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 .• • • • • >-*Mp®^jg4^f* ' : 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY NAF1S & CORNISH 
 No. 2^ 3 Pearl Street. 
 ST. LOUIS, MO. NAFI9 CORNISH & CO. 
 
AYH 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The Publisher, in presenting the public with 
 another Annual, deems it unnecessary to make 
 any apology for its appearance, so long as the 
 hope can be reasonably entertained, that his ef- 
 forts to please will not be wholly unsuccessful. 
 But should he be asked why he has added ano- 
 ther to the long list of annuals which have been 
 published under the titles of " Gem," " Souve- 
 nier," " Memorial," or " Forget me not," his 
 ready reply must be, that the- unprecedented pa- 
 tronage which has been extended to those and 
 similar publications, not only in this country but 
 in all, or nearly all the Metropolitan cities of Eu- 
 rope, encourages the hope that this work will 
 also find a sufficient patronage to remunerate him 
 for his labour and expense, or at least to prompt 
 him to another trial. 
 
 " The Lily" is his first attempt, and although 
 he cannot claim for it that merit which would en- 
 
 iVwL ju 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 title it to the meed of praise, he is ready to award 
 to its contemporaries, yet, should a liberal pub- 
 lic look upon it with a favorable eye, he will 
 endeavour to add some new attraction to the 
 Lily in each successive publication, till if shall 
 vie with those which have already secured to 
 themselves so high a place in the estimation of 
 the public. 
 
 The time, labour, and expense of preparing 
 even a miniature work of this description is so 
 great, and the success of the experiment so un- 
 certain, that were it not for the hope of being able 
 to continue it, from year to year, the Publisher 
 would hardly have ventured to " cast his Book 
 upon the waters," with even the cheering pros- 
 pect that 
 
 " The world would find it after many days." 
 
 It is now, however, before the public, and 
 though all unfit to sustain itself, and like the 
 Rose, to force its way through the world by the 
 strength of its thorny tendrils, yet the hope is in- 
 dulged, that it will be cherished and admired, as 
 the tender and drooping Lilv. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 fte». 
 Preface, ::::::::: iii 
 
 The Young Tyrolese, :::::: 7 
 
 Hymn, (by Mrs. Opie,) :::::: 25 
 The Young Rebel, :::::: 26 
 The Town Child and Country Child. : : : 38 
 The Blue Bell, ::::::: 42 
 Lines written under a Butterfly painted in an Album, 44 
 The Storm, :::::::: 46 
 The Country Girl, :::::: 49 
 On Two Sisters, : : : : : : : 51 
 Lucy and her Bird, :::::: 52 
 The Old Gentleman, : : : : : : 57 
 The Mountain Daisy, : : : : : 89 
 
 A walk in the Temple Gardens in the summer of 1827, 103 
 The Rose of Castle Howard, : : : : : 111 
 Filial Piety, : : : : : : : 113 
 The Soldier's Wife, : : : : : : 116 
 Innocence, :::::•:: 124 
 The origin of " Darby and Joan," : : ; : 126 
 Little Moses, : : : : : : : 131 
 Isabel, the Lacemaker, : : : : : : 145 
 Little Goody Two Shoes, : 162 
 
 The Deadly Nightshade, : : : : : 164 
 The Birds and the Beggar of Bagdat, ; : 169 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 The House Sparrow, : : : : : : 177 
 The Restless Boy, : : : : : : 180 
 The School Boys, : : : : : : 192 
 
 Lines written at Sea, :::::: 201 
 To the Harebell, :::.:;: 204 
 The King and the Minstrel of Ely, : : j 205 
 Lines over a Covered Seat, : : : : : 212 
 Stanzas by Lord F. L. Gower, : : : : 214 
 
. . 
 
 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 EY MISS C. STRICKLAND. 
 
 Among the gallant band of patriots that rallied 
 so bravely round the standard of Andrew Hofer, 
 there was not a more devoted champion of free- 
 dom than Gustavus Rosen. Placed by birth 
 and fortune beyond the cares incidental to pover- 
 ty, and blessed in the society of a beloved wife 
 and two amiable children, Rosen had passed the 
 meridian of his days in tranquil happiness ; mis- 
 fort Line had been a stranger to his dwelling, till 
 the invasion of the French army poured the red 
 tide of war with remorseless fury into the once 
 peaceful valleys of the Tyrol. All that was dear 
 and lovely lay crushed beneath the steps of the 
 conqueror ; the voice of woe and wailing was 
 heard throughout the land — mothers mourned 
 for their children, children for their parents. 
 
 The sound of busy, cheerful labour ceased or 
 the plains ; the joyous voice of childhood was 
 hushed. The note of the shepherd's pipe was 
 
8 THT} *JCUfTC TYROLESE. 
 
 heard uo mqie as ho led his fleecy care from the 
 'fold. The chime of.sebbath bells no longer 
 swelled with hallowed melody upon the breeze, 
 summoning the inhabitants of the land to meet 
 together in the house of prayer, to mingle in one 
 general chorus of Draise and grateful thanksgiv- 
 ing to Him from whose hand all blessings flow. 
 
 Those bells were now only heard pealing forth 
 the alarum that woke terror and dismay in the 
 hearts of the feeble and the helpless, mingling in 
 jangling and discordant sounds with the rolling 
 of drums, the shrill blast of the bugle, or loud 
 trumpet, and the deep roar of the artillery. The 
 tumult of war had hushed all other sounds. 
 
 Panic stricken, the Tyrolese at first made no 
 effectual effort, for resisting the invading army ; 
 they looked to Austria for succour, but she was 
 unable to afford them any assistance, and the 
 hapless Tyrol fell a victim to the policy of its 
 princes. 
 
 In the hour of terror and despair, when all had 
 forsaken her, Hofer, the village innkeeper, alone 
 stood forward as the champion of his country. 
 Fired with patriotic zeal, he planted the standard 
 of freedom once more on his native mountains, 
 exhorting his countrymen to rally round it in de- 
 fence of their country's rights. 
 
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 9 
 
 • 
 
 The fire of patriotism was kindled, and like 
 the electric shock it flew from man to man. The 
 thrilling cry of " Hofer and Liberty !" was re- 
 peated by every tongue. " We will conquer or 
 die in the cause of freedom !" and a thousand 
 answering echoes from the hills returned, — " We 
 will die !" 
 
 Even women and children seemed inspired 
 »vith the same patriotic zeal, and vowed to die in 
 the defence of their country. Mothers were 
 seen leading their sons, yet striplings in years, 
 to the camp, with their own hands arming them 
 in the cause of liberty. " It is better to die than 
 to live the slaves of France," they said. 
 
 The standard of the Tyrolese army was com- 
 mitted by Hofer's own hand, to the care of the 
 young son of Gustavus Rosen, a gallant boy of 
 sixteen, with a solemn charge to defend it with 
 his life. 
 
 " I will defend it," replied the youth, as he un- 
 folded it to the breeze, " and where this banner 
 falls, there shall the son of Gustavus Rosen be 
 found beside it. Death only shall part us." 
 
 Three times did the brave Tyrolese, led on 
 by Hofer, beat back the invader to the frontier, 
 and victory seemed to crown them with success ; 
 but the crafty Bavarian now poured his thousands 
 into the Tyrol, overpowering by the force of 
 
10 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 numbers, the few brave men who were left to de- 
 fend their country, and effecting that which the 
 armies of France had been unable to do alone. 
 
 At this juncture Austria made peace with 
 France, and the Tyrol was ceded to Buonaparte, 
 who demanded it as one of the conditions of the 
 treaty. Unable to defend the province, the Em- 
 peror yielded up the Tyrol without reserve. 
 
 Hopeless, dejected, and overpowered by num- 
 bers, the unfortunate Tyrolese were obliged to 
 relinquish the unequal strife : burning with in- 
 dignation they withdrew among the inaccessible 
 glens and fastnesses of their native mountains, 
 resolving to perish rather than yield to the usur- 
 per's power. 
 
 The bravest and best of that devoted band 
 had fallen, or were carried captives across the 
 Alps : 
 
 " Scattered and sunk, the mountain band 
 
 Fling the loved rifle from their hand, 
 
 The soul of fight is done." 
 
 During the heat of the war, Gustavus Rosen 
 had conveyed his wife and his infant daughter to 
 a safe retreat among the mountains, where under 
 the care of an old and faithful friend, who for 
 many years had followed the adventurous life of 
 an Alpine hunter, he knew they would be safe 
 
THE YOUNG TTROLESE. 11 
 
 from the horrors of the war, which spared not in 
 its fury either the infant or the ancient of days. 
 
 " Here, my beloved Gertrude," he said, ad- 
 dressing his weeping partner, " you and our Te- 
 resa will find safety and repose ; and though old 
 Albrecht's cot be rude and homely, it is far bet- 
 ter than our camps and leaguered walls." 
 
 " There is no safety where you are not," ex- 
 claimed the wife of Rosen, throwing herself into 
 his arms — " if there be safety in this wild retreat, 
 stay and share it with us." 
 
 The eye of the patriot soldier flashed fire ; he 
 turned and pointed sternly to the wreaths of dun 
 smoke that rolled in heavy volumes across the 
 distant plain. " A thousand helpless mothers, 
 with their orphan children, cry for vengeance 
 against the spoiler on yonder smoking plain ! 
 And shall their appeal be unheard !" he cried ve- 
 hemently, grasping his sword. " See, Gertrude, 
 even now heaven blushes with the fiery glare of 
 yon flaming hamlet, and shall I slumber here in 
 inglorious ease, while my country demands my 
 aid '?" 
 
 Then softening the impetuosity of his manner, 
 he strove to soothe his weeping spouse ; the pa- 
 triot's sternness yielded to the tenderness of the 
 husband and father, he fondly folded the beloved 
 objects of his solicitude to his heart. Suddenly 
 
12 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 a rifle was fired. " Hark, 'tis the signal gun, ,y 
 he cried. " Gertrude, that shot was fired by our 
 gallant boy." " My child ! my Henrick !" ex- 
 claimed the distracted mother. " Stay, my hus- 
 band !" but before the sound of that rifle had 
 ceased to reverberate among the rocks, Rosen 
 was gone : with desperate haste he pursued his 
 perilous way, leaping from crag to crag, now 
 trusting his weight to the weak sapling that over- 
 hung his path, or stemming with nervous arm the 
 force of the mountain torrent that would have 
 barred his path. 
 
 Old Albrecht watched his fearful progress with 
 silent awe ; then turned to soothe the grief of the 
 disconsolate Gertrude and her daughter ; cheer- 
 ing them with the hope that Rosen would soon 
 return, at the same time bidding them welcome 
 to his lowly roof and mountain fare. " You will 
 be as safe, dear lady," he said, " as the eagle on 
 his eyrie on the rocks above you." 
 
 The first intelligence that reached the wife ot 
 Rosen was, that her husband had fallen in the 
 Passeyre valley, in a desperate skirmish with the 
 French ; it was the last effort made by the brave 
 Tyrolese in defence of their country. The 
 brave Henrick too was no more ; he was found 
 stretched on the banks of the little stream at the 
 gorge of the valley, wrapped in the banner which 
 
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 13 
 
 he had sworn to defend with his last drop o? 
 blood. He had faithfully fulfilled his word, and 
 the standard of freedom had become the winding 
 sheet of the young hero. 
 
 " We knew young Henrick Rosen," said the 
 soldier who brought the sad news to the cottage 
 of Aibrecht, " by his fair face, and by the stand- 
 ard which he still grasped in his hand, though 
 that hand was stiffened by the chillness of death." 
 
 This heavy news overpowered the weak frame 
 of Madame Rosen ; she never again looked up, 
 and before the close of the autumn, Teresa wept 
 over the green sod that covered the grave of her 
 mother. 
 
 She had not attained her fifteenth year when 
 she found herself an orphan, alone in the world, 
 cut off from every kindred tie : yet in the excess 
 of her grief, she acknowledged the mercy of Him 
 who had not left her entirely destitute. 
 
 The old hunter and his wife, folding the sor- 
 rowing orphan by turns in their arms, promised 
 to fulfil to her the part of parents. " You shall 
 be our child," they said, — " shall eat of our own 
 bread, and drink of our own cup, and be to us as 
 a daughter." 
 
 With pious words they strove to quiet the grief 
 of their adopted child, directing her to look to 
 that source whence only true comfort flows : and 
 
14 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 humbly to submit to the chastening of that all- 
 merciful God, who wounds but to heal, and fills 
 our hearts with sorrow that true joy may abound. 
 
 The distressing events which, as a soldier's 
 daughter, Teresa had necessarily witnessed, and 
 the untimely fate of her parents, had cast a shade 
 of melancholy over the mind of the young or- 
 phan, and given a loftier tone to her feelings than 
 was usual in one so young. 
 
 Seated on the hearth at the feet of old Al- 
 brecht, she loved to listen to his mountain le- 
 gends ; by turns to weep or exult over the for- 
 tunes of the Swiss patriot Tell, a theme on which 
 the old hunter never tired. During the long 
 winter evenings, while the wind roared round 
 their lowly dwelling, or the snow whirling in ed- 
 dies choked the paths, and beat upon their roof, 
 old Albrecht would beguile the tedious hours, by 
 relating the feats of his youthful days, charming 
 the attentive ears of his old Minna and of Teresa, 
 by the exploits of the chamois hunter, or tales of 
 other days. But the young Teresa loved best to 
 talk of her parents — of the patriots who fell in 
 defence of their country — of her heroic brother, 
 who had fallen in the flower of his youth, so 
 young, so brave — though her tears always min- 
 gled with the lofty feelings which these proud, 
 yet sad recollections inspired. 
 
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 15 
 
 The long weary winter at length wore away ; 
 the warm breath of spring unloosed the mountain 
 torrents from their icy chain ; the rocky glens 
 echoed once more " with the joy of waves." 
 The snow wreaths melted before the influence of 
 the sunbeams ; and the earth, though tardily, put 
 off her snowy vest, and came forth like a bride 
 decked with fresh flowers. 
 
 In early youth there is a buoyancy in the mind 
 which grief cannot entirely subdue, and which 
 inclines us to seize with eagerness every glimpse 
 of joy that presents itself in our path. Teresa 
 hailed the approach of Spring with delight ; she 
 loved to ramble among the lonely glens, or climb 
 the mountain paths ; to watch the stealthy labors 
 of the marmot, hollowing its subterranean dwell- 
 ing in the rocks ; to follow with admiring eye the 
 soaring flight of the eagle, winging his way 
 through the pathless fields of air ; to listen to the 
 short shrill cry of the swift-footed chamois, as 
 startled at her approach, he bounded away to his 
 inaccessible home among the rocks : the murmur 
 of the stream ; the sighing of the wind as it lifted 
 the branches above her ; or the cheerful whistle 
 of the herdsmen as they tended their flocks on 
 the adjacent hills, were music to the ear of Tere- 
 sa, and sounds which spoke of childish joys. 
 
 In one of her mountain rambles, Teresa had 
 
16 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 afforded some assistance to a poor shepherd in 
 distress, and, in return for her kindness, he had 
 presented her with a young lamb, one of the 
 firstlings of his flock. Delighted with the gift, 
 Teresa carried home her lamb, and shewed it 
 with innocent pride to her adopted parents. 
 From th it time Minna, (for so she called it out 
 of affection to her adopted mother, ) became the 
 constant companion of her walks. 
 
 Unweariedly the little creature followed the 
 footsteps of her mistress, or gambolling before 
 her, only quitted her side to crop the flowers, or 
 tender grass that grew in her path. Sometimes 
 her gentle mistress would reproach her favorite 
 for wantonly destroying the garland she was 
 weaving to adorn her hat of straw, or to wreathe 
 among her own fair locks. 
 
 Her dress was such as was usually worn by 
 the Tyrolese and Swiss girls. A bodice of dark 
 colored cloth, laced tight to her bosom, which 
 was shaded by a handkerchief or tucker of white 
 muslin, a short petticoat of striped stuff, and a 
 white linen apron ; these, with a large straw hat, 
 formed the general habiliments of the young Te- 
 resa, whose native grace and loveliness needed 
 not the adventitious adornments of dress to ren- 
 der her more pleasing. 
 
 One of 1 eresa's favorite haunts was a narrow 
 
THE YOUNG TTROLESE. 17 
 
 dell, not far from the dwelling of old Albrecht ; 
 the only entrance to this secluded spot was by a 
 rude descent of rocky fragments, which had been 
 worn into the appearance of steps by the foot of 
 the hunter. The mountain daisy, the pale ra- 
 nunculus, and deep-blue violet, bloomed here in 
 native beauty among the rocks, or diversified the 
 sloping turf beneath the lime and chesnut tree ; 
 while the dark pine afforded a support to the va- 
 rious parasitical plants which wreathed their 
 slender stems in fantastic garlands round its 
 rugged bark. 
 
 It was at the close of a beautiful calm day, in 
 the month of August, that wearied with playing 
 her knitting pins by the side of old Minna at the 
 cottage door, Teresa sought her favorite retreat, 
 and seated on the grassy mound at the foot of a 
 tall lime tree, fell into a train of sorrowful reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 In her way to the dell she had passed by the 
 grave of her mother, on which with duteous care, 
 according to the custom of her country, she had 
 strewn fresh gathered flowers ; unconsciously 
 her tears had fallen while offering this tribute of 
 affection to the memory of her beloved parent, 
 and the remembrance of all her tender love, and 
 maternal care, recurred to her mind, to sadden 
 the- heart of the young orphan. 
 2* 
 
18 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 In vain her little pet strove with anxious soli- 
 citude to attract her notice : Teresa, engrossed 
 by her own sad thoughts, appeared unconscious 
 of her presence, till bleating reproachfully, the 
 neglected favorite licked her hands, and rubbed 
 her head against her mistress's knee. 
 
 " Ah, pretty Minna !" she said, stooping to 
 caress the lamb, " I fear I have grieved you by 
 my neglect." Just then a rustling among the 
 bushes caused her to turn her head, when she 
 beheld from between the parting masses of fo- 
 liage, two strangers, who were intently regarding 
 her. 
 
 A vague, indistinct idea crossed the mind of 
 the bewildered girl, as she gazed for an instant 
 on the war-worn features of the elder stranger ; 
 her heart beat tumultously ; was it a dream, 
 the coinage of her own imagination, or did she 
 indeed behold her father 1 Yes, it was indeed 
 Gustavus Rosen ! The humble garb of the 
 herdsman that enveloped his noble form, the 
 deep scars which had marred his lofty brow, and 
 the pallid hue which sickness and sorrow had 
 spread over his countenance, could not disguise 
 the parent from the eye of filial affection. 
 
 " My Father !" burst involuntarily from the 
 lips of Teresa : — the arms of the war-worn sol- 
 dier were extended to enfold his daughter, as she 
 
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 19 
 
 sprang forward and flung herself weeping on his 
 bosom. 
 
 " My child ! my dear, my beloved child !" 
 murmured the agitated father, pressing her to 
 his heart with fervent gratitude. 
 
 Who shall enter into the feelings of that parent 
 and his child, thus unexpectedly re-united 1 or 
 speak the anguish of Rosen's heart, when Tere- 
 sa led him in silence to the grave which covered 
 the mouldering ashes of her beloved mother 1 
 
 " It is the hand of the Almighty," he said, at 
 length rising from the grassy mound where the 
 first burst of grief had subsided. " And shall I 
 dare, ungrateful as I am, to arraign the justice of 
 that Being, who in his mercy summoned the o'er 
 wearied spirit to its home of rest ?" 
 
 Then turning to his daughter, he said, " Tere- 
 sa, you must welcome this young stranger as the 
 preserver of your father's life. Come hither, 
 Lewis," he continued, taking the hand of his 
 companion ; " this is the beloved child of whom 
 you have so often heard me speak during my 
 captivity." 
 
 The dark eye of the young stranger brightened 
 as he took the extended hand of Teresa, who 
 thanked him with artless warmth for the services 
 rendered to her father. 
 
20 THE YOUNG TYROLE3E. 
 
 To old Aibrecht and his wife, Rosen seemed 
 like one returned from the grave ; and to 
 their anxious inquiries how he whom they had 
 numbered with the dead, thus again appeared 
 among them, he replied — that in the skirmish 
 which had taken place in the Passeyre valley, he 
 had indeed been wounded, but not mortally, and 
 was taken prisoner, and conveyed with many of 
 his gallant countrymen to the Porta Molina of 
 Mantua, where he was confined in the barracks, 
 which at that time formed the depot for prisoners 
 of war. 
 
 " During my illness, which was long and pain- 
 ful," said Rosen, " my chief attendant was this 
 youth, the son of one of the centinels who used 
 to guard my prison — to his unremitting tender- 
 ness and care I first owed my life, and subse- 
 quently my liberty. 
 
 " I remained in a doubtful state, lingering as it 
 were between life and death, from the beginning 
 of November till the month of January ; health 
 at length appeared returning, when one morning 
 I was surprised by an unexpected visit from the 
 governor, who approaching the table near which 
 I was seated, laid a written paper before me ; my 
 eye glanced over its contents. They were too 
 plainly defined. It was my own death-warrant, 
 duly signed and sealed. 
 
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 21 
 
 " It was not the fear of death, for I had faced 
 him too often in the field to dread his power, but 
 it was the thought of my wife and of you, my Te- 
 resa, that for a moment bowed the stern spirit of 
 the soldier, and forced tears from eyes which 
 never wept before. 
 
 " ' There are those that make it hard for you 
 to die, Gustavus Rosen,' said the governor. I 
 acknowledged it. He paused for a minute and 
 hesitated — then turning to me said, ■ There is a 
 Way by which you might not only avert the dis- 
 pleasure of the Emperor, but convert it into ever- 
 lasting friendship.' I was silent, and he con- 
 tinued, taking my hand, * You were the friend of 
 Andrew Hofer — discover his retreat to me, and 
 your pardon is instantly sealed.' 
 
 " * Tell your base Emperor,' I cried, dashing 
 from me the hand of the governor, * that Gusta- 
 vus Rosen scorns life and liberty on such vile 
 terms !' 
 
 " But, alas ! my firm rejection of these infa- 
 mous terms availed not ; the gallant Hofer had 
 been betrayed, basely betrayed into the hands of 
 his enemies, and was that very day led through 
 the streets of Mantua as a prisoner. This was 
 he death-blow to the hopes of freedom and the 
 Tyrol. They had captured, but had not con- 
 quered that brave spirit ; the soul of the patriot 
 
22 THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 
 
 was still as free as when first he reared the 
 standard of liberty on his native mountain. 
 
 "Ask me not now to dwell on his death-scene; 
 the remembrance of that name is yet too fresh in 
 the minds of his friends — suffice it to say, he died 
 as he lived — the hero, the patriot, the pride, the 
 glory of his country ! The name of Hofer will 
 ever be cherished by the sons of liberty ; and his 
 memory, and that of his followers who died in 
 the cause of Freedom, will be hallowed by the 
 tears of their country, and their deathless fame 
 recorded in the page of histoiy, and immor- 
 talized by the song of the patriot bard. 
 
 " Time," continued Rosen, " passed on: agi- 
 tation of mind brought on a return of my illness, 
 and for many weary weeks I remained a prey to 
 fever and disease : during that period my sen- 
 tence was repealed ; the death of our gallant 
 leader had satisfied the vengeance of our ene- 
 mies. 
 
 "With returning health came an insatiable 
 longing for liberty, and the desire of once again 
 beholding my wife and my child. Louis, who 
 had been my faithful attendant during all my 
 sickness, marked my restlessness, and having 
 won from me the cause, formed a plan for my 
 escape. His father being lately dead, he had no 
 tie to bind him to the spot, and he insisted on 
 
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 23 
 
 sharing himself the chances of our expedition — 
 my escape — which we earned into effect as soon 
 as circumstances favored our design. Success 
 attended us beyend our most sanguine expecta- 
 tions, nor can I bo too grateful to the generous 
 friend who has been the means of restoring me 
 once more in freedom to the arms of my beloved 
 child." 
 
 " Is young Louis a native of France, or is he 
 a Mantuan V asked Albrecht, who had for some 
 time regarded the young stranger with more than 
 common interest. 
 
 %t My father was a French soldier," replied 
 Louis ; " my mother a native of Bregentz, a town 
 bordering, as I believe, on Tyrol and Switzerland. 
 She was the daughter of an Alpine hunter, and 
 left her parents to follow the fortunes of the 
 camp, with my father." 
 
 " Is she yet living 1" asked old Albrecht, in a 
 deep voice. 
 
 " My mother has been dead nearly five years." 
 
 " And your father ?" 
 
 " He also is dead : he died in the hospital at 
 Mantua, a few weeks ago." 
 
 " What was your mother's maiden name V 
 demanded old Minna, with great emotion. 
 
 " Annette Friedwald," was the brief reply. 
 " She was our child! Our only child!" exclaimed 
 
24 THE YOUN B TYROLESE. 
 
 the old couple. " And you, Louis, are our grand- 
 child, whom Heaven in its bounty has restored 
 to us to be the solace and comfort of our declin- 
 ing years." 
 
 It was indeed the child of their long regretted 
 daughter, who by a train of singular events had 
 thus unexpectedly been made known to them. 
 
 Gustavus Rosen and his daughter shared in 
 the happiness of the old hunter and his wife. 
 " You are the kind protectors of my Teresa," 
 said Rosen, " when she was a destitute orphan, 
 and her father now restores to you a son to be 
 the prop of your old age. Thus may true friend- 
 ship and benevolence ever meet with their du« 
 recompense !'' 
 
 
HYMN 
 
 BY MRS. OPIE. 
 
 There's not a leaf within the bower ; 
 There's not a bird upon the tree ; 
 There's not a dew-drop on the flower ; 
 But bears the impress, Lord ! of thee. 
 
 Thy hand the varied leaf designed, 
 And gave the bird its thrilling tone ; 
 Thy power the dew drop's tints combined 
 Till like the diamond's blaze they shone. 
 
 Yes ; dew-drops, leaves, and buds, and all 
 The smallest, like the greatest things ; 
 The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball, 
 Alike proclaim thee King of kings. 
 
 But man alone to bounteous heaven, 
 
 Thanksoivins's conscious strains can raise : 
 
 To favored man alon' tis given 
 
 To join the angelic choir in praisf ! 
 3 
 
THE YOUNG REBEL. 
 
 BY MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 " Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short but simple annals of the poor." 
 
 It was a bright and cheerful morning — the 
 gun-beams danced merrily on the gay river which 
 skirted the village of Callow — and the dewdrops 
 hung like diamonds round the clustering vine 
 that, in those days, overshadowed the humble 
 school of Dame Mabel Leigh. Dear Dame Ma- 
 bel ! she was one of the governesses of the olden 
 time, who ruled by the assistance of a large birch 
 rod, and sundry other aids which are now out of 
 fashion. She was a very excellent old woman 
 for all that ; and although she thought it beneath 
 the dignity of a school-mistress to reason with 
 her pupils, yet she possessed so many good 
 and valuable qualities, that even the vicar's lady 
 treated the dame with deference and respect. 
 She had held undisputed sway over all the girls 
 
THE YOUNG REBEL. 27 
 
 and many of the boys, from two to ten years of 
 age, for more than forty years : but do not for a 
 moment imagine that the worthy dame kept one 
 of those fine " Establishments," whose blue, 
 green, or red signboards announce that " Ladies 
 and Gentlemen are here taught French and 
 English Education, and all fashionable Accom- 
 plishments ;" — No such thing; the simple one of 
 Dame Mabel, which was more than half covered 
 with clustering grapes and vine leaves, only 
 promised that there children were " taught to 
 read:" and the villagers of Callow were quite 
 satisfied if their daughters could read the Bible, 
 sew, hem, and stitch neatly. 
 
 Thomas Hill, indeed, the rich, fat, and rosy 
 landlord of the Plough Inn, had only one daugh- 
 ter ; and to make her genteel, as he called it, he 
 sent her for six months to a boarding-school. 
 When she had been there a short time, such a 
 box arrived at the Plough ! every one in the vil- 
 lage thought it must be something very beautiful 
 as it came from Mary Hill's school ; and when 
 it was opened, appeared a piece of embroidery, 
 in a fine gold frame. People were somewhat 
 puzzled at first to know what it was, There was 
 an animal, which might be either a pig or a mule, 
 with its heels in the air ; and there was a boy 
 somewhat taller than a tree, and another brown- 
 
28 THE YOUNG REBEL. 
 
 black looking thing : however, the poetry under- 
 neath explained the matter — 
 
 "The vicious kicking donkey- 
 Has thrown my brother and Pompey." 
 
 The silly people of Callow (for there are silly 
 people every where) thought that Mary must be 
 wonderfully improved ; but the wise ones knew 
 that it was not right for a girl in her situation of 
 life to waste so much time on such useless work. 
 Indeed poor Mary was not the better for her six 
 month's trip ; she brought home a great many 
 airs ; and it was very evident that she had not 
 been properly instructed ; for I am almost 
 ashamed to say that she despised her parents, 
 because they were not as rich or as fashionable 
 as the "Pa's" and "JVla's" of the young ladies 
 she knew at school. However, I have said 
 enough about her. 
 
 Monday was always a busy day with good Ma- 
 bel ; the little floor of the school-room was fresh 
 sanded; laurel, gemmed with bright hedge roses, 
 graced the chimney ; the eight-day clock, tower- 
 ing even unto the ceiling, seemed to tick more 
 loudly than ever ; Tom, a venerable old white 
 rnouser, had a new blue riband round his neck ; 
 and the high-backed chair was placed so as to 
 command not only a good view of thcfour cor- 
 
THE YOUNG REBEL. 29 
 
 ners of the nx m, but of a large cupboard, where 
 books and work were ananged, and where the 
 very little people often congregated like a nest of 
 young wrens, and whispered, and twittered, 
 whenever the dame's back was turned ; — then a 
 little black-looking carved table was placed on 
 the right-hand side of this throne, and on it, ready 
 for use every Monday morning, appeared a new 
 well-made birch rod. The good dame seldom 
 wore out more than one a week, which, consider- 
 ing all things in those days, was not thought too 
 much. But I wish I could describe the dame to 
 you, for I am sure you will never see any one like 
 her, as even the village school-mistresses now 
 are very different to what they were twenty years 
 ago : her apron was always white as snow, and 
 round it a flounce full two fingers deep ; her 
 neckerchief, clear and stiff, neatly pinned down 
 in front ; the crown of her cap in the highest part 
 might measure perhaps half a yard, somewhat 
 more or less, and under it her nice grey hair was 
 turned over a roller ; and although her eyes were 
 dark and penetrating, and 'her nose long and 
 hooked, yet her smile was so sweet that every 
 little child's heart felt happy when she gave such 
 a mark of approbation : but there were times 
 when in very truth the good dame's anger was 
 3* 
 
30 THE YOUNG REBEL. 
 
 excited ; and then she certainly did look what 
 the young ones called " very terrible." 
 
 " I'll certainly try this new rod on your bare 
 shoulders, Fanny Spence," said the old lady, 
 one " black Monday morning," to a little arch- 
 looking girl with blue eyes, who amused herself 
 by eating the corners of her speiling-book — " I'll 
 teach you how to munch your book as a rabbit 
 does clover. Mercy on me ! you have half torn 
 out the pretty picture of 4 The Fox and Grapes,' 
 and you have daubed over as many as ten leaves 
 
 with How did you get at my rose pink ? — 
 
 Oh ! you wicked, wicked child !" — the dame, I 
 am sorry to say, now lost her temper, and ele- 
 vated her rod and voice at one and the same 
 moment. Fanny, who had opened her mouth to 
 commence squalling, thought it better to tell the 
 truth ; so, keeping as far from the rod as she 
 could — " Indeed, if you please ma'am, it was 
 Dick Shaw — he painted 'em for me — and he 
 stole it out of your basket yesterday, while you 
 were taking up the stitches little Kate dropped 
 in the toe of her stocking." 
 
 Before Dame Mabel had decided what pun- 
 ishment to inflict, her attention was attracted by 
 little Kate herself who crept slowly to her seat 
 with hanging head and downcast eyes. 
 
