be too overpowering for 
 a room." " She is very kind to you?" inquired Lady Aber- 
 ford. She hesitated — "Oh, yes, she has done many things 
 for me, and spent much money upon me, which I can never 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 287 
 
 repay ; for though I of course give her the salary I receive 
 from the opera, yet she has to expend a great deal on my 
 dress and other things." 
 
 Lady Aberford thought not, as she looked down at the 
 plain muslin gown.— " You seem fatigued," she remarked; 
 "is not the excitement which attends your singing, hurt- 
 ful to your health?" " I think not," she replied ; " it is a 
 great pleasure to me ; but I have certainly little or no repose, 
 for every night that I do not sing at the opera, the Marchesa 
 wishes me to entertain her visitors until a late hour." — 
 Here Henry Brudenell came up, and was presented to her, 
 while his aunt relinquished her place to him, that she might 
 receive some new guest. He was delighted with the natural 
 and unaffected manner in which she conversed, and was 
 actually sorry when she again resumed her place, though it 
 was to sing a cavatina that he loved. She was overwhelmed 
 with thanks and with compliments from every one ; and as 
 she again took her seat on the sofa, Henry once more ap- 
 proached her, notwithstanding several perceptible glances 
 from his mother, indicating her desire for him to be more 
 repandu, as she called it. 
 
 Orsina was charmed that one who understood and loved 
 her language as he did, should approve of the expression she 
 gave to°the cavatina, and she found great pleasure in listen- 
 ing to his remarks. Lady Aberford and the Marchesa now 
 approached them, and the former begged Orsina would do as 
 she felt inclined about singing any more. " The Signonna 
 is tired, my dear aunt," said young Brudenell. " A little," 
 she answered, timidly ; but the Marchesa looked at her stern- 
 ly, and pronounced her name in so loud a voice, that the poor 
 girl started and looked up, while her protectress remarked in 
 Italian, that for the sum she was to receive, she could not in 
 conscience suppose she had sung enough that evening. 
 Orsina rose, the blood rushed into her cheeks and temples, 
 but she suppressed her feelings, and sitting down to the in- 
 
288 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 strument she inquired passively what the Marchesa wished 
 for. 
 
 A song was named, and she struggled through it, though 
 the emotions of wounded pride, and the sense of being treated 
 with harshness and injustice, quivered in every note. When 
 she had concluded, there was a deep, and, as Henry Brude- 
 nell thought, a painful silence. Then followed hurried 
 compliments and adieus; and in a few minutes, everybody 
 retired to their respective homes, and the concert-room was 
 abandoned. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Parliament was up, the opera closed, the campaign of 
 London was at an end, and the world were already on the 
 wing. This is generally an eventful time, a day of reckoning 
 for many of the inhabitants of the brilliant city. It is a mo- 
 ment when the mind, thrown back upon itself, has leisure 
 to ascertain the changes that the turmoil of dissipation may 
 have wrought. How many, who, in the beginning of the year, 
 entered the metropolis with hearts beating high, in all the 
 fluttering expectation of long-anticipated pleasure, now quit 
 it, chilled by disappointment and mortification, not unrain- 
 gled by a lingering regret for those pleasures they in their 
 better judgment despise; or worse, with the young cheek 
 blanched, and the young heart seared, they return to the 
 home of their childhood to find it a dreary waste in their eyes, 
 a desert, a void, stripped of all the charms it once possessed 
 for them. Others, whose destiny alone compels them to 
 reside for any time in the metropolis, now turn from it with 
 unmingled satisfaction, and prepare to enter, with new in- 
 terest, into the calm though varied pursuits of a country life. 
 Of this number were Lord and Lady Aberford, who had 
 already fixed the day of their departure, and looking forward 
 to it with mutual pleasure. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was one evening, not long after the events just narrated, 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 289 
 
 that Lady Aberford, returning earlier than usual from a din- 
 ner party, was met at her door by one of the servants, who 
 put a note into her hand, saying that the bearer entreated 
 her ladyship might have it immediately, being of the greatest 
 consequence ; she opened the note hastily, and by the light 
 of the hall lamp, read as follows: — 
 
 " If the misfortunes of an exile and an orphan can excite 
 your compassion, let me entreat you to come to me before 
 twelve to-night, until which hour I shall be alone. For the 
 love of Heaven, do not fail me, or I am lost! 
 
 "Orsina." 
 
 Lady Aberford resumed her seat in the carriage, and 
 
 ordered the coachman to drive to the Marchesa C 's 
 
 house, with all possible speed. The servant who opened 
 the door pleaded his strict orders as an excuse for not admit- 
 ting any one, but Lady Aberford promised to take all the 
 blame of his disobedience on herself; and, as she spoke, the 
 light of the lamp fell on a small gold coin she held in her 
 hand. Its power was electric, and as it slid into the man's 
 open palm, he assisted the footman in letting down the steps; 
 begging, however, that the carriage might turn down the 
 next street, so that it might not be seen at their door. He 
 then led Lady Aberford up stairs, nearly to the top of the 
 house, where, pointing to a door, he put his finger on his lips 
 and left her. She knocked gently, but receiving no answer, 
 she pushed the door open and entered. By the dim light of 
 a solitary candle, she beheld Orsina Brandini kneeling before 
 a small crucifix; her hands were clasped in all the fervor of 
 devotion; her face, pale as ashes, bore the traces of fearful 
 emotion; and her long hair hung disheveled on her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 It was several moments before the poor girl was aware of 
 Lady Aberford's presence ; but, turning round, she uttered a 
 faint cry, and sprang towards her. 
 25 
 
£90 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " Bless you, bless you," she cried. " I thought I should 
 not be deceived in you ; I knew you would not desert me. 
 Oh, I am wretched," she continued, " nor do I even know 
 what you can do to save me." 
 
 "Anything, everything," replied her friend, sensibly af- 
 fected by the grief she witnessed ; " but lose no time in telling 
 me what is the matter, for it is already late." 
 
 "I have never told it before," cried Orsina, "never 
 breathed it to a human being; but since the death of her 
 husband, who was all kindness to me, the Marchesa has 
 treated me most cruelly, most barbarously! I bore it all with 
 patience, and calmed myself with thinking that but for her I 
 might have perished with hunger. The salary that I received 
 from the opera I cheerfully resigned, and considered it my 
 duty so to do. But, alas ! I had the misfortune to please a 
 man to whom she is much attached, a countryman, whom 
 she intended to marry before her return to Italy. Heaven is 
 my witness I never encouraged his attentions! Had he 
 pleased me, honor and gratitude would have forbid such 
 conduct ; but I neither like nor esteem him ; my indifference, 
 however, has not diminished his pursuit, and in consequence 
 the Marchesa's ill-treatment has increased. She will not 
 allow me to see any one, except— oh! Lady Aberford, that 
 any one should be so cruel — except one Englishman. When- 
 ever he comes (which is now every day), she receives him, 
 and then sends for me ; but his character, his conversation, 
 his person, and his designs are all hateful to me, and rather 
 than act as they would have me, I would die!" She 
 paused for a moment and then continued — " The Marchesa 
 leaves England in a week, and she declares nothing shall 
 induce her to take me with her: therefore, unless I do what 
 I abhor, I shall be left alone pennyless and unprotected 
 in the world of London!" She threw herself at the feet 
 of Lady Aberford, and grasped her hand. — "Tell me," 
 she exclaimed, " if I have any hope ? I will be your ser- 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 291 
 
 vant, your menial ; I will work and labor for you ; but oh 
 save me from misery, from wretchedness and shame!" 
 
 Her companion raised her gently. 
 