 " This is a very pretty hour for you to come 
 
THE YOUNG REBEL. 31 
 
 to school, miss, — Why, all your strings are out, 
 and your hands and arms torn and dirty. I see 
 how it is ; — open your mouth — black, as I sup- 
 posed ; — You have been down the lane after the 
 blackberries ; — Very well — I'll find a way to 
 punish you." The old lady stooped, and with 
 great dexterity drew off her garter, (it was twen- 
 ty years ago,) and was about to tie the culprit's 
 hands behind her, when, in lisping tones, the lit- 
 tle thing declared it was all Dick Shaw's fault : 
 li He showed me the bush, ma'am, and he pro- 
 mised to hold it ; and I did not eat more than 
 two or three, when he pulled it away, and I fell 
 into the ditch." — " And served you right too," 
 said the dame : " Girls have no business to play 
 with boys ; — but your arm is much scratched 
 just here. Well," she continued, her tone in- 
 stantly softening, (for she was really very kind 
 hearted,) give me my blue bag, and I will bind it 
 up with some of the old linen the good vicar's 
 lady gave me." — The bag was brought, and emp- 
 tied : but no old linen was to be found. The 
 children were severally questioned ; and at last 
 little Phosbe Ford, a merry laughing thing of six 
 years old, who, though she had many faults, al- 
 ways spoke the truth — a perfection which made 
 her even at that age respected — said that she 
 saw Dick Shaw pull out the roll of linen at 
 
32 THE YDUNG REBEL. fc 
 
 twelve o'clock on Friday, and that he said it 
 would do nicely to fetter White Tom. 
 
 " That boy," said the dame, " shall be expelled 
 my school ; and I certainly ought not to have 
 kept him since his trick of the spectacles, nor 
 would I, indeed, were it not that others" — and 
 her eye glanced at a red-faced, red-armed girl of 
 ten, with a fuzzy head and little twinkling eyes — 
 " were almost as had as he. I only said almost, 
 Mary, — and you have been very good since." 
 
 By the way, I must tell you that the affair of 
 the spectacles occurred two days after Dick 
 came to Dame Leigh's school. Dick took a 
 fancy to fit his governess's spectacles to Farmer 
 Howit's big pig — and Mary, romping Mary 
 Green, agreed to hold the pig while they were 
 fitting it on. Now as the pig, who in this in- 
 stance showed more wisdom that either Dick or 
 Mary, could see better without than with specta- 
 cles, he soon pushed Dick into a stagnant pool 
 of green water, and left the luckless Mary 
 sprawling like a great frog in the mire ; while he 
 rejoined his brothers and cousins, grunting tri- 
 umphantly, and curling his little tail, which the 
 fallen Dick had unmercifully pulled in the con- 
 test. But nothing could cure the boy's love of 
 mischief; and every thing that went wrong in 
 the village was laid to his account. His poor 
 
THE YOUNG REBEL. 33 
 
 mother's heart was almost broken ; his father 
 even, hard-working man as he was, had been 
 seen to shed tears over his son's wilful ways ; 
 and his sister, a fine, good, industrious girl of 
 sixteen, could have been of great service to her 
 parents, were it not that her entire time was taken 
 up in trying to keep Dick out of mischief, or to 
 repair the mischief Dick had done. 
 
 " It was he pinned Kitty Carey's frock to 
 Aunt Colvell's red petticoat, and it tore such a 
 great piece ; and Kitty cried because it was a 
 new London chintz," said Mary Doyle. 
 
 " Hush, don't speak so loud," said Liddy 
 Grant ; " the dame will hear ye." 
 
 " She's not looking, she's mending little Kate's 
 arm ; and I just want to show you the bright new 
 housewife my mother gave me, because I would 
 not play at ' touch wood' with Dick Shaw on 
 Sunday ; — and I know that no good will come of 
 him or any body else who breaks Sunday." 
 
 " I tink," said Anna Miles, who could not 
 speak plain, " I tink Dick very bold ; for he" — 
 
 " Bless me, look !" interrupted Mary Doyle. 
 " Hark ! did ye ever hear such a screaming 1 — 
 It is Dick Shaw himself; and Patty is dragging 
 him to school ; — he kicks like a donkev, — there 
 goes his shoe." 
 
34 THE YOUNG REBEL. 
 
 " His bran new spelling-book — and his hat, 
 that cost his poor father five shillings," said the 
 
 prudent Liddy " He has the best of it ; Patty 
 
 will never be able to bring him up." 
 
 " She has the best of it now though," cried 
 Mary, who, unable to sit still any longer, got one 
 foot on the lower step, and held fast to the door- 
 post, as if afraid that Dick would break loose 
 and do some more mischief. 
 
 Patty pulled — Dick kicked and roared, — no 
 young lady singing the do re mi fa, that gives 
 master and pupil so much trouble, ever opened 
 her mouth so widely as Dick — you could see all 
 the way down his throat. And Patty looked quite 
 as calm and tranquil as Dick looked wild and fu- 
 rious. Every body, yes, even the pretty face 
 which is now gazing over this pretty book, looks 
 ugly in a passion. At last Patty's firmness con- 
 quered Dick's violence, and she carried him into 
 the school-room. 
 
 Here a fresh mortification awaited the young 
 Rebel : he had been conquered by a girl ; — that 
 was bad enough ; but it was still worse to be ex- 
 pelled a girls' school. Dick stood stiff and 
 sturdy, while the good dame read him a lecture, 
 which, though simply worded, conveyed many 
 useful lessons, and ended by saying, " that evil 
 
THE YOUNG REBEL. 35 
 
 communications corrupt good manners," and he 
 should no longer remain in her school. Dick 
 was formally expelled ; and in a little time Dame 
 Mabel's scholars became as peaceable as they 
 had been before Obstinate Dick set so bad an 
 example ; even romping Mary Green became a 
 very good sort of girl. 
 
 Dick, I am sorry to say, did not improve ; for 
 poor boys as well as rich ones can never be 
 respected or prosper in their several spheres ot 
 life, if they are wilful, violent, disobedient, or 
 Sabbath breakers. 
 
 The young Rebel's father, finding that he con- 
 tinued so very wicked, permitted him to go to 
 sea ; and for many years no one heard any thing 
 of Obstinate Dick. Dear Dame Mabel grew so 
 old that the vicar got a new mistress for the 
 school ; but the old woman continued to live 
 there ; and though she was blind and nearly 
 lame, she never wanted for any thing ; for the 
 poor are often more grateful than the rich, and 
 the villagers remembered the care and pains the 
 dame took with them when they were little trou- 
 blesome children. 
 
 One fine spring morning, when Patty Shaw 
 was placing her aged friend on a nice green seat 
 at the school door, (for old people love to breathe 
 
36 THE YOUNG REBEL. 
 
 the pure air, and Mabel felt the sun's rays very 
 warm and pleasant, though she could not see its 
 brightness,) a young man, with a wooden leg anc* 
 but one eye, in a tattered sailor's dress, stopped, 
 and looked earnestly up the village. " Do you 
 want to see any one, young man?" said Patty, in 
 her clear calm voice — " or, as" you seem much 
 fatigued, is there any thing I can give you ?" 
 "Is there an old man, a carpenter, of the name 
 of Shaw, in your village 1" replied he ; " and can 
 you give me a draught of water? for I have 
 walked far, and have not a penny to buy food." 
 
 " Patty, Patty !" cried old blind Mabel, " if 
 your brother Dick is a living being, that is his 
 voice." 
 
 And she was right. Dick Shaw's temper had 
 prevented his advancement ; and he returned in 
 poverty to his native village, where, but for the.kind 
 exertions of his sister, he must have become 
 an inmate of the workhouse ; for his parents 
 were both dead, and he had not received even 
 their blessing. But Patty was beloved by every 
 one ; and poor Dick was sincerely sorry for his 
 former obstinate ways : and he now manages to 
 go more quickly on the messages of those who 
 employ him with his wooden leg, than he used 
 fcrmerly when he had two good ones. And, said 
 
THE YOUNG REBEl.. 3 
 
 ae, the other day, " If sincere penitence could 
 restore my eye and leg, which I lost through my 
 own wilfulness, I might then be really useful ; 
 but that cannot now be , so I must do my best, 
 and be thankful that God did not cut me off' in 
 the midst of my sins.** 
 
THE 
 
 TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD. 
 
 BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Child of the Country ! foe as air 
 
 Art thou, and as the sui/^hine fair ; 
 
 Born, like the lily, where tne dew 
 
 Lies odorous when the day is new ; 
 
 Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee, 
 
 Nursed to sweet music on the knee, 
 
 Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune 
 
 Which winds make 'mong the woods in June ; 
 
 I sing of thee ; — 'tis sweet to sing 
 
 Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 
 
 Child of the Town ! for thee I sigh : 
 A gilded roof's thy golden sky, 
 A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
 A narrow street thy boundless road, 
 Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp 
 Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp, 
 
TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD. 39 
 
 Through smoke, and not through trellised vines 
 And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines : 
 I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
 Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair. 
 
 Child of the Country ! thy small feet 
 Tread on strawberries red and sweet ; 
 With thee I wander forth to see 
 The flowers which most delight the bee ; 
 The bush o'er which the throstle sung 
 In April while she nursed her young ; 
 The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
 She bred her twins the timorous hare ; 
 The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells, 
 Where brown bees build their balmy cells ; 
 The greenwood stream, the shady pool, 
 Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 
 The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
 A portion of the sheltering tree, 
 And other marvels which my verse 
 Can find no language to rehearse. 
 
 Child of the Town ! for thee, alas ! 
 Glad nature spreads nor flowers nor grass : 
 Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
 Glad streams come singing as they run : 
 A maypole is thy blossom'd tree, 
 A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
 Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
 Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare 
 
40 TOWN CHILD AND 
 
 Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound 
 Hawk'd clamorous all the city round ; 
 No roses, twinborn, on the stalk, 
 Perfume thee in thy evening walk ; 
 No voice of birds — but to thee comes 
 The mingled din of cars and drums, 
 And startling cries, such as are rife 
 When wine and wassail waken strife. 
 Child of the Country ! on the lawn 
 I see thee like the bounding fawn, 
 Blithe as the bird which tries its wing 
 The first time on the winds of spring ; 
 Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
 He comes as cocks are Growing loud ; 
 Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, 
 Now groping trouts in lucid streams, 
 Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, 
 Now hunting echo's empty sound, 
 Now climbing up some old tall tree 
 
 for climbing sake. 'Twas sweet to thes 
 'o sit where birds can sit alone, 
 Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 
 Child of the Town and bustling street, 
 What woes and snares await thy feet ! 
 Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 
 Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 
 Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
 Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ; 
 
COUNTRY CHILD. 41 
 
 And thou art cabin'd and confined 
 
 At once from sun, and dew, and wind ; 
 
 Or set thy tottering feet but on 
 
 Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone ; 
 
 The coachman there careering reels 
 
 With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; 
 
 And Commerce pours each poring son 
 
 In pelf's pursuit and hollos , run. 
 
 While flush'd with wine, and stung at play, 
 
 Men rush from darkness into day. 
 
 The stream's too strong for thy small bark ; 
 
 There nought can sail, but what is stark. 
 
 Fly from the town, sweet Child ; for health 
 Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
 There is a lesson in each flower, 
 A story in each stream and bower ; 
 On every herb on which you tread 
 Are written words which, rightly read, 
 Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod 
 To hope, and holiness, and God. 
 
THE BLUE BELL, 
 
 * I would not be a floweret hung 
 
 On high in mountain snows ; 
 ]Vor o'er a castle wall be flung 
 All stately though it rose : 
 I'd breathe no sighs 
 For cloudless skies, 
 
 Nor perfumed eastern gale, 
 So I might be 
 A blue-bell free, 
 
 In some low verdant vale. 
 
 M For there the swains and maidens meet, 
 
 "With summer sport and son«j, 
 And fairies lead with unseen feet 
 Their moonlight dance alons: : 
 Each tiny lip 
 Would gladly sip 
 
 The dew my cup enshrined, 
 And next morn's bee 
 "Would drink from me 
 
 The sweets they left behind. 
 
THE BLUE BELL. 43 
 
 H The laurel hath a loftier name, 
 
 The rose a brighter hue, 
 But Heaven and I'd be clad the same 
 In fair and fadeless blue : 
 No blood-stain'd chief 
 Ere plucks this leaf, 
 
 To make his wreath more gay ! 
 Though still its flower 
 Decks village bower, 
 
 And twines the shafts of May." 
 
 Sweet Florence ! may thy gentle breast 
 
 As artless pleasures swell, 
 As those thou deemest still to rest 
 In thy beloved blue-bell ! 
 And may'st thou feel, 
 Though time shall steal 
 
 Thy beauty's freshest hue, 
 A bliss still shed 
 Around thy head, — 
 
 Unchanged like Heaven's own blue ! 
 
 R.T. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A BUTTERFLY PAINTED IN AN ALBUM, 
 
 I have noted many a time 
 Authors skill'd in prcse and rhyme, 
 Who a strict resemblance find 
 In this insect to mankind. 
 
 Often have I ponder' d on 
 That unfair comparison : 
 True, the butterfly is gay, 
 Vain, and idle in his play ; 
 Nay, perhaps he thinks no less 
 Than a coxcomb of his dress ; 
 True, he roves from bower to bower ; 
 True, he kisses every flower, 
 Quitting that he most desired 
 For another more admired : 
 Never fixing, always changing, 
 Ever wandering, ever ranging. 
 So far is resemblance seen 
 Men and butterflies between. 
 
ON A BUTTERFLY. 45 
 
 But when man successful pleads, 
 Wide he publishes his deeds ; 
 Trumpets forth the victim's shame, 
 Boasts his power, and blasts his fame ; 
 While the fickle butterfly 
 Has his one good quality, 
 (Every thing save man has some) 
 Though unfaithful— he is dumb! 
 
 T. E. C. 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 BT JOHN C. MERCIER, ESQ. 
 
 See the threatening clouds o'erhead 
 Wide their airy pinions spread ; 
 Darkly shrouding from the eye 
 Golden sun and azure sky. 
 Solemn twilight wraps the vale, 
 Hardly breathes the sinking gale, 
 Hush'd is every note of gladness, 
 Looks of joy are turn'd to sadness, 
 Nature pauses, silent, still, 
 Conscious of impending ill ! 
 
 Lo ! the lightning's vivid blaze 
 Flashes through the gloomy haze. 
 Hark ! o'er yonder mountain's brow 
 Thunders roll on thunders now. 
 Now their echoes ring afar 
 Like the wind-borne shout of war ; 
 
THE STORM. 47 
 
 Fainter now and fainter sighing, 
 Like the moans of legions dying ; 
 Now at length the murmur fails, 
 Lost among the distant dales. 
 Hide ! for now descends the storm, 
 Dusky as a locust swarm, 
 Looking in its awful state 
 Like the veil that curtains fate. 
 On the mountains craggy breast 
 Now its deepening shadows rest. 
 Fiercely brooding ere it sallies 
 Bandit-like upon the valleys ; 
 Now it moves, it sails, it sweeps 
 Downward from the giant steeps ! 
 
 Surely in this dreadful hour 
 Demons lend the tempest power ! 
 As they urge the furious breeze 
 Harvests ebb and flow like seas ; 
 Here are vineyards whirl'd in air ; 
 Forests lie uprooted there ; 
 Here are barks and billows dashing, 
 There are spires and towers crashing ; 
 Mud-built shed and marble wall 
 Heap on heap like chaos fall. 
 
 Shelter, shelter ! now the rains 
 Burst upon the ravaged plains, 
 
48 THE STORM. 
 
 As if God had once again 
 
 Will'd to drown the sons of men. 
 Pelting sleet and rattling hail 
 Drive upon the burden'd gale ; 
 Rills unseen till now are pouring, 
 Floods are swelling, torrents roaring, 
 Flocks and herds are swept away, 
 Huts and hamlets — where are they ? 
 
 Hush ! some mighty arm at length, 
 Binds the tempest in its strength ; 
 'Tis the Great Jehovah's, lo, 
 There he lifts his radiant bow. 
 At the sight the lightnings cease 
 Muffled thunders sink to peace, 
 Ruffian winds desist from railing 
 Watersprings on high are failing, 
 Mists disperse, and earth once more 
 Smiles as brightly as before. 
 
THE COTTAGE GIRL. 
 
 ST W. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 
 Those locks from Summer's golden skies, 
 
 That o'er thy brow are shed ; 
 That cheek — a kindling of the mom, 
 That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn, 
 
 I saw ; and Fancy sped 
 To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air, 
 Of bliss that grows without a care ; 
 Of happiness that never flies — 
 How can it where love never dies 1 
 Of promise whispering, where no blight 
 Can reach the innocent delight ; 
 Where pity to the mind convey'd 
 In pleasure is the darkest shade, 
 That time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 
 From his smoothly-gliding wings. 
 
 What mortal form, what earthly face, 
 Inspired the pencil, lines to trace, 
 5 
 
50 
 
 THE COUNTZ.F GIRL. 
 
 And mingle colors that could breed 
 
 Such rapture, nor want power to feed ? 
 
 For, had thy charge been idle flowers, 
 
 Fair damsel, o'er my captive mind, 
 
 To truth and sober reason blind, 
 
 'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 
 
 The sweet illusion might have hung for hours ! 
 
 — Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, 
 
 That touchingly bespeaks thee born, 
 
 Life's daily tasks with them to share, 
 
 Who, whether from their lowly bed 
 
 They rise, or rest the weary head, 
 
 Do weigh the blessing they entreat 
 
 From heaven, and feel what they repeat. 
 
 While they give utterance to the prayer 
 
 That asks for daily bread. 
 
%A 
 
 
ON TWO SISTERS. 
 
 BY F. M. REFOLDS. 
 
 Young Dora's gentle, pure, and kinio, 
 With lofty, clea:, and polish'd mind • 
 But Dora, rich in mental grace, 
 Alas ! is somewhat poor in face ; 
 Pity her noble soul don't warm, 
 A Grecian statue's perfect form * 
 
 But, Anne, in thee all charms combine ; 
 Each gift of beauty, sweet, is thine ! 
 Thy form surpasses e'en desire ; 
 Thine eyes are rolling orbs of fire ! 
 Enchanting, perfect, is the whole- 
 Pity the statue wants a soul ! 
 
LUCY AND HER BIRD. 
 
 BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 The Sky-Lark hath perceived his prison-door 
 Unclosed ; for liberty the captive tries : 
 
 Puss eagerly hath watch'd him from the floor, 
 And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies. 
 
 Lucy's own Puss, and Lucy's own dear Bird, 
 Her foster'd favorites both for many a day, 
 
 That which the tender-hearted girl preferred, 
 She in her fondness knew not sooth to say. 
 
 in. 
 For if the Sky-Lark's pipe were shrill and strong, 
 
 And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please, 
 Yet Pussybel could breathe a fireside song 
 
 As winning when she lay on Lucy's knees. 
 
LUCY AND HER BIRD. 53 
 
 IV. 
 
 Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek 
 Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain : 
 
 How faintly then my words her sorrow speak, 
 When by the one she sees the other slain. 
 
 The flowers fall scatter'd from her lifted hands ; 
 
 A cry of grief she utters in affright ; 
 And self-condemn'd for negligence she stands 
 
 Aghast and helpless at the cruel sight. 
 
 Come, Lucy, let me dry those tearful eyes ; 
 
 Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy 
 From one whom nature taught to moralise 
 
 Both in his mirth and in his melancholy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I will not warn thee not to set thy heart 
 Too fondly upon perishable things ; 
 
 In vain the earnest preacher spends his art 
 Upon that theme ; in vain the poet sings. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It is our nature's strong necessity, 
 
 And this the soul's unerring instincts tell : 
 
 Therefore, I say, let us love worthily, 
 
 Dear child, and then we cannot love too well. 
 
 5* 
 
54 LUCY AND HER BIRD. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Better it is all losses to deplore, 
 
 Which dutiful affection can sustain, 
 
 Than that the heart should, to its inmost core, 
 Harden without it, and have lived in vain. 
 
 x. 
 
 This love which thou hast lavish'd, and the woe 
 Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress, 
 
 Are but a vent, an innocent overflow, 
 
 From the deep springs of female tenderness. 
 
 And something I would teach thee from the grief 
 That thus hath filPd those gentle eyes with tears, 
 
 The which may be thy sober, sure relief 
 When sorrow visits thee in after years. 
 
 I ask not whither is the spirit flown 
 
 That lit the eye which there in death is seal'd ; 
 Our Father hath not made that mystery known ; 
 
 Needless the knowledge, the re fore not reveal'd. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But didst thou know, in sure and sacred truth, 
 It had a place assign'd in yonder skies ; 
 
 There, through an endless life of joyous youth, 
 To warble in the bowers of Paradise : 
 
LUCY AND HER BIRD. 55 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Lucy, if then the power to thee were given 
 In that cold clay its iife to re-engage, 
 
 Wouldst thou call back the warbler from its 
 To be again the tenant of a cage 1 [heaven 
 
 xv. 
 Only that thou might'st cherish it again, 
 
 Wouldst thou the object of thy love recall 
 To mortal life, and chance, and change, and pain, 
 
 And death, which must be suffer' d once by all . 
 
 xvi. 
 Oh, no, thou say'st : oh, surely not, not so ! 
 
 I read the answer which those looks express : 
 For pure and true affection well I know 
 
 Leaves in the heart no room for selfishness. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Such love of all our virtues is the jjem : 
 
 We bring with us the immortal seed at birth : 
 
 Of Heaven it is, and heavenly : woe to them 
 Who make it wholly earthly and of earth ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 What we love perfectly, for its own sake 
 
 We love, and not our own ; being ready thus 
 
 Whate'er self-sacrifice is asked, to make, 
 That which is best for it, is best for us. 
 
56 LUCY AND HER BIRD. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Lucy ! treasure up that pious thought ; 
 
 It hath a balm for sorrow's deadliest darts, 
 And with true comfort thou wilt find it fraught, 
 
 If grief should reach thee in trv^ heart of hearts. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 For days, for weeks, for months, for years, 
 did I labor and toil in the' pursuit of one bewil- 
 dering, engrossing, overwhelming object. Sleep 
 was a stranger to my eyelids ; and night after 
 night was past in undivided, unmitigated appli- 
 cation to the studies by which I hoped (vainly, 
 indeed) to attain the much desired end ; yet all 
 through this long and painful period of my ex- 
 istence, I trembled lest those who were my most 
 intimate friends, and from whom, except- upon 
 this point, I had no concealment, should discover, 
 by some incautious word, or some unguarded ex- 
 pression, the tendency of my pursuits, or the 
 character of my research. 
 
 That I had permitted the desire with which my 
 heart was torn, and my mind distmbed to obtain 
 
5S THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 such complete dominion over every thought, 
 every wish, every feeling, seems, at this period 
 of my life, wholly unaccountable ; and I recur to 
 the sufferings I endured in concealing its ex- 
 istence, with a sensation of torture little less 
 acute than that, by which I was oppressed during 
 the existence of the passion itself. 
 
 It was in the midst of this infatuation, that one 
 evening in summer, when every body was out of 
 town, and not more than eight hundred thousand 
 nobodies were left in it, I had been endeavoring 
 to walk off a little of my anxiety by a tour of the 
 outer circle in the Regent's Park, and, hearing a 
 footstep close behind gne, turned round, and be- 
 held a venerable looking old gentleman, dressed 
 entirely in green, with a green cravat tied round 
 his neck, and wearing a low-crowned hat upon 
 his head, from under which his silver hair flowed 
 loosely over his shoulders. He seemed to have 
 his eyes fixed on me when for a moment I looked 
 round at him ; and he slackened his pace (how- 
 ever much he had previously quickened it to 
 reach his then position relative to me,) so as to 
 keep nearly at the same distance from me, as he 
 was, when I first noticed him. 
 
 Nothing is more worrying to a man, or to one 
 so strangely excited as I then was, more irritating, 
 than the constant pat pat of footsteps following 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 59 
 
 him. After I had proceeded at my usual pace 
 for about ten minutes, and still found the old gen- 
 tleman behind me, I reduced my rate of going, in 
 order to allow my annoyance to pass me. Not 
 he ; he equally reduced his rate of going. Thus 
 vexed, and putting faith in inferior age and supe- 
 rior strength, I proceeded more rapidly ; still 
 the old gentleman was close upon me ; until 
 before I reached the gates of Park-crescent, 
 leading to Portland-place, I had almost broken 
 into a canter, with as little success as attended 
 my other evolutions. I therefore resumed my 
 original step, and thinking to effect by stratagem 
 what force could not accomplish, I turned ab- 
 ruptly out of Portland-place into Duchess- 
 street — the old gentleman was at my heels : I 
 passed the chapel into Portland-street — for a mo- 
 ment I lost sight of him ; but before I had 
 reached the corner of Margaret-street, there he 
 was again. 
 
 At that time I occupied lodgings in the house 
 of two maiden sisters in Great Marlborough- 
 street, and considering that the police-office in 
 that neighborhood would render me any aid I 
 might require to rid myself of my new acquain- 
 tance, should he prove troublesome, I determined 
 to run for my own port at all events. 
 
 I crossed Oxford-street, and, in order to giro 
 
60 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 myself another chance of escape, darted down 
 Blenheim-steps and along the street of that 
 name ; but the old man's descent was as rapid as 
 mine ; and happening, as I passed the museum 
 and dissecting rooms of the eminent anatomist 
 Brooks, to turn my head, my surprise was more 
 than ever excited by seeing my venerable friend 
 actually dancing in a state of ecstacy along the 
 side of the dead wall which encloses so many 
 subjects for contemplation. At this moment I 
 resolved to stop and accost him rather than make 
 the door-way of my own residence the arena of 
 a discussion. 
 
 " Sir," said I, turning short round, " you will 
 forgive my addressing you, but it is impossible 
 for me to affect ignorance that I am, for some 
 reason, the object of your pursuit. I am near 
 home : if you have any communication to make, 
 or desire any information from me, I would beg 
 you to speak now." 
 
 " You are perfectly right, sir," said the old 
 gentleman, " I do wish to speak to you ; and 
 you, although perhaps not at this moment aware 
 of it, are equally desirous of speaking to me. You 
 are now going into your lodgings in Marlborough 
 street, and so soon as you shall have divested 
 yourself of your coat, and enveloped yourself in 
 that blue silk gown which you ordinarily wear. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 61 
 
 and have taken off your boots and put your feet 
 into those morocco slippers which were made for 
 you last March by Meyer and Miller, you pur- 
 pose drinking some of the claret which you 
 bought last Christmas of Henderson and Son, of 
 Davies-street, Berkley-square, first mixing it 
 with water ; and immediately after you will ap- 
 ply yourself to the useless and unprofitable 
 studies which have occupied you during the last 
 five or six years." 
 
 " Sir," said I, trembling at what I heard, "how, 
 or by what means, you have become possessed 
 
 of these particulars, I " 
 
 " No matter," interrupted my friend : " if you 
 are disposed to indulge me with your society for 
 an hour or so, and bestow upon me a bottle of 
 the wine in question, I will explain myself 
 There, sir," continued he, " you need not hesi- 
 tate ; I see you have already made up your mind 
 to offer me the rights of hospitality ; and since I 
 know the old ladies of your house are advocates 
 for early hours and quiet visitors, I will conform 
 in all respects to their wishes and your conve- 
 nience." 
 
 Most true indeed it was that I had determined 
 coute qui coute to give my new old friend an invi- 
 tation and a bottle of wine ; and before he had 
 concluded his observations we were at the door 
 G 
 
62 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 of my house, and in a few minutes more, although 
 my servant was absent without leave, we were 
 seated at a table on which forthwith were placed 
 the desired refreshments. 
 
 My friend, who continued to evince the most 
 perfect knowledge of all my private concerns, 
 and all my most intimate connexions, became 
 evidently exhilarated by the claret ; and in the 
 course of one of the most agreeable conversa- 
 tions in which I had ever participated, he related 
 numerous anecdotes of the highest personages in 
 the country, with all of whom he seemed perfect- 
 ly intimate. He told me he was a constant at- 
 tendant at every fashionable party of the season ; 
 in the dull time of the year the theatres amused 
 him ; in term the law-courts occupied his atten- 
 tion ; and in summer, as, he said, I might have 
 seen, his pleasures lay in the rural parts of the 
 metropolis and its suburbs ; he was at that time 
 of the year always to be found in one of the parks 
 or in Kensington gardens. But his manner of 
 telling his stories afforded internal evidence of 
 their accuracy, and was so captivating that I 
 thought him without exception the pleasantest 
 old gentleman I had ever encountered. 
 
 It was now getting dark, the windows of my 
 drawing-room were open, the sashes up, and the 
 watchman's cry of " past ten o'clock" was the 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 63 
 
 first announcement to me of the rapid flight ol 
 Time in the agreeable society of my friend. 
 
 " I must be going," said he ; "I must just 
 look in at Brooks's. 
 
 " What sir," said I, recollecting his grotesque 
 dance under the wall in Blenheim-street, " over 
 the way V 
 
 " No," replied he, " in St. James's-street." 
 
 " Have another bottle of claret," said I, " and 
 a devil — " 
 
 At this word my friend appeared seriously an- 
 gry, and I heard him mutter the word " canni- 
 balism." It was then quite dark, and, as I looked 
 at his face, I could discern no features, but only 
 two brilliant orbs of bright fire glittering like 
 stars ; those were his eyes, the light from which 
 was reflected on his high cheek-bones and the 
 sides of his nose, leaving all the rest of his face 
 nearly black. It was then I first heard a thump- 
 ing against the back of his chair, like a gentle- 
 man " switching his cane ;" — I began to wish he 
 would go. 
 
 *' Sir," said the old gentleman, " any disguise 
 with me is useless ; I must take my leave ; but 
 you must not imagine that this visit was unpre- 
 meditated, or that our meeting was accidental : 
 you last night, perhaps unconsciously, invoked 
 my aid in the pursuit to which you have so long 
 
64 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 devoted yourself. The desire of your heart is 
 known to me ; and I know that the instant I 
 leave you, you will return to your fascinating 
 study, vainly to seek that, which you so con- 
 stantly languish to possess." 
 
 " I desire" — I was going to say, " nothing ;" 
 but the pale fire of his dreadful eyes turned sud- 
 denly to a blood-red color, and glistened even 
 more brightly than before, while the thumping 
 against the back of his chair was louder than 
 ever. 
 
 " You desire, young gentleman," said my 
 visitor, ''to know the thoughts of others, and 
 thirst after the power of foreseeing events that 
 are to happen : do you not ?" 
 
 " I confess sir," said I, convinced, by the 
 question and by what had already passed, that he, 
 whoever he was, himself possessed the faculty 
 he spoke of — " I confess, that for such a power I 
 have prayed, and studied, and labored, and " 
 
 " You shall possess it," interrupted my 
 
 friend. " Who / am, or what, matters little : 
 the power you seek is wholly in my gift. You 
 last night, as I have just said, invoked me ; — you 
 shall have it upon two conditions." 
 
 " Name them, sir," said I. 
 
 " The first is, that however well you know 
 what is to happen to others, you must remain in 
 
THE 3LD GENTLEMAN. 65 
 
 ignorance about yourself, except when connected 
 with them." 
 
 " To that," said I, I wil. readily agree." 
 
 " The other is, that whatever may be the con- 
 duct you adopt in consequence of possessing the 
 power of knowing the thoughts of others, you 
 are never to reveal the fact that you actually do 
 possess such a power : the moment you admit 
 yourself master of this supernatural faculty, you 
 lose it." 
 
 " Agreed, sir," said I ; " but are these all the 
 conditions ?" 
 
 " All," said my friend, " To-morrow morn- 
 ing when you awake, the power will be your own ; 
 and so, sir, I wish you a very good night." 
 
 " But, sir," said I, anxious to be better assured 
 of the speedy fulfilment of the wish of my heart, 
 (for such indeed it was,) " may I have the honor 
 of knowing your name and address 1" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha !" said the old gentleman : M my 
 name and address — Ha, ha, ha ! — my name is 
 pretty familiar to you, young gentleman ; and as 
 for my address, T dare say you will find your way 
 to me, some day or another, and so once more 
 good night." 
 