 " Orsina," said she, " I never take any important step 
 without consulting my husband; but fear not— he will have 
 the same inclination, and more power than I, to serve you. 
 To-morrow we shall meet again; and now, my dear child, 
 in that hope compose yourself to sleep : it is late, and I must 
 be gone before this woman returns." 
 
 So saying, she embraced her tenderly, and hurried down 
 
 stairs. 
 
 The scene that the Marchesa's small drawing-room exhi- 
 bited on the following day must be left to the imagination, 
 for there is no satisfaction in dwelling on such contemptible 
 parts of life's drama. Suffice it to say, that Lord Aberford 
 and his wife conveyed the half-fainting Orsina from the house 
 where she had been overwhelmed by the insults of her two 
 oppressors, who were, however, both ultimately awed into 
 
 silence. 
 
 The day that Orsina left London in company with her 
 noble friends was, indeed, a happy one ! Released from a 
 bondage that was hateful to her, from a situation where she 
 was constantly exposed to dangers and temptations, from the 
 sight of a man who was odious to her, from the incessant 
 dread of her words and looks being misinterpreted, she 
 abandoned herself with childish ecstasy to the anticipation 
 of a bright though indefinite fortune. She felt that her young 
 heart, so full of the best affections of our nature, might at last 
 overflow, and gratitude and veneration were mingled in her 
 attachment to those who seemed to her fanciful imagination 
 guardian angels sent by Heaven to her rescue. 
 
 She had never asked, had never reflected on the position 
 she was to assume in the family. Had they demanded from 
 her the most menial services, she would have obeyed with 
 
292 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 alacrity ; but such was not the intention of her benevolent 
 protectress. 
 
 That evening she sent for the Brandini, and proceeded 
 to tell her in a few words, that Lord Aberford had settled an 
 annual sum on her, and that she would always reside with 
 them. 
 
 " I only mention this, my dear Orsina, now T , because it is 
 a subject on which we will not speak again; I assure you," 
 she continued, smiling, " you will have no sinecure in the 
 multiplicity of offices to which I appoint you. — First, you are 
 to be my lectrice, and read to me as long as I think fit ; then 
 you are to be my private secretary, and write for me in every 
 known tongue; then you must be my honorary gardener, and 
 pluck off the blighted roses, and arrange the bouquets for my 
 table, and a thousand things that require taste; and, lastly, 
 you must be my nightingale, and sing to me whenever the 
 humor takes me, both in and out of doors, for here you will 
 find we live more under the roof of heaven than our own. 
 Do not look so happy, my dear child, or squeeze my hand so 
 
 hard; but follow me, and I will show you your apartment." 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was morning, the sweet fresh morning, when the infant 
 accents of the day address their simple orisons to the God of 
 nature. 
 
 Orsina loved these hours, and as she descended the stairs 
 hastily, she found herself bounding across the lawn, ankle 
 deep in dew, with her hair blowing in the breeze, before she 
 had thought of quitting the house. 
 
 The early morning is always dear to the unburdened heart, 
 to which it bears a close analogy, so full of life, of freshness, 
 and of promise ; and no test can better determine if the metal 
 of content be still unalloyed, than the first beat of the heart, 
 as it starts from unconsciousness, ere the mind be sufficiently 
 roused to assert its dominion, or recall its wanted specula- 
 tions. It is at such a moment that the pulse of being either 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 293 
 
 expands with indefinite happiness, or shrinks at once beneath 
 the weiffht that a few hours of sweet forgetfulness had sus- 
 pended, without the power of removing. 
 
 Never did a more light-hearted being skim the surface of 
 this earth's enjoyments than Orsina Brandini, for some time 
 after her arrival in the country; ever by the side of Lady 
 Aberford, watching her slightest look, divining her slightest 
 wish, she gave a new interest, and a new charm, to the 
 happy shades of Aberford, which its contented possessors had 
 scarcely believed possible. The quiet and pleasant retire- 
 ment in which they had hitherto lived, was, however, soon 
 broken by the arrival of the cold and haughty Lady Isabella 
 Brudenell, accompanied by her son Henry (whose image had 
 often recurred to Orsina) and by a Miss Vernon, in whose 
 favor a warm eulogium from the lips of Lady Aberford had 
 already deeply interested the young foreigner. 
 
 And Mary Vernon amply deserved the praise so lavishly 
 bestowed. Left an orphan at a very early age, her character 
 had imbibed that peculiar reserve common to those whose 
 youth has been one of sadness, and passed among strangers. 
 The death of a dear and only brother (the favorite school- 
 fellow, and afterwards college companion of Henry Brude- 
 nell), deepened the tinge of melancholy which was, perhaps, 
 natural to her sensitive and imaginative temperament ; while 
 it made her heiress to a large and unencumbered family 
 property. 
 
 Lady Isabella Brudenell, who, amongst many less amiable 
 schemes, was continually plotting how to secure an advan- 
 tageous marriage for her son, immediately found it conve- 
 nient to recall a tender friendship which had once existed 
 between herself and Mary Vernon's mother; and to take the 
 young orphan under her especial protection. During the 
 long visits which were paid by permission of Miss Vernon's 
 guardians, to this fashionable and unexceptionable chape- 
 rone, no art was left untried to bias the young people in 
 
 25* 
 
294 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 favor of each other: and whatever might have been the result 
 on the careless and generous spirit of her son, Lady Isabella 
 had the satisfaction to perceive that as far as her protegee 
 was concerned, her labors had not been in vain. Meanwhile 
 Orsina and Mary became, as might naturally be expected, 
 inseparable friends and companions. Their friendship was 
 mutually advantageous, since the pure and noble feeling, and 
 correct judgment of the young Englishwoman tempered the 
 wild enthusiasm of the Italian girl, while the elasticity and 
 joyousness of spirit which distinguished the latter, had a 
 beneficial effect on the tone of Mary Vernon's mind. 
 
 And so the time passed, swiftly and happily, during the 
 months of September and October; the numerous little excur- 
 sions which were planned every morning and carried into 
 execution before night were all prosperous ; and their even- 
 ings were spent both socially and rationally. All had their 
 own peculiar sources of enjoyment, which, like the separate 
 tones of a fine musical chord, blended together in a melo- 
 dious whole. 
 
 Orsina had a proud satisfaction in the knowledge that it 
 lay in her power to confer pleasure on those she loved by the 
 exercise of her incomparable talent. Miss Vernon was never 
 so happy as in the country, — Henry Brudenell was happy 
 everywhere, — and Lord and Lady Aberford were together 
 and at home. Even Lady Isabella was in good humor, as 
 she watched with anxious hope the apparently increasing 
 friendship between her son and Miss Vernon ; and smiled on 
 their companionship. 
 
 The party were assembled one morning at breakfast, when 
 Lord Aberford entered the room with a letter in his hand. 
 "I have just received a summons," he said, "from my 
 steward at Thurston Hall, and have formed a plan for carry- 
 ing you all off to my stronghold, for a day or two. Some of 
 the party have never seen my favorite Thurston, so I will 
 brook neither excuse nor delay. I myself will drive my lady 
 
ORSINA BRANDINT. 295 
 
 wife and my lady sister, and one of the gentle two in the 
 phaeton ; while you, Harry, w ill attend the other on her pal- 
 frey. I know what you are going to say, but it is of no use ; 
 there is only one lady's horse, for you lamed the other 
 yourself; and therefore, Henry, you must allow your uncle 
 the pleasure of a little quiet flirtation as well as yourself." 
 