 Saying which, he descended the stairs and 
 quitted the house, leaving me to surmise who my 
 extraordinary visitor could be ; — I never knew ; 
 6* 
 
66 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 but I recollect, that after he was gone, I heard 
 one of the old ladies scolding a servant girl for 
 wasting so many matches in lighting the candles, 
 and making such a terrible smell of brimstone in 
 the house. I was now all anxiety to get to bed, 
 not because I was sleepy, but because it seemed 
 to me as if going to bed would bring me nearer 
 to the time of getting up, when I should be mas- 
 ter of the miraculous power which had been pro- 
 mised me : I rang the bell — my servant was still 
 out — it was unusual for him to be absent at so 
 late an hour. I waited until the clock struck 
 eleven, but he came not ; and resolving to repri- 
 mand him in the morning, I retired to rest. 
 
 Contrary to my expectation, and, as it seemed 
 to me, to the ordinary course of nature, consi- 
 dering the excitement under which I was labor- 
 ing, I had scarcely laid my head on my pillow 
 before I dropped into a profound slumber, from 
 which I was only aroused by my servant's en- 
 trance to my room. The instant I awoke I sat 
 up in bed, and began to reflect on what had 
 passed, and for a moment to doubt whether it had 
 not been all a dream. However, it was daylight , 
 the period had arrived when the proof of my 
 newly acquired power might be made. 
 
 " Barton, 1 ' said I to my man, " why were you 
 not at home last night ! w 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 67 
 
 " I had to wait, sir, nearly three hours," he 
 replied, " for an answer to the letter which you 
 sent to Major Sheringham." 
 
 " That is not true," said I ; and to my infinite 
 surprise I appeared to recollect a series of occur- 
 rences, of which I never had previously heard, 
 and could have known nothing : " you went to 
 see your sweetheart, Betsy Collyer, at Camber- 
 well, and took her to a tea-garden, and gave her 
 cakes and cider, and saw her home again : you 
 mean to do the same thing on Sunday ; and to- 
 morrow you mean to ask me for your quarter's 
 wages, although not due till Monday, in order to 
 buy her a new shawl." 
 
 The man stood aghast : it was all true. I was 
 quite as much surprised as the man. 
 
 " Sir," said Barton, who had served me for 
 seven years without having once before been 
 found fault with, " I see you think me unworthy 
 your confidence ; you could not have known this, 
 if you had not watched, and followed, and over- 
 heard me and my sweetheart : my character will 
 get me through the world without being looked 
 after : I can stay with you no longer ; you will 
 please, sir, to provide yourself with another ser- 
 vant." 
 
 " But, Barton," said I, " I did not follow or 
 watch you ; I 
 
68 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," he replied, " it is not 
 for me to contradict ; but, you'll forgive me, sir, 
 I would rather go — I must go." 
 
 At this moment I was on the very point of 
 easing his mind, and retaining my faithful servant 
 by a disclosure of my power, but it was yet too 
 new to be parted with ; so I affected an anger I 
 did not feel, and told him he might go where he 
 pleased. I had, however, ascertained that the 
 old gentleman had not deceived me in his pro- 
 mises ; and elated with the possession of my ex- 
 traordinary faculty, I hurried to the operation of 
 dressing, and before I had concluded it, my ar- 
 dent friend Sheringham was announced ; he was 
 waiting in the breakfast-room : at the same mo- 
 ment a note from the lovely Fanny Hayward was 
 delivered to me — from the divine girl who, in the 
 midst of all my scientific abstraction, could 
 " chain my wordly feelings for a moment." 
 
 " Sheringham, my dear fellow," said I, as I 
 advanced to welcome him, " what makes you so 
 early a visitor this morning?" 
 
 " An anxiety," replied Sheringham, " to tell 
 you that my uncle, whose interest I endeavored to 
 procure for you, in regard to the appointment for 
 which you expressed a desire, has been com- 
 pelled to recommend a relation of the Marquess; 
 this gives me real pain, out I thought it would ba 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 69 
 
 est to put you out of suspense as soon as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 w Major Sheringham," said I, drawing myself 
 up coldly, " if this matter concerns you so deeply, 
 as you seem to imply that it does, might I ask 
 why you so readily agreed to your uncle's propo- 
 sition, or chimed in with his suggestion, to be- 
 stow the appointment on this relation of the 
 Marquess, in order that you might, in return for 
 it, obtain the promotion for which you are so 
 anxious V 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Sheringham, evident- 
 ly confused, " I — I — never chimed in ; my un- 
 cle certainly pointed out the possibility to which 
 you allude, but that, was merely contingent upon 
 what he could not refuse to do." 
 
 " Sheringham," said I, " your uncle has al- 
 ready secured for you the promotion, and you 
 will be gazetted for the lieutenant-colonelcy of 
 your regiment on Tuesday. I am not to be told 
 that you called at the horse-guards, in your way 
 to your uncle's yesterday, to ascertain the cor- 
 rectness of the report of the vacancy which you 
 had received from your friend Macgregor ; or 
 that you, elated by the prospect before you, were 
 the person, in fact, to suggest the arrangement 
 which has been made, and promise your uncle to 
 * smooth me over' for the present." 
 
70 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Sir," said Sheringham, " where you picked 
 up this intelligence I know not ; but I must say, 
 that such mistrust, after years of undivided inti- 
 macy, is not becoming, or consistent with the 
 character which I hitherto supposed you to pos- 
 sess. When by sinister means the man we look 
 upon as a friend descends to be a spy upon our 
 actions, confidence is at an end, and the sooner 
 our intercourse ceases the better. Without some 
 such conduct, how could you become possessed 
 of the details upon which you have grounded 
 your opinion of my conduct ? M 
 
 " I " and here again was a temptation to 
 
 confess and fall ; but I had not the courage to do 
 it. " Suffice it, Major Sheringham, to say, I 
 knew it ; and, moreover, I know, that when you 
 leave me, your present irritation will prompt you 
 to go to your uncle and check the disposition he 
 feels at this moment to serve me." 
 
 " This is too much, sir," said Sheringham ; 
 " this must be our last interview, unless indeed 
 your unguarded conduct towards me, and your 
 intemperate language concerning me, may ren- 
 der one more meeting necessary ; and so, sir, 
 here ends our acquaintance." 
 
 Saying which, Sheringham, whose friendship 
 even to my enlightened eye was nearly as sincere 
 as any other man's, quitted my room, fully con* 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 71 
 
 vinced of my meanness and imworthiness : my 
 heart sank within me when I heard the door close 
 upon him for the last time. I now possessed the 
 power I had so long desired, and in less than an 
 hour had lost a valued friend and a faithful ser- 
 vant. Nevertheless, Barton had told me a false- 
 hood, and Sheringham was gazetted on the Tues- 
 day night. 
 
 I proceeded to open Fanny Hayward's note ; 
 it contained an invitation to dinner with her mo- 
 ther, and a request that I would accompany them 
 to the opera, it being the last night of the last ex- 
 tra subscription. I admired Fanny — nay, I al- 
 most loved her ; and w T hen I gazed on her with 
 rapture, I traced in the mild and languishing ex- 
 pression of her soft blue eye, approbation of my 
 suit, and pleasure in my praise. I took up my 
 pen to answer her billet, and intuitively and in- 
 stinctively wrote as follows : 
 
 44 Dear Miss Hay ward, 
 44 1 should have much pleasure in accepting 
 your kind invitation for this evening, if it were 
 given in the spirit of sincerity, which has hitherto 
 characterized your conduct ; but you must be 
 aware that the plan of going to the opera to-night 
 was started, not because you happen to have a 
 box, but because you expect to meet Sir Henr r 
 
72 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Witherington, with whom you were so much 
 pleased at Lady G.'s on Thursday, and to whom 
 you consigned the custody of your fan, on condi- 
 tion that he personally returned it in safety at the 
 opera to-night ; as I have no desire to be the foil 
 of any thing in itself so intrinsically brilliant as 
 your newly discovered baronet, I must decline 
 your proposal. 
 
 " Your mother's kindness in sanctioning the 
 invitation would have been more deeply felt, if I 
 did not know that the old lady greatly approves 
 of your new acquaintance, and suggested to you 
 the necessity of having me to play propriety 
 during the evening, call up her carriage, and hand 
 her to it, while Sir Henry was making the amiable 
 to you, and escorting you, in our footsteps, 
 Tell Mrs. Hayward that, however much she and 
 you may enjoy the joke, I have no desire to be 
 admitted as a ■ safe man,' and that I suggest hei 
 offering her cotelette to Sir Henry as well as hei 
 company. With sympathetic regards, 
 
 Believe me, dear Miss Hayward, 
 vours, 
 
 This note I immediately despatched, overjoyed, 
 that the power I possessed enabled me to pene- 
 trate the flimsy mask with which Mrs. Hayvvarti 
 nad endeavored to disguise her real views and i 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 73 
 
 tentions, and had scarcely finished breakfast be- 
 fore Mr. Fitman, my tailor, was ushered in, in 
 company with a coat of the prevailing color, and 
 Che most fashionable cut : in less than five 
 minutes it was on, and the collar, the cuffs, the 
 sleeves, and the skirts, became at once the ob- 
 jects of the author's admiration. 
 
 " Him is quite perfect, I declare," said the 
 tailor, who, of course, was a foreigner. 
 
 After his high eulogium upon the cloth, I told 
 him that it was not what he represented, and ac- 
 tually detailed the place at which he had bought 
 it, and the name of the shopkeeper who had sold 
 it : this irritated the tailor, who became extreme 
 ly insolent, and our interview ended with my 
 kicking him down stairs, from the bottom of 
 which he proceeded to the police-office, in my 
 own street, and procured a warrant for the as- 
 sault, by which I was compelled to appear before 
 the magistrates on the following day, knowing, 
 before I went, the whole course the case would 
 take, and the decision they would make, in pre- 
 cisely the terms which they subsequently adopted. 
 
 Still, however, I stood alone in power, unless 
 indeed my old friend in green did actually share 
 the talent I possessed ; and not being able to 
 make up my mind to put an end to the enjoyment 
 of an object I had so long labored to aitain, 1 
 7 
 
74 THE OLD GENTLEMAN, 
 
 contented myself with resolving to be more cau- 
 tious in future, and less freely or frequently ex- 
 hibit my mysterious quility. 
 
 After the little disagreeable adventure I have 
 just recounted, I thought perhaps I had better pro- 
 ceed to the Temple, and consult my lawyer, who 
 as well as being professedly concerned for me, 
 had been for a long time my intimate acquain- 
 tance. I knew what the decision of the justices 
 would be, but I thought the attendance of a legal 
 adviser would make the affair more respectable 
 in the eyes of the public, and I accordingly bent 
 my steps citywise. 
 
 "YYhen I reached the Temple, my worthy Max- 
 well was at home ; as usual his greetings were 
 the warmest, his expressions the kindest. I ex- 
 plained my case, to which he listened attentively, 
 and promised his assistance, but in a moment I 
 perceived that, however bland and amiable his 
 conduct to me might appear, he had several times 
 during the preceding spring told his wife that he 
 believed I was mad. In corroboration of which, 
 I recollected that she had on the occasion of my 
 last three or four visits placed herself at the 
 greatest possible distance from me, in the draw- 
 ing-room, and had always rung the bell, to have 
 her children taken away the moment I entered. 
 
 In pursuance of my cautious resolution, how- 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 75 
 
 ever, I took no notice of this ; but when I spoke, 
 of the length of time which had elapsed since I 
 had seen Mrs. Maxwell, 1 found out, from what 
 was passing in her husband's mind, that she had 
 determined never to be at home when I called, or 
 ever dine in her own house if I was invited. 
 Maxwell, however, promised to be with me in 
 the morning, in time to attend the magistrates, 
 and I knew he meant to keep his promise ; so 
 far I was easy about that affair, and made seve- 
 ral calls on different acquaintances, few of whom 
 were at heme — some were — but as I set down 
 the exclusion which I found so general as the re- 
 sult of the wild abstracted manner consequent 
 upon my abstruse studies, and my heart-wearing 
 anxiety, I determined now to become the gayest, 
 most agreeable person possible, and profiting by 
 experience, keep all my wisdom to myself. 
 
 I went into the water-color exhibition at 
 Charing-square ; there I heard two artists compli- 
 menting each other, while their hearts were burst- 
 ing with mutual envy. There too, I found a 
 mild, modest-looking lady, listening to the be- 
 witching nothings of her husband's particular 
 friend ; and I knew, as I saw her frown and ab- 
 ruptly turn away from him with every appearance 
 of real indignation, that she had at that very mo- 
 ment mentally '-esolved to elope with him the fol- 
 
76 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 lowing night. In Harding's shop I found au- 
 thors congregated to " laugh the sultry hours 
 away," each watching to catch his neighbor's 
 weak point, and make it subject matter of mirth 
 in his evening's conversation. I saw a viscount 
 help his father out of his carriage with every 
 mark of duty and veneration, and knew that he 
 was actually languishing for the earldom, and 
 estates of the venerable parent of whose health 
 he was apparently taking so much care. At 
 Howell and James's I saw more than I could 
 tell, if I had ten times the space afforded me that 
 I have, and I concluded my tour by dropping in at 
 •the National Gallery, where the ladies and gen- 
 tlemen seemed to prefer nature to art, and were 
 actually employed in looking at the pictures, and 
 thinking of themselves. 
 
 Oh ! it was a strange time then, when every 
 man's heart was open to me, and I could sit and 
 see and hear all that was going on, and know the 
 workings of the inmost feelings of my associ- 
 ates : however, I must not detain the reader with 
 reflections. 
 
 On this memorable first day of my potency, I 
 proceeded after dinner, to the opera, to satisfy 
 myself of the justness of my accusation against 
 Fanny. I looked up to their box, and immedi- 
 ately behind my once single-minded girl, sat Sir 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 77 
 
 Henry "VYitherington himself, actually playing 
 with the identical fan, of which I had instinctive- 
 ly and intuitively written without ever having 
 seen it before. There was an ease and confi- 
 dence about the fellow, and he was so graceful 
 and good-looking, and Fanny gazed at him so 
 long and so frequently, that I could bear it no 
 more, and thinking that after our long intimacy 
 my letter of the morning might have gone for 
 nothing, I proceeded to their box, determined to 
 rally. Of Sir Henry's thoughts about me, I was 
 utterly ignorant, for he did not even know my 
 name, so that I ceuld have shared none of his 
 consideration. I was aware, however, that the 
 mother was downright angry, and Fanny just so 
 much piqued as to make our reconciliation a 
 work of interest and amusement, 
 
 I certainly did not perfectly appreciate Mrs 
 Hay ward's feelings towards me, for when as 
 usual I entered her curtained territory, her glance 
 was instantly averted from me to Fanny, who 
 looked grave, and I found was seriously annoyed 
 at my appearance : however, I knew I had influ- 
 ence, and with my commanding power I resolved 
 to remain. After a pause, during which Sir Hen- 
 ry eyed me, and the ladies alternately, he in- 
 quired of Mrs. Hayward if I were a friend o{ 
 
 tiers. 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Assuredly not, Sir Henry," said Mrs. Hay 
 ward. " I did know the person, but his conduct 
 renders it impossible that our acquaintance 
 should continue." 
 
 Fanny's heart began to melt ; she would have 
 caught me by the hand and bid me stay. I relied 
 on this, and moved not. 
 
 " Pray madam," said Sir Henry, u is this per- 
 son's presence here disagreeable to you ?" 
 
 " Particularly so, Sir Henry," said the old la- 
 dy, with all the malice of offended dignity. 
 
 " Then, sir," said Sir Henry, " you must leave 
 the box." 
 
 "Must I, indeed, sir?" said I, becoming in 
 turn much more angry than the old lady. 
 
 " Pray ! pray !" said Fanny. 
 
 " Be quiet, child," said her obdurate mother, 
 
 " Yes sir," said Sir Henry, " must ! and if this 
 direction is not speedily obeyed, the boxkeepe^ 
 shall be called to remove you." 
 
 " Sir Henry Ywtherington," said I, " the so- 
 ciety you are in, seals my lips and binds my 
 hands. I will leave the box, on condition that 
 for one moment only, you will accompany me." 
 
 M Certainly, sir," said Sir Henry, and in an in- 
 stant we were both in the passage. 
 
 I drew a card from my case, and putting it in- 
 to his hand, said, " Sir Henry Vi itherington* 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 79 
 
 your uncalled for interference of to-night must 
 be explained ; here is the card of one who has 
 no other feeling for your insolence but that of 
 the most ineffable contempt." Saying which, I 
 walked out of the Opera-house, and he rejoined 
 the ladies, who were in a state of serious agita- 
 tion — Fanny on my account, and her mother on 
 account of her. 
 
 This affair ended, I returned once more to 
 bed, and once more fell into a deep slumber, from 
 which I was aroused by Barton, who informed 
 me that Colonel MacManton was waiting to 
 speak a few words to me in the drawing-room. 
 
 Of course I knew the object of /us visit ; he 
 came to invite me to Chalk Farm, where, proba- 
 bly, he had already ordered pistols for two, and 
 breakfast for four ; and I hastened down stairs, 
 rather anxious than otherwise to exhibit my per- 
 son in the field of honor, that I might at once 
 become the friend of the brave, and the idol of 
 the fair. 
 
 I entered the drawing-room, and found my vi- 
 sitor waiting. 
 
 " Sir," said the colonel, " I imagine, after what 
 passed last night between you and my friend, Sir 
 Henry Witherington, I need hardly announce the 
 object of my visit. I will not offend you by 
 mentioning the alternative of a meeting, but 
 
80 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 merely request you to refer me to some friend of 
 yours, with whom I may make the necessary ar- 
 rangements as speedily as possible." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, speaking, as it were, not of 
 myself, " I must decline a meeting with Sir Hen- 
 ry Witherington ; and I tell you in the outset of 
 the business that no power will induce me to lend 
 myself to any arrangement which may lead to 
 one." 
 
 " This is a most extraordinary resolution, sir," 
 said the colonel. " I can assure you, although I 
 have stated the matter as delicately as I could, 
 that Sir Henry will accept of no apology ; nor 
 indeed could I permit him to do so, even if he 
 were so inclined." 
 
 " You have had my answer, sir," said I : " 1 
 refuse his challenge." 
 
 " Perhaps," inquired the colonel, " you will be 
 good enough to state your reason." 
 
 " Precisely this, sir," I replied. " Our quarrel 
 and rencontre of last night arose out of the per 
 verseness of an old lady, and the inconsiderate- 
 ness of a young one : they both regret the cir- 
 cumstance as much as I do ; and Sir Henry him- 
 self, in thus calling me to account, is obeying the 
 dictates of fashion rather than those of feeling." 
 
 " But that, sir," said the colonel, " is Sir Hen 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 81 
 
 ry's affair. I must endeavor to extract some bet- 
 ter reason than this." 
 
 " Well then, sir," I rejoined, " if Sir Henry 
 meets me he will fall — it must be so — and I will 
 not consent to imbrue my hands in the blood of 
 a fellow-creature in such a cause." 
 
 " Is that your only motive, sir, for declining 
 his invitation V 9 exclaimed the gallant colonel, 
 somewhat sneeringly. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " Then, sir, it becomes me to state, in direct 
 terms, that Sir Henry Witherington must in fu- 
 ture consider you unworthy to fill the station of a 
 gentleman in society ; and that he will, on the 
 first opportunity, exercise the only means, left 
 him under the circumstances, of satisfying his 
 offended honor, by inflicting personal chastise- 
 ment upon you wherever he meets you." 
 
 Saying which, the colonel, believing me in his 
 heart to be the arrantest coward alive, took his 
 leave : but however annoyed I felt at the world- 
 ly consequences of this affair, I gloried in my 
 privilege of prescience, which had informed me 
 of the certain result of our hostile interview. I 
 then prepared myself to receive my lawyer, and 
 attend the magistrates: — that affair was soon set- 
 tled — the tailor entered into sureties to indict me 
 at the sessions, and I knew that the worshipful 
 
82 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 personages on the bench calculated on no slight 
 degree of punishment, as the reward of my cor- 
 rection of Fitman's insolence. 
 
 The story of Sir Henry's challenge soon got 
 wind. Those who had been my warmest friends 
 saw something extremely agreeable on the other 
 side of the way, if they met me walking ; and re- 
 marks neither kind nor gentle, assailed my ears 
 as I passed the open windows of the club-houses 
 in St. James's-sireet. Although I yet had not 
 had the ill fortune to meet my furious antagonist, 
 I did not know how long it might be before he 
 would return to town, I therefore decided upon 
 quitting it ; and driven, as it were, out of society, 
 fixed my abode in one of the prettiest villages in 
 the kingdom, between forty and fifty miles from 
 the metropolis. 
 
 How sweet and refreshing were the breezes 
 which swept across that fertile valley, stretching 
 to the feet cf the lofty South Downs — what an 
 expanse of view — rwhat brightness and clearness 
 of atmosphere— what serenity — what calm — what 
 comfort ! Here was I, domesticated with an 
 amiable family, whose hearts I could read, and 
 whose minds were open to me : — they esteemed, 
 they loved me — When others would oppress and 
 hunt me from the world, their humble home was 
 at my disposal. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 83 
 
 My friends had been married many years, and 
 one only daughter was their care and pride. She 
 was fresh and beautiful as a May morning, and 
 her bright eyes sparkled with pleasure as she 
 welcomed me to the cottage ; and then, I knew, 
 what years before I had so much desired to know, 
 but never yet believed, that she loved me. " This 
 effect of my knowledge repays me for all that is 
 past," said I ; " now shall I be truly happy." 
 
 I soon discovered, however, that although 
 Mary's early affection for me (for we had been 
 much together in our younger days) still reigned 
 and ruled in her heart, that I had a rival, a rival 
 favored by her parents, for the common and ob- 
 vious reason, that he was rich ; but the moment 
 I saw him, I read his character, and saw the la- 
 tent workings of his mind — I knew him for a vil- 
 lain. 
 
 The unaffected kindness of Mary for her old 
 playmate, and the endearing good-nature with 
 which she gathered me the sweetest flowers from 
 her own garden ; the evident pleasure with which 
 she recurred to days long past, and the marked 
 interest with which she listened to my plans foi 
 the future, soon aroused in her avowed lover's 
 breast hatred for me and jealousy of her ; and 
 although to herself and the family his manner 
 remained unchanged, I, who could fathom depths 
 
84 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 beyond the ken of other mortals, watched with 
 dreadful anxiety the progress of his passion ; the 
 terrible workings of rage, and doubt, and disap- 
 pointment, in his mind. Mary saw nothing of 
 this ; and considering her marriage with him a 
 settled and fixed event, gave him her society with 
 the unreserved confidence of an affianced bride. 
 And although I knew that she would gladly have 
 left his arm to stroll through the meadows and 
 the groves with me ; that, which she considered 
 her duty to her parents, and to her future hus- 
 band, led her to devote a great proportion of her 
 time to him. Still he was not to be satisfied with 
 what, he could not but feel, was a divided affec- 
 tion ; and gradually the love he once bore her 
 began to curdle on his heart, until it turned, as I 
 at once foresaw, to deadly hate ; and the pre- 
 dominant passion of his soul was revenge on me, 
 and on the ill-fated innocent girl for whom he 
 once would have died. 
 
 At length the horrid spectacle presented itself 
 to my all-searching and all-seeing eye of two 
 " minds o'erthrown." Mary, as the period fixed 
 for their marriage approached, sickened at the 
 coming event ; and too sincere, too inartificial 
 for concealment, owned to me the dread she felt 
 of marrying the lover accepted by her parents : 
 there she paused, but I knew the rest ; and 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 85 
 
 pressing her to my heart, received from her rosy- 
 lips the soft kiss of affection and acceptance. 
 She had resolved to fly with me from the home 
 of her parents, rather than fulfil the promise they 
 had made. My prescribed ignorance of my own 
 fate, and of my own affairs, hindered my knowing 
 that her intended husband had overheard this 
 confession. We had fixed the hour for flight the 
 evening following that, on which she owned hei 
 love, and preceding the day intended for his 
 marriage. The blow was too powerful for him 
 to resist : rage, jealousy, disappointment, and 
 vengeance, occupied his whole mind ; and the 
 moment that my individual and particular con- 
 duct was disconnected from his proceedings, I 
 discovered his desperate intention towards my 
 poor Mary. 
 
 That evening — the next she would be mine — 
 hat evening we had agreed that Mary should 
 take her usual walk with her lover; and although 
 he had appeared gloomy during the day, I had de- 
 tected nothing in his thoughts which could justly 
 alarm me ; but when the evening closed in, and 
 he, by appointment, came to fetch her for their 
 ramble, then my power enabled me to foresee 
 the train of circumstances which were to follow. 
 The weapon was concealed in one of his pockets 
 
 which was to give his victim her deathblow ; its 
 8 
 
86 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 companion, which was to rid him of lift, rested 
 in the other. The course of his thoughts, of 
 his intentions, was before me : the spot where 
 he intended to commit the double murder evi- 
 dent to my sight. As she was quitting the gar- 
 den to meet him, I rushed after her ; I entreated, 
 I implored her not to stir. I foretold a storm — 
 I suggested a thousand probable ills which might 
 befall her if she went : but she told me that she 
 had promised to meet Charles, and go she must : 
 it was for the last time, she said — she must go. 
 Was I jealous of her"? 
 
 " No, no, my sweet girl !" said I : " your life, 
 dearer to me than my own, depends upon your 
 compliance with my desire, that you will stay." 
 
 " My life V 9 said Mary. 
 
 " Yes, beloved of my heart !" exclaimed I ' 
 " your cruel lover would be your murderer !" 
 
 " Charles murder me !" said she, half wild, 
 and quite incredulous : " you are mad." 
 
 " No, no ; I know it" said I, still holding 
 her. 
 
 " This is the height of folly," replied Mary, 
 calmly : " pray let me go — I have promised — it 
 will lull suspicions — am I not yours V 9 
 
 •* Yes, yes, and go you shall not." 
 
 " Tell me how you have gained this informa- 
 tion," said she, " and I will attend to it." 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. S7 
 
 " If vou go, you perish !" said I. " Stay, and 
 the rage which this desperate madman now 
 would vent on you will turn upon himself." 
 
 " What a thought !" said the half-distracted 
 girl. " I'll go this instant !" 
 
 " No, no, my beloved ! What shall I say to 
 hinder you 1" 
 
 " Tell me how or by what means you have at- 
 tained this knowledge, and I repeat, I will stay." 
 
 I had the power to save her ; by confessing 
 it, I should preserve her, but I should lose my 
 envied faculty, the object of my life — was there 
 a moment to doubt ? 
 
 14 Mary," said I, " I have a supernatural 
 knowledge of events — I surrender it — stay ? M 
 
 At that instant the report of a pistol near the 
 place of appointment roused our attention from 
 ourselves : and running to the place whence the 
 noise proceeded, we found the unhappy victim of 
 jealousy stone dead, and weltering in his blood : 
 the pistol intended to take my Mary's life was 
 yet clenched in his cold hand. 
 
 From this moment my power was gone, and I 
 began again to see the world as my fellow-crea- 
 tures do. Mary became my wife with the con- 
 sent of her parents ; and as I was returning from 
 church, I saw, amongst the crowd before the vil- 
 lage inn, my old friend in green, who accosted 
 
8S THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 me with great good nature, and congratulated me 
 upon my enviable situation. 
 
 " Sir," said I, " I thank you ; and I thank you 
 tor having by some means inexplicable by me. 
 gratified the ruling passion of my heart. In the 
 ignorance of my nature, I desired to possess a 
 power incompatible with the finite character of 
 the human mind. I have now learnt by experi- 
 ence that a limit is set to human knowledge for 
 the happiness of man ; and in future I shall be 
 perfectly satisfied with the blessings which a wise 
 and good Providence has afforded us, without 
 daring to presume upon the bounty by which we 
 are placed so pre-eminently above all other living 
 creatures." 
 
 " A very moral and proper observation," said 
 my friend, evidently displeased at my moralizing. 
 
 " "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." 
 
 Saying which, he turned upon his heel, and was 
 lost among the throng. 
 
 I have several times since seen the old gentle- 
 man walking about London, looking as hale and 
 as hearty as ever, but I have always avoided 
 him ; and although I have reason to believe he 
 has seen me, more than once ; by a sort of tacit 
 consent we never acknowledge each other. 
 
 I returned to my home, blest with an affec- 
 
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 89 
 
 tionute wife ; hoping for the best, profiting by the 
 past, enjoying the present, and putting our trust 
 in God for the future. 
 
 — oojoe— 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 A TILLAGE SKETCH. 
 BY MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 There was no use in arguing the matter ; it 
 would have been ridiculous to attempt to per- 
 suade a single inhabitant of the village, high or 
 low, that our Mountain Daisy was any thing 
 short of absolute perfection ; — a little terrestrial 
 angel — a — how we rummaged our perplexed 
 brains to procure an appropriate name for that 
 dear child, when first she came to Devon Glade. 
 Her own to be sure was a very pretty one, 
 Isabel de Mondalberto, but it would not do for 
 i>«. First, we called her the Lily of A he Vale ; 
 8* 
 
90 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 but Mr. Crabthorne, (who is a great botanist,) 
 sensibly remarked that it was a very improper 
 title, because a lily was white, and Isabel was 
 very brown ; the lily of the vale, moreover, de- 
 lights in valleys, but our little favorite's cottage 
 hung like a bird-cage over one of the Devon 
 crags ; and she was continually forming ac- 
 quaintance with all the wild goats in the neigh 
 borhood. Then my cousin designated her The 
 Forget-me-not : — We asked him why 1 and he 
 very foolishly said, because Isabel's eyes were 
 like that lovely flower. The great goose ! — her 
 eyes were black ! And such eyes ! no artist upon 
 earth, except Sir Thomas Lawrence, could paint 
 such eyes : — not the firm set English greys, so 
 properly governed that they open and shut 
 like those of the great doll in Oxford Street, but 
 living, speaking eyes — so rich, so lustrous, that 
 when they were suffused with tears (and they 
 sometimes were) they sparkled like diamonds un- 
 der rain drops. We were indeed sadly puzzled, 
 but at last the matter was settled — she was meek 
 as she was beautiful — she dwelt among rocks and 
 mountains : and she was everlastingly decking 
 ner pet kid's neck with daisy garlands — so we 
 called her — I do not think we could have done 
 better — " the Mountain Daisy." 
 
 " The Goat Nest," (as the cottage where our 
 
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 91 
 
 Daisy dwelt had long been designated,) after the 
 deatn of old Simon Mattocks, was for a consider- 
 able period without a tenant ; it was so wildly 
 situated, and so difficult of access, that the land- 
 lord would have pulled it down, were it not that 
 viewed from the glade, it formed a wild and beau- 
 tiful object. The larch, the fir, the oak, and 
 here and there the spreading beech, afforded it 
 shelter from sun and storm ; and the ledge of 
 mixed shingle and sward on which it rested was 
 so carefully cultivated by our little mountaineer, 
 that even in the valley's inmost bosom, the rose 
 and honeysuckle did not blossom or twine more 
 luxuriantly than over the Goat Nest. The gar- 
 den was speckled with geraniums and myrtles, 
 «and such delicious thyme ! that her bees— na- 
 ture's wild and useful commoners — seldom 
 winged over the low rustic wall that was more 
 than half covered by virgin's-bower and gigantic 
 wall-flowers, but hummed and worked in their 
 own realm, setting a sweet example of industry, 
 cheerfulness, and contentment. A very high 
 rock towered behind the cottage, and from it 
 poured a stream of the coldest, purest water, 
 which sometimes gurgled and made its way 
 through the tangled brushwood, wrangling with 
 every bush and bramble that intercepted its 
 course, then dashing over the fallen trees and 
 
92 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 sharp stones, with the impetuosity of a young 
 lordling at his first fox hunt, and finally continu- 
 ing its course in the valley, over a bed of spark- 
 ling sand, with as much sweetness and placidity 
 as if nothing had happened to disturb it in its 
 path. The Daisy's greatest enjoyment was to 
 take off her shoes and stockings, and with no 
 other living companions than her goats, accom- 
 pany this mountain stream on its way ; now in, 
 now out of the water ; now gathering the tas- 
 selled hazel, the broad fern, or the clustering wild 
 grape : or in spring, peeping into the nest of th? 
 soaring lark, or scattering crumbs for the familiar 
 robin, which soon learnt to follow her steps, and 
 pour forth its thanks along every path she trod. 
 