 Henry laughed, and confessed his uncle had guessed some- 
 what shrewdly as to his unspoken amendment, and after 
 some little discussion it was arranged that Mary, who was 
 the better horsewoman of the two, should ride, and that Mile. 
 Brandini should sit beside Lord Aberford in the phaeton. 
 During the months Orsina had resided with her friends she 
 had never conversed for any length of time with Lord Aber- 
 ford, and she was now surprised and delighted to find that a 
 person she was accustomed to regard with respect, verging 
 on the brink of awe, could enter so easily into all her youth- 
 ful ideas, and reply to them in a similar strain. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " does not the light on that hill re- 
 mind you of your own country ? There is a purple mist that 
 bears some slight resemblance to the lilac hue of evening I 
 used to love." 
 
 " You never told me," exclaimed Orsina, eagerly, " that 
 you had been in Italy — you never, never mentioned it to me 
 before." 
 
 "Do not be surprised at that," replied Lord Aberford, 
 seriously ; " for as you grow older, my dear child, you will 
 know that the thoughts of past times invariably have some- 
 thing melancholy in their character, even though your after- 
 life prove happier and calmer than your youth." After a 
 pause he resumed: "I was a resident in Italy for some time, 
 and I loved it well — too well, perhaps. You will scarcely 
 believe, Orsina, that your sage old friend was once a slave 
 to his imagination, to a craving imagination, that loved the 
 beautiful land in which it found an inexhaustible supply of 
 food; but the eye of youth has its peculiar magic magnifying 
 
296 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 glass, seen through whose medium every object acquires a 
 double grandeur, and a brightness not its own ; and I might 
 revisit those scenes with very different feelings now." 
 
 "Oh, that the time might come!" exclaimed Orsina; but 
 she checked herself, for she dreaded lest the wish she was 
 about to express should appear discontented ; and she added, 
 "What a mysterious feeling is the love of the country that 
 gave us birth — how unlike any other I have ever experienced. 
 To you, dear Lord Aberford, w T ho know the extent of the 
 happiness you created for me, I need not fear saying that 
 there are times when the recollection of Italy comes over me 
 w r ith a painful yearning to see some favorite spot, and above 
 all to hear the language I love. Quel dolce favellar die nel 
 cor si sente. And though I would not change my fate for 
 that of one human being, there are moments when these in- 
 voluntary reflections almost make me melancholy." 
 
 " Or when any slighting allusion to the countrymen with 
 w T hom you are so little acquainted," observed Lord Aberford, 
 " calls the frown to that pretty brow, and the curl to that 
 coral lip, as the other evening, when an unconscious guest, 
 w T ho had just returned from Italy, ventured his opinion on her 
 children, little dreaming that our anglicised Orsini claimed 
 that relationship." 
 
 Here the riders came up at a fierce rate, and Orsina thought 
 she had never seen her friend look so well. 
 
 Mary Vernon sat and managed her spirited horse with ease 
 and grace : her youthful and rounded form looked to great 
 advantage in a somewhat picturesque riding-dress, and her 
 long fair hair was blowing in the wind, while, as they ap- 
 proached the carriage, Henry whispered something in her 
 ear which brought an arch smile to her lips, as they saluted 
 their friends in passing. 
 
 Lady Isabella watched the riders out of sight, with her 
 head full of speculations, while in her mind's eye she already 
 beheld Mary Vernon the bride of her son ; and she shared the 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 297 
 
 regret expressed by the whole party when their pleasant 
 journey came to an end, and a sudden turn of the road 
 brought them within sight of Thurston Hall. 
 
 It was, indeed, a golden-letter day in Mary Vernon's 
 calendar — one of those sweet and chosen resting-places for 
 memory, when, indulging in a retrospective survey, she 
 voluntarily hurries over the dull and uninteresting tracts, to 
 repose on some long-cherished and pleasant recollection. 
 Who does not possess at least one or two of these bright land- 
 marks, where every incident, every word and look, are re- 
 membered, and pass often in vivid review before the mind, 
 even though long and weary years may have intervened ? 
 
 Though unknown, and carefully concealed from every 
 other human being, Mary could no longer deceive her own 
 heart, or control its sympathies, which had long since cen- 
 tered on Henry Brudenell. It is often in characters such as 
 hers, that the waywardness of human nature is apparent ; for 
 the lesson she had early imposed on her own mind was self- 
 command ; and yet on a subject of the most importance to her 
 future happiness, she had no power to bias her affections. 
 They had spent much of their early childhood together, and 
 during a separation of several years, the recollection of her 
 playfellow was still a pleasing one ; under the protection of 
 Lady Isabella, she had already spent two summers in the 
 turmoil of a London campaign, without deriving the least 
 satisfaction from any of its " pleasures." She knew what 
 it was to be courted and flattered on one evening by the 
 same person, who on the next scarcely remembered, and on 
 the third appeared unconscious of her existence ; and though 
 her talents had been extolled, and her person admired, Mary 
 Vernon still pursued her path with her head and heart un- 
 touched. Things were in this state, when Henry Brudenell 
 returned from a prolonged tour, and finding his mother on 
 the eve of starting for her country house, he accompanied her 
 thither. 
 
298 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 It was then for the first time that Mary had tasted the 
 luxury of being understood — feelings and ideas which had 
 long been hidden within her own bosom might now be ex- 
 pressed. The nature she admired, the books she loved, were 
 equally appreciated by Henry Brudenell, whose opinions and 
 conversation were conformable to her own; and perfectly 
 happy in his society, it was long ere she interrogated her 
 own heart, or received its startling answer ; but when at 
 length she roused herself to inquire into her feelings, that 
 answer was a trying one to her proud, pure mind. She loved, 
 and was uncertain whether that love was met with aught but 
 cold regard. During his absence she became aware how 
 necessary he was to her happiness ; by comparing him with 
 others, she became sensible how low every one else stood in 
 her estimation ; and at times a deep melancholy would obscure 
 her mind as she thought of the events the future might bring 
 with it. Yet mistress of every look, and every gesture, she 
 revenged the sedition of her inward feelings by the tyranny 
 she exercised over her outward conduct, and no one, how- 
 ever well read in the human character, could have detected 
 one exterior sign of the conflict within. Even Orsina, with 
 whom she was on the closest terms of intimacy and friend- 
 ship, believed that Mary regarded Henry Brudenell with per- 
 fect indifference ; and though some trifling circumstance had 
 led the young Italian to believe her friend's affections were 
 in some measure engaged, she had not the slightest clue to 
 the discovery of the real object. 
 
 This day, then, had been replete with happiness for Mary; 
 their ride had been enlivened by the interchange of mutual 
 ideas; and the mere fact of hearing his voice addressed solely 
 to her, and her name so often pronounced by his lips, was a 
 source of joy. 
 
 They remained a longer time than they at first intended at 
 Thurston ; and on the morning of their departure, Mary was 
 already calculating on the repetition of those pleasant hours, 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 299 
 
 when Henry Brudenell himself informed her, that Orsina had 
 expressed a wish to try her skill in horsemanship, by riding 
 back to Aberford. It would have been difficult to divine 
 from the readiness with which Mary acceded to the plan, the 
 extent of the sacrifice she was making; but she was in a 
 great measure repaid by the pleasure she afforded Orsina, 
 who, beneath Henry's instruction, showed no small degree 
 of quickness in the management of her horse; and they both 
 expressed themselves delighted with the ride as they arrived 
 at the door, nearly about the same time as the carriage. 
 
 All things passed on nearly in the same train for a week 
 after they had been re-established in their old quarters, when 
 Lady Aberford, returning from one of her weekly visits of 
 charity to the adjoining village, overtook Henry Brudenell 
 sauntering alone under one of the avenues of the park; his 
 eyes were fixed on the ground, and his whole bearing was 
 indicative of deep reflection ; nor was it until his aunt placed 
 her hand upon his shoulder, that he became aware of her 
 presence. 
 