 Mid-way down the hill, there was a somewhat 
 level piece of ground, called " the Rest," where 
 the village girls washed their clothes ; and there, 
 one morning, I surprised my little heroine, lean- 
 ing against a tub that some one had left on the 
 edge of the bank, her dress more off than on, and 
 her eyes upturned, with a sweet, yet melancholy 
 expression, which I shall never forget ; her kid 
 was drinking at her feet, but there was no gar- 
 land round its neck. 
 
 4 » What a charming morning, Isabel," said I : 
 " but, love, you will catch cold : where are you? 
 shoes V 
 
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 93 
 
 « I left them at the cottage, Madam ; and I do 
 not fear cold :" was her reply. 
 
 " There is something the matter, my dear," I 
 continued, for she turned from me to hide the 
 tears that were gathering in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, no, only I am so glad to meet you ; my 
 dear grandmamma is not well, and I wanted to 
 send to you, and she would not let me ; but I 
 strolled down, and was waiting for some one who 
 would take a message into the village to you ; for 
 I fear she is very ill, worse than she seems." 
 
 There was a mystery about the inhabitants ot 
 the Goat Nest which completely teased the gos- 
 sips of Devon Glade. Madame de Mondalberto, 
 our Daisy's grandmamma, was hardly ever seen 
 in the village ; and her only attendant, a stiff el- 
 derly Italian woman, either did not, or pretended 
 not to, understand English. I had severaltimes 
 clambered up to her dwelling and visited the old 
 lady, and was always received by her with that 
 dignified politeness, which showed more ac- 
 quaintance with courts than cottages. When, 
 indeed, she thanked me for the kindness shown 
 to our beloved Daisy, the tears used to rush to 
 her eyes, and a warm and affectionate glow 
 spread over her calm and majestic features: 
 but lately, either from illness or sonie secret 
 cause, she was very seldom seen. When I en- 
 
94 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 tered the cottage, the servant seemed as stately 
 as the mistress. — " Do not, my own dear grand- 
 mamma, be angry with me for asking our kind 
 friend to come and see you. See, mamma, she 
 has climbed the mountain — she is so good : and 
 
 do, — oh, do tell her " " My dear Isabel," 
 
 said the courtly lady, " I am proud of the honor 
 done me ; and hope I shall always be able to re- 
 ceive your kind friend as she deserves ; though 
 
 this poor cottage is not " the color flushed 
 
 her pale cheek, and she burst into an uncon- 
 strained flood of tears. Isabol looked at her ven- 
 erable parent with an indescribable expression, 
 and dropping on her knees besought her to be 
 calm, and repeatedly assured her, that she did not 
 mean to offend, by bringing me there. " Offend ! 
 no, my child ; but," she added, turning to me, 
 "there are times, there are circumstances, 
 which, particularly during illness, oblige us to 
 
 feel the presence of our dearest friends a 
 
 pray be seated, Madam, and forgive an old wo- 
 man, who is unable either to command or to ex- 
 press her feelings — " I lamented her illness, 
 and pressed my services as long and as earnest- 
 ly as I could ; but she declined my advances, 
 and my drooping Daisy saw me depart without 
 being of the slightest use to her venerable pa- 
 rent. The next evening, the stiff Italian came 
 
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 95 
 
 to me, and for the first time spoke something like 
 English. I quickly understood that Madame 
 de Mondalberto was much worse, and wished to 
 see me. I found her very ill, but supported in 
 an old oak chair by pillows, and dear Daisy 
 sitting on a little stool at her feet ; a large silver 
 rosary lay on the table, and a Latin breviary was 
 open on her lap. I had taken some fine grapes, 
 and some cordials in my little basket, and my 
 favorite's eyes sparkled brightly, when I pre- 
 sented my offering. 
 
 " I have sent for you, Madam," she said, 
 44 that I may have an opportunity of conquering 
 my foolish pride, which iigw ill becomes me, and 
 at the same time of proving that I value and re- 
 spect you." 
 
 The lady thought she Avas dying ; and she was 
 anxious to inform me who my beloved Daisy 
 was, that if it pleased God to call her, the moun- 
 tain girl might have one friend, in what her pa- 
 rent knew was a cold, a very cold world. 
 
 Madame de Mondalberto, a widow before 
 most women are wives, was a native of Florence ; 
 she had one son, who, at a very early period of 
 life, went to the East, with the hope of amassing 
 wealth sufficient to retrieve the honors of a fallen 
 house. He there married a young and beautiful 
 Hindoo girl, which created so much enmity 
 
96 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 towards him on the part of his rich and powerful 
 relations, that they soon ceased all communication 
 with him, — all but his mother, to whom he sub- 
 sequently consigned his first-born child, and who, 
 in consequence of her receiving " the little pa- 
 gan," as they called the infant traveller, under 
 her protection, became so much persecuted, 
 especially by her brother, who was Abbot of II 
 Santo Pietro, that she resolved to visit England, 
 where indeed she had before resided ; and there, 
 with one faithful attendant, she was supported 
 by the money received for the maintenance and 
 education of Isabel. Her health was very much 
 impaired, and she preferred the calm retirement 
 of Goat Nest, where she had leisure to impart 
 to her beloved child the information she her- 
 self had acquired in her long intercourse with the 
 world. 
 
 More than a year had elapsed without Madame 
 de Mondalberto's hearing from India, and her 
 heart fainted within her when she thought of the 
 possibility of her dear son's death :— forgetful of 
 his mother and child she knew he never could 
 be. . But absolute want awaited her ; and for 
 many weeks she had been supported by the 
 goats' milk, and the wild fruit and vegetables 
 that her grand-child's affection procured from 
 the mountains, in the dark twilight or early 
 
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 97 
 
 morning. " She could not work, to beg she was 
 ashamed ;" and she would have perished for the 
 want of proper nutriment had not her anxiety for 
 Isabel conquered her other feelings, and obliged 
 her to confess her real situation. By God's 
 blessing, with proper care, she seemed gradu- 
 ally recovering ; and were it not for the wear 
 ing and wasting anxiety of her spirit, her body 
 would have gained its usual strength. The 
 first effort she made, when she got a little better, 
 was to reach the summit of West Crag, a spot 
 that overlooked the high road, and sit and watch 
 the distant postman wending his solitary way 
 round the side of the mountain into the glade ; 
 but though no letter arrived, each succeeding 
 day found the old lady at the same spot ; and 
 she was rendered miserable also from the fear 
 that she should not live to repay the money she 
 had borrowed, for on no other terms would she 
 accept assistance. 
 
 One fine evening, on the West Crag, I had 
 been reading to her St. Paul's beautiful definition 
 of charity, — for although we did not worship in 
 the same manner, we worshipped the same one 
 and true God. Daisy had been listening attentive - 
 ly, and was just then busily employed in adorn- 
 ing the pet kid with her favorite flowers, when her 
 attention was attracted by a splendid carriage, 
 
98 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 with outriders and gay liveries, rolling beneath us 
 and at length stopping at the only inn in the vil- 
 lage. Really my heroine had less curiosity than 
 most of her sex for she never cared who or 
 what any body was ; but this equipage was so 
 very grand, so superior even to the county mem- 
 bers at the time of the grand election, that the 
 stiff Italian extended her neck to ascertain which 
 road the carriage would next take. But our 
 astonishment increased when we saw the horses 
 taken off, and we occupied full ten minutes in 
 conning the who and where-all of the matter. 
 
 Madame returned to her cottage, but Daisy 
 would accompany me on my way home. " Come 
 down by the stream, pray do," said the dear girl, 
 " and you need not wet your feet." " It is too 
 far about, love ; and see, the grey evening is 
 closing." " Oh, never mind, I will take you be- 
 yond ' the Rest,' and you know I can run up the 
 rocks like a kidling." On we went, and had just 
 reached " the Rest," when a rustling in the 
 brush-wood attracted our attention. " Holloa ! 
 who's there?' said my little friend, with her 
 usual intrepidity. The trees divided, and a gen- 
 tleman in a rich travelling dress inquired the path 
 to the Goat's Nest — " Oh, Sir, you do, you do, I 
 am sure, know something of my dear Papa ; Oh 
 do, Oh do, tell me !" and the child clung almost 
 
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 99 
 
 convulsively to the stranger's cloak. " You 
 are" — " Isabel de Mondalberto," I exclaimed— 
 and in another instant my Daisy was folded in her 
 father's arms. We managed to prepare our aged 
 friend in some degree for the reception of her 
 son. The Signor easily accounted for the delay 
 which had occurred. His uncle, the Abbot, at 
 his death, felt, and acknowledged the injustice 
 he had done his nephew, and contrived to leave 
 him much of the wealth he had accumulated. 
 The Signor wrote, and sent an increased remit- 
 tance to his parent, before the usual time, men- 
 tioning that he was leaving the East to take 
 possession of the property bequeathed him in his 
 r.ative land, but the letter never reached its des- 
 tination. His beloved wife — his dear Zara — for 
 whom he had suffered loss of family and fortune 
 for so many years, died on the passage, and our 
 poor Isabel had no mother. The wide waters 
 closed over the being whom her child, in a dis- 
 tant country, had so fondly loved. 
 
 Our favorite's fortune had now been indeed 
 changed ; but, though happy to see her almost 
 unknown parent, Daisy had many mortifications 
 to encounter. The Signor was a proud, and 
 somewhat austere man, and had lived too 
 Jong in India not to have imbibed much of the 
 indolent and haughty character of the residents 
 
100 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 of that gorgeous country, which at first made one 
 fear that he had but little of the milk of human 
 kindness in his bosom. He delighted in seeing 
 his child's black clustering curls, which till then 
 had known no other confinement than a wreath 
 of hedge-roses, banded with pearls ; and her feet, 
 which, to own the truth, were somewhat more 
 expanded than nature intended, were crammed 
 into tight French shoes, with embroidered san- 
 dals ; that was a trial, but the saddest one of all 
 was her being forced to quit Goat Nest, and ac- 
 company her father and grandmother to Paris. 
 Only fancy my dear Mountain Daisy transplant- 
 ed, with all the purity of innocence and virtue 
 fresh about her, to that hot-bed of thoughtless- 
 ness and folly ! — however, so it was. We ail 
 urged how dangerous it would be to remove her 
 from the mountain breezes to a crowded me- 
 tropolis, but our remonstrances were in vain ; and 
 the only consolation left us was, permission to 
 put old Lucy Green into the cottage to take care 
 of it, and to leave her goats under my charge. 
 Bitter tears were shed at parting ; and the Count 
 himself promised very faithfully that he would 
 soon bring back our sweet flower if she continued 
 to wish it. His liberality to our villagers was 
 unbounded ; and, indeed, there were cases in 
 which it did no good, for some of the young 
 
dames bought silk gowns, which ihe old people 
 all said was not becoming their station. I heard 
 often from our beloved girl ; and perceived that 
 though her mind and heart remained uncontami- 
 nated, her health suffered from confinement and 
 constant application. Madame de M. also, like 
 my friend Miss Mitford's Mademoiselle Therese 
 (who, by the way, steals, I suspect, almost as 
 many hearts as Miss Mitford herself,) found Pa- 
 ris a better place to talk about, than to live in ; 
 and at last our friends returned to Devon Glade. 
 I met my sweet child at the coach door ; and 
 when she threw her pale brown arms around my 
 neck, and pressed her cold lips to my cheek, I 
 knew and felt that Isabel had suffered much ill- 
 ness. " I shall soon be better, my dear friend; 
 I shall soon be quite well." The goats heard 
 her soft voice, and came scampering towards 
 her ; and her dear grandmamma was pleased to 
 see those affectionate animals caress her favorite. 
 The village was in an uproar ! such bonfires — 
 such bell ringing — there was nothing done for a 
 week. And to crown the matter, Prospect Hill 
 was to be sold. The very thing for all parties. 
 Grand and majestic enough for the Signor and 
 his mother : and quite as romaruic as my Moun- 
 tain Daisy could wish. 
 
 Her goats are permitted to wander from the 
 9* 
 
10& l-ltR MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 Park to their usual haunts ; and* their mistress 
 looks so fresh and beautiful after. her moun- 
 tain excursions, that I positively detected her fa- 
 ther in the very act of untwisting some crimson 
 silk, and helping her to tie a garland of wild 
 flowers around the neck of the great-grand-kid 
 of her old favorite goat, while his eye rested with 
 an expression of love and admiration on the no- 
 ble face of his daughter. He confessed, also, 
 the other day, that notwithstanding its murky 
 skies, its uncertain seasons, and the somewhat 
 sulky disposition of its inhabitants, England Is as 
 comfortable a country as he could live in ; par- 
 ticularly when brightened by the smiling looks of 
 his Mountain Daisy, 
 
A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS 
 
 IN THE SUMMER OF 1827. 
 Affectionately inscribed to her Companions in that Walk 
 
 BY AMELIA OPIE. 
 
 There is a melancholy pleasure in visiting 
 the scenes which we first saw in early youth, 
 when youth has long been past, and when life, 
 which then stretched widely, and brightly, before 
 us, its pains as yet unknown, and its pleasures 
 only too vividly anticipated, is drawing, compa- 
 ratively to a close. 
 
 I have recently experienced this pensive grati- 
 fication while walking in the Temple Gardens — 
 a spot which I first visited in my youthful days, 
 and with a bridal party ; and I had scarcely taken 
 one turn on the walk along the river side, before 
 that long-forgotten scene appeared in all its 
 gaiety to " my mind's eye." I saw the beautiful 
 
104 A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS. 
 
 bride with her bloom heightened by a sense oi 
 happiness, and the consciousness of the admira- 
 tion which followed her steps ; I also remember- 
 ed, that even in those days of my own unblighted 
 expectations, the instability of human enjoyment 
 was ere long painfully forced upon me ; for the 
 lovely being in whose bridal train I had followed 
 in those cheerful gardens, was, ere another year 
 had revolved, a mother, and a corpse ! 
 
 While recalling these visions of vanished days, 
 I fell into thoughtful silence, till I was roused 
 from my reverie by the admiration which my 
 companions expressed of the increased beauty 
 thrown over the scene by the gradual approach 
 of twilight. 
 
 But, lovely as was the present view, it could 
 not entirely wean me from contemplation of the 
 past, and I began to put them in comparison. 
 
 Then a full tide of ever-changing human be- 
 ings was running along its walks — now, my com- 
 panions and myself were almost its only visit- 
 ants : — then it was enlivened by the bright sun 
 of a summer afternoon — now it was clothed in 
 the pale tinted shadows of evening, and the magic 
 of light and shade was rapidly spreading around, 
 while the view from the bank of the river was 
 acquiring increasing solemnity and beauty ; for 
 the mysterious power of twil'ght was making the 
 
A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS. 105 
 
 tall columns of the shot manufactories appear as 
 grand as the more distant towers of Westminster 
 Abbey, and the lights on the graceful arch of the 
 Waterloo Bridge were reflecting themselves in 
 the clear waves beneath ; still, it was not yet dark 
 enough for the windows of the rooms around to 
 be closed, nor for candles to be lighted ; when, 
 as we were walking opposite the high range of 
 chambers, on the outside of the garden gates, 
 which fronts the river, I observed at the very top 
 of the building one single globe of burning light, 
 but I could not discover whether it was outside 
 or inside the window. My companions, how- 
 ever, assured me that it was only a globe lamp, 
 standing, no doubt, on the table of the person 
 to whom the room belonged. But while the 
 other rooms in these vast buildings lay darkened 
 in the twilight, this, and this alone, was illumi 
 nated : therefore, as we argued, the student who 
 occupied that apartment (if student he was) must 
 be peculiarly diligent and praiseworthy, and as 
 soon as we had so judged of the owner of the 
 lamp, our imaginations took fire. 
 
 One fancied him a young barrister, who was 
 looking over his first brief, with anxious and 
 pleasing diligence ; a second suggested that he 
 was possibly a Henry Kirke White — that be- 
 loved, and lamented son of genius, — and was 
 
106 A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS. 
 
 burning the evening as well as the midnight oil, 
 because he was jealous of every minute which 
 did not tend to the improvement of time, and to a 
 preparation for eternity. While we willingly 
 adopted this pleasing suggestion, we gazed on 
 the lamp with a sort of reverent interest, and one 
 of us expressed a strong desire to ascend the 
 staircase and visit the interesting student. In 
 short we were uttering a great deal of amusing 
 nonsense, and were watching the lonely light 
 -vith an absorbing curiosity, when one of my 
 companions exclaimed, " I see a face ;" but, be- 
 fore the rest of us could see it, it had disappear- 
 ed ; presently, another cried out, " I see a 
 hand ;" and the friend who first spoke observed, 
 " Yes ; I too see a hand, and it is lighting a se- 
 gar! ! /" 
 
 In a moment the sweet illusion was dissolved ; 
 and in the owner of the lamp we beheld, instead 
 of the pale, interesting, intellectual, self-denying 
 student, a pampered sensualist, indulging in Asi- 
 atic luxury, and enjoying his indolent leisure and 
 his segar after a probably luxurious repast, alone, 
 or with a companion as earthly and indolent as 
 himself! 
 
 Perhaps we were a little mortified at this dis- 
 covery ; but we could not help indulging in the 
 most innocent of all laughter — laughter at our- 
 
A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS. 107 
 
 selves, for our fantastic fancies : we had also 
 the satisfaction of knowing that as we had not 
 degraded, but exalted the unconscious object of 
 them, we had neither injured ourselves nor him 
 by the short-lived delusion. 
 
 By me, however, the little romance of the 
 lamp was not soon forgotten, and it made me fall 
 into a train of serious thought and moral reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 I could not but remember with some bitterness 
 of spirit and humiliation of heart, how often de- 
 lusions of the imagination; like those of the stu- 
 dent and his lamp, had strewed thorns on my 
 path of life ; but that, unlike the temporary de- 
 lusion in the gardens, this fallacious fancy had 
 sometimes clothed my days in gloom, and my 
 pillow in wakefulness. I could not but own, that 
 I had often thrown over both near and distant ob- 
 jects, the glow of my embellishing imagination, 
 and then had reason to mourn over the different 
 view in which they appeared to me when the so- 
 ber realities of life had stript them of their delu- 
 sive covering, and they stood before me as they 
 really were. 
 
 But was this infirmity of nature, and were these 
 pernicious illusions confined to me alone 1 Were 
 not the beloved companions of my walk in the 
 Temple Garden, as liable to be deceived as I 
 
108 A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS. 
 
 had been 1 Were they never to experience again 
 illusions and delusions like those of the lamp? 
 Was I alone exposed to be the victim of fancies 
 which, though equally absurd, might not be so 
 harmless nor so innocent 1 Alas ! I could only 
 answer the question with a peremptory no, espe- 
 cially as their youth was as yet in its prime, and 
 they had not the shield of experience. 
 
 " Let me then," said I to myself, " endeavor 
 to impress the remembrance of our evening walk 
 more deeply on their youthful minds, by com- 
 mitting an account of :t to paper, and drawing a 
 moral from the incident by which it was distin- 
 guished V 9 
 
 Yes, dear young friends, I could not be satis- 
 fied till I had fulfilled this task ; and often, since 
 we parted, as I was wandering in distant scenes, 
 that solitary lamp has beamed before my fancy 
 as if inviting me to finish my manuscript, and re- 
 proving me for my neglect. 
 
 The moral which I would draw from our ad- 
 venture in the garden is this — the necessity of 
 checking every tendency to overrate the value of 
 persons, pursuits, and things, and the propriety 
 of endeavoring to see them as they really are. 
 
 I would advise you to examine every thing 
 with the disc •iminating and sober eye of truth — 
 supplicating at the same time the God of all truth 
 
A WALK IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS. 109 
 
 to bestow upon you what He alone can give — 
 power to sift the wheat trom the chaff, and to 
 separate the gold from the dross. 
 
 But I must here observe, that if, through the 
 delusions of the imagination, we converted the 
 inhabitant of the chamber into a Henry Kirke 
 White, we might be equally under a delusion 
 when we pronounced him to be an earthly-minded 
 sensualist because we saw his hand employed in 
 lighting a segar — it does not follow that a man 
 cannot be intellectual or spiritual-minded be- 
 cause he smokes segars. His health might re- 
 quire him to smoke ; and though my first im- 
 pressions were against the fancied student when 
 you discovered his employment, a little reflection 
 convinced me that we might only be exchanging 
 one fallacy for another, and that we might still be 
 as far removed from the truth as before. 
 
 Then, let me again presume to assure you, my 
 beloved companions, and from my own painful 
 experience, that you cannot be too much on your 
 guard against hasty judgments of persons and 
 things ; believe me, that a lively imagination is 
 the greatest of all enemies to that true, sober, just 
 view of this world, its pleasures, its pains, its 
 temptations, and its dangers, which constitutes 
 our safety as we go &Jong the path of life. But 
 if our imagination will put in its claim to be 
 10 
 
110 A WALK IS SHE TEMPLE GARDENS. 
 
 occasionally indulged as well as our other facul- 
 ties, let its powers be exercised where even its 
 loftiest nights can be productive only of benefit 
 and enjoyment, namely, on the glories of the un- 
 seen world, and on the greatness of Him, who is 
 the light thereof, 
 
 The brightest dreams of fancy must fall far 
 short of the reality of Him, and of His kingdom ; 
 for it is written, that " eye hath not seen, nor ear 
 heard, neither have entered into the heart of man 
 the things which God hath prepared for them 
 that love him." Those glorious sources of ad- 
 miration and interest can never, like our earthly 
 idols, change and fade to our view, calling forth 
 in us feelings of aversion, contempt and disgust, 
 instead of love, confidence and respect ; but 
 while we contemplate them, we shall feel our 
 hearts animated to desire, and encouraged to 
 hope that, through faith in the Redeemer, we 
 may at last be permitted to enter into those 
 realms of glory where no change comes, where 
 " faith is lost in sight," and where we shall be- 
 hold the face of Him " who is the same yester- 
 day, to-day, and for ever " 
 

THE ROSE OF CASTLE HOWARD 
 
 BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 "Of such is the kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 Babe ! thou wert born in noble halls, 
 The crown and shield were on thy walls, 
 And shapes of state and chivalry 
 Dawned richly on thy infant eye. 
 x\nd on thy infant lips were names 
 That light the heart like beacon flames. 
 
 c* 
 
 Along thy castled galleries 
 
 Rose emblems of the brave and wise, 
 
 The bold Crusader in his mail, 
 
 With many an eastern vigil pale 
 
 The last survivor of the band 
 
 He led from England's joyous strand: 
 
 He led from pleasant hall and bower 
 
 To face the Arab's arrowy shower ; 
 
112 THE ROSE OF CASTLE HOWARD. 
 
 He led from love and beauty's shrine 
 
 To bleed in fatal Palestine. 
 
 And there the Sage's lofty brow, 
 
 Like the proud mountain's crown of snow, 
 
 Calm, pure, above earth's troubled scene, 
 
 Gazing on neaven, no cloud between. 
 
 And there the Statesman's vivid eye, 
 
 The lip where sleeping thunders lie, 
 
 Awaiting but the solemn hour 
 
 That summons virtue in her power, 
 
 When tyrants stretch the iron hand, 
 
 When faction saps and sinks the land ; 
 
 He cares not whence the blow is given, 
 
 There stands the Champion called of Heaven 
 
 Yet, Infant of a lordly line, 
 A loftier fate may yet be thine, 
 A richer wreath than ever round 
 The brow of chief or sage was bound : 
 A coronal in which the gems 
 Are lit with glory's deathless beams ; 
 Crown of the holy and the just, 
 When soars the spirit from the dust, 
 When to the angel's native home 
 The father bids his children come, 
 Bids tears be dried, and sins forgiven, 
 Infant ! of such as thou, is Heaven ! 
 
FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 BY RICHARD HOWITT. 
 
 * Thy wish, thy words, dear youth, have power, 
 But love hath holier power in me — " 
 
 Moved by his plea, the maid began 
 " If I should leave my aged Sire, 
 Who then would bless his cottage fire 1 
 
 A poor and friendless man ! 
 
 " My mother in the church-yard lies, 
 The pride, the treasure of his prime ; 
 
 Nor am I valued less : 
 In me he finds the lost restored, 
 To cheer his hearth, to bless his board — 
 
 I am his happiness ! 
 
 " An aged tree upon the waste — 
 His pleasant summer shade is gone 
 
 All save one solitary bough ; 
 Oh, many happy souls were his ; 
 And he was blessed in their bliss — 
 
 To feel more lonely now. 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 " Then woo, dear youth, some happier maid ; 
 One more devote to follow thee 
 
 O'er mountain and o'er wild ; 
 I may not wander forth from him ; 
 His locks are grey, his eyes are dim — 
 
 I am his only child." 
 
 " I love thee more," the youth exclaimed 
 " I love thee more and more 
 
 For clinging thus to age ; 
 Heaven grant thee, in thy far decline, 
 'Midst hearts as fondly true as thine, 
 
 To close thy pilgrimage." 
 
 The youth is gone unto the wars ; 
 The maid is by her father's fire, 
 
 And now her tears more freely flow 5 
 The old man cannot see her tears, 
 But then the maiden's sighs he hears, 
 
 And marvels why 'tis so. 
 
 For, from her very childhood up 
 Her step was light, ner heart was gay 
 
 And ever iovous son^s she sung : 
 For ever with her gladsome voice, 
 That made his lonely heart rejoice. 
 
 Their lowly dwelling rung. 
 
FILIAL PIETY. 115 
 
 There is a change, he feels a change, 
 And yet he knows not why ; 
 
 And Ellen now perceives his fears ; 
 And she, to stay the old man's tongue, 
 Doth sing — a melancholy song 
 
 That endeth in her tears. 
 
 " What ails thee, child 1 why dost thou grieve 1 
 I know that thou dost strive and toil, 
 
 But then my days can be but few : 
 And He who looketh from above 
 Will bless thy patience and thy love, 
 
 With love as strong and true." 
 
 " You wrong me, father," Ellen cried ; 
 " You are my only solace now ; 
 
 Your death were woe to me ; 
 For he whom I so fondly loved, 
 Whose truth in poverty was proved, 
 
 Has gone beyond the sea." 
 
 They pause, and then they weep together— 
 And tears have power to soothe and bless ; 
 
 And Ellen's heart is lighter grown : 
 The old man's soul is in his youth. 
 And he has told of love and truth, 
 
 In grievous trials known 
 
116 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE, 
 
 Tears pass — and she has closed his eves ; 
 And she has wept upon the sward 
 
 That wraps his lifeless clay ; 
 And from the wars the youth is come 
 To find her in her mournful home, 
 
 And turn its night to day ! 
 
 >©io< 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 A Sketch. 
 BY S. C. HALL. 
 
 It is now many years since the first battalion 
 of the 17th Regiment of Foot, under orders to 
 embark for India, — that far distant land, where 
 so many of our brave countrymen have fallen 
 victims to the climate, and where so f^ew have 
 slept in what soldiers call " the bed of glory," — 
 were assembled in the barrack yard of Chatham, 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 117 
 
 to be inspected previously to their passing on 
 board the transports, which lay moored in the 
 Downs. 
 
 It was scarcely day-break, when the merry 
 drum and fife were heard over all parts of the 
 town, and the soldiers were seen sallying forth 
 from their quarters, to join the ranks ; with their 
 bright firelocks on their shoulders, and the knap- 
 sacks and canteens fastened to their backs by 
 belts as white as snow.— Each soldier was ac- 
 companied by some friend or acquaintance, — or 
 by some individual with a dearer title to his re- 
 gard than either ; and there was a strange and 
 sometimes a whimsical mingling of weeping and 
 laughter among the assembled groups. 
 
 The second battalion was to remain in Eng- 
 land, and the greater portion of the division were 
 present to bid farewell to their old companions in 
 arms. But among the husbands and wives, un- 
 certainty as to their destiny prevailed — for the 
 lots were yet to be drawn — the lots that were to 
 decide which of the women should accompany 
 the regiment, and which should remain behind. 
 Ten of each company were to be taken, and 
 chance was to be the only arbiter. — Without no- 
 ticing what passed elsewhere, I 'confined my at- 
 tention to that company which was commanded 
 by my riend Captain Loden, a brave and excel- 
 
118 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 lent officer, who, I am sure, has no more than 
 myself forgotten the scene to which I refer. 
 
 The women had gathered round the flag-ser- 
 jeant, who held the lots in his cap — ten of them 
 marked " to go" — and all the others containing 
 the fatal words " to remain." It was a moment 
 of dreadful suspense, and never have I seen the 
 extreme of anxiety so powerfully depicted in the 
 countenances of human beings as in the features 
 of each of the soldiers' wives who composed that 
 group. — One advanced and drew her ticket ; it 
 was against her, and she retreated sobbing. 
 Another, she succeeded ; and, giving a loud huz- 
 za, ran off to the distant ranks to embrace her 
 husband. A third came forward with hesitating 
 step ; tears were already chasing each other 
 down her cheeks, and there was an unnatural 
 paleness on her interesting and youthful counte- 
 nance. She put her small hand into the Ser- 
 jeant's cap, and I saw by the rise and fall of her 
 bosom, even more than her looks revealed. — She 
 unrolled the paper, looked upon it, and with a 
 deep groan, fell back and fainted. — So intense 
 was the anxiety of every person present, that she 
 remained unnoticed, until all the tickets had been 
 drawn, and the greater number of the women had 
 left the spot. I then looked round, and beheld 
 her supported by her husband, who was kneeling 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 119 
 
 upon the ground, gazing upon her face, and dry- 
 ing her fast falling tears with his coarse handker- 
 chief, and now and then pressing it to his own 
 manly cheek. 
 
 Captain Loden advanced towards them. — " I 
 am sorry, Henry Jenkins," said he, " that fate 
 has been against you ; but bear up, and be stout- 
 hearted." 
 
 " I am so, Captain !" said the soldier, as he 
 looked up and passed his rough hand across his 
 face ; " but 'tis a hard thing to part from a wife, 
 and she so soon to be a mother." 
 
 " Oh Captain !" sobbed the young woman, 
 " as you are both a husband and a father, do not 
 take him from me ! I have no friend in the wide 
 world but one, and you will let him bide with me ! 
 Oh take me with him ! — take me with him — for 
 the love of God take me with him, Captain !" 
 She fell on her knees, laid hold of the officer's 
 sash, clasped it firmly between her hands, and 
 looking up in his face, exclaiming, " Oh ! leave 
 me my only hope, at least till God gives me ano- 
 ther :" and repeated, in heart-rending accents, 
 " Oh, take me with him ! take me with him !" 
 
 The gallant officer was himself in tears — he 
 knew that it was impossible to grant the poor 
 wife's petition, without creating much discontent 
 in his conmany, and he gazed upon them with 
 
120 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE 
 
 that feeling with which a good man always re- 
 gards the sufferings he cannot alleviate. At thi3 
 moment a smart young soldier stepped forward, 
 and stood before the Captain with his hand to his 
 cap. 
 
 " And what do you want, my good fellow \ n 
 said the officer. 
 
 " My name's John Carty, plase yer honor, and 
 I belong to the second battalion." 
 
 " And what do you want here V 9 
 
 " Only, yer honor," said Carty, scratching his 
 head, " that poor man and his wife there are sor- 
 row-hearted at parting, I'm thinking." 
 
 " Well, and what then ?" 
 
 " Why, yer honor, they say I'm a likely lad, 
 and I know I'm fit for sarvice, — and if yer honor 
 would only let that poor fellow take my place in 
 Captain Bond's Company, and let me take his 
 place in yours, — why yer honor would make two 
 poor things happy, and save the life of one of 
 'em, I'm thinking." 
 
 Captain Loden considered for a few minutes, 
 and directing the young Irishman to remain where 
 he was, proceeded to his brother officers' quar- 
 ters. He soon made arrangements for the ex- 
 change of the soldiers, and returned to the place 
 where he had left them. 
 
 " Well, John Cartv," said he, " you go to Ben- 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 121 
 
 gal with me, and yt>u, Henry Jenkins, remain at 
 home with your wife." 
 