 "Why, this is quite unusual, Harry," she began, "to find 
 you indulging in solitude! Has your uncle no advice to ask 
 respecting his farm? — And have both the girls excluded you 
 from their ramble to-day? If I may judge from the uncom- 
 mon seriousness of your countenance, you must have met 
 with some vexation or annoyance." 
 
 "Oh! no," he replied ; "but sometimes it is agreeable and 
 soothing to be alone; and — and " 
 
 "And yet," replied his aunt, "it strikes me that your 
 ideas on this subject are lately changed; and I must confess 
 that I am a little curious to know what can have inspired a 
 taste for solitude in the breast of Henry Brudenell." 
 
 She placed her arm within his, and awaited his answer for 
 some time : then added, more seriously — 
 
 " There was a time, Harry, when you used to call me 
 your friend, and would often Hatter me, by saying you hid 
 
300 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 no secrets from me. Do you think I am growing too old to 
 participate any longer in your feelings, or has any circum- 
 stance induced you to withdraw a confidence I was both 
 proud and happy to possess?" 
 
 "Oh! no, my dearest aunt," he replied, eagerly, "nothing 
 has — nothing can ever diminish my gratitude — my affection 
 for you : but the human heart is so wayward, and mine in 
 particular, that there are times when it refuses to seek refuge 
 where once it loved to shelter — when a thousand contending 
 feelings rise up and obstruct the path to confidence, till, driven 
 back upon themselves, they oppress the mind doubly." 
 
 "Do not, Henry," said Lady Aberford, "speak so seriously 
 and so mysteriously. I am used to hear your voice pitched 
 in a tone of cheerfulness, and can hardly recognize it now. 
 I would not for worlds seek or claim a confidence you with- 
 hold; but my affection authorizes one question: — Is the me- 
 lancholy by which you are influenced a passing cloud, or are 
 you unhappy?" 
 
 Henry looked up with an expression that was new to him. 
 
 " I am wretched!" he exclaimed, " most wretched !" 
 
 " And why, my dearest Henry, are you wretched, with 
 everything to make you happy?" 
 
 "Why!" he replied. "Why — because a change has 
 come over me — because my freedom of spirit is gone — be- 
 cause I am become a slave to feelings I once contemned." 
 He paused and sighed, and yet, as he did so, Lady Aberford 
 could not suppress a smile. 
 
 " Forgive me, Harry," she said, " if I triumph a little in 
 the completion of my own secret prophecy — if I rejoice in 
 the success of an ally — or slightly exult at the conquest of 
 one who believed the armor of opinions and fancies manu- 
 factured by himself to be impregnable. — Throw yourself at 
 the feet of your fair victor, Harry ; surrender your heart at 
 discretion, and hear your doom from her lips: — this is the 
 best advice I can offer in a situation of such difficulty." 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 301 
 
 Again Henry looked up, and his eyes met those of the 
 speaker; but the expression was far different — doubt, hesi- 
 tation, and a kind of fearful joy seemed written on his coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " Explain yourself," he said ; " I scarcely know what you 
 are saying, or what I am listening to." 
 
 " To speak more seriously, then, as you will not allow me 
 to jest, I will ask if you suppose me blind to the gradual 
 change that has shown itself in a thousand trifles, which 
 could not pass unobserved by one who loves you as I do. 
 What is it that has given a soul to the singing that was ad- 
 mired hitherto more for science than feeling ? What has so 
 often induced you to relinquish the field-sports you used to 
 love — and what, Harry, when you repeated those favorite 
 lines of ours the other morning, what made your voice falter, 
 and caused the deep sigh as you concluded ? And why, 
 above all, should you blush to own such a feeling — why 
 should some strange sophistry prevent you from securing 
 your own happiness, and that of a young and amiable crea- 
 ture ?" 
 
 Henry Brudenell again stopped, and his agitation was ap- 
 parent and distressing. 
 
 "Great God!" he said, "is it possible? You — whose 
 displeasure I feared more than that of my own mother — is it 
 possible you have discovered my secret? and that instead of 
 your anger — your contempt, I have your blessing and pro- 
 tection! Yes, my dearest aunt — my friend — my mother — I 
 do love her! Love her as no words of mine can convey to 
 your mind! Love her — as she ought to be loved — with heart 
 and soul! Every thought, every hope, every wish is hers, 
 and hers only; and the desire of possessing her would have 
 made me brave the opinion of the whole world ! But yours, 
 my dear, dear aunt — you, who have ever been kind and 
 affectionate to me under every circumstance, and who have 
 now opened a prospect of happiness I but yesterday believed 
 26 
 
302 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 beyond my reach." He paused for one moment — he was 
 
 breathless, and then added:— "You will be my friend on 
 this as on every other occasion — you will make my peace 
 with my mother, with Lord Aberford, and even should you 
 not succeed, your blessing will be sufficient for us!" 
 
 "Your vehemence overpowers — almost alarms me. Henry, 
 why should you have believed all this impossible? What 
 objection could any one raise to your marriage with Mary 
 Vernon?" 
 
 " Mary Vernon!" echoed Henry, in a loud but tremulous 
 voice. "Good God, I was speaking of Ormial" 
 
 As one who hears the sentence of death passed on him, 
 so stood Lady Aberford in speechless consternation, as her 
 nephew uttered the words that betrayed the error under 
 which they were mutually laboring : she leaned against a 
 tree for support, for the earth seemed trembling beneath her. 
 "Good Heavens!" she at last exclaimed, "and this is my 
 doing! my fatal blindness has brought this misfortune on us 
 all — the blame is mine, and mine only ! Tell me, Henry, I 
 charge you, does Orsina know you love her — does she return 
 your misguided affection ? Have I her misery as well as 
 yours to answer for?" 
 
 No, Henry had never breathed his love ; but he hoped — 
 he feared— he believed— that Orsina must have guessed the 
 sentiments with which she inspired him: and unwilling 
 utterly to lose the confidence so newly inspired by his aunt's 
 previous manner, he was proceeding in an impassioned ap- 
 peal to her pity and generosity, when she stopped him. 
 
 "Henry, Henry, — do not speak to me any further now!" 
 exclaimed she ; " you can hardly conceive the state of my 
 mind at this moment. Forgive me if I leave you — do not 
 believe me incapable of compassion for you ; but until I am 
 calmer — until I have in some measure recovered myself and 
 have had time for thought — I cannot continue this painful 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 303 
 
 conversation. Alas! how little did I foresee the arrival of 
 that unfortunate girl would bring such misery on us all!" 
 
 They had by this time arrived at the house, and they sepa- 
 rated in silence ; having each a part to play in society, they 
 mutually feared lest one word more should entirely destroy 
 their small stock of self-possession. 
 
 They met at dinner. Lady Aberford exerted herself to 
 the utmost ; and with a false flow of spirits, she laughed and 
 jested even more than usual; but with Henry the case was 
 far different — fully conscious that he did not possess suffi- 
 cient command over his feelings to follow her example, he 
 was obliged to shield himself under the plea of indisposition, 
 which formed an excuse for his retiring before any of the 
 family . 
 
 Mary Vernon was the last who bade Lord Aberford good 
 night : and even she retired to her own room with a sensation 
 of anxiety she could hardly account for. There she sat, 
 musing for some time by the fireside, with a thousand specu- 
 lations, such as will force their way into the minds of a young 
 ana imaginative being, when the past, the present, and the 
 future, pass in rapid succession before the mental eye, with 
 their train of associations, and their host of real or imaginary 
 pleasures, — when she was startled by a low knock at the 
 door. She bade the visitor enter — at a loss to imagine who 
 could ask admittance at so late an hour; and was not a little 
 alarmed at perceiving Orsina, who, pale and agitated, threw 
 herself on the sofa beside her. 
 