 " Thank yer honor," said John Carty, again 
 touching his cap as he walked off. 
 
 Henry Jenkins and his wife both rose frcm 
 the ground and rushed into each other's arms. 
 " God bless you, Captain !'* said the soldier, as 
 he pressed his wife closer to his bosom. " Oh, 
 bless him for ever !" said the wife : " bless him 
 with prosperity and a happy heart ! — bless his 
 wife, and bless his children;" and she again 
 fainted. 
 
 The officer, wiping a tear from his eye, and 
 exclaiming, " May you never want a friend when 
 I am far from you, — you, my good lad, and your 
 amiable and loving wife !" passed on to his com- 
 pany, while the happy couple went in search of 
 John Carty. 
 
 ******* 
 
 About twelve months since, as two boys were 
 watching the sheep confided to their charge, up- 
 on a wide heath in the county of Somerset, their 
 attention was attracted by a soldier, who walked 
 along apparently with much fatigue, £.nd at length 
 stopped to rest his weary limbs beside the old 
 finger-post, which at one time pointed out the 
 way to the neighboring villages ; but which now 
 11 
 
122 the soldier's wife. 
 
 afforded no information to the traveller ; for age 
 had rendered it useless. 
 
 The boys were gazing upon him with much 
 curiosity, when he beckoned them towards him, 
 and inquired the way to the village of Eldenby. 
 
 The eldest, a fine intelligent lad of about 
 twelve years of age, pointed to the path, and ask- 
 ed if he were going to any particular place in the 
 village. 
 
 " No, my little lad," said the soldier ; " but it 
 is on the high-road to Frome, and I have friends 
 there ; but, in truth, T am very wearied, and per- 
 haps may find in yon village some person who 
 •will befriend a poor fellow, and look to God for 
 a reward." 
 
 " Sir," said the boy, " My father was a soldier 
 many years ago, and he dearly loves to look upon 
 a red coat — if you come with me, you may be 
 sure of a welcome." 
 
 " And you can tell us stories about foreign 
 parts," said the younger lad, a fine chubby- 
 cheeked fellow, who, with his watch-coat thrown 
 carelessly over his shoulder, and his crook in his 
 right hand, had been minutely examining every 
 portion of the soldier's dress. 
 
 The boys gave instructions to their intelligent 
 dog, who, they said, would take good care of the 
 sheep during their absence ; and in a few minutes 
 
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 123 
 
 the soldier and his young companions reached 
 the gate of a nourishing farm-house, which had 
 all the external tokens of prosperity and happi- 
 ness. The younger boy trotted on a few paces 
 before, to give his parents notice that they bad 
 invited a stranger to rest beneath their hospitable 
 roof ; and the soldier had just crossed the 
 threshold of the door when he was received by 
 a joyful cry of recognition from his old friends, 
 Henry Jenkins and his wife ; and he was wel- 
 comed as a brother to the dwelling of those, who, 
 in all human probability, were indebted to him 
 for their present enviable station. 
 
 It is unnecessary to pursue this story further 
 than to add, that John Carty spent his furlough 
 at Eldenby farm ; and that at the expiration of it, 
 his discharge was purchased by his grateful 
 friends. He is now living in their happy dwell- 
 ing ; and his care and exertions have contributed 
 greatly to increase their prosperity. Nothing has 
 been wrong with them since John Carty was 
 their steward. 
 
 " Cast thy bread upon the waters," said the 
 wise man, " and it shall be returned to thee after 
 many days." 
 
INNOCENCE. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 Autioress of the " Seven Ages of Women, $e. 
 
 The radiant glances of thy heavenward eye 
 Are raised above the clouds of mortal care ; 
 Oh, holy and divinest Purity, 
 To thee, all things are lovely, all are fair. 
 The Proteus shapes of Sin still pass thee by, 
 And leave on thee no shadow ; and the snare 
 Of strong Temptation, though it oft assail 
 Thy stedfast spirit, can in nought prevail. 
 
 Thou hast in festal halls and lordly towers 
 Preserved thy charms amidst the flattering train, 
 Who scattered in thy path enchanted flowers 
 And wooed thee with a thousand spells in vain. 
 Thou, with firm step through Pleasure's syren 
 
 bowers, 
 Like angel guest whom earth could ne'er enchain, 
 Hast still serenely thy bright course maintained, 
 And onward passed unfettered and unstained 
 
INNOCENCE. 125 
 
 On thee, in deepest solitudes, has smiled 
 That perfect peace the world could ne'er bestow; 
 Oh! holy, beautiful, and undefiled 
 Relic of heaven still lingering hert below, 
 The lily blooms beside thee in the wild, 
 Yet cannot match her coronal of snow 
 With thy unsullied vesture's spotless white, 
 Washed in the dews that usher in the light. 
 
 From the vain throng retired, thou sitt'st alone, 
 Listening the wood-dove's note, or murmur sweet 
 Of waving leaves by mountain breezes blown, 
 Where Jessamines canopy thy calm retreat, 
 And thy my hillock forms thy sylvan throne, 
 And the lamb finds a refuge at thy feet ; 
 And crystal fountain, sparkling in thy sight, 
 Reflects thy image, and becomes more bright. 
 
 What though the tender paleness of thy face 
 Doth wear at times the pensive shade of sadness ? 
 'Tis only when thou dost around thee trace 
 The evil traits of folly, guilt, and madness, 
 Whose canker spots have marr'd the human race ; 
 For thou art in thyself celestial gladness, 
 And still art found 'midst all the storms of earth, 
 Bright as when Eden's bowers beheld thy birth. 
 11* 
 
126 ORIGIN OP DARBY AND JOAN. 
 
 Affliction, with her sternly chastening rod, 
 Indeed hath tried thee, but could ne'er destroy 
 That glorious emanation from thy God, 
 The deep serenity of holy joy ; 
 And though thy pilgrim feet full oft have trod 
 A rugged way, yet bliss without alloy 
 Is to thy raptured glance divinely given, 
 Which sees through thorny paths the road to 
 heaven. 
 
 — oojoe— 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF "DARBY AND JOAN.' 
 
 AUTHOR OF " DAME REBECCA BERRY " 
 
 Within three miles of Tadcaster, in the West 
 Riding of Yorkshire, there is a beautiful village 
 called Healaugh, remotely situated, but celebra- 
 ted from being the place where lived, more than 
 a century ago, a couple called " Darby and 
 Joan," and whose humble dwelling is still .0 be 
 seen there. 
 
ORIGIN OF DARBY AND JOAH. 127 
 
 The way leading to this rural spot had, as I 
 drove thither, all the charm of soft pastoral scene- 
 ry : rich meadows, filled with sheep and cattle ; 
 green hedgerows, intermingled with a profusion 
 of roses and woodbine, and every bank enamelled 
 with fragrant flowers. It was the month of June, 
 when all the redolence of summer regales the 
 senses, and invigorates the spirits, in beholding 
 the gaiety of nature, and every animated object 
 happy, amidst the song of birds, and the joyous 
 aspect of summer. 
 
 Healaugh consists of one long street, with low 
 thatched cottages, and formerly had rows of tall 
 trees before every door, with a bench beneath. 
 The Church stands at one end, partially covered 
 with ivy, and, from resting on a green bank, em- 
 bowered in lime-trees, is a pleasing object on 
 entering the village. 
 
 Even now this sequestered little spot looks the 
 paradise of humble life ; for, in Yorkshire, the 
 eye is not pained in beholding that squalid pov- 
 erty too often seen in remote parts of England. 
 
 The rustic bench still remains on which the 
 faithful Darby and Joan were used to sit : he 
 smoking his pipe and quaffing his ale ; she, in all 
 the garrulity of age, relating tales of days long 
 passed away with recollected enjoyment, sur- 
 rounded by their children's children, (at this time 
 
128 ORIGIN OF DARBY AND JOAN. 
 
 the cottage is inhabited by one of their descend- 
 ants,) or listening to their hopes and fears re- 
 specting their future prospects in life, until they 
 almost forgot they were quietly passing into that 
 state where hope and fear have no longer exist- 
 ence. 
 
 On Sunday morning the old couple were con- 
 stantly seen tottering together to church, sup- 
 ported by some of their children or grandchil- 
 dren ; thus proving themselves still linked to- 
 gether in their duties to their Maker, as well as 
 in their worldly enjoyments. Happy, enviable 
 state ! where sympathy doubles every joy, and 
 lessens every grief; where kindred spirits min- 
 gle together, be it either in the highest walk of 
 life, or the humblest of its paths. Happiness 
 beamed with perpetual sunshine on the cottage 
 of Parby and Joan, which is justly illustrated in 
 Lord Wharton's ballad called 
 
 THE HAPPY OLD COUPLE.* 
 
 Old Darby, with Joan by his side, 
 I've often regarded with wonder 
 
 He is dropsical, she is sore eyed, 
 And yet they are never asunder. 
 
 * Lord Wharton inhabited a handsome, old-fashioned man 
 sion at the extremity of the village of Healaugh. 
 
ORIGIN OF DARBY AND JOAN. 129 
 
 Together they totter about, 
 
 Or sit in the sun at the door ; 
 And, at night, when old Darby's pipe's out, 
 
 His Joan Avill not smoke one whiff more. 
 
 No beauty or wit they possess, 
 
 Their several failings to cover ; 
 Then, what are the charms, can you guess, 
 
 That make them so fond of each other? 
 
 r Tis the pleasing remembrance of vouth — 
 The endearments which youth did bestow ; 
 
 The thoughts of past pleasure and truth, 
 The best of all blessings below. 
 
 Those traces for ever will last, 
 
 Nor sickness nor age can remove ; 
 For when youth and beauty are past, 
 
 And age brings the winter of love, 
 
 A friendship insensibly grows, 
 
 By reviews of such raptures as these, 
 
 The current of fondness still flows, 
 Which deepest old age cannot freeze. 
 
 The happy old pair are buried in Healaugh 
 churchyard. Thither T bent my steps to look at 
 their grave. I found the sexton busily employed 
 preparing the place appointed for all men ; and, 
 as the person who generally has all the village 
 annals by heart, to him I went for the history of 
 the singular personages in question. 
 
 The sexton appeared to have numbered more 
 than three score years and ten. He was a re- 
 
130 ORIGIN OF DARBY AND JOAN. 
 
 markablyhale and good-looking old man; though 
 his face was deeply scarred with small-pox, and 
 he had only one eye, I scarcely ever saw so 
 shrewd a countenance. There was in this soli- 
 tary eye an expression of facetious humor, and 
 at the same time low cunning, which amused me 
 extremely. He actually personified the grave- 
 digger in Hamlet ; for not only with the most 
 careless indifference did he perform his part in this 
 scene of mortality, but he was also a humorist, 
 and jested, as with a significant look he related 
 the history of " Darby and Joan," and pointed 
 out the spot where a stone marked their grave to 
 every passer by. 
 
 To time immemorial will this faithful old cou- 
 ple be remembered, and quoted as an example of 
 conjugal felicity, by the designation of " a per- 
 fect Darby and Joan," — in those instances, alas ! 
 too rare, where man and wife pass not only the 
 spring-time of life, but old age, never asunder, 
 having made a contract with each other in youth, 
 to bear with the infirmities of old age together. 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 A Village Story. 
 
 BY MISS MITFORD. 
 
 One of the prettiest rustic dwellings in our 
 pretty neighbourhood, is the picturesque farm- 
 house which stands on the edge of Wokefield 
 Common, so completely in a bottom, that the pas- 
 sengers who traverse the high road see indeed the 
 smoke from the chimneys floating like a vapour 
 over a woody hill which forms the back-ground, 
 but cannot even catch a glimpse of the roof, so 
 high does the turfy Common rise above it ; 
 whilst so steeply does the ground decline to the 
 door, that it seems as if no animal less accus- 
 tomed to tread the hill side than a goat or a 
 chamois could venture to descend the narrow 
 footpath which winds round the declivity, and 
 forms the nearest way to the village. The cart- 
 tract, thridding the mazes of the hills, leads to 
 the house by a far longer but very beautiful road ; 
 the smooth fine turf of the Common varied by 
 
132 LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 large tufts of furze and broom rising in an ab- 
 rupt bank on one side, on the other a narrow well 
 timbered valley, bordered by hanging woods, and 
 terminated by a large sheet of water, close be- 
 side which stands the farm, a low irregular cot- 
 tage snugly thatched, and its different out-build- 
 ings, all on the smallest scale, but giving the air 
 of comfort and habitation to the spot that nothing 
 can so thoroughly convey as an English barn 
 yard with its complement of cows, pigs, horses, 
 chickens, and children. 
 
 One part of the way thither is singularly beau- 
 tiful. It is where a bright and sparkling spring 
 has formed itself into a clear pond in a deep 
 broken hollow by the road side : the bank all 
 around covered with rich grass, and descending 
 in unequal terraces to the pool : whilst on every 
 side around it, and at different heights, stand ten 
 or twelve noble elms, casting their green sha- 
 dows mixed with the light clouds and the blue 
 summer sky on the calm and glassy water, and 
 giving, (especially when the evening sun lighted 
 up the little grove, causing the rugged trunks to 
 shine like gold, and the pendent leaves to glitter 
 like the burnished wings of the rose beetle,) a 
 sort of pillared and columnar dignity to the scene. 
 
 Seldom too would that fountain, famous for 
 the purity and sweetness of its waters, be without 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 133 
 
 some figure suited to the landscape ; child, wo- 
 man, or country girl, leaning from the plank, ex- 
 tended over the spring, to fill her pitcher, or re- 
 turning with it, supported by one arm on her 
 head, recalling all classical and pastoral images, 
 the beautiful sculptures of Greece, the poetrv of 
 Homer and of Sophocles, and even more man 
 these, the habits of oriental life, and the Rachels 
 and Rebeccas of Scripture. 
 
 Seldom would that spring be without some 
 such figure ascending the turfy steps into the 
 lane, of whom one might inquire respecting the 
 sequestered farm house, whose rose-covered 
 porch was seen so prettily from a turn in the 
 road ; and often it would be one of the farmer's 
 children who would answer you ; for in spite of 
 the vicinity of the great pond, all the water for 
 domestic use was regularly brought from the 
 Elmin Spring. 
 
 Wokefield-Pond-Farm was a territory of some 
 thirty acres ; one of the " little bargains," as 
 they are called, which once abounded, but are 
 now seldom found, in Berkshire ; and at the time 
 to which our story refers, that is to say, about 
 twenty years ago, its inhabitants were amongst 
 the poorest and most industrious people in the 
 country. 
 
 George Mearing was the only son of a rich 
 12 
 
134 LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 yeoman in the parish, who held this " little bar- 
 gain" in addition to the manor farm. George 
 was an honest, thoughtless, kind-hearted, good 
 humoured lad, quite unlike his father, who, 
 snrewd, hard, and money-getting, often regretted 
 his son's deficiency in the qualities by which he 
 had risen in the world, and reserved all his favor 
 and affection for one who possessed them in full 
 perfection, — his only daughter, Martha. Mar- 
 tha was a dozen years older than her brother, 
 with a large bony figure, a visage far from pre- 
 possessing, a harsh voice, and a constitutional 
 scold, which, scrupulous in her cleanliness, and 
 vigilant in her economy, was in full activity all 
 day long. She seemed to go about the house 
 for no other purpose than that of finding fault, 
 maundering now at one, and now at another, — 
 her brother, the carters, the odd boy, the maid, — 
 every one, in short, except her father, who, con- 
 necting the ideas of scolding and of good house- 
 wifery, thought that he gained, or at least saved 
 money by the constant exercise of this accom- 
 plishment, and listened to her accordingly with 
 great delight and admiration : " Her mother," 
 thought he to himself, " was a clever managing 
 woman, and sorry enough was I to lose her ; but 
 gracious me, she was nothing to Martha ! where 
 she spoke one word, Martha speaks ten." 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 135 
 
 The rest of the family heard this eternal din 
 with far less complacency. They agreed, in- 
 deed, that she could not help scolding, that it 
 was her way, and that they were all fools to take 
 notice of it ; but yet they would flee, one and all, 
 before the outpouring of her wrath, like birds be- 
 fore a thunder shower. 
 
 The person on whom the storm fell oftenest 
 and loudest was of course her own immediate 
 subject, the maid ; and of the many damsels who 
 had undergone the discipline of Martha's tongue, 
 none was ever more the object of her objurga- 
 tion, or deserved it less, than Dinah Moore. But 
 Dinah had many sins in her stern mistress's eyes, 
 which would hardly have been accounted such 
 elsewhere. In the first place she was young 
 and pretty, and to youth and beauty Martha had 
 strong objections ; then she was somewhat ad- 
 dicted to rustic finery, especially in the article 
 of pink top-knots, — and to rosy ribbons Martha 
 had almost as great an aversion as to rosy 
 cheeks ; then again the young lass had a spirit, 
 and when unjustly accused would vindicate her- 
 self with more wit than prudence, and better tem- 
 pered persons than Martha cannot abide that 
 qualification ; moreover the little damsel had an 
 irrepressible lightness of heart and gaiety of 
 temper, which no rebuke could tame, no severity 
 
136 LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 repress ; laughter was as natural to her, as chid- 
 ing to her mistress ; all her labours went merrily 
 on : she would sing over the mashing tub, and 
 smile through the washing week, out-singing 
 Martha's scolding, and out-smiling Martha's 
 frowns. 
 
 This in itself would have been sufficient cause 
 of offence : but when Martha fancied, and fan- 
 cied truly, that the pink-top-knots, the smiles, 
 and the songs were all aimed at the heart of her 
 brother George, of whom, in her own rough 
 way, she was both fond and proud, the pretty 
 songstress became insupportable : and when 
 George, in despite of her repeated warnings, did 
 actually one fine morning espouse Dinah Moore, 
 causing her in her agitation to let fall an old- 
 fashioned china wash-hand basin, the gift of a 
 long deceased godmother, which, with the jug 
 belonging to it, she valued more than any other 
 of her earthly possessions ; no wonder that she 
 made a vow never to speak to her brother whilst 
 she lived, or that more in resentment than m 
 covetousness (for Matha Mearing was rather a 
 harsh and violent, than an avaricious woman) 
 she encouraged her father in his angry resolu- 
 tion of banishing the culprit from his house, and 
 disinheriting him from his property. 
 
 Old Farmer Mearing was not, however, a 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 137 
 
 wicked man, although, in many respects, a hard 
 one. He did not turn his son out to starve : on 
 the contrary, he settled him in the Pond Farm, 
 with a decent though scanty plenishing, — put 
 twenty pounds in his pocket, and told him that 
 he had nothing more to expect from him, and 
 that he must make his own way in the world as 
 he had done forty years before. 
 
 George's heart would have sunk under this de- 
 nunciation, for he was of a kind but weak and 
 indolent nature, and wholly accustomed to de- 
 pend on his father, obey his orders, and rely on 
 his support ; but he was sustained by the bolder 
 and firmer spirit of his wife, who, strong, active, 
 lively, and sanguine, finding herself for the first 
 time in her life, her own mistress, in possession 
 of a comfortable home, and married to the man 
 of her heart, saw nothing but sunshine before 
 them. Dinah had risen in the world, and George 
 had fallen ; and this circumstance, in addition to 
 an original difference of temperament, may suffi- 
 ciently account for their difference of feeling. 
 
 During the first year or two Dinah's prognos- 
 tics seemed likely to be verified. George 
 ploughed and sowed and reaped, and she made 
 butter, reared poultry, and fatted pigs ; and their 
 industry prospered, and the world went well with 
 the young couple. But a bad harvest, the death 
 12* 
 
138 LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 of their best cow, the lameness of their most 
 serviceable horse, and more than all, perhaps, 
 the birth of four little girls in four successive 
 years, crippled them sadly, and brought poverty 
 and the fear of poverty to their happy fire-side. 
 
 Still, however, Dinah's spirit continued undi- 
 minished. Her children, although to use her 
 own phrase, " of the wrong sort," grew and 
 flourished, as the children of poor people do 
 grow and flourish, one hardly knows how ; and 
 by the time that the long-wished-for boy made 
 his appearance in the world, the elder girls had 
 become almost as useful to their father as if the}' 
 had been " the right sort" themselves. Never 
 were seen such hardy and handy little elves ! 
 They drove the plough, tended the kine, folded 
 the sheep, fed the pigs, worked in the garden, 
 made the hay, hoed the turnips, reaped the corn, 
 hacked the beans, and drove the market cart to 
 
 B on occasion, and sold the butter, eggs, 
 
 and poultry as well as their mother could have 
 done. 
 
 Strong, active, and serviceable as boys, were 
 the little lasses ; and pretty withal, though as 
 brown as so many gipsies, and as untrained as 
 wild colts. They had their mother's bright and 
 sparkling countenance, and her gay and sunny 
 temper, a heritage more valuable than house or 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 139 
 
 l a i>J — a gift more precious than ever was be- 
 stowed on a favoured princess by beneficent fairy. 
 But the mother's darling was one who bore 
 no resemblance to her either in mind or person^ 
 her only son and youngest child Moses, so call- 
 ed after his grandfather, in a lurking hope, which 
 was however disappointed, that the name might 
 propitiate the offended and wealthy yeoman. 
 
 Little Moses was a fair, mild, quiet boy, who 
 seemed at first sight far fitter to wear petticoats 
 than any one of his madcap sisters ; but there 
 was an occasional expression in his deep grey 
 eye that gave token of sense and spirit, and an 
 unfailing steadiness and diligence about the 
 child that promised to vindicate his mother's par- 
 tiality. She was determined that Moses should 
 be, to use the country phrase, " a good scholar;" 
 the meaning of which is, by the way, not a little 
 dissimilar from that which the same words bear 
 at Oxford or at Cambridge. Poor Dinah was no 
 " scholar" herself, as the parish register can tes- 
 tify, where her mark stands below George's sig- 
 nature in the record of her marriage, and the girls 
 bade fair to emulate their mother's ignorance, 
 Dinah having given to each of the four the half 
 of a year's schooling, upon the principle of ride 
 ar.d tie, little Lucy going one day, and little Pat- 
 ty the next, and so on with the succeeding pair ; 
 
140 LITTLE MOSE8. 
 
 in this way adroitly educating two children for 
 the price of one, their mother in her secret soul 
 holding it for girls a waste of time. But when 
 Moses came in question the case was altered. 
 He was destined to enjoy the benefit of an entire 
 education, and to imbibe unshared all the learning 
 that the parish pedagogue could bestow. An 
 admission to the Wokefield free-school ensured 
 him this advantage, together with the right of 
 wearing the long primitive blue cloth coat and 
 leathern girdle, as well as the blue cap and yel- 
 low tassel by which the boys were distinguished ; 
 and by the time he was eight years old, he had 
 made such progress in the arts of writing and 
 cyphering, that he was pronounced by the mas- 
 ter to be the most promising pupil in the school. 
 At this period, misfortunes, greater than they 
 had hitherto known, began to crowd around his 
 family. Old Farmer Mearing died, leaving all 
 his property to Martha ; and George, a broken 
 hearted toil-worn man, who had been only sup- 
 ported in his vain efforts to make head against ill- 
 fortune by the hope of his father at last relent- 
 ing, followed him to the grave in less than two 
 months. Debt and difficulty beset the widow, 
 and even her health and spirits began to fail. 
 Her only resource seemed to be to leave her 
 pleasant home, give up every thing to the ere- 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 141 
 
 ditors, get her girls out to service, and try to 
 maintain herself and Moses by washing or chair- 
 ing, or whatever work her failing strength would 
 allow her to perform. 
 
 Martha, or as she was now called, Mrs. Mar- 
 tha, lived on in lonely and apparently comfortless 
 affluence, at the Manor Farm. She had taken 
 no notice of Dinah's humble supplications, sent 
 injudiciously by Patty, a girl whose dark and 
 sparkling beauty exactly resembled what her mo- 
 ther had been before her unfortunate marriage ; 
 but on Moses, so like his father, she had been 
 seen to gaze wistfully and tenderly, when the 
 little procession of chanty boys passed her on 
 their way to church : though on finding herself 
 observed, or perhaps in detecting herself in such 
 an indulgence, the softened eye was immediate- 
 ly withdrawn, and the stern spirit seemed to ga- 
 ther itself into a resolution only the stronger for 
 its momentary weakness. 
 
 Mrs. Martha, now long past the middle of 
 life, and a confirmed old maid, had imbibed a 
 few of the habits and peculiarities which are sup- 
 posed, and perhaps justly, to characterise that 
 condition. Amongst other things she had a par- 
 ticular fancy for the water from the Elmin spring, 
 and could not relish her temperate supper if 
 cashed down by any other beverage ; and she 
 
142 LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 was accustomed to fetch it herself in the identi- 
 cal china jug, the present of her grand mother, 
 the basin belonging to which she had broken 
 from the shock she underwent when hearing of 
 George's wedding. It is even possible, so much 
 are we the creatures of association, that the con- 
 stant sight of this favorite piece of porcelain, 
 which was really of very curious and beautiful 
 Nankin china, might, by perpetually reminding 
 her of her loss, and the occasion, serve to con- 
 firm her inveterate aversion to poor George and 
 his family. 
 
 However this might be, it chanced that one 
 summer evening Mrs. Martha sallied forth to 
 fetch the sparkling draught from the Elmin 
 Spring. She filled her jug as usual, but much 
 rain had fallen, and the dame, no longer so active 
 as she had been, slipped when about to re-ascend 
 the bank with her burden, and found herself com- 
 pelled either to throw herself forward and grasp 
 the trunk of the nearest tree, to the imminent pe- 
 ril of her china jug, of which she was compelled 
 to let go, or to slide back to the already tottering 
 and slippery plank, at the risk, almost the cer- 
 tainty, of plunging head foremost into the water. 
 If Mrs. Martha had been asked, on level ground 
 and out of danger, whether she preferred to be 
 soused in her own person, or to break her china 
 
LITTLE MOSES. 143 
 
 jug, she would, most undoubtedly, theoretically 
 have chosen the ducking ; but theory and prac- 
 tice are different matters, and following the in- 
 stinct of self-preservation, she let the dear mug 
 go, and clung to the tree. 
 
 As soon as she was perfectly safe she began 
 to lament, in her usual vituperative strain, over 
 her irreparable loss, scolding the tottering plank 
 and the slippery bank, and finally, there being no 
 one else to bear the blame, her own heedless 
 haste, which had cost her the commodity she 
 valued most in the world. Swinging herself 
 round, however, still supported by the tree, she 
 had the satisfaction to perceive that the dear jug 
 was not yet either sunken or broken. It rested 
 most precariously on a turf of bullrushes towards 
 the centre of the pool, in instant danger of both 
 these calamities, and, indeed, appeared to her to 
 be visibly sinking under its own weight. What 
 should she do 1 She could never reach it ; and 
 whilst she went to summon assistance, the pre- 
 cious porcelain would vanish. What could she 
 dot 
 
 Just as she was asking herself this question, 
 she had the satisfaction to hear footsteps in the 
 lane. She called ; and a small voice was heard 
 singing, and the little man Moses, with his satch- 
 el at his back, made his appearance, returning 
 
144 LITTLE MOSES. 
 
 from school. He had not heard her, and she 
 would not call to him — not even to preserve her 
 china treasure. Moses, however, saw the dilem- 
 ma, and pausing only to pull :"T his coat, plunged 
 into the water, to rescue the sinking cup. 
 
 The summer had been wet, and the pool was 
 unusually high, and Mrs. Martha startled to per- 
 ceive that he was almost immediately beyond his 
 depth, called to him earnestly and vehemently to 
 return. The resolute boy, however, accustom- 
 ed from infancy to dabble like the young water 
 fowl amidst the sedges and islets of the great 
 pond, was not to be frightened by the puny wa- 
 ters of the Elmin Spring. He reached, though 
 at some peril, the turf of bullrushes — brought the 
 jug triumphantly to land — washed it — filled it at 
 the fountain-head, and finally offered it, with his 
 own sweet and gracious smile, to Mrs. Martha. 
 And she — oh ! what had she not suffered during 
 the last kw moments whilst the poor orphan — - 
 her brother George's only boy, was risking his 
 life to preserve for her a paltry bit of earthen- 
 ware ! What had she not felt during those few 
 but long moments ! Her woman's heart melted 
 within her ; and instead of seizing the precious 
 porcelain, she caught the dripping boy in her 
 arms — half-smothered him with tears and kisses, 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEMAKEIt. 145 
 
 and vowed that her home should be his home, 
 and her fortune his fortune. 
 
 And she kept her word, — she provided amply 
 and kindly for Dinah and her daughters ; but 
 Moses is her heir, and he lives at the Manor 
 Farm, aud is married to the prettiest woman in 
 the country ; and Mrs. Martha has betaken her- 
 self to the Pond-side, with a temper so much 
 ameliorated, that the good farmer declares the 
 greatest risk his children run is, of being spoilt 
 by aunt Martha : — one in particular, her godson, 
 who has inherited the name and the favour of his 
 father, and is her own particular little Moses. 
 
 ,oJo< 
 
 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER 
 
 BT W. H. HARRISON, ESQ. 
 
 In another part of this volume, I have narra- 
 ted a circumstance which occurred at my first 
 school : the events upon which the following 
 sketch is founded took place during my continu- 
 ance at my last ; where I was one of twelve boys, 
 from fourteen to seventeen years old, who were 
 committed to the care of a clergyman, in one of 
 the most delightful situations in Hampshire. 
 13 
 
146 ISABEL. THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 He was deeply versed in the classics and ma- 
 thematics, and as profoundly ignorant of the 
 world. For the rest, he was of mild temper, and 
 amiable manners ; and, although somewhat of a 
 disciplinarian in school hours, he was often our 
 companion, and occasionally our play-fellow, for 
 the remainder of the day. 
 
 At every other school at which I had been 
 placed learning was a labour to me, and it was, 
 consequently, of slow and irksome acquirement ; 
 but, under Mr. Walton, it became a pleasure. 
 Many a time, during the summer months, would 
 he take us out upon a lawn, v/hich fronted the 
 study and commanded a rich and varied extent 
 of country, and there hear us our classical les- 
 sons under the shadow of a magnificent oak ; 
 and so much was the scene in accordance with 
 the subject of our studies, that I could almost 
 fancy myself in the midst of that Arcadia which 
 the bard of Mantua so sweetly sung. Well I 
 remember, too, after we had construed the pre- 
 scribed quantum of the iEneid, our reverend 
 preceptor would read the corresponding portion 
 in Dryden's translation, which was an old folio 
 edition, and exhibit to our delighted vision pic- 
 toral illustrations of that beautiful fable. Many 
 years have passed away since that volume was 
 closed upon my eyes for the last time ; but I 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEi.xAKER 147 
 
 stem to have, it. this moment, vividly before 
 them the print of the wooden horse, with the ja- 
 velin of Laocoon in its ribs : and T think 1 could 
 accurately trace, upon the paper before me, the 
 circumvolutions of the hideous serpents on the 
 limbs of the devoted priest and his sons, as de- 
 picted, faithfully no doubt, in the engraving. 
 Again, the representation of the shipwreck of 
 iEneas, with all its horrible minutse of detail — 
 the visible winds " cracking their cheeks," and 
 the M rari nantes in gurgite vasto" — appear to 
 my mind's eye to occupy a space in the white 
 curtains of the bed, beside which I am, at this 
 moment, keeping vigil over an invalid, and, hap- 
 pily, now sleeping friend. I recollect that we 
 were wont to consider their heathenish deity- 
 ships, notwithstanding their high attributes, but 
 very so-so sort of personages, whom, if they had 
 had the benefit of living under an English con- 
 stitution, nothing but their immortality would 
 have saved from the gallows. 
 
 In the intervals between the hours of study, 
 we were allowed much liberty, and were wont to 
 explore the enchanting country around us in 
 every direction. those delightful woods, in 
 which we have gathered nuts, and wild flowers, 
 and strawberries ; and the spacious park, of 
 which the noble owner permitted us the range, 
 
14S ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 where we were accustomed to pick up chesnuts 
 — the " caslanew molles" — which we seemed to 
 relish the better, because Virgil had given us a 
 classical name for them ! 
 
 Those were indeed happy days, and I thought 
 them such at the time ; so happy, that I was a 
 rare instance of a youth quitting school, in dis- 
 trust if the world, on which I was about to enter, 
 would afford me an equivalent for the peaceful 
 pleasures that I was called upon to resign. Ex- 
 perience — long, bitter, and sad experience — 
 confirmed my misgivings ; and now, " post tot 
 naufragia," having anchored in the haven of 
 domestic happiness, I often look upon the young 
 and bright, and innocent countenances which are 
 smiling around me, and sigh to think that they 
 are doomed to gather of the same tree, and, it 
 may be, to find the fruit as bitter as I did. 
 my young friends ! who are enjoying the sanc- 
 tuary of a paternal home, or the guardianship of 
 kind and competent instructors — who, in a 
 wordly sense, have no thought for to-morrow to 
 disquiet your minds — who have a ready balm for 
 every wound, and the truest sympathy for every 
 sorrow — I would not cast the gloom of forebod- 
 ing over your future path ; I would not check 
 one youthful hope, or repress one generous as- 
 piration ; but I would warn you, that when you 
 
ISABEL. THE LACEMAKER. 149 
 
 issue from the sequestered walks in which you 
 are now treading into the highway of the world, 
 ycu will see many gorgeous and tempting flowers 
 about your path, but you will find none of them 
 so sweet as those which sprang up in the quiet 
 . valley of domestic or academic retirement. 
 
 But my young readers will inquire, what has 
 all this to do with the young widow and her 
 daughter? I acknowledge the digression, and 
 hasten to atone for it by introducing them. 
 
 At a short distance from the place in which 
 our school was situated, and in a delightful and 
 romantic woodland district, there was a little vil- 
 lage, consisting of some five or six straggling 
 cottages ; the smallest, although the neatest, of 
 which was the dwelling of a widow, whose name 
 was Neville, and her daughter Isabel. From 
 the superior manners of Mrs. Neville, it was 
 conjectured that she had once filled a more eleva- 
 ted station in society — the occupation of her- 
 self and daughter being, at the period of which I 
 write, that of lace-making, by which, as they 
 found a ready sale for their manufactures among 
 the neighbouring gentry, they were enabled to 
 glean an humble, although, with reference to 
 their limited wants, a competent maintenance. 
 
 Now, among my schoolfellows, there was one 
 voung gentleman, between whom and myself 
 13* 
 
150 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 there existed a warm friendship. He was an 
 orphan, but was under the guardianship of an un- 
 cle, and heir to very considerable property. Ed- 
 ward Clinton, at the age of seventeen, was one 
 of the finest youths I ever beheld ; and his very 
 handsome person was set off by the elegance, 
 but, at the same time, propriety and neatness, of 
 his dress. Methinks I see him now, as then, 
 with his dark auburn locks curling over a fore- 
 head on which the seal of intellect was set as 
 plainly as the finger of the Creator upon the face 
 of Nature. His family connexions were of the 
 first order ; and as Lear styled himself " every 
 inch a king," so was Edward every inch a gen 
 tie man. There was nothing vulgar in either his 
 mind or his manners : he was open and generous, 
 and, although very mild in his disposition, he was 
 as brave as a lion. Many a time, when the ag 
 gressions of what we termed the " town boys,'' 
 although there were not twenty houses in the 
 place, provoked us beyond " the power of en- 
 durance," has he led us to victory against supe 
 rior numbers. He was, in fact, a little hero — a 
 very beau ideal of a schoolfellow. 
 
 It happened that, one Saturday afternoon, it 
 being a holiday, Edward Clinton and I had gone 
 on a fishing excursion, and were watching our 
 floats with intense interest — having chanced 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 151 
 
 upon a shoal of perch — when our attention was 
 diverted by a loud laugh, proceeding from a path 
 which intersected a meadow, about a hundred 
 yards from the bank of the river. " There's that 
 ruffianly fellow, Dick, the butcher's son," ex- 
 claimed Edward, " cannot find any better em- 
 ployment than tormenting that poor girl, who, if 
 I mistake not, is Isabel Neville, the lacemaker. 
 Hollo !" continued Clinton, raising his voice, and 
 addressing the butcher, who was proceeding to 
 greater rudeness, " be so good as to let that 
 young woman alone, or I will acquaint your fa- 
 ther with your conduct." The butcher replied 
 with a laugh, and persisted in his annoyance. 
 " Harry," said my companion, " we must never 
 stand this : and yet there is not work enough for 
 two of us ; though the fellow scarcely deserves 
 fair play. Do you mind my rod, while I go and 
 try to rid the poor girl of this cowardly ruffian." 
 
 Edward was making his way to a gate which 
 opened into the meadow, but a scream from Isa- 
 bel altered his purpose, and he immediately leap- 
 ed the fence, with the agility of a deer ; and the 
 butcher found himself sprawling upon the grass, 
 before he was well aware of the presence of his 
 antagonist. Clinton then approached the almost 
 fainting Isabel, and, with a grace peculiar to him, 
 offered the support of his arm and walked off 
 
152 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER 
 
 with her in the direction of her cottage, which 
 was about half a mile from the field of action. 
 Shortly afterwards, I saw him come running 
 back, bounding over every obstacle in his way, 
 With an activity which indicated an exuberance of 
 spirits, produced by the excitement of the scene 
 in which he had performed so conspicuous and 
 manly a part. When he came up to me, his only 
 observation was, " Harry, Isabel Neville is a 
 much more genteel girl than I thought she was ;" 
 but I could perceive that my friend, although he 
 had gained a victory, had lost his heart. 
 
 From that time, Edward Clinton, although on 
 every other point as open towards me as ever, 
 was guardedly reserved upon the subject of that 
 evening's adventure ; but, whenever Isabel's 
 name was mentioned, I could perceive a kindling 
 in his eye and a general lighting up of his noble 
 countenance, which he had not the art to dis- 
 guise. 
 
 But Edward's reserve upon this point did him 
 infinite honor. Young as he was, he had discre- 
 tion sufficient to feel convinced that the differ- 
 ence between the stations of Isabel and himself 
 was such, that any indication of his predilection 
 could not but induce animadversion, and per- 
 haps greater annoyance, upon its subject. 
 
 It was not very long after this occurrence, that 
 
ISABEL, THE LA.CEMAKER. 153 
 
 I was strolling by myself, one beautiful summer 
 evening, when I was startled by the voice of a 
 female singing within a few paces of me. It was 
 a simple and somewhat melancholy air ; but was 
 poured forth with such sweetness, and there was 
 such touching pathos in its cadences, that no- 
 thing I have since heard of the sublime or scientific 
 in music has ever penetrated so deeply into my 
 bosom. I advanced a few yards into the wood 
 by which I was^surrounded, and, from a position 
 in which I was myself unseen, obtained a view 
 of the singer. It was Isabel Neville. I had ap- 
 proached the cottage before I was aware of it — 
 an inadvertence which, from the wooded situation 
 of the village, I was very likely to fall into. She 
 was sitting in front of the cottage, in the midst of 
 a flower garden, with her feet upon a low stool, 
 and the pillow, on which she was making lace, 
 upon her knee ; while a dog, which was couch- 
 ing beside her, was watching, with pricked-up 
 ears and eager eyes, the movement of the bob- 
 bins as she cast them over the pins. The front 
 of the cottage was nearly covered with shrubs, 
 and around her were flowers in great profusion 
 and variety ; but she was herself the loveliest 
 blossom of them all. She was apparently about 
 seventeen. I have seen beauty, in the ball-room, 
 spreading out every lure "to fix the gaze of idiot 
 
154 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 wonder," and to draw the incense of adulation 
 from the lips of the flatterer — where every atti- 
 tude was studied and every smile a counterfeit — 
 and I have sighed to think that vanity should de- 
 form what Heaven had made so lovely. But 
 here was beauty powerful in repose ; conscious 
 of no human gaze, and with no incense around 
 her but the innocent breath of the flowers, which, 
 so was the place filled and consecrated by her 
 presence, appeared to be emanations of her love- 
 liness. Perhaps I gazed upon Isabel under the 
 excitement of feelings that the romantic scene in 
 which I found her, and the susceptible tempera- 
 ment of youth, were calculated to inspire ; or, it 
 may be, that, at this distance, the mellow tints 
 of time have fallen upon the picture, and I have 
 overcharged the description ; and yet, meihinks, 
 it were impossible to do so. The spell of her 
 beauty was upon me ; and I know not how long 
 I might have remained under its influence, had 
 I not attracted the notice of Isabel's dog, which 
 flew barking towards my covert ; and I was com- 
 pelled to make a precipitate retreat. 
 
 It was some few weeks after this occurrence, 
 that, on the evening of a very sultry day, Isabel 
 and her lriend, Ellen Stanfield, were sitting at 
 work, in the little garden which I have already 
 described, enjoying a refreshing breeze which 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 155 
 
 had sprung up in the afternoon, while Mrs. Ne- 
 ville was engaged in some domestic concerns 
 within doors. Now, Ellen was a veiy excellent 
 young woman, and was most affectionately at- 
 tached to her friend ; but, in virtue of her senio- 
 rity, she being a whole year the elder, she was 
 wont, occasionally, to assume the office of a 
 Mentor, and to give Isabel the benefit of her 
 more extended experience. 
 
 Isabel had been relating to her friend the gal- 
 lant behaviour of Edward Clinton in the adven- 
 ture of the meadow; and, when she had con- 
 cluded her narration, Ellen observed, " Upon 
 my word, Isabel, you are very eloquent in the 
 young gentleman's praise." 
 
 " I should be very ungrateful," replied Isabel, 
 4 if I were not." 
 
 " Well, well," said her friend, " I would not 
 have you ungrateful, child : he is a good youth, 
 and a gallant one, I will allow ; but no such pa- 
 ragon, after all, since there are few of his breed- 
 ing who would not have done as much for you ; 
 and he, doubtless, would have performed the 
 same for any other young woman who had been 
 placed in a similar predicament." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; that he would !" exclaimed Isabel 
 eagerly ; " he is far too generous to make any 
 distinctions, where his humanity is concerned." 
 
156 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 " Indeed, Isabel," continued her friend, " you 
 appear to ha , f e acquired a wonderful insight into 
 his good qualities, upon a very short acquaint- 
 ance. But perhaps your introduction to him is 
 of earlier date than the notable achievement, 
 which appears, in your estimation, to have eleva- 
 ted him into a hero." 
 
 " Well, Ellen," rejoined Isabel, " whatever 
 opinion others may entertain upon the subject, it 
 does not become me to undervalue the service 
 he has rendered me ; but I assure you that I 
 never saw him before, although I could not go 
 into a cottage in the village without hearing of 
 Edward Clinton. You yourself know well enough 
 how kind and generous he is to the poor, and 
 that, not a month since, when the widow Hob- 
 son's donkey fell into the mill-dam and was 
 drowned, he raised a subscription among his 
 schoolfellows to buy her another, and put down 
 half-a-guinea towards it himself." 
 
 " His good deeds are not likely to remain a 
 secret for want of a trumpeter to proclaim them," 
 said Ellen : " that is very certain : he seems to 
 have engaged a very zealous one ; and, no doubt, 
 has improved the acquaintance to which his va- 
 lour introduced him." 
 
 " How absurdly you talk," replied Isabel, 
 somewhat impatiently ; " you know, or if you do 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. i57 
 
 not, you may ask my mother, and she will tell 
 you that he has never been within our garden 
 gate." 
 
 " Because he is tall enough to ook over it, 
 my dear," said Ellen, drily. " And pray, when, 
 and how often, does he honour you with a visit ?" 
 
 " I know not if you can correctly call it a visit, 
 Ellen," answered Isabel ; " but I think we 
 usually see him on a Saturday, when he goes to 
 fish in the mill-stream." 
 
 " I fear," rejoined Ellen, " that he is more 
 frequently angling over your palings than in the 
 river, which, you appear to forget, lies about 
 midway between his school and your cottage. 
 But seriously, my dear, I would caution you not 
 to attach too much importance to his attentions ; 
 for, believe me, any sentiments he may be silly 
 enough to entertain for a village maiden will be 
 discarded, with his Greek and Latin, when he 
 leaves school, which I understand he is about to 
 do. Besides, if your mother were to discover it, 
 she would be exceedingly angry." 
 
 It is possible that Isabel might have paused to 
 cogitate upon the fact of its not being absolutely 
 necessary that Edward Clinton should pass the 
 cottage (it being a mile out of the direct road) on 
 his way to the mill-stream, or that she might 
 have reasoned a little upon the alleged analogy 
 14 
 
158 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 between love and the dead languages — and me- 
 thinks the formei can scarcely be classed with 
 the latter — but t le imputation conveyed in the 
 closing sentence of Ellen's very edifying lecture 
 gave a different direction to Isabel's thoughts, 
 and she instantly replied, with considerable 
 warmth — " Nay, Ellen, you much mistake and 
 greatly wrong me, if you imagine, for a moment, 
 that I have any secrets from my mother. Oh, 
 no! shall I repose with less confidence upon her 
 bosom than when I clung to it in infancy 1 El- 
 len, she has nursed me in sickness, has borne 
 with the petulance of my childhood and the way- 
 wardness of my youth, has ever been my kind- 
 est, best of friends ; and shall I treat her with 
 less confidence than many a silly girl gives to 
 her schoolfellow? If I should ever harbour a 
 thought which I should fear to confide to my mo- 
 ther, I shall be sure that it is a sinful one, and 1 
 will pray to God to del'ver me from its power. 
 With regard to this young gentleman, other than 
 kindly I cannot feel towards one who has con- 
 ferred upon me an obligation which I may not 
 deem a light one ; and, should I ever entertain 
 for him sentiments which I cannot cherish with 
 propriety or safety, she, to whom my heart shall 
 ever be open, will not fail to warn me of my 
 danger ' 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 159 
 
 Ellen, who really loved Isabel, forgetting the 
 monitress in the friend, threw her arms around 
 her neck, implored her forgiveness for having 
 unintentionally distressed her, and promised 
 never to allude to the subject again. 
 
 In a few months after this conversation, Ed- 
 ward Clinton left school for the University ; and 
 year after year passed away, and each succeed- 
 ing one found the circumstances of the widow 
 and her daughter materially changed for the 
 worse. The fashions had altered, and the article 
 from the manufacture of which they had once 
 derived a comfortable subsistence, was no lon- 
 ger, to use a mercantile phrase, in demand. Is- 
 abel, who was a pattern of filial affection, then 
 resorted to her needle, and submitted to num- 
 berless privations, in order that the reverse of 
 fortune might not be felt by her mother, whose 
 age and infirmities required increased attention, 
 and many comforts which were more than ever 
 beyond their reach. 
 
 One fine evening in the spring, Isabel was 
 sitting at needlework in the garden, almost re- 
 signing herself to those melancholy feelings which 
 her unpropitious circumstances so naturally pro- 
 duced, and which even religion, powerful as was 
 its influence upon her heart and concfuct, occa- 
 sionally failed to n itigate ; and she was con- 
 
160 ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 
 
 trasting in her mind the present season of diffi- 
 culty and distress with those past and happy 
 days when she had little care upon her mind. 
 Among other objects which the retrospect called 
 up to fancy's view, was the form of Edward Clin- 
 ton ; and she thought upon the merry look and 
 the courteous smile with which he was wont to 
 greet her and her mother on a Saturday after- 
 noon. " But he has forgotten me," said Isabel, 
 mentally ; " for the memory of their good deeds 
 dwells not long with the generous." She sigh- 
 ed, and looked up towards the well remembered 
 spot in the fence of the garden, where he was 
 wont to post himself, with his fishing-rod in his 
 hand and his basket belted under his arm ; when, 
 lo ! an apparition met her eyes which occasion- 
 ed her to utter an exclamation, and, dropping her 
 work, she hurried into the cottage. 
 
 I am sure T do not know what there was to be 
 frightened at, for she might have paced the most 
 populous churchyard, from Midsummer to 
 Christmas, and not have met with a more hand- 
 some apparition. Tt was Edward Clinton, in 
 very flesh and blood. 
 
 The occurrences of the few weeks which fol- 
 lowed this rencontre, I am not able to narrate, 
 but I infer that my friend made good use of his 
 time ; since, on a fine sunshiny summer's morn- 
 
ISABEL, THE LACEMAKER. 161 
 
 mg, it was reported that one of the village bells 
 had been cracked, and that, with reference to the 
 occasion, Mr. Clinton considered himself bound 
 to furnish the steeple with a new set. It was, in- 
 deed, whispered, by some officious and ill-natur- 
 ed persons, that the said bell had received an 
 awkward knock before, and that Edward was 
 the first wealthy man who had been married at 
 the church since the accident ; but I attach no 
 credit whatever to the insinuation. Little>»re- 
 mains for me to record, except that the humility 
 which adorned the tenant of th > cottsure survived 
 her change, of fortune, to grace the mistress of 
 the mansion ; while Edward, so far from regret- 
 ting that he had taken to his bosom a dowerless 
 bride, became daily more convinced of the truth, 
 that a woman's richest portion is virtue and af- 
 fection, 
 
LITTLE GOODY TWO SHOES. 
 
 BY J. F. HOLLINGS, ESQ. 
 
 Who has not heard the story, told 
 Of that patient child of old, 
 Who, when friends were dead an J gone 
 And the world looked coldiy on, 
 With no fairy power endued, 
 Labour's rugged path pursued ; 
 Meeting sorrow's darkest hour 
 With a calm and gentle power, 
 Till, (the lengthened trial past,) 
 Honor crowned her toils at last 1 
 
 Look ! behold her, as she sits 
 Where the light wind, sighing, flits 
 Through the trees whose boughs have made 
 Coolness and a pleasant shade. — 
 Far behind the mountain blue 
 Fadeth in the onward view, 
 And the river wanders by 
 With its summer melody, — 
 
LITTLE GOODY TWO SHOES. 163 
 
 Overhead are cloudless skies , 
 Flowers, of everc hanging dyes, 
 Gem the verdant turf below 
 With a rich and varied show. 
 
 In her hand the unfolded rose 
 Childhood's fleeting emblem, glows 5 
 But her face, the fair impress 
 Wears of youthful happiness ; 
 Wherefore not 1 — a wealth is hers, 
 Better than the world confers ; 
 Hope untried, and always new, — 
 Innocence, of spotless hue, — 
 And those treasures of the mind 
 Which the lowliest heart shall find 
 If its search be rightly bent, — 
 Golden mirth, and light content I 
 
THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 A FACT. 
 
 L 
 
 Two lovely little children went, when summer 
 
 was in prime, 
 Into a garden beautiful, beneath a southern clime ; 
 A brother and a sister — twins, and each to each 
 
 most dear, — 
 Was not the mother of these babes beset with any 
 
 fear 1 
 
 II. 
 
 And brightly shone the summer sun upon that 
 gentle pair, 
 
 Who plucked each gaudy flower that grew in rich 
 profusion there, 
 
 Or chased the idle butterflies,— those fair, de- 
 fenceless things, 
 
 That round them tantalizing danced upon their 
 silken wings. 
 
 \ 
 
THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE* "S^ 
 
 III. 
 
 With many a flower which they nad plucked, fs 
 
 mimic grove they made, 
 But wondered, when they came again, they haa 
 
 so soon decayed ; 
 And grieving, each the other asked, why all the 
 
 roses red, 
 Which freshly bloomed an hour before, now 
 
 drooping hung their head % 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Twas in that season of the year when on the 
 
 blooming earth 
 Each flower and plant, and shrub and tree, to all 
 
 their fruits gave birth : 
 But 'mid them all, and most exposed to catch 
 
 the passing view, 
 With purple flowers and berries red, the Deadly 
 
 Nightshade grew ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Up rose the little boy and ran, upon the bush to 
 
 gaze, 
 And then his sister followed quick, and both 
 
 were in amaze ; 
 
166 THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 For berries half so beautiful they ne'er before had 
 
 seen, 
 So forth he rashly stretched his hand among the 
 
 branches green. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Oh, Edward ! Edward ! do not touch. Re- 
 member, mother said, 
 
 That poisonous fruit in clusters grew, though 
 beautiful and red ; 
 
 And that it had a tempting look, inviting to the 
 eye, 
 
 But if a single one we eat, that we should surely 
 die." 
 
 VII. 
 "0! Charlotte, Charlotte, do you think that 
 
 these can do us harm, 
 Or that such pretty fruit as this need cause U3 
 
 such alarm ? 
 For surely, if they poisonous are, they bitter then 
 
 must be, 
 So I will taste a single one, and we shall quickly 
 
 see !" 
 
 Vffl. 
 Then forth he stretched his little hand, and he a 
 
 berry plucked, 
 And to his lips he put the fruit, and in the poison 
 
 sucked , 
 
THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. 167 
 
 And when he found the juice was good, he b&oo 
 
 his sister eat, — 
 " For it is pleasant to the taste — so cooling and 
 
 so sweet." 
 
 IX. 
 
 liiese children then the berries pulled, and o* 
 
 them eat their fill, — 
 Nor did they ever dream the while, that th^.y 
 
 were doing ill. 
 " 'Tis not the fruit that mother meant," exulting- 
 
 ly they cried ; 
 And merry was their prattling laugh, to see their 
 
 fingers dyed. 
 
 X. 
 
 But suddenly the sister stopped, her rosy cheek 
 
 grew pale — 
 *• Ot brother ! brother ! hold me up, for something 
 
 doth me ail — 
 I feci so weak, I cannot stand,— the trees are 
 
 dancing round : 
 " Oh, Edward ! Edward ! clasp my hand, and 
 
 place me on the ground," 
 
 XI. 
 He gently laid his sister down, and bitterly did 
 
 cry, 
 And every means to ease her pain and calm her 
 
 fears did try ; 
 
168 THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 But soon he felt himself turn sick, and feeble — 
 
 chilly — weak, — 
 And, as he tottered on the grass, he bruised hia 
 
 sister's cheek. 
 
 XII. 
 Exhausted though that infant was, upon his ten 
 
 der breast 
 He placed the little Charlotte's head, that she 
 
 might softer rest : 
 The hapless creature did but think his sister only 
 
 slept ! 
 And when his eyesight dimmer grew, to her hs 
 
 closer crept. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The evening closed upon these babes, who slepc 
 away their breath ; 
 
 A/.d, mourning o'er his cruel task, away went 
 grieving Death : — 
 
 And they who had the sacred trust, those che- 
 rubs dear to keep, 
 
 Beheld them where they quiet lay, but thought 
 they were asleep. 
 
 XIV. 
 When they the hapless sufferers raised from tnat 
 
 last, fond embrace, 
 A half-formed smile was seen to dwell upon each 
 
 paly face ; 
 
THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 169 
 
 Alas ! that such twin roses fair, which morning 
 
 saw in bloom, 
 
 Should wither in the sunny land, ere came the 
 
 twilight gloom. 
 
 Florence. 
 
 ►©Jo. 
 
 THE BIRDS AND THE BEGGAR OF 
 BAGDAT. 
 
 BY MISS JEWSBXJRT. 
 
 *• What a miserable world this is !" exclaim- 
 ed Karoun the beggar, as he sat one day at the 
 gates of the city of Bagdat ; " were I to make it 
 over again, I could exceedingly mend it ! My 
 world should contain no kings, and certainly no 
 cadis — every one should do that which was right 
 in his own eyes — it should be possible to get 
 money without working for it — and knowledge 
 without learning. Allah! what a miserable world 
 i3 this. Of what use are the tribes of children, 
 for ever interrupting one with their noisy play 'I — 
 Without doubt, we should be well rid of some 
 thousands ; — and their mothers, — why are women 
 such tender, delicate creatures 1 In my world 
 15 
 
170 THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 
 
 they should be as strong as horses, and dig, and 
 plant, and go to battle like their husbands. Then, 
 with regard to gold, and silver, and precious 
 stones, there should either be plenty for every 
 one, or else none at all, — the same of palaces — 
 the same of fine horses and rich clothes. As to 
 diseases and misfortunes, — I would abolish them 
 altogether, just as I would do away with poisons, 
 precipices, storms, earthquakes, and whatever 
 else tends to shorten life. Oh, what a beautiful 
 world I could make of this ! However, I feel in- 
 clined for a nap, at present, so I will remove to 
 yonder grove for the benefit of the shade." 
 
 The self-complacent beggar accordingly 
 stretched himself beneath a large plane tree, and 
 presently fell into a sound slumber ; in which 
 slumber he was visited with the following dream. 
 — He fancied himself exactly where he was, ly- 
 ing under a plane tree, but he also fancied he 
 heard a most extraordinary noise proceed from 
 the branches. He further fancied that, on lifting 
 up his eyes to discover the cause, he found the 
 plane tree filled with birds of all nations, and 
 occupied, according to their ability, in scream- 
 ing, singing, whistling, and chattering. They 
 were more vociferous than all the beggars of 
 Bagdat, and grievously annoyed our friend Ra- 
 roun. By and by the plane tree became quiet, 
 
THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 171 
 
 the birds ranged themselves on the boughs, in 
 companies according to their kind, — and the beg- 
 gar discovered that it was a " Parliament of 
 Birds," met to deliberate on the state of the fea- 
 thered world. The golden eagle sat aloft in 
 silent majesty ; and a venerable horned owl 
 opened the business of the meeting, by entreat- 
 ing the members to conduct the debate with de- 
 corum, and bear in mind that wisdom was never 
 confined to the birds of one generation. He 
 was followed by a superb red-and-green parrot, 
 who scratched his head, and spoke as follows. 
 
 " I conceive that, for many ages, birds have 
 been grossly ill used by nature ; and I hail the 
 meeting of the present assembly, as a proof that 
 the rights and privileges of all who have claws 
 and beaks are about to be better understood. 1 
 do not speak for myself. My fate makes me 
 the associate of man, and the favorite of ladies ; 
 I am fed with dainties, and observe all that passes 
 in dining and drawing rooms — for myself, I have 
 little reason to complain — I speak as a patriot ; 
 — why should not all birds have the privileges of 
 parrots 1 Is it not gross partiality, that we alone 
 should have gilt cages ?" 
 
 The speaker ceased amidst tremendous ap- 
 plause. A crow spoke next. 
 
 " I agree with the parrot," said he, " in blam- 
 
172 THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 
 
 ing nature ; but I disagree with him, as to his 
 mode of charging her injustice. The evil lies 
 deeper. There ought to be no gilt cages ; no 
 fine plumage ; no sweet voices amongst us. Why 
 is one kind of bird to be exalted over another 1 
 and yet this will ever be the case whilst these 
 vain and useless distinctions remain in force. 
 
 " Why am I to serve the farmer, by clearing 
 his fields of grubs and worms, and be consi- 
 dered a lowlived bird because I am only useful ; 
 whilst the nightingale is to be followed by admi- 
 ration, because she — sings ! Why does not man 
 write poetry about me 1 What is the nightingale 
 but a bird like myself? is not she" — 
 
 Here the crow was called to order, and a very 
 beautiful dove spoke next. 
 
 " I do not complain," said she, " of what the 
 preceding orators have complained ; my com- 
 plaint is, that distinction does not make amends 
 for conscious weakness. What signify my 
 delicate plumage and tender note, while I want 
 the eagle's wing, and the hawk's eye." 
 
 Here the owl attempted to speak next, but was 
 prevented by a magpie. 
 
 " My case," said the chatterer, " is harder 
 still ; my plumage is beautiful, but no one will 
 own it ; — I talk, but no one will listen to me ; — 
 I am a persecuted bird — an envied genius." 
 
THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 173 
 
 Here the magpie was interrupted by a 
 sparrow. 
 
 " Why am I to be shot for a dumpling, any 
 more than the red-breast 1" 
 
 " And why," said the Lark, " am I to be roast- 
 ed, any more than the nightingale V 9 
 
 " Why are we to be preyed upon by kites and 
 hawks V 9 said all the little birds in chorus. 
 
 " Let us rebel," said the tomtits. 
 
 " Let us be kites and hawks ourselves," said 
 the jenny-wrens. 
 
 " Let us leave man to pick up his own cater- 
 pillars," said the sparrows ; " the world will 
 come to an end without us !" 
 
 " It will ! It will !" screamed all the birds 
 that were precisely of the least consequence. 
 
 At this point, at once of the dream and the de- 
 bate, Karoun fancied that he was called upon for 
 his opinion, and that he thus addressed the con- 
 gress of birds : — 
 
 " With the exception of the eagle and the owl, 
 who, to do them justice, are sensible, well-be- 
 haved bipeds, you are a set of foolish, insolent, 
 half-witted creatures, not worthy of wearing fea- 
 thers. Listen now to reason ; and since birds 
 cannot blush, hide you heads under your wings 
 for shame. 
 
 " In the first olace, Mr. Parrot, if every bird is 
 15* 
 
174 THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 
 
 to live in a gilt cage, and hang up in a drawing- 
 room, pray where is man to live himself? 
 
 " In the second place, I ask Mr. Crow, whe- 
 ther he clears the farmers' fields of worms from 
 love to the farmer, or from desire of a good meal? 
 
 * Thirdly, if any of you, after a reasonable en- 
 joyment of life, object to being killed to feed 
 man, why, I ask, may not the grubs and flies also 
 object to being killed, in order to feed you ? 
 
 " Fourthly, if you were all of one kind — all 
 eagles or all kites — would there not be ten times 
 more fighting amongs-t you than there is ? and 
 what, I ask, must you all live upon ? 
 
 "Fifthly, if you object to dying altogether, and 
 yet continue to treble your numbers every year, 
 how, I ask, is the world to hold you all ? As for 
 you," continued the beggar, turning in great 
 wrath towards the sparrows, the chaffinches, the 
 larks, the wrens, and all who resembled them, 
 " who is it that steals man's corn — eats man's 
 cherries — pecks man's peas? little, mischievous, 
 prating varlets as you are, your lives are forfeit 
 ed fifty times before they are taken ! 
 
 '« Lastly, I entreat you all, from the eagle 
 down to the tomtit, to look away from your own 
 individual interests, to the interests of the world, 
 of which you form but a small portion. I do as- 
 sure you, my friends, it is infinitely better, on the 
 
THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 175 
 
 whole, that you should differ from each other, 
 just as you do ; — that some should be strong, 
 some weak, some beautiful, some ugly ; some 
 wear fine coats, and some plain ones. And 
 nowbegone, every one of you. — Disperse, I say ! 
 — and instead of wishing to amend nature, try to 
 mend your own manners." 
 
 Straightway there was a great whirring of 
 wings in the air, occasioned by the breaking up of 
 the bird parliament ; and in a few minutes all 
 was silent. It was now Karoun's turn to be re- 
 proved. 
 
 " Presumptuous mortal !" said an awful voice. 
 Karoun started — and behold, he saw in his 
 dream a majestic form by his side, clothed with 
 wings and shining garments. — " Presumptuous 
 mortal !" continued the Genius, " thou hast had 
 no pity on the folly of the birds, and yet thine 
 own is far greater. Thou mend the world ! 
 Thy mending would be its destruction ! Were 
 there no disease and no misfortune, how could 
 man exercise the virtues which fit him to enjoy 
 Paradise ? As to death, is it other than a blessing 
 to the righteous 1 And if thou art wicked, is it 
 not thine own fault? Next, if all possessed riches, 
 who must work 1 And if no oi*e had riches, who 
 must pay for that work ? Also, if every one were 
 wise, who must learn ] And if every one were 
 
176 THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT. 
 
 ignorant, who must teach ? Again, if all had 
 leisure, and there were no law or cadi, thou 
 thinkest the world would be happier ; — no such 
 thing ! where there are two battles there would 
 be twenty ; where there are five robberies there 
 would be fifty ; and for one lazy, discontented 
 vagabond like thyself, there would be a thousand ! 
 Get up, Karoun, and go about thy business ; and 
 instead of wishing to mend the world, try to 
 mend thine own manners." 
 
 Thus saying, the Genius vanished, and Ka 
 roun immediately awoke. After musing awhile 
 on his strange dream, he returned to the city of 
 Bagdat much wiser than he had left it. It is but 
 fair to say, that he immediately gave up his pro- 
 fession as a beggar, and hiring himself to a 
 fisherman, became a much more respectable 
 and contented personage than he had ever been 
 before. 
 