 "What has happened?" exclaimed Miss Vernon ; "my 
 dear Orsina — what is the matter?" 
 
 "I am come," replied the other, hurriedly, "to you for 
 consolation and advice, to see if you will stand my friend, 
 as you have so often promised me, in my hour of distress, 
 Mary! I have forfeited the esteem and affection of Lady 
 Aberford." 
 
 "My poor Orsina," interrupted her companion, "what 
 
304 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 can you mean, what trivial fault have you committed, that 
 your conscientiousness has magnified into a crime?" 
 
 "Oh! Mary, did you not observe all this evening that 
 something preyed on Lady Aberford's mind ? I did clearly, 
 though she fancied she concealed it. When she went up 
 stairs she called me into her room, and, taking hold of both 
 my hands, fixed her eyes on my face, as if she would have 
 read all my thoughts, and then she said so seriously to me, 
 ' Orsina, are you afraid of looking at me?' And at first I 
 did not know what she meant, for I always loved to look at 
 her; but she repeated the question, and then, Mary, I did 
 fear to look at her, as she said, 'Orsina, answer me! Is 
 there at this moment a secret you would not dare to tell me?' 
 I never heard her speak so before, and I turned away my 
 face, for I felt the blood rushing into my cheeks ; but she still 
 held my hands, and repeated my name, ' Orsina Brandini, 
 answer me!' I could not answer her; and no sooner did 
 she let my hands go, than I ran out of the room, and left 
 her. Oh! Mary, how miserable I am! I have been un- 
 happy before, but till now, I have had nothing to reproach 
 
 myself with and yet," she added, eagerly, " what crime 
 
 can there be in the pure unselfish love of my heart ? and if 
 there is, at least they are to blame, and not I. Who could 
 live for so many months under the same roof, with every 
 occupation, every thought in common, and not love him? 
 You, yourself, Mary, had not your affections been already 
 engaged, do you believe it possible you could have remained 
 insensible to the magic of his presence?" 
 
 " Orsina," said Miss Vernon, as she placed her trembling 
 hand on the head of her friend, who half kneeled beside her, 
 "does he love you?" She fixed her eyes intently on Orsina, 
 who replied eagerly — 
 
 " If there be truth in look and language, in silence, he 
 loves me ; and yet it is terrible to think that he does. Me ! — 
 an orphan, a beggar, an outcast, existing on the charity of 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 305 
 
 his family. Think of his mother, of Lord Aberford, who 
 would spurn me from their door! Will you comfort me, 
 .Mary? I never knew what it was till now to shrink before 
 any one's gaze, and I have done so twice to-night." 
 
 Mary Vernon clasped her hands together, her lip quivered, 
 but her voice was audible ; and as she took on herself the 
 office of comforter, her manner became gradually calmer. 
 She made use of every argument that the most disinterested 
 friendship could suggest, to pacify the poor girl. She dried 
 her falling tears with her own hand, and then supported her 
 to her own room, and sat by her side until Orsina, exhausted 
 by a grief that was so new to her, fell into a child-like 
 slumber. It was on her return to her apartment, that Mary 
 had leisure to comprehend the extent of her own grief; em- 
 bittered by the knowledge it was caused by the two beings 
 she loved best in the world ; she passed her hands before her 
 eyes; but the dream could not be dispelled. Suddenly she 
 threw herself on her knees, and poured forth the overflowings 
 of her wounded heart to God. Long and earnestly did the 
 poor sufferer pray for comfort, for support, under the trials 
 she was called upon to endure, and for strength to conceal 
 them from the sight of man ; nor did she pray in vain, but 
 rose from her knees refreshed by the soothing influence of 
 prayer. 
 
 It was late the next morning before she went into Orsina's 
 room, who had not long risen, to remind her that it was the 
 day on which she was to try the new horse Lord Aberford 
 had given her. As she expected, Orsina was incapable of 
 the exertion, and Mary, therefore, determined on remaining 
 at home, instead of riding with Lord Aberford and his nephew, 
 as had been proposed. 
 
 Orsina would not hear of this plan, and assured her friend 
 that perfect solitude, at such a moment, would be preferable 
 even to her much-loved society. From the window she 
 watched the departure of the whole party, with no small 
 
 26* 
 
306 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 degree of satisfaction, and then sat down to reflect upon her 
 situation ; though, as she did so, the difficulties by which she 
 was surrounded appeared more and more insurmountable. 
 Bitterly now did she repent the abruptness which must have 
 both offended Lady Aberford, and left an impression on her 
 mind it w T ould now be difficult to remove. 
 
 How much better, had she answered the question with 
 openness, and pleaded guilty to the feeling, with the assur- 
 ance that no conversation had ever passed between herself 
 and Henry. Poor Orsina! she upbraided herself in vain for 
 the only occasion on which she had evinced a want of can- 
 dor; but it was too late, and she trembled at the thoughts of 
 meeting her benefactress, and the ordeal of scrutiny her de- 
 portment towards Henry must undergo — till, lost in a maze 
 of doubt and fear, and bewildered by her own reflections, she 
 burst into an agony of tears, and burying her face in her 
 hands, remained in this position for some time, till her atten- 
 tion was attracted by the uncommon sounds of music. After 
 listening a few moments, she threw up the window, and 
 distinctly heard the notes of a hand organ proceeding from 
 the court-yard at the back of the house. Orsina loved music 
 in its lowliest character ; but an organ was associated with 
 early recollections in her mind, nor could she withstand the 
 temptation of going down to the spot. 
 
 She made her way hastily, by a back path in the garden, 
 to a small gate that communicated with the stables ; here 
 she found a boy standing with his organ and a monkey, who 
 respectfully doffed his cap on Orsina's arrival. The boy 
 was a pretty black-eyed little fellow, whose whole appearance 
 bespoke his nation, and she accosted him in Italian. He was 
 leaning against the wall, with a dejected countenance, ap- 
 parently much fatigued ; but no sooner did he hear himself 
 addressed in his own language, than he broke forth in a 
 strain of natural eloquence, and overpowered her with his 
 expressions of delight and gratitude : then hastily rehearsing 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 307 
 
 the list of his organ tunes, he bade her choose her favorite, 
 which he sang in a sweet, though untutored voice. 
 
 Orsina leaned against the iron gate, and drank in every 
 sound; it was a tune that had been familiar to her from her 
 infancy— to which she had often danced of a summer's even- 
 ing on their little terrace, accompanied by her mother's 
 voice— moreover, it was the first song she had attempted to 
 learn under that mother's tuition ; and as the little musician 
 sang it in his native style, recollections that had long lain 
 dormant were awakened in her breast: thoughts of her be- 
 loved parent, of her own sunny Italy, of a thousand nameless 
 links which bind us to the land of our birth, again called forth 
 the tears into her eyes, and they chased each other rapidly 
 down her cheeks, while the boy, not in the least surprised at 
 the effect his vocal powers had on his countrywoman, only 
 continued the song with redoubled energy. So absorbed was 
 Orsina by her own thoughts, that the clattering of a horse's 
 hoofs in the yard did not rouse her from her reverie, until 
 Henry Brudenell stood before her. She started as she saw 
 him, and her cheeks and temples flushed crimson, when, 
 hastily putting a piece of money into the musician's hand, 
 she interrupted him in the middle of a verse, to his evident 
 mortification, by remarking that it was too cold to remain 
 still any longer, and turned away ; but Henry opened the 
 gate hastily, and overtook her long before she could reach 
 the house. 
 
 "I am sorry," he began, with a smile, " that I was so 
 indiscreet as to interrupt your tete-a-tete with your little 
 countryman; but am, nevertheless, glad to see you out, as 
 Miss Vernon told us you were unwell, and this does not look 
 like it, to be walking in such a summer costume in the month 
 of November." 
 
 Orsina murmured something like an explanation, which 
 was none, and only quickened her pace. Henry was silent 
 for a few moments, and then said, hesitatingly, 
 
308 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " I am afraid I must have offended you in some manner ; 
 for this is the first time, since we have been acquainted, that 
 you have both avoided me and my conversation." 
 
 Orsina turned her face towards him, for she could not 
 speak, and he then observed the traces of recent tears. 
 
 " Indeed," he said, " you do look unwell, and what is 
 more, you look unhappy — I hope I may be mistaken ; but I 
 am so familiar with unhappiness myself, that I can but too 
 easily perceive it in others : you may think me impertinent 
 and intrusive, and I will run the risk of appearing both ; but 
 let me entreat you to listen to me for a few moments — do not 
 refuse me," he added, gently taking her hand, which she 
 disengaged with the same degree of gentleness. 
 
 "What you have to say, Mr. Brudenell," she at last 
 exclaimed, without turning towards him, " must be short, 
 because Lady Aberford might be displeased at finding me 
 absent." 
 
 Her manner, generally so playful and unconstrained, was 
 now so completely altered, that Henry was confirmed in his 
 suspicion of something having passed between her and his 
 aunt, and he exclaimed eagerly—" I hardly know to what I 
 can attribute the change of your manner towards me, as I am 
 certain of having given you no cause of offence, unless, in- 
 deed, Lady Aberford should have betrayed my confidence, 
 and accused me of a fault, which you, at least, might be the 
 first to forgive." 
 
 He turned the full light of his eyes on Orsina's shrinking 
 countenance, and read there, in characters too legible to be 
 mistaken, what she would have given worlds to conceal. 
 
 "Tell me," he cried, "what did Lady Aberford say to 
 you? Did she tell you, Orsina, that I love you, or did she 
 probe your heart as she did mine, and were their answers the 
 
 same ?" 
 
 "Oh," replied the trembling girl, "she told me nothing- 
 nothing ; but my own heart tells me, I am the most wretched, 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 399 
 
 the most ungrateful of beings. Do not detain me any longer 
 —I have already done wrong in listening so far— I have 
 already proved myself unworthy of every act of kindness 
 that has been heaped upon me.— But, hark! I hear footsteps; 
 for mercy's sake, Mr. Brudenell, do not be found here!" 
 
 "If you command me," he replied, "I go; but remember, 
 it would be my wish to stand by you in the sight of the 
 world!" 
 
 She waved her hand in an agony of fear, and he, turning 
 short down another path, was out of sight in a moment, when, 
 to Orsina's consternation, Lady Isabella turned the corner, 
 and stood exactly before her— one look sufficed to warn her 
 of the storm that instantly broke forth in all its violence. 
 She acquainted Orsina that her ruse for remaining at home 
 was ill-conceived, and worse executed, and that Henry's 
 swift return was not calculated to lull a suspicion which she 
 had entertained for several days past. "Mary," she said, 
 " is gone to your room, not knowing you were sufficiently re- 
 covered to be walking in the shrubbery in such a picturesque 
 costume; but I know you better than either she or my sister, 
 and your gentle conciliating manners cannot, at least, deceive 
 me." Then changing her tone, with a degree of low art not 
 always foreign to the haughty and the violent, she took upon 
 herself to warn Orsina of the perilous situation in which she 
 stood, with ill-disguised malice and crafty insinuations, highly 
 derogatory to the intentions of her son. 
 
 Still Orsina listened in imperturbable silence ; and, with 
 her lips compressed, showed a fixed determination not to 
 reply. Enraged beyond measure at such forbearance, Lady 
 Isabella recapitulated the exalted situation and brilliant pros- 
 pects of her son, and placing them in array against those of 
 Orsina, painted the contrast in glowing colors, nor did she 
 scorn to upbraid her victim with her profession, her poverty 
 and dependence, and then, keeping the poisoned arrow the 
 last in the quiver, she taunted her with the stain on her birth 
 
310 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and spoke in words of opprobrium of that mother, whose 
 memory, at least, w T as hallowed to a child that had only 
 known her virtues. 
 
 The whole energy of Orsina's character and nation was 
 roused into action, as this inhuman speech was concluded. 
 " What you think, or what you say of me, Lady Isabella 
 Brudenell," she exclaimed, while her lip curled, and her full 
 bright eye flashed, as she spoke, " are alike indifferent to 
 me, and if you think proper to asperse the character of your 
 noble and excellent son, you are, of course, at liberty to do 
 so; but while I live, no one shall breathe a word in my pre- 
 sence against that beloved mother, who, God is my witness, 
 I judge as worthy of love and honor, as I do you of pity and 
 contempt!" 
 
 Totally unprepared for such a burst of indignation, Lady 
 Isabella paused for several moments, thunderstruck at the 
 violence of Orsina's language and manner ; but feeling that 
 the moment was a critical one, and that should she be allowed 
 to pass unanswered, her own power would for ever be anni- 
 hilated, she again gave vent to her fearful and unbridled 
 passion. Threats and menaces, coupled with the names of 
 her brother and sister-in-law, were uttered in so loud a voice, 
 that Lord Aberford himself was attracted to the spot. 
 
 A few words enlightened him on the subject, and he inter- 
 rupted the speaker in a tone of authority, that was as novel 
 to her as the last speech she listened to. 
 
 "You are mistaken, Lady Isabella," he said; "my doors 
 were opened to Mademoiselle Brandini in misfortune, and it 
 is not likely that they should now be closed upon her for the 
 same reason." 
 
 Then, without awaiting her answer, he stepped forward, 
 and taking Orsina's hand, drew her arm within his, and led 
 her to the house. They did not exchange a word, but there 
 was something in Lord Aberford's whole deportment that 
 inspired her with courage, and promised her protection. He 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 3H 
 
 opened the garden door of his little study, where, after mak- 
 ing her sit down, he drew a chair beside her. 
 
 "Believe me," he began, "I am sorry that anyone of my 
 family should have wounded your feelings so acutely; but 
 forgive me, if I say, that a little more reliance on myself or 
 Lady Aberford, would have spared you a great share of what 
 you have undergone." 
 
 Orsina was silent for a few moments, but the recollection 
 of what had passed between her and Lady Aberford, and the 
 dread of the conclusion that might be drawn from Lady 
 Isabella's violence, gave her courage, and with as much 
 composure as she could command, did she undertake the 
 difficult task of exculpating herself, by laying the true state 
 of the case before Lord Aberford, and then added, in a sor- 
 rowful tone :— « My short life has been replete with grief 
 and hardship— one parent deserted me, and the other was 
 taken from me before my mind was strengthened, or my 
 character sufficiently formed, to encounter the dangers of 
 life; yet, by the help of God, I struggled with my triafs until 
 you rescued me from my terrible situation; but % change 
 from misery to happiness was not calculated to check the 
 impetuosity of my disposition. In my folly I believed it im- 
 possible ever to be unhappy again— a few days only have 
 opened my eyes; but if you could understand the depth and 
 violence of my feelings, you would pity and forgive my inca- 
 pacity to subdue them." 
 