THE HOUSE SPARROW. 
 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 Virginibus puerisque canto. 
 
 I sing this verse for boys and girls. 
 
 Touch not the little Sparrow, who doth build, 
 His home so near us. He doth follow us 
 From spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town, 
 And ne'er deserts us. To all other birds 
 The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields, 
 And Nature in her aspect mute and fair ; 
 But he doth herd with man. Blithe servant ! 
 
 live, 
 Feed, and grow cheerful ! On my window's ledge 
 I'll leave thee every morning some fit food, 
 In payment of thy service. — Doth he serve ? — 
 Ay, serves, and teaches. His familiar voice, 
 His look of love, his sure fidelity, 
 Bids us be gentle with so small a friend ; 
 And much we learn from acts of gentleness. 
 
178 THE HOUSE SPARROW 
 
 Doth he not teach 1 — Ay, and doth serve us too. 
 Who clears our homes from many a noisome 
 
 thing, 
 Insect or reptile ; and when we do mark 
 With what nice care he builds his nest, and 
 
 guards 
 His offspring from all harm, — and how he goes* 
 A persevering, bold adventurer, 
 'Midst hostile tribes, twenty times big as he, 
 Skill, perseverance, courage, parent love, — 
 In all these acts we see, and may do well, 
 In our own lives, perhaps, when need doth ask, 
 To imitate the little household bird. 
 
 Untiring follower ! what doth chain thee here ? 
 What bond's 'tween thee and man ! Thy food 
 
 the same 
 As theirs who wing the woods, — thy voice as 
 
 wild, 
 Thy wants, thy power the same, — we nothing do 
 To serve thee, and few love thee ; yet thou 
 
 hang'st 
 About our dwellings, like some humble friend, 
 Whom custom and kind thoughts do link to us, 
 And no neglect can banish. 
 
 So, long live 
 The household Sparrow ! mav he thrive for ever! 
 
THE HOUSE SPARROW. 179 
 
 For ever twitter forth his morning song, 
 A. brief, but sweet domestic melody ! 
 
 Long may he live ! and he who aims to kill 
 Our small companion, let him think how he 
 Would feel if great men spurned him from their 
 
 hearths, 
 Or tyrant doomed him, who had done no wrong, 
 To pains or sudden death. Then let him think, 
 Ana ne will spare the little trustful bird ; 
 And his one act of clemency will teach 
 His heart a lesson that shall widen it, 
 For nothing makes so bright the soul, as when 
 Pity doth temper wisdom. 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 
 
 BY MRS. OPIE. 
 
 There is nothing more trying to the patience 
 of preceptors or companions of children, than 
 restlessness ; — than the wish to be where they 
 are not, and the signs of their being weary of 
 ■what they are employed upon. 
 
 This trying restlessness, and desire of change, 
 was never more obvious than in Merrick Mor- 
 rison — a little spoiled boy, whom his kind uncle 
 and aunt, Sir George and Lady Pemberton, had 
 received into their family to spend his holidays, 
 because a fever had broken out in his own ; and 
 not a day passed that did not convince them 
 what an unsuitable companion he was for their 
 children. They would have thought him a dan- 
 gerous example also, had they not observed, 
 that Edward and Harry, their amiable twins, 
 were quite as much aware of Merrick's defects 
 as they themselves, and were equally tired of his 
 company ; though they were too well educated 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 181 
 
 to make his faults the subject of conversation, 
 and too well taught not to do all in their power 
 to amuse their guest. 
 
 For this purpose, as soon as their lessons were 
 over, during which Merrick usually yawned an- 
 noyingly loud over the book which Sir George 
 insisted on his reading, that he might not spend 
 all his time in idleness, they used to challenge 
 Merrick to different athletic exercises ; to swam 
 the rope, as it is called ; to jump over a bar ; to 
 run races ; or to dig with them in their garden, 
 and play at battledore and shuttlecock ; but he 
 was soon tired of each amusement in its turn, 
 and usually said, after a while — " Come, I am 
 tired of this ; let us go to something else !" It 
 was the same thing if they took a walk to see a 
 fine prospect. The moment they had reached 
 it, Merrick cried out — " Come, let us go to ano- 
 ther view ; I am tired of this !" And though his 
 companions expressed their delight in the pros- 
 pect before them, he did not let them rest till 
 they followed him whither his impatient spirit 
 led ; and when there, he was as eager to quit 
 what he had so eagerly desired to reach. On 
 these occasions, Henry could scarcely keep his 
 contempt to himself; but Edward's feeling was 
 more that of pity for the poor boy's bad education, 
 and this led him sometimes to endeavour to pre- 
 16 
 
182 THE RESTLESS BOY. 
 
 vail on him to control his restless impatience 
 and try to enjoy the present scene, as he anc 
 Harry did. But in vain. Merrick would eithei 
 yawn while he spoke, or tumble on the grass, 01 
 whistle, to show how entirely he disregarded his. 
 cousin's remonstrances. 
 
 As change of any kind was delightful to Mer- 
 rick, he jumped for joy when he heard that his 
 uncle and aunt were going to remove to a house 
 which they had on the coast, in order to receive a 
 brother of Sir George's, who had been out with 
 a navy captain of his acquaintance, on a cruize 
 for the benefit of his health, and he was to be 
 landed there, as the vessel would pass that shore 
 on its way into harbour. 
 
 Now, then, Merrick was all for the sea and 
 the cliffs ; and he was so impatient to be gone, 
 that he even assisted his cousins to pack up, 
 though there was scarcely any thing that he fold- 
 ed or packed, which had not to be folded or 
 packed over again ; however, as Edward kindly 
 said, " the will to be useful must be accepted for 
 the deed." And, having tumbled his own things 
 into his trunk, Merrick came down, two stairs at 
 a time, when he heard the joyful sound of 
 *« Come, boys, come ; the carriage is at the 
 door !" 
 
 When they reached their new abode, Merrick 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 183 
 
 could not rest till he had run down to the sea ; 
 and as he was sure he should not leave the shore 
 till it was quite dark, his cousins, who were fond 
 of drying sea-weed, and picking up stones to 
 class, as they were versed in natural history, took 
 their tin cases with them, and a basket to hold 
 the stones ; but Merrick, restless as the billows 
 which he looked upon, became tired of the shore 
 in a very short time ; and, as he had never been 
 used to consider any one but himself, his most 
 obliging cousins were forced to give up their pur- 
 suits almost as soon as they were begun, and to 
 follow Merrick to the garden. 
 
 The next day their uncle Pemberton was ex 
 pected ; and, as Merrick had never seen a large 
 ship, he was in great joy at the idea of seeing 
 one, and he was constantly wearying each of the 
 family in turn with " Well, but when will the ship 
 come 1 I am so tired of looking for it — I say, 
 when will it come V 9 
 
 " That must depend on the wind and tide, 
 Merrick, and perhaps it may not come till 
 evening." 
 
 " Oh, deaw uncle ! I shall be tired to death of 
 waiting till then." 
 
 " Not if you are employed like your cousins, 
 Merrick. Read Lazy Lawrence ; here it is, 
 and I think it might do you good." 
 
184 THE RESTLESS B01T. 
 
 " Yes, uncle, I will." 
 
 But the interesting tale was soon thrown aside, 
 and Merrick got up to leave the room. 
 
 " Whither are you going, Merrick V 9 
 
 " To the stable, uncle, to Tom ?" 
 
 " What do you want with him 1 I do not allow 
 my sons to go into the stable, or to play with 
 Tom." 
 
 " Oh, I only want to see the horses rubbed 
 down." 
 
 " Then I beg you to stay where you are, as 
 you are not intended for a groom ; and here is a 
 book of prints to turn over ; when your cousins 
 have finished their lessons, they shall walk with 
 you." 
 
 So poor Merrick was forced to sit down again, 
 and turn over the prints ; but he did it so care- 
 lessly, that his uncle was obliged to take the book 
 away, lest it should be spoiled. 
 
 At last, the lessons were over, and his cousins 
 at liberty ; — but which way should they go ? 
 Merrick was all for the sea and the shore now ; 
 and he was so amused with jumping over the 
 little channels made by the waves, and throwing 
 stones into the billows, that he was less impa- 
 tient to go to a new scene than usual, to his 
 cousins' joy, who were therefore able to pick up 
 a large quantity of stones, and sea-weed, and 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 185 
 
 who were in hopes that the vessel bearing their 
 uncle to them would now appear in sight very 
 soon, is they saw Sir George and Lady Pem- 
 berton on the cliff, watching for it, with a tele- 
 scope. To their great mortification^ however, 
 Merrick at last grew tired of his new sport, and 
 would not let them alone till he had made them 
 go up the cliff again ; and when there, he would 
 go and explore a thick copse, some way up the 
 road from the cliff, where he had been told there 
 were fine nuts and blackberries. In vain did his 
 cousins assure him, that if they went they might 
 possibly not see the ship come in ; he said, if 
 they would not come, he would go alone : and, 
 as his uncle and aunt were not sorry to accustom 
 their dear boys to make little sacrifices of their 
 will to oblige others, Edward and Harry were ad- 
 vised by them to go with their guest ; adding, that 
 as there were vipers in one part of the copse, they 
 must warn Merrick not to go near it. The obe- 
 dient boys, therefore, gave up their own will, and 
 accompanied the self-willed Merrick. 
 
 The copse was indeed full of blackberries and 
 nuts ; and the greedy Merrick did not know 
 which to begin upon first ; but recollecting that 
 he could put the nuts into his pockets and eat 
 them at home, but could not so easily carry away 
 
 blackberries, he ate them first, wondering that his 
 16* 
 
IS6 THE RESTLESS BOY. 
 
 cousins, from fear of staining their mouths and 
 clean shirts, should deny themselves such a 
 treat. 
 
 " But we expect to be called to see the ship, 
 and my uncle, every moment," said Harry, " and 
 had rather not make ourselves unfit to be seen." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I do not believe the ship will 
 come at all ; and these berries are so nice, and 
 this is such a nice wood : I shall not go, though 
 you do, but stay here and enjoy myself." 
 
 " But you never saw a large ship, Merrick !" 
 
 " No, nor do I ever desire it, unless I have 
 nothing better to do." 
 
 At this moment, Harry cried out, "Hark ! I 
 am sure T heard a shout !" and instantly ran off 
 to the cliff. Edward would fain have followed 
 him ; but Merrick, having now satisfied himself 
 with blackberries, had now plunged into the 
 copse, and had mounted a very tall nut bush, 
 which seemed to have the ripest fruit, and from 
 which Edward had vainly warned him, as being 
 near the spot at which the vipers had been seen. 
 He, therefore, from a sense of duty, staid with 
 Merrick ; but very earnestly begging him to 
 make haste, as he believed, from the redoubled 
 shouts, that the vessel was in sight. But 1:3 
 begged in vain, and would have lost his long ex- 
 pected pleasure from Merrick's selfishness, had 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 187 
 
 not he heard his father's voice, calling " Ed- 
 ward !" too loudly, authoritatively, and impati- 
 ently, for him to dare to disobey the call ; and 
 urging Merrick to come down directly and 
 follow him, he also ran to the cliff. When he 
 reached it, he saw the vessel had cast anchor on 
 purpose to set his uncle on shore ; and a beauti- 
 ful scene it was, for the sands and cliffs were 
 lined with spectators, waving their handkerchiefs 
 to those whom they knew on board ; but Edward 
 had not time to look long ; he was summoned 
 to the shore, to go off with Harry and his father, 
 in the boat which was to land their uncle. When 
 they had reached the vessel, and had welcomed 
 their beloved relation, Edward and Henry were 
 invited to go on board, and sail with the captain 
 into the harbour. This was such a delight ! but 
 Edward, while about to ascend, stopped, and 
 said, " But poor Merrick !" 
 
 " Ay, poor Merrick, papa !" echoed Harry. 
 
 " Never mind him," said Sir George, " he 
 considers no one but himself; and from what T 
 have observed to day, he deserves this mortifica- 
 tion. So away w T ith you, my good dear boys ; I 
 am glad of the pleasure that awaits you !" 
 
 It was indeed a pleasure of a new and lively 
 kind. The gallant vessel with all her colours 
 flying, scudded rapidly before the gale ; while 
 
1S8 THE RESTLESS BOY. 
 
 Edward and Harry waved their hats and hand* 
 kerchiefs to their friends on the shore, till they 
 could behold them no longer ; but in the midst 
 of their own pleasure, the kind-hearted boys 
 could not help saying, " Poor Merrick ! I wish 
 he had been here !" 
 
 In the midst of this waving of hats and hand- 
 kerchiefs, Merrick reached the shore ; but in a 
 terrible condition ! Though Edward urged him 
 to follow directly, or the vessel would be gone, 
 he would not quit the nut bush till he had filled 
 his pockets. In descending, he fell down, and 
 while stretching out his hand to assist himself to 
 rise, he put it on a snake, which bit one of his 
 fingers, and frightened him so much, that he ran 
 to the cliff, crying with pain and alarm, and his 
 face and shirt quite purple with the juice of the 
 blackberries. 
 
 As those who heard him cry, thought it was 
 merely because the boat was gone without him, 
 his disfigured looks only excited loud laughter ; 
 and little MaryPemberton could not help saying, 
 " Oh, cousin ! what a frightful figure you are !" 
 which so enraged the poor suffering boy, that he 
 gave her a slap on the face, to' the great indigna- 
 tion of her mamma. But her resentment instantly 
 changed into pity when she saw Merrick's hand, 
 and suspected what had happened. 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 189 
 
 " Poor child !" said she, " you have been bit- 
 ten, if Mary had known that, she would not have 
 said what she did. Come hither, my dear — 
 look at your poor cousin's hand — he has been 
 bitten by a viper." 
 
 The good-natured child instantly dried the 
 tears Merrick's blow had occasioned, and said, 
 " Poor dear Merrick, I am very sorry !" Merrick 
 could not bear this, as he was a good-hearted 
 boy though a spoiled one, and he burst into tears 
 of a better kind than those which he had shed 
 before, and eagerly returned the kiss which his 
 aunt desired Mary to give him. 
 
 But when he saw the carriage drive round, 
 which was to go to fetch Edward and Harry from 
 the harbour, he declared he would go in it, for 
 he would not lose all his fun. And it was with 
 difficulty that his aunt could pacify him, and pre- 
 vent his endeavouring to jump in, till the surgeon 
 whom she sent for arrived, who said, that such 
 wounds were often attended with fever, he must 
 therefore advise his patient's being put to bed ; 
 and as Merrick now discovered that he had also 
 sprained his ancle in his fall, Lady Pemberton 
 had no longer any difficulty in procuring obe- 
 dience. 
 
 When Edward and Harry returned, full of the 
 pleasure which they had experienced, Merrick 
 
190 THE RESTLESS BOY. 
 
 was just awaking from a restless sleep, and so 
 unwell, that his spirits were quite subdued. He 
 said to Lady Pemberton, who had been watching 
 beside him, " How kind you are, aunt ; so very 
 kind ! and I am so sorry I struck Mary." 
 
 " What!" cried Harry and Edward, who now 
 entered the room, '" did Merrick strike Mary ?" 
 while the conscious culprit hid his face in the 
 bed clothes. 
 
 " Yes ; but he had provocation," said their 
 mamma, " and he is very sorry for it ; so never 
 let the circumstance be mentioned again." 
 
 " There — there — do not cry so, Merrick," 
 said Harry, going to the bedside, " we are very 
 sorry that you were not with us." 
 
 " And we are still more sorry that you are 
 bitten," said Edward ; " but you know T was 
 forced to leave you when papa called me. How- 
 ever, I had warned you from those bushes." 
 
 " Yes, I know the fault was all mine," said 
 Merrick, sobbing : " but I hope I shall never be 
 so served again." 
 
 " Mamma," cried Harry, laughing, " this has 
 been a day of events." 
 
 " And of mishaps," added his mother. 
 
 " And quite sufficient to make a story of, mam- 
 ma ; therefore as you know no story is complete 
 without a moral, you must make one, for poor 
 
THE RESTLESS BOY. 191 
 
 Merrick's and our benefit, out of our adventures, 
 and his misadventures." 
 
 " Do mamma, pray do," said Edward. 
 
 " Yes, do aunt," cried Merrick. 
 
 " Well, then, my dear, in the first place, if 
 M«rrick was in the habit of knowing how tc im- 
 prove his time, he would not be so restless and 
 impatient, and be always wanting to be where he 
 is not. 
 
 " In the second place, if he had been used to 
 consider others, rather than himself, he would 
 not have required you to leave the shore, where 
 you were rationally employed, to go nutting and 
 blackberry hunting, mere animal gratifications, 
 to amuse his idleness and pamper his palate, and 
 that too at the risk of losing the promised en- 
 joyment of all three. 
 
 " In the third place, had Merrick been wise, 
 and considerate enough of others' wishes to re- 
 main on the shore, he would not have fallen 
 down and sprained his ancle ; would not have 
 been bitten by a viper ; would not have been 
 tempted to the fault of slapping his little cousin's 
 face ; and would not have lost the pleasure of 
 ^oing with you on board the vessel, and sailing 
 into the harbour." 
 
 " Very true, mamma — but the moral." 
 
 " Why, this is the moral, dear children, and I 
 
192 THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 hope it will sink deep into Merrick's heart more 
 especially : — that employment is the only way 
 to make our time pass pleasantly, and enable us 
 to enjoy the present moment ; — that greediness, 
 and the indulgence of mere appetite, commonly 
 end in disappointment and disgrace ; and that 
 those who require the sacrifice of other's plea- 
 sure to their own, are sometimes justly punished 
 by finding the result to be, disappointment, pri- 
 vation, and suffering to themselves." 
 
 ,o|o« 
 
 THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 BY MRS. HOFLAND. 
 
 " My dear little boy," said George Parker to 
 Henry Sterndale, " you have been very kind 
 |nd useful to me ever since I arrived at this 
 place, and I wish very much that" — 
 
 Here the speaker, a young West Indian, and 
 full three years older than the child he addressed, 
 (who was a clever little fellow in his tenth year,) 
 suddenly made a full stop, and his dark but intel 
 ligent countenance was suffused by a deep blush* 
 on observing which, Henry said, 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 193 
 
 M "What do you wish ? I am sure I will do any 
 thing to oblige you, for you have been very 
 generous to me, and that is more than I can say 
 of any other of our great boys." 
 
 M I wish much that you would be my little slave 
 all the time we are at school together, for I love 
 you better than any other little boy." 
 
 Henry's blood mounted more quickly to his 
 face from anger, than that of George had done 
 from timidity, and he answered indignantly — 
 
 " I would not be your slave, nor that of any 
 grown up man, for all the world. No I not even 
 the king's." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I did not mean slave ; 
 that was not the word ; but I was told when I 
 ?ame here, that I should have a little boy who 
 (Vould help me, and to whom I must in return be 
 rery kind." 
 
 " I suppose they said you would have a fag." 
 
 " Yes, that was it, that was what I wanted." 
 
 " Well, I have no objections to be your fag, 
 for it is better to have one master than many, and 
 the boys here, because I am a free boy, (by which 
 I mean I don't belong to any one of them,) have 
 a great trick of ordering me about on all occa- 
 sions. Yes ! I will be your fag with all my 
 heart, but pray be careful never to use that word 
 
 slave to a free-born British boy like me, or there 
 17 
 
191 THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 will be an end of all friendship between us. 
 Why, man, it would set our blood a boiling in 
 December, to be mistaken for one of your West 
 Indian Negroes." 
 
 " I shall never mistake you for one of those 
 poor things," said George, as he stroked up the 
 light ringlets that fell about the fair face of Henry, 
 " so you don't need to speak in such a loud 
 voice, and even if you were one, and bought with 
 my own money, I should neither use you ill, nor 
 suffer any other boy to do it. All that I mean 
 is, that I am a stranger, and find myself very ig- 
 norant compared to those who are much younger 
 than me, and I want some one to help me, as you 
 have already done, for which I would be grate- 
 ful." 
 
 Little Henry was an orphan, placed at school 
 by a relation, who unwilling to pay the expences 
 of so genteel an establishment as the one his 
 pride and not his affection had pitched upon, sub- 
 jected the poor child to many mortifications. 
 His clothes were generally much shabbier than 
 those of any other boy ; he had no home at the 
 holidays whither he could invite any of his 
 school-fellows, and what was worst of all, he had 
 scarcely ever any pocket money ; and though 
 he had learnt manfully to resist the temptations 
 of cakes and oranges, he had by no means ac 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 195 
 
 quired the power of enduring the sneers which 
 the vulgar and unfeeling indulged in, on witness- 
 ing his poverty. At these moments his indigna- 
 tion rose, whilst his heart bled with sorrow ; and 
 as he sought to hide his emotions in solitude, he 
 had hitherto mingled so little with his compani- 
 ons, that he had not made that connection with 
 any which was generally resorted to, by which 
 the youngest claimed a protector, and the elder 
 obtained an assistant, or servant. 
 
 This circumstance had been favorable to our 
 little friend's improvement, for he had often spent 
 that time in reading which others gave to play 
 and in consequence he was much in favour with 
 the more judicious part of the teachers ; but 
 their kindness did not, of course, advance him in 
 the good graces of his school-fellows, who look- 
 ed upon him as a person below their grade in so- 
 ciety, and compelled to learn in order to supply 
 his wants. Pride of circumstances is peculiar to 
 narrow minds, and, therefore, all children are 
 given to it because they are all ignorant, until 
 properly informed by those who have the care of 
 their education ; and it too often happens that 
 this information is neglected, for points in fact 
 of much less moment. 
 
 Young Parker was not aware of this ; he came 
 a stranger, and although the son of a very weal- 
 
196 THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 thy man, since his father had no title, nor was 
 spoken of as related to rank, the little community 
 did not recognise him at first as entitled to consi- 
 deration ; and in the kind-hearted, though re- 
 tiring little Henry, he perceived the first person 
 who recognised his claims to kindness as a 
 stranger. When he became sensible of his own 
 deficiencies, and Henry's willingness to save 
 him from rhame or blame, his affection increased 
 tenfold ; and it is certain that although he made 
 a great blunder in his offer, yet it was in the 
 mode only, for from the time of their bargain, his 
 purse and his power were alike at Henry's ser- 
 vice ; and when his ample stores were known, 
 all the rest were quite willing to share his friend- 
 ship and his presents. 
 
 Henry soon found that his generous friend had 
 good abilities, but great idleness, and he set him- 
 self, by every means in his power, to excite the 
 former and conquer the latter. For this purpose, 
 whenever George wanted him to write an exer- 
 cise, or do any thing else for him, he used to 
 show him how to do it, but positively refuse to 
 prepare it ; and so far from accepting gifts for his 
 services, he uniformly refused taking from him 
 even an apple till the task was finished, " when" 
 he would say, " we can eat them together in 
 pleasure." George would sometimes be so vex- 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 197 
 
 cd with his firmness, as to be ready to abandon 
 the contract he had made, but the remembrance 
 of the little boy's real utility and affection pre- 
 vented him. In time he began to feel the plea- 
 sure resulting from having conquered his diffi- 
 culties, subdued his indolence, and acquired the 
 knowledge necessary for his station in life ; and 
 whilst he found himself the equal of Henry, he 
 yet never forgot that it was to his influence he 
 owed the advantage he had gained. 
 
 George remained at school till he was nearly 
 eighteen, as his father wished to give him every 
 advantage, but Henry was removed when he 
 was in his fifteenth year, as his uncle desired to 
 make him early useful ; and being a tall, manly- 
 looking boy, as well as an industrious and clever 
 one, he soon became of importance in the count- 
 ing-house of his wealthy relative, who was a 
 flourishing merchant. 
 
 The boys were thus effectually divided in per- 
 son, but their hearts long clung to each other, 
 and very hard did poor Henry think it, when his 
 uncle (who was a severe, cold-hearted bach- 
 elor) forbade all correspondence with his West 
 Indian friend, as a foolish and expensive waste of 
 time and money. 
 
 Years passed on ; the uncle died, — and after 
 denying his nephew during life almost every in- 
 17* 
 
198 THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 dulgence, left him, at twenty-three, a large for- 
 tune and extensive business, of which he was the 
 uncontrolled possessor. Perhaps the sudden 
 acquisition of so much property and liberty might 
 have been injurious to one so young, and hither- 
 to so closely confined in circumstances, if he had 
 not at a very early period found a better channel 
 for disposing of his wealth and occupying his 
 leisure, than in the dissipation and pleasures of 
 the metropolis. 
 
 One morning as he sat at breakfast, his ser- 
 vant announced a stranger, and after earnestly 
 surveying him, Sterndale, throwing down the 
 newspaper in his hand, rushed impetuously to- 
 wards him, exclaiming, " Surely I have the 
 pleasure of seeing my dear friend Parker ?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir, you see him it is true, unchanged 
 in heart, but alas ! very different in circum- 
 stances. You are now a man conversant in the 
 affairs of life; you are well aware of the great 
 losses often experienced by West India planters ; 
 — my father, and of course myself, have been 
 amongst the greatest sufferers," 
 
 " I am sincerely grieved tc hear it ; but come, 
 sit down, my dear friend, we can talk over these 
 matters at our leisure." 
 
 " No, I will not sit down till I have told you 
 all. My poor father is at this time settling all 
 
THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 199 
 
 our affairs, and will follow me with the wreck oi 
 our property ; this I fear will prove barely a sup- 
 port for myself and my sister, and, therefore, I now 
 come to ask you to change with me as men, the 
 relative situation we held together as boys — 
 take me to be a slave, or fag, or clerk, whatever 
 you chose to call it, in your counting-house." 
 
 " I will take you to be all three, dear George, 
 for one year, and then most gladly make you my 
 partner, if you shall have found the duties de- 
 manded from you agreeable ; — in the meantime 
 do not grudge me the pleasure of feeling I am 
 your friend." 
 
 " Generous, noble-hearted Henry," cried Par- 
 ker, as he threw his arms around him, and strain- 
 ed him to his breart, " ah ! how different is your 
 reception of me to that of many others since the 
 days when misfortune began to frown on me ! 
 Thankfully do I accept all your offers, for I am 
 well aware that I am welcome to your house and 
 your heart. You never flattered my faults as 
 a boy, you never cringed to me in my days of 
 boyish bounty, and, therefore, you will never 
 wound me by your pride now the tables are turn- 
 ed upon us." 
 
 " My dear fellow, remember also that I took 
 freely that which you gave freely, and that I owe 
 debts to you without end, which, as a regular 
 
200 THE SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 tradesman, it is now my duty to discharge. Hoto 
 often have you slipped into my hands the half- 
 pence I wished to give an old beggar — how 
 many story-books found their way into my desk 
 from your kindness ! What battles did you wage 
 for me ! Oh what pleasure we shall have in 
 talking over our early days V° 
 
 Pleasures of the purest nature were indeed 
 theirs. Parker became vigilant in business, and 
 as his father eventually realized a considerable 
 sum, he was enabled to enter into business with 
 his friend on nearly equal terms ; but this made 
 no difference in the minds of either party, for 
 they were alike generous and confiding, though 
 prudent and industrious. With the talents and 
 cultivation of polished men, they retained the 
 warm affection, the simple kindness, and enthu- 
 siastic friendship of early life ; and many of the 
 companions of that period proudly press round 
 them now, to partake the praise of being also— 
 the friends of the School-Boys. 
 
LINES WRITTEN AT SEA 
 
 BT THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE. 
 
 How beautiful the many tints that dye, 
 
 Old ocean's face, with sweet variety ! 
 
 Sometimes the billows roll in brightest blue ; 
 
 Sometimes they wear an amethystine hue, 
 
 That turns to indigo, and fades away, 
 
 By soft gradations, into leaden gray ; 
 
 Now they are green, as meads refreshed with 
 
 showers, 
 Now russet, as the lawn in summer's sultry hours. 
 
 Nor marvel that with curious eye we note 
 Whatever objects past our vessel float, 
 Though insignificant and common things, 
 They're food for fancy's fond imaginings. 
 Yonder an ample bough of sea-weed heaves, 
 Now seen, now hidden, with brown jagged leaves: 
 Perhaps it grew far far beneath the brine, 
 Where never reach'd the many-fathomed line, 
 Where, all unconscious of the tempest's shock, 
 Stands, like an aged tree, its parent stock, 
 
202 LINES WRITTEN AT SEA. 
 
 Beneath whose branches roseate shells are laid, 
 As flowerets blossom in the green-wood shade. 
 
 And pleasant 'tis to mark the joyous play 
 Of the white birds that haunt the billowy way : 
 Together clustering, see, they calmly sleep, 
 Like snowy waterlilies of the deep : 
 Their pinions flutter now, — a short shrill cry 
 Is heard, — glad creatures ! — and aloft they fly, 
 Like fragments of the foam the winds have caught 
 on high. 
 
 " A sail, a sail !" and, scudding 'fore the blast. 
 Behold, a giant ship approaches fast ; 
 Majestic o'er the enridged wave she springs 
 Eve's yellow lig'nt upon her canvass wings : 
 She is of Britain, and her course is bent 
 To Hindostan's odorous continent. 
 Well may you speed, fair vessel ! for you hold 
 A cargo richer than all Asia's gold ; 
 Your freight is youth, and hope, and courage 
 
 high, 
 And feelings yet in their first purity : 
 But few perhaps of all your stripling train, 
 Whom fortune beckons to the eastern plain, 
 Except in dreams, shall see their homes again. 
 
 The sun is setting, while an host of clouds, 
 In close-embattled ranks, his glory shrouds : 
 
LINES WRITTEN AT SEA. 203 
 
 Yet, where he sinks into his western bed, 
 We may discern a gleam of dusky red 
 Shoot o'er the trembling wave, as if a flame 
 From some far-off volcanic island came : 
 Till by degrees the lingering radiance fails, 
 And night her banner spreads to the fresh-blow- 
 ing gales. 
 
 What yonder shines, with orb too broad to be 
 A fellow of the starry company, 
 Just o'er the horizon ? 'Tis the beacon light, 
 By science planted on its rocky height : 
 When wintry winds howl through the moonless 
 
 skies, 
 In vain the waves, that mountain-like arise, 
 Smite the transparent casket, where that gem 
 Is shrin'd, — a still-revolting diadem 
 Of earthly lire, whose splendour streams afar, 
 While seamen bless their artificial star. 
 
TO THE HAREBELL. 
 
 Sweet flower ! though many a ruthless storm 
 
 Sweep fiercely o'er thy slender form, 
 
 And many a sturdier plant may bow 
 
 In death beneath the tempest's blow, 
 
 Submissive thou, in pensive guise, 
 
 Uninjur'd by each gale shalt rise, 
 
 And, deck'd with innocence, remain 
 
 The fairest tenant of the plain : 
 
 So, conscious of its lowly state, 
 
 Trembles the heart assaiPd by fate ; 
 
 Yet, when the fleering blast is o'er, 
 
 Settles as tranquil as before ; 
 
 While the proud breast no peace shall find, 
 
 No refuge for a troubled mind. 
 
THE KING AND THE MINSTREL OF ELY. 
 
 FROM THE NORMAN-FRENCH.* 
 
 BY J. G. LOCKHART. 
 
 Lordings list a little space, 
 
 And I'll well repay your grace ; 
 
 For of a Minstrel ye shall hear 
 
 That sought adventures far and near. 
 
 Not far from London on a day, 
 
 As through the fields he took his way, 
 
 He met the King and his menee. 
 