 "I do, Orsina," said Lord Aberford, tenderly; "I know 
 how difficult it is to call up the most secret feelings of the 
 heart, and to clothe them in words; and though I will not 
 deny that my wife was wounded by your manner, I have no 
 doubt that, when I repeat what has passed between us on 
 the subject, she will receive you as before: yet you must be 
 sensible, my poor child, of the impossibility of my furthering 
 your happiness in any other way ; for my duty as Henry's 
 guardian and uncle is imperative." He bent over the chair, 
 
312 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 and took her hand. " Orsina," he said, " while I live, con- 
 sider me as your father; it did not please the Almighty to 
 bless me — " he paused, sighed deeply, and then continued: 
 — "You will be our child ; we will do all in our power to 
 cheer you, under a separation which I fear will be painful." 
 He rose from his seat, again pressed her hand affection- 
 ately, and left the room. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The different parties met at dinner with conflicting feelings. 
 Orsina was not present, but Lord Aberford, justly incensed 
 at the conduct of his sister, although ignorant of half of its 
 baseness, seldom opened his lips; while Lady Isabella sat 
 in moody silence. Henry Brudenell, aware of the meeting 
 between his mother and Orsina, was in an agony to know 
 what had passed. His interview with the latter had not been 
 so explanatory as he intended; and yet, under all these dis- 
 tressing circumstances, the certainty of being loved made 
 him feel comparatively happy. Immediately after dinner 
 Lady Isabella retired, and Mary stole to Orsina, leaving 
 Henry Brudenell with Lord and Lady Aberford. 
 
 But on coming down stairs about two hours afterwards, 
 she found him alone in the drawing-room. 
 
 " I have been waiting some time for you, my dear Miss 
 Vernon," he said, "to tell you I leave Aberford to-night. I 
 was in hopes not to have done so without seeing her, but on 
 reflection have consented to do so. I know you will not re- 
 fuse to carry a message from me — it is this: that though I 
 am compelled to be absent for a year, nothing but death will 
 prevent my returning at the expiration of that time, with my 
 heart as devoted, and my determination as unalterably fixed 
 to marry her, as soon as the law makes me my own master. 
 I know you will repeat these very words. God bless you 
 both. I leave her to your care ; she will not be less dear to 
 you, because she is so to your brother's friend." 
 
ORSINA DRAND1NI. 313 
 
 He held out his hand, and pressed that of Mary, little 
 dreaming how her heart thrilled within her as he did so. 
 
 "You will also acquaint my mother of my departure, as I 
 shall not see her. God bless you, dear Mary!" 
 
 He turned, and plucking ofFa beautiful rosebud from a small 
 tree in the window, held it out to her. Mary received the flower 
 in silence; she knew for whom it was intended, and in a few 
 broken accents promised it should be conveyed ; then feeling 
 she could no longer conceal her emotion, she left the room. 
 
 After all that had passed, it could not be expected that 
 Lady Isabella would remain longer than was necessary 
 under the same roof with Orsina; and in consequence, the 
 next day she announced her intention of going to the sea- 
 side for change of air, and to the despair of poor Mary, they 
 accordingly left Aberford a few days after the departure of 
 Henry. As to Orsina, her sorrow was so poignant, so en- 
 grossing, that everything else gave w T ay before it ; and the 
 absence of her friend, though sincerely regretted, was not so 
 deeply mourned as it would have been at any other time. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mary Vernon's letters, the breathings of a 
 beautiful mind, were a source of real comfort to Orsina, 
 though she felt startled at times, by the depth of melancholy 
 which pervaded them; and not a little uneasy, as Mary oc- 
 casionally spoke of the declining state of her own health. 
 
 % -i * * :;; 
 
 In such a manner passed the spring, and the early part of 
 the summer, when a circumstance took place, apparently 
 trifling, but in truth of no small importance to the Brandings 
 future life. It happened that Lord Aberford, in addition to 
 the improvements he was always planning in the grounds, 
 had some new scheme for the alteration of the right wing of 
 the building. This led him one morning into that part of 
 the house where Orsina's apartments were situated. The 
 weather was hot, and she had opened her door to enjoy the 
 iir- and before Lord Aberford could come up (o it, he was 
 27 
 
314 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 attracted by her singing. He entered with a smile and slight 
 apology, and was about to comment on the words of her 
 song, when his eyes fell upon a small picture which hung 
 exactly opposite to him — it was that of a beautiful woman, 
 whose commanding features, jet black hair, and glowing skin, 
 bespoke her the native of a southern clime. Making but one 
 stride from the door, Lord Aberford stood before it, regard- 
 less of the astonishment of Orsina ; then turning to her with 
 every sign of emotion, he demanded, in a hurried tone, by 
 what right she possessed that picture — and scarcely awaiting 
 her answer, snatched it from the peg, and examined the 
 back of the frame, where the name of Camilla was inscribed. 
 
 "It is my poor mother's portrait, my lord," said Orsina 
 timidly. 
 
 "Your mother? Camilla your mother!" exclaimed he. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, alarmed by his vehemence. "She 
 gave it me on her death-bed." Then drawing a small medal- 
 lion from her bosom, she held it out to him — " and this 
 contains the hair of both my parents, and was given me by 
 my father." 
 
 Lord Aberford seized it with an eagerness almost amount- 
 ing to violence, and looked at it earnestly, till large tears 
 stood in his eyes. 
 
 "Orsina!" he at last exclaimed — "come nearer; you 
 need not shrink from the embrace of a father" He folded 
 her in his arms, and kissed, and blessed her repeatedly; 
 then, after a pause, he said — 
 
 " I knew I had been deceived, but not so cruelly. And 
 oh! I fear to inquire into what crimes my credulity led me: 
 they told me you were dead, my child, when they told me 
 she was untrue, and one might be as false as the other. Did 
 she curse me, Orsina? did she curse your father on her death- 
 bed?" 
 
 "Her last words," replied Orsina, scarcely able to articu- 
 late for the sobs that almost choked her, " were blessings on 
 
ORSINA BRANDINI. 315 
 
 my father, and pardon for his want of faith in her unaltera- 
 ble affection; and pardon for the villain who deceived them 
 both — for that villain, to elude whose pursuit she was obliged 
 (when abandoned by all she loved) to change her name and 
 abode, and trust to her own talents for a scanty mainte- 
 nance." 
 
 "Merciful God!" said Lord Aberford, "later occurrences 
 have combined to make me suspect some foul play; but I 
 could not believe it so dark as this. And can you, Orsina, 
 forgive a father who loved you as one, before he knew the 
 sacred tie that unites us?" 
 
 Orsina's tears were her only reply, and Lord Aberford, 
 after replacing the miniature, left the room. After some 
 time spent by the Brandini in a stupor which precluded 
 reflection, he returned, leading in his wife. She had been 
 weeping, but her manner was perfectly collected, as she 
 walked up to Orsina, and embracing her tenderly, said in a 
 low voice, 
 
 " My own dear child! he has told me all!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 One long and interesting conversation passed between the 
 father and his new-found child, which was not calculated 
 to yield him any consolation on the score of that beautiful 
 and unfortunate creature whose fidelity he could no longer 
 doubt. He was also soon too well convinced of the fact, that 
 the money annually remitted to her account, had never pass- 
 ed from the hands of that " Friend" in whom he had placed 
 so blind and misguided a confidence. In possession of the 
 small stock of papers which Camilla had left, every date they 
 bore convinced him that Orsina was the infant to whose 
 neck he had, with his own hands, attached the small locket 
 she had already shown him, while her retentive memory still 
 recalled many of his own endearing epithets, and other tri- 
 lling circumstances, which had made an indelible impression 
 on her young mind. 
 
.JIG THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 It was nearly three years after his return from Italy, that, 
 to the great joy of his family, who had long and vainly urged 
 his marrying, Lord Aberford had become acquainted with 
 his present wife, in whom he found a disposition as enthusi- 
 astic, and a heart as affectionate, as those which had charmed 
 him in Camilla, but tempered by those principles of religion 
 and morality which invest even our earthly feelings with 
 holiness. Lady Aberford's conduct to the daughter of her 
 husband was such as endeared her doubly to him, while she 
 was sincerely happy of an opportunity in which she could 
 prove her affection for both. Lord Aberford, with his usual 
 promptness and decision, wrote immediately to every branch 
 of his family, acquainting them of the discovery that had 
 taken place, and of his wife's determination* to continue her 
 protection to Orsina. The answers were more or less cha- 
 racteristic of the different w T riters ; but amongst the first that 
 he received was one from his nephew. It was couched in 
 the most affectionate terms, setting before his uncle the dou- 
 ble responsibility under which he now lay to remove every 
 obstacle to their happiness, and renewing, in formal terms, 
 his proposition for Orsina's hand. But Lord Aberford, in his 
 reply, represented, in the most disinterested manner, that the 
 objections were in no way surmounted, and even digressed 
 more largely than before on the disadvantages of the union. 
 Touched by the repeated supplicating letters he received 
 from his nephew on the subject, he at last returned this final 
 answer : 
 
 " You must know me too well, my dear Henry, to believe 
 me capable of sacrificing duty to affection, but in a few T 
 months you will attain your majority, when the necessity of 
 obedience to your guardian ceases. Should no change have 
 taken place in your opinions by that time, the father of Or- 
 sina will not hesitate a moment to bestow her hand upon one 
 who has proved his sincere affection for her." 
 
 He then indited a letter, in a somewhat different stvle, 
 
ORSINA BllANDINl. 317 
 
 to Lady Isabella, acquainting her with the correspondence 
 between himself and her son, and concluding with the an- 
 nouncement, that in the event of his own death, Orsina would 
 inherit that great share of the property which lay in his own 
 power, together with Thurston Hall, Lady Aberford's jointure 
 house, on that lady's demise. Lady Isabella thought proper 
 to maintain a dignified silence for some time, and then re- 
 plied, in a most amiable and disinterested strain, in which 
 she expressed her determination of sacrificing her just resent- 
 ment at the shrine of maternal solicitude for the happiness 
 of her son, at the same time declining her brother's invitation 
 to be present at the wedding, which had, in fact, been wrung 
 from him by the entreaties of his wife and daughter. And 
 at the expiration of the appointed time, Lord and Lady 
 Aberford welcomed the arrival of their nephew with scarcely 
 less joy than the blushing Orsina, who stood by their side, 
 hardly daring to believe the completion of her heart's dearest 
 dream. The time that elapsed during the preparation of the 
 marriage settlements (which dull and uninteresting duty was 
 undertaken by Lord Aberford), was passed by the two betrothed 
 with a degree of happiness which it would be as tedious as 
 it would be impossible to describe. 
 
 Those who have experienced the hallowed intercourse of 
 souls, sanctioned by a parent's blessing, will need no assist- 
 ance to bring this sweet season to remembrance ; and those 
 who in separation recall but too easily the kind glance and 
 the friendly voice that used to greet them, will scarcely bear 
 to dwell on a description that could only encourage a painful 
 yearning, and a lasting regret within their mind. 
 
 The only circumstance that both distressed and surprised 
 Orsina, was Mary's continued refusal to be her bridemaid. 
 She pleaded the difficulty of leaving Lady Isabella alone, the 
 delicate state of her own health, and a thousand reasons, none 
 of which appeared sufficiently well founded to satisfy her friend, 
 to whose reiterated petitions she at length yielded, promising 
 
318 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 to arrive on the eve of the wedding. And truly shocked 
 were the four kind friends who stood at the door to welcome 
 her, as Mary Vernon stepped from her carriage, and they 
 witnessed the change so short a time had effected. Her 
 complexion, which had always been fair in the extreme, 
 was now of a dazzling whiteness; but a dark rim that encir- 
 cled her eyes, and gave a double charm to their beaming 
 expression, and a bright hectic color, which was called to 
 each cheek by the excitement of the meeting, told, at least, 
 to those that were familiar with the disease, that consumption 
 had already stamped her as its own. Her very voice was 
 altered, but her sweet affectionate manner was the same, as 
 she smiled faintly, guessing what passed in their minds. 
 
 The next morning she rose early to perform the duties of 
 bridemaid, laughingly observing that she had a great respect 
 for old customs, and would therefore undertake the office of 
 "tire-woman" to the bride. 
 
 She accordingly arranged the wreath of myrtle and the 
 long veil, in such a manner as succeeded in her intention 
 of recalling to Henry's mind the first evening he beheld 
 Orsina — and he was not insensible to this little incident. He 
 had prepared a most beautiful nosegay from his aunt's gar- 
 den, which he presented to his bride as she entered the 
 drawing-room ; but she refused it playfully, saying she de- 
 sired no other bouquet than the withered rosebud he had 
 sent her as a pledge the year preceding. Henry smiled, 
 and declaring himself much offended, offered the rejected 
 flowers to Mary Vernon, who accepted them without hesi- 
 tation. The service was performed, the carriage stood at the 
 door, and, followed by blessings and prayers, the bride and 
 bridegroom took their way to Thurston Hall. 
 
 Mary had thrown off her wreath and veil, and sat alone 
 with Henry's flowers in her hand, musing on all that had 
 passed, and all that was in store for her, when Lady Aber- 
 ford entered. 
 
ORSINA BRAND1NI. 319 
 
 " You hinted, my dear Mary," she began, " that you had 
 something to say to me; are you at leisure now to talk on the 
 subject?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied; "I wish you very much to write for 
 me to Lady Isabella. It is not my intention to return, unless, 
 indeed, she wishes me to do so, and then only for a short 
 time. You must be aware, dear Lady Aberford, that I cannot, 
 in all human probability, live much longer; and though, 
 Heaven knows, I have few inducements to prolong life, yet 
 I believe it culpable to throw away carelessly the least of 
 God's gifts. My physician strongly recommends the climate 
 of Italy, and I have accordingly determined to proceed there 
 immediately. An excellent woman, who was once gover- 
 ness in my mother's family, will accompany me ; and the 
 fortune I possess will enable me to travel with comfort and 
 independence." 
 
 " My dear Mary," said Lady Aberford, " how much you 
 shock me ! I was in hopes you would have remained with us ; 
 the air of Aberford always did you good, and occasional 
 visits to Orsina will be a pleasure to you both." 
 
 Mary smiled sadly ; so sadly, that for the first time a thought 
 passed like a barbed arrow through Lady Aberford's brain ; 
 yet she added, 
 
 " Orsina's last request to me was to detain you here until 
 they both drive over and carry you off to Thurston." 
 
 " That cannot be," replied Mary, with the same startling 
 smile, while the large fiery spot extended itself over her cheek. 
 In her confusion she raised the flowers to her eyes, then ab- 
 ruptly placed them on the table, and looking up hastily, en- 
 countered the penetrating eyes of her companion. They 
 supported each other's glance for a few moments ; then Lady 
 Aberford extended her hand tenderly, and Mary, rising from 
 her seat, threw herself upon her bosom and wept long and 
 freely, sweet consoling tears, in which she so seldom in- 
 dulged. No word, no name ever passed their lips, but they 
 
320 THE OFFERING OF BEAUTY. 
 
 felt the understanding was mutual ; nor did Lady Aberford 
 
 any longer oppose Miss Vernon's resolutions. 
 
 ***** 
 
 She left England with the knowledge that she would never 
 return; she tore herself from those few ties that were inter- 
 woven with her existence, and went on her way to die! 
 She w r andered over the most beautiful tracts of country — she 
 beheld the most interesting productions of art and nature, 
 without the power of enjoyment. Alone in every sense of 
 the w T ord; alike insensible to the curiosity and admiration 
 which she excited, she felt the gradual changes come over 
 her frame which denote the victory of the disease, and ended 
 her life, as she had passed it, in a struggle with her own 
 heart. 
 
 THE END 
 
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