 Around his neck his tabour hung, 
 
 Stamped with gold, and richly strung : 
 
 " For love now (quoth the King) me tell 
 
 Who art thou, Master Minestrel 1" — 
 
 And he replies, withouten dread, 
 
 " My master's man, sir King, indeed." — 
 
 " And who, sir, may this master be ?"— 
 
 " In faith, my mistress masters me."— 
 
 " And who thy mistress V — " By my word 
 
 The goodly dame that is my lord." — 
 
 " What name, I pray thee, dost thou bear?"- 
 
 * Recently printed by the Roxburghe Club. 
 13 
 
206 THE KING AND THE 
 
 " The same that was my sire's whilere." — 
 " What name, then, had this sire of thine ?" — 
 " The same, an't please ye, that's now mine." — 
 " Whence comest thou, merry Minstrel V 9 — 
 
 " Thence." 
 " And whither may'st be passing?" — " Hence." 
 " Speak plainly, man ; whence comest thou ?" 
 " Why from our own good town, I trow." — * 
 " Which town may that be, Master Quirk ?" 
 " The town about the minster-kirk." — 
 " What minster-kirk ? — come, tell us freely."— 
 " The minster, sure, that stands in Ely." — 
 " And where stands Ely ?" — " God us guide 
 Where but by the water side !" — 
 " And how's this water call'd, I pray V 3 — 
 " Call'd ! not at all, Sir ; by my fay, 
 The water chooseth his own way, 
 And comes uncall'd both night and day." 
 " All this we knew before, my friend." — 
 " Your wisdom, then, I can't commend : 
 To question, question like a barne, 
 When there was no need to learn." 
 
 " So help me, Jesu ! (quoth the King,) 
 I'll ask thee yet one other thing. 
 Minstrel, wilt sell thy nag to me V — 
 •' More gladly, 'faith, than give it thee." — 
 " For how much shall I have the nag ?" — 
 ■ For just the money I shall bag." — 
 
MINSTREL OF ELY. 207 
 
 " Is he a young one V 9 — " Well I ween 
 
 His chin hath yet no razor seen." — 
 
 »« Speak truly — is he sharp of sight?"— « 
 
 * Sharper, I think, by day than night." — 
 
 " Come, Minstrel, one plain truth declare : 
 
 Is't a good eater ?'— " That I'll swear : 
 
 This gelding in a single day 
 
 Will eat more trusses, grass or hay, 
 
 Than you 'tween January and May." — 
 
 " And drinks he well ?"— " Now, God us guard! 
 
 He'll swill ye, by St. Leonard, 
 
 More water at a single draught 
 
 Than I in weeks, yea months, have quaff 'd." — 
 
 " Is he a creature of good speed 1" — 
 
 " A pretty question's here, indeed ; 
 
 Howe'er I spur, howe'er I thump, 
 
 The head keeps still afore the rump." — 
 
 " Now on thy conscience, draws he well ?"— 
 
 " Good King, I scorn a lie to tell, 
 
 He ne'er was tried, for aught I know, 
 
 At either harquebuss or bow." — 
 
 " Nay, answer me — a truce to wit — 
 
 Is he an easy nag to sit 1" — 
 
 " Conscience is conscience — I declare, 
 
 Less easy than an elbow-ehair." — 
 
 " These answers (quoth the King) are folly : 
 
 Is the nag sound — completely, wholly?" — 
 
 " In truth, lord King, I must confess, 
 
203 THE KING AND THE 
 
 He hath small claim to holiness,* 
 
 Else monks and priests would dress him out 
 
 With trappings gay and fine, no doubt." — 
 
 " Tush ! (quoth the Monarch) art thou raving ? 
 
 I speak of staggers or the spavin." — 
 
 " Nay, (quoth the Minstrel,) if he be 
 
 Afflicted with such malady, 
 
 He keeps his thumb thereon to me." — 
 
 " Knave (quoth the King) I value not 
 
 Thy ribald turns and quirks, a jot." — 
 
 " I'd rather that thou did'st, by half, 
 
 For 'tis my trade to raise a laugh." — 
 
 " What art thou?"—" By our lord the pope, 
 No harm's in telling that, 1 hope : 
 I'm one of not a few whose trade 
 Is most to eat where least is paid ; 
 As also, when a cup's in hand, 
 To sit more willingly than stand ; 
 Especially if dinner's o'er, 
 For then one's heavier than before ; 
 And to sport with dame or maid, 
 When the supper-table's laid — 
 Now, good my lord, I pray thee say, 
 W 7 hat thinkest thou of a life so gay?" 
 
 The King made answer : " By my troth, 
 To waste my thoughts I should be loth 
 On life and manners worthless both." 
 
 * The quibble is on sain and seint 
 
MINSTREL OF ELY. 209 
 
 " Sir King, (quoth Minstrel, bending low,) 
 
 Much to learn and much to know, 
 
 Sober life and solemn cheer, 
 
 What avail they mortals here 1 
 
 It is as sound a proof of wit 
 
 To gaily dance as gravely sit. 
 
 Be sad and still as suits the wise, 
 
 'Tis cunning all in worldly eyes ; 
 
 Be blithe, and gay, the envious race 
 
 Will pay your smile with, — Babyface ; 
 
 But frown, and they'll exclaim, What art ? 
 
 Can lighten guilt's uneasy heart ? 
 
 Be thou wealthy cavalier, 
 
 And eschew the tourney-spear, 
 
 Slander's tongue will not be dumb, 
 
 But hint thou art Ji rotten plum. 
 
 And if, upon the other hand, 
 
 Thou haunt high places in the land, 
 
 Heads as many shall be shaken, 
 
 And as dark suspicions taken. 
 
 Your courtly gallants, thus they speak, 
 
 Ride brave, and honest burghers break. — 
 
 If e'en the shoes upon thy feet 
 
 Be, as beseemeth, tight and neat, 
 
 They'll say : J wis they pinch and smart t 
 
 Much comfort to thy silly heart ! 
 
 But if, purchance, they're old and wide, 
 
 One's ready on the other side 
 18* 
 
210 THE KING AND THE 
 
 Who, with a grin of equal grace, 
 
 Shall whisper : Blessing on his face, 
 
 The kind good frere for charity, 
 
 That did his sandal shoon untie 
 
 And give to this poor passer-by ! 
 
 If thou love the ladies dearly, 
 
 Praise and honour them sincerely, 
 
 Each ribald tongue is prompt to swear, 
 
 Yon rake betrays him by his air. 
 
 But if aloof thou'rt seen to keep, 
 
 That will not set the fiend to sleep. — 
 
 If duly as the morn comes round, 
 
 In the confessional I am found, 
 
 Before the priest to speak my sin, 
 
 And pardon of the church to win, 
 
 One says, Some prayers are starling-tricKi, 
 
 Ou such my hope I scarce would fix : 
 
 But if I pass the steeple by, 
 
 Another whispers, with a sigh, 
 
 Alas ! to death some people jog, 
 
 As careless as my puppy-dog ! 
 
 If sorrowing over follies past, 
 
 My soul I humble with a fast, 
 
 Says one, What horror hath he clont 
 
 Destroyed a father ? or a son ? 
 
 Yet, if I never fast a whit, 
 
 This mends the matter ne'er a bit s 
 
MINSTREL OF ELY. 211 
 
 An open reprobate once more, 
 I'm Curst of God, and clean given o'er ! 
 — God ! we live in such a time, 
 That keep us e'er so pure from crime, 
 We ne'er can hope to shelter'd be 
 From bold or coward calumny !" 
 
 " Sir Minstrel, (quoth the King,) in sooth, 
 Just when thou wilt, thou knowest the truth : 
 Here, hold thy hand, and take thy fee ; 
 But e'er thou go'st — one word with thee — 
 What art may keep a Royal Name 
 In uncalumniated fame V — 
 
 " Sir, (quoth the Minstrel,) thus say I 
 Be not too humble nor too high ; 
 Too much of one thing, runs the saw, 
 Is good for nothing ; make that law. 
 In Latin also down 'tis come, 
 Tenent beaii medium." 
 
 Whoso this tale shall well perpend, 
 To him sound doctrine it may lend ; 
 He, even he, God's truth may tell, 
 That doth wear the cap and bell. 
 And so unto an end I bring, 
 The story of our lord the King, 
 And Ely's merry Minstrel. 
 
OYER A COVERED SEAT 
 
 IN THE 
 
 rLOWER-GARDEN AT HOLLAND-HOUSE, WHERE THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 THE "PLEASURES OP MEMORY" HAS BEEN ACCUSTOMED 
 
 TO SIT, APPEAR THE FOLLOWING LINES. 
 
 Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell, 
 To me, those pleasures that he sings so well. 
 
 VASSALL HOLLAND 
 
 How happily sheltered is he who reposes 
 In this haunt of the poet, o'ershadowed with 
 
 roses, 
 While the sun is rejoicing, unclouded on high, 
 And summer's full majesty reigns in the sky ! 
 
 Let me in, and be seated.— I'll try if, thus 
 placed, 
 I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste, 
 Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain, 
 Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain. 
 
 Well — now I am fairly installed in the bower, 
 How lovely the scene ! How propitious the 
 
 hour ! 
 The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs , 
 All is beauty around me ; — but nothing occurs ; 
 
LINES OVER A COVERED SEAT. 213 
 
 Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here and 
 
 alone, 
 Not a line can I hit on that Rogers would own, 
 Though my senses are ravished, my feelings in 
 
 tune, 
 And Holland's my host, and the season is 
 
 June. 
 The trial is ended. Nor garden nor grove, 
 Though poets amid them may linger or rove, 
 Nor a seat e'en so hallowed as this can impart 
 The fancy and fire that must spring from the 
 
 heart. 
 So I rise, since the Muses continue to frown, 
 No more of a poet than when I sat down ; 
 While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can 
 
 strike 
 Their lyre, at all times, in all places, alike. 
 
 HENRY LUTTRELL. 
 
STANZAS 
 
 BT LORD F. L. GLOWER, 
 
 ON THE EXECUTION MILITA1RE, 
 
 A PRINT FROM A PICTURE BT VIGNERON. 
 
 It exhibits the moment when the condemned soldier kneela to 
 receive the fire of the party appointed to be his executioners. 
 His friend, and the priest, are seen retiring. His dog, whom ho 
 is endeavouring to shake off", still fawns upon him, and seenw 
 desirous to share his fate. 
 
 His doom has been decreed, 
 He has own'd the fatal deed, 
 
 And its forfeit is here to abide : 
 No mercy now can save, 
 They have dug the soldier's grave, 
 And the hapless and the brave 
 
 Kneels beside. 
 
 No bandage wraps his eye, 
 He is kneeling there to die, 
 
 Unblinded, undaunted, alone. 
 His parting prayer has ceased, 
 And his comrade, and the priest. 
 From their gloomy task released,— 
 
 Bot'v are gone. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 His kindred are not near 
 The fatal shot to hear, 
 
 They can but weep the deed when 'tis done , 
 They would shriek, and wail, and pray, 
 It is good for him to-day 
 That his friends are far away, 
 
 — All but one ! 
 
 Tn mute, but wild despair, 
 The faithful hound is there ; 
 
 He has reach'd his master's side with a 
 spring. 
 To the hand which rear'd and fed, 
 Till the ebbing pulse has fled, 
 Till that hand is cold and dead, 
 
 He will cling. 
 
 What art, in lure or wile, 
 That one can now beguile 
 
 From the side of his master and friend ! 
 He has burst nis cord in twain ; 
 To the arm which strives in vain 
 To repel him, he will strain 
 
 To the end. 
 
 The tear-drop who shall blame, 
 Though it dim the veteran's aim, 
 
 Though each breast along the line heave the 
 sigh i 
 
216 THE PANORAMA. 
 
 Yet 'twere cruel now to save, 
 And together in the grave, 
 The faithful and the brave, 
 Let them lie. 
 
 — oo*oe— 
 
 THE PANORAMA. 
 
 I shall never forget the intense delight with 
 which I first beheld a Panorama. I was then a 
 boy of some ten years old, who had seen a few of 
 me more obvious wonders of London, with a 
 most insatiate appetite. My imagination was 
 never tired of thinking of the height of the ball of 
 St. Paul's, which my fears would not allow ine 
 to climb ; — my memory delightedly lingered 
 amongst the wax-work of Westminster Abbey, 
 making fearful confusion in my dreams of Gene- 
 ral Monk, looking white and interesting on his 
 neighbour, the unhappy Maid of Honor, who 
 died of a wound in her finger ; while the fair 
 victim of housewifery was frowning as gauntly 
 as if her pale forehead were covered with the 
 skull-cap of the Puritan. Miss Linwood's ex- 
 ploits in worsted were then the rage, and more 
 especially delightful were they to the ladies. I 
 remember her copy of Barker's Woodman, but I 
 remember nothing more. As I left Miss Lin- 
 wood's exhibition, (I think it was then in Hano- 
 
THE PANORAMA. 
 
 2lf 
 
 ver-square,) I was invited to see the Panoramas 
 I had not a shadow of an idea what a Panorama 
 could mean ; — and the dear friend who was my 
 guide wanted to give me a surprise. I was led 
 along a somewhat dark passage, up a narrow 
 stair : — and then — (oh ! that my mind could ever 
 again feel, at the contemplation of the most sub- 
 lime or the most beautiful object of nature, as it 
 felt at that moment) — there lay my beloved 
 Windsor, stretched at my feet. I screamed 
 with an agony of pleasure. I knew that I was 
 in London ; — but there was spread before me 
 the park, where I was wont to play — the terraces, 
 whence I had used to gaze upon the distant 
 nills — the river, whose osier bowers were as fa- 
 miliar to me as my own little garden — the steep 
 and narrow streets, which I then thought the 
 perfection of architecture — the very honse in 
 which I was born. I rubbed my eyes — I was 
 awake — the scene was still there. I strained 
 my ears, and I fancied that I heard the cawing 
 of the rooks in those old towers. It was with 
 difficulty that I could be dragged away ; — and 
 when I came out into the garish sunshine of 
 Leicester-square, and saw the bustling crowds,- 
 and heard the din of the anxious city, 1 was re- 
 luctantly convinced that I had looked upon it 
 picture, and I thought that the extreme bounda-' 
 vies of ro-t had been reached in the Panorama; 
 29 
 
ROSALIE, 
 
 BT DERWEST C0NV7AY. 
 
 Jluthor of ' Solitary Walks throvgh many Lands.* 
 
 The facts on which the following little story 
 is founded, I became acquainted with during a 
 summer ramble in Dauphiny, which my young 
 readers, no doubt, know to have been one of the 
 provinces of France, before that country was 
 divided into departments ; and which now com- 
 prehends the departments of the Isere, the uppes 
 Alps, and the Drome. The little village of Lft 
 Bergere, in the latter of these, is the scene of 
 my story ; and, perhaps, when some of my young 
 friends grow up to be men and women, they ma 
 go abroad, and see the village where my heroin.) 
 Rosalie resided, and sit down under one of the 
 almond trees, and think of her and her brother 
 Albert, and of all I am going to relate. 
 
 The father of Rosalie rented a small vineyard, 
 the produce of which was no more than sufficient 
 to procure daily bread ; but with this, no one was 
 discontented: never, did the family assemble 
 around the table, spread with bread and fruit, and 
 milk, without expressing the gratitude of the 
 
ROSALIE, 2i^ 
 
 heart, to Him, who had so kindly provided for 
 their daily necessities. 
 
 Albert and Rosalie were the only children of 
 their parents ; and Albert was five years older 
 than his sister. No children were ever more 
 united than Albert and Rosalie. While an in- 
 fant, Albert had been her little guardian ; he had 
 walked with her, and carried her across little 
 brooks, and sat down with her, and weaved bas- 
 kets of sainfoin for her, — and, when she passed 
 from infancy into childhood, he became her in- 
 structor and her companion ; for the cure of the 
 village, having noticed the quickness and good 
 dispositions of Albert, had a sort of paternal af- 
 fection for him, and had taught him those ele- 
 ments of knowledge, which he, in his turn, was 
 eager to communicate to his sister. 
 
 Time thus passed away ; Rosalie was just se- 
 venteen, and Albert's eighteenth birth-day had 
 arrived. Shortly before this period, a new con- 
 scription — which, let me inform my young read- 
 ers, means an allotment of young men to serve 
 in the army — had been ordered by the emperor ; 
 and it was, unfortunately, the very day after 
 Albert had attained his eighteenth year, that a 
 return was to be made, of all the youths within 
 the department who had reached that age. Al- 
 bert's name vas given in with the rest ; and fl 
 Linlucitiiy, tne next day he was drawn a con 
 
220 ROSALIE. 
 
 script ! Rosalie knew that this event was pos- 
 sible — for Albert had explained it to her ; but 
 vet, when he was seen vaulting over the low 
 wall into the vineyard, in the evening, his hat 
 decorated with a cockade, the smile forsook her 
 lips — she hid her face in her hands,— and a tor- 
 rent of tears gushed from her eyes. It was a 
 gloomy evening within the cottage of old Du- 
 fresne : he, the bereaved father, hardly raised 
 his head ; his wife, the affectionate mother of 
 Albert, did nothing but weep and lament by 
 turns. As for Rosalie, — she could not remain 
 in the cottage, but strayed beyond the vineyard 
 to a grassy slope, and sat her down beneath one 
 of the almond-trees, that she might the more 
 freely give vent to her sorrow ; and she was at 
 last recalled to herself by the voice of her bro- 
 ther — who came in search of her, to bring her 
 home, as the damps were beginning to rise. A 
 neighbor, but one of the richest in that district, 
 was sitting in the cottage, when Rosalie return- 
 ed, — he, too, had that day had a son drawn a 
 conscript ; and as Rosalie entered the house 
 she heard him say, that he had already agreed 
 for a substitute for his son ; and that the bargain 
 would cost him five hundred francs, which my 
 young friends know is equal to twenty sove- 
 reigns ; and Rosalie also heard, that it ye$ 
 
ROSALIE, £21 
 
 vranted fourteen days of the time fixed for the 
 march of the conscripts. 
 
 Many a time, after neighbor Dubois had taken 
 leave, and drawn the latch after him, did Rosalie 
 repeat to herself what he had said, — and long did 
 she ponder upon it after she had laid her head 
 upon the pillow. Five hundred francs could 
 save Albert ; for, with the idea of his going to 
 the wars, Rosalie could not separate the cer- 
 tainty of his being killed. But how were the 
 five hundred francs to be obtained ? Rosalie 
 knew well her father had them not, — and as for 
 herself— she, poor thing, had only two sous. 
 In short, with a sad heart and swollen eyes, she 
 dropped asleep ; but sorrows seldom pursue the 
 youthful mind into the watches of the night, — 
 and Rosalie slept soundly, and awoke refreshed 
 not long after the lark had sung his first hymn 
 at the gates of heaven. 
 
 Now, I have not yet told my young readers, 
 what I must no longer withhold from them, that 
 Rosalie, ever since she had been a very little 
 girl — not more, perhaps, than eight years old — 
 had employed herself, during her play hours, in 
 a pursuit that had no doubt been to her a source 
 ot much childish delight. It was not painting 
 that was Rosalie's pursuit : there were no co 
 krs,— no brushes to ue bought,— no drawing- 
 master to be found at La Bergere ; nor, if there 
 19* 
 
222 ROSALIE, 
 
 were, had Rosalie the means of paying for thesfc* 
 3S either was Rosalie's pursuit the collection of 
 insects — she was too tender-hearted for this ; 
 for, if she caught a beautiful insect, it was with 
 the light touch of gentleness, only to admire its 
 purple wing and let it go. Rosalie's pursuit 
 was, to gather and preserve wild flowers, which 
 she dried in so perfect a manner, that almost 
 every charm remained with them ; but, beside 
 this, Rosalie had found out the art of taking 
 such perfect impressions from them, upon silk, 
 (which was given to her, every year, by the 
 Lyons merchant, who bought the produce of 
 her father's vineyard,) that the grace — the tints 
 — the freshness — all but the fragrance of the 
 flowers, continued to live in these impressions. 
 I do not know by what process Rosalie con- 
 trived to do this, else I would communicate it to 
 my youthful readers ; but they have probably 
 pursuits more important than this to occupy 
 their time, — and are not, as poor Rosalie was, 
 without the means or opportunities of cultivating 
 their minds, It is only the kind-heartedness of 
 Rosalie, and her perseverance and courage in 
 the cause of filial affection, that \ am desirous 
 of recommending. 
 
 Rosalie, as I have said, awoke early, and re- 
 freshed, the morning after she had wept herself 
 Hsleep at the thoughts of being parted from 
 
ROSALIE. 223 
 
 Albert ; and after having dressed herself, and 
 said her prayers, — in -which she did not forget 
 to name her brother, — she happened to turn her 
 eyes upon some withered mountain anemones, 
 rare and beautiful plants, which she had plucked 
 the day before ; and these were the first flowera 
 she had ever neglected, and allowed to wither : 
 her herbier was lying open before her ; she took 
 it up, and turned over the leaves, and many were 
 the beautiful font's, and lovely hues, that met 
 her eyes. " Can this," said she to herself, " be 
 of any value ?— oh, that I had not neglected 
 these anemones, the only ones I ever found." 
 That day, and every day for more than a week, 
 "Rosalie was absent the greater part of the morn- 
 ing ; and every evening she applied herself, 
 with more than usual care, to the occupation of 
 fdling her herbier. Her father and her mother, 
 and Albert too, wondered that she should with- 
 draw herself so much from the society of one 
 she so dearly loved, and with whom she was so 
 soon to part : but something was evidently la- 
 boring in the mind of the youthful Rosalie ; at 
 length, her affectionate mother drew from her 
 her secret. 
 
 " Rosalie, my dear child," said her mother, 
 one day, as she came in with a handful of 
 flowers, after having been long absent, " Your 
 father was seeking for you to day, to tie the 
 
224 ROSALIE. 
 
 vines ; but how is it, love, that when our Albert 
 is so soon to leave us, you stay so little at home ? 
 you used to love Albert, Rosalie." 
 
 Poor Rosalie ! — it was too much for her to be 
 suspected of indifference for her brother ; she 
 burst into tears, and hid her head in her mothers 
 lap, continuing to sob bitterly. But when her 
 mother raised her up and kissed her, and told her 
 she was sure she loved Albert, Rosalie wiped 
 her eyes, and told her all she had to tell. Her 
 herbier, she said, she was sure must be worth 
 something ; she would carry it to Valence, and 
 sell it : and all these days she had been occupied 
 n seeking for flowers, more rare and more beau- 
 tiful than those she possessed ; she would not — 
 she could not — part from Albert ; she would 
 labour day and night to fill her herbier, if she 
 might but obtain leave to go to Valence and sell 
 it : and here Rosalie again began to weep. IS T o 
 one spoke ; but as her father and mother ex- 
 changed looks, their eyes, too, filled with tears. 
 Neither father nor mother saw any prospect of 
 good from Rosalie's project ; and yet, when she 
 ran and fetched her treasure, and spread out its 
 beauties before them, Rosalie's scheme did not 
 seem to their simple minds so absolutely vision- 
 ary. Rosalie anxiously watched the effect of her 
 exhibition, and seeing it favourable, beseechingly 
 implored her parents to grant her petition : she 
 
ROSALIE. 225 
 
 had often, she said, walked farther in search of 
 flowers than to Valence ; if she did not succeed, 
 things were no worse — but she was certain of 
 success, — and her mother had a relation not far 
 from Yalence, where she could remain all night. 
 At length her father and mother yielded — more 
 to gratify the virtuous wish of an affectionate 
 child, than from any other motive, — and next 
 morning was fixed for Rosalie's journey. 
 
 Rosalie went early to bed, that she might be 
 fortified by rest, against the fatigues of the next 
 day ; and by sun-rise she was ready to set out. 
 Having carefully tied up her herbier in a hand- 
 kerchief, and put it into a little basket, which she 
 took to bring home some necessaries from 
 Yalence, she went on tiptoe down the wooden 
 stairs, thai she might not disturb her parents. 
 The wakeful mother, however, heard her, and 
 calling " Rosalie," Rosalie was the next moment 
 in her arms, — and with the kisses and blessings 
 of both mother and father, she drew the door 
 after her, and passed into the vineyard. There 
 another embrace awaited her, — for Albert was 
 already at work, and watching her departure. 
 He, although he tenderly loved his sister, and 
 secretly wished to remain, yet felt some little 
 pride in being destined for the pursuit of glory, 
 and had never either thwarted or encouraged 
 Rosalie's project, which he believed would come 
 
-25 ROSALIE. 
 
 to nothing. One other embrace, and " c/Miew, 
 monfrere" and " aurevoiv, ma chere soeur" and 
 Rosalie had left the vineyard, and was on the 
 road to Yalence, 
 
 It was as lovely a May morning as ever broke 
 upon the beauties of Dauphiny : the fields were 
 yet gemmed with dew ; the woods stood silent 
 m thick masses, the uprisen sun darting its 
 yellow rays among their trunks ; the deer were 
 standing in the glades, snuffing the breath of 
 morning ; and the little birds were trimming their 
 moist plumes, in preparation for their early soar- 
 ing and matin-song. I think I see Rosalie trip- 
 ping along, her little basket slung under her arm, 
 and now and then opening the lid, and assuring 
 herself of the safety of her treasure. 
 
 It was three long leagues to Yalence ; but 
 Rosalie hardly slackened her pace all the way ; 
 for if at any time she felt a disposition to relax, 
 the thought of her brother, and the importance 
 of her mission, immediately gave her new 
 strength, and urged her on her way ; once or 
 twice, indeed, she stopped to look at a flower by 
 the way-side, — and two or three times, to take 
 out, and open her kerbier, that she might be more 
 and more certain its contents were really as beau- 
 tiful as she fancied them to be. 
 
 It was market-day at Yalence ; numbers of 
 girls were standing with baskets of vegetables. 
 
ROSALIE. £27 
 
 Sutter, and eggs, — and some few with flowers ; 
 among the latter, Rosalie took her place : being 
 a stranger to the market girls, all of whom knew 
 each other, and her little basket being closed, she 
 was an object of some curiosity to them. For 
 a considerable time, she stood without any one 
 taking notice of her, considering in what way 
 she was to display her treasure to the persons 
 who had now begun to look into the baskets and 
 make purchases ; at length, one of the market 
 girl*, who was standing nearest to her, address- 
 ing her, " ma Petite," requested to know if she 
 had any thing to sell ; and what she had in her 
 oasket. Rosalie drew forth her herbier, and was 
 unloosening the string, whem a lady coming by, 
 asked the same question, which Rosalie an- 
 swered by dropping a curtesy, and putting the 
 herbisr into her hand ; but after examining the 
 leaves, she returned it to Rosalie, and passed on. 
 Soon after, another stopped, and turned over the 
 leaves of her herbier ; one specimen was called 
 " joli," another " gentil," and a third " superot ;" 
 but the lady never inquired the prices of them ; 
 many others looked at Rosalie's herbier, all 
 praised the beauty of her specimens, — some 
 passed extravagant encomiums upon her inge- 
 nuity, but she only found one customer — an 
 elderly gentleman, who, calling her " pauvre en- 
 fant" gave her five francs for as many leaves ot 
 
22S ROSALIE. 
 
 her herbier. At last poor Rosalie was left almost 
 alone ; and as she saw the girls one by one leave 
 their stations, having sold the contents of their 
 baskets, her heart quite failed her, and with tears 
 in her eyes, she put her herbier into her basket, 
 and went in search of the relation's house where 
 she had promised tq stay all night. But Rosalie 
 had only been once before in Valence, and going 
 out at the wrong gate, she might have walked all 
 night before reaching the hamlet where her rela- 
 tion lived : but Rosalie still walked onwards, 
 with a sad heart, indeed, and every minute grow- 
 ing more weary, and her feet more tender, from 
 the hard paved roads, which were very different 
 from the meadows where she used to seek for 
 flowers. The sun was near setting, and Rosalie, 
 entirely exhausted, and beginning to be afraid,- 
 sat down upon a stone, at the gate of a fine 
 chateau, and began to weep. 
 
 She had sat but a very short time, when a per- 
 son on horseback stopped at the gate. Rosalie, 
 with the instinctive civility of a French child, 
 rose to open the gate, — and at the same moment, 
 recognized the old gentleman who had given her 
 five francs for five leaves from her herbier ; 
 while he also, at once knew the little interesting 
 girl who had so ingenious a method of preserv- 
 ing, and taking the impressions of flowers. Ho 
 
ROSALIE. 229 
 
 was one of those persons who never see dis- 
 tress without feeling a desire to relieve it ; and 
 when he saw Rosalie's swollen eyes and trem- 
 bling steps, he kindly inquired into the cause ; 
 and dismounting from his horse, and walking up 
 the avenue, taking hold of her hand, he soon 
 drew from her, her little tale of sorrow. 
 
 The Baron Chaubert had no wife living, but he 
 had four daughters ; two, about the same age as 
 Rosalie, and two a little older ; and the greatest 
 pleasure and pride in the father, was, to see his 
 laughters instructed in all that was useful, and 
 accomplished in all that was pleasing ; and it 
 was for their use in the study of painting, that he 
 had purchased the leaves of Rosalie's herbier, 
 while at the same time, he had felt a pleasure m 
 rewarding ingenuity. Rosalie, and her story, 
 were introduced to the young ladies at the same 
 time, and nothing could exceed their admiration 
 of the impressions on silk, which Rosalie show- 
 ed to them, except their admiration of the pur- 
 pose for which she had carried them from home , 
 nor could any thing exceed their anxiety to be- 
 come acquainted with so pleasing an art, except 
 their anxiety to befriend Rosalie. " I am sure, 
 my dear children," said their father to them, "you 
 would like R,osalie to teach you to make such 
 charming pictures as these ;" every face glad 
 20 
 
230 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 dened at the idea — and every tongue was ready to 
 express delight at the proposal ! Some fruit was 
 ordered for Rosalie's refreshment, and quickly 
 the little girl and her four pupils were seated at 
 a table ; silk provided — fresh flowers brought 
 from the garden — and every face expressive ot 
 the most delighted attention, as Rosalie, taking 
 the flowers and the silk in her hand, began 
 " Voycz vous, mesdames." It needed but a little 
 while to perfect the young ladies in the art ; and 
 in less than an hour each had a flower, graceful 
 and glowing, upon white silk, to present to papa. 
 " My dears," said he, examining the specimens 
 " we are all much indebted to our young friend, 
 but our thanks are not sufficient ; she has given 
 to you a new source of pleasure, which, but for 
 her, you might never have possessed ; I am 
 sure you are willing in return to continue to her 
 a source of far higher pleasure, — the society of a 
 kind brother ; go then to your stores, and bring 
 each of you what you can afford." In a moment 
 they were at the door, and in a few minutes more, 
 they had returned, and were about to present a 
 pretty bead purse to Rosalie, filled with silver 
 and gold, when the baron said, " Hold, my 
 children, I wished but to show Rosalie, that vir- 
 tue is sure to find sympathy and reward ; but it 
 is your father who pays for vour education ; th© ? 
 
ROSALIE. 231 
 
 purse itself, however, shall be a gift from you. 
 The Baron then taking Rosalie's herbier, put 
 twenty-five louis-d'ors into the purse, and placed 
 it in Rosalie's basket, saying with a smile, " ten 
 of them are for the herbier ; five, for teaching 
 my daughters your pretty art ; and the other ten 
 you are to return when you grow rich ; Rosalie, 
 all the while, could not find words to thank them, 
 but stood, with burning cheeks, down which tears 
 of gratitude and joy rapidly followed one another. 
 
 Rosalie, exhausted with the fatigues of the 
 day, was soon conducted to bed by her sympa- 
 thizing young friends ; joy, for a while kept her 
 awake ; but she at length dropped into a deep 
 sleep, — and next morning, with the kind adieus 
 of the young ladies, she was conducted on a 
 mule, to within a short distance of her father's 
 vineyard. Need I tell what joy followed the 
 narrative of her adventure, and her success ; or 
 what blessings were bestowed upon her 1 I am 
 sure I need not, — my young readers can easily 
 picture the family group. — and the questions and 
 smiles, and kind looks, that passed among them. 
 But there was something beyond this, — the in- 
 ward contentment which follows the happy ac- 
 complishment of a virtuous resolution, — and this, 
 Kosalie felt. 
 
 I have nothing to add to my story, more thai* 
 
232 ROSALIE. 
 
 that, some time after this event, Dufresne a -A 
 his family removed to a large vineyard, on the 
 estate of the Baron Chaubert, where, as he in- 
 creased in wealth, he joyfully repaid ..ie ten 
 louis-d'ors, — and still acknowledged in his pros- 
 perity the hand of God j and that Albert ever 
 continued to remember with gratitude, and t'0 
 repay with kindness, the affection and tho sey 
 rices of his beloved sister. 
 
 SHE EBB, 
 


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