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 THE 
 
 GAELAND; 
 
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 CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAE'S GIFT 
 
 1853. 
 
 EDITED BT 
 
 EMILY PERCIVAL. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON' AND COMPANY, 
 
 110 WASHINGTON STREET 
 
 1853.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, In the fe.u 185V, ty 
 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSOX, AND COMPANY. 
 ID the Clerk's Office of the Dintricl Court of the [>i.nict uf
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE present volume forms the sixth of the series issued under 
 the general title of " THE GARLAND ; " and the increasing favor 
 which has greeted it from year to year, has been not only gratifying 
 to the proprietors, but has urged them on to higher efforts, and 
 induced them to incur a much greater expense in the preparation 
 of this than any of its predecessors. 
 
 New aid has been employed in preparing its embellishments, and 
 in that respect it will be found to bear an honorable comparison 
 Vith the numerous gift-books of the season. 
 
 As the best guarantee for its literary character, the publishers 
 beg leave to state, that it has been under the same *d'*orial 
 supervision from the commencement of the series. 
 
 BoMon, August, 1852.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Heather Bell, 9 
 
 Dropping in to Tea, . 11 
 
 Christmas-Day in " The Bush," 19 
 
 A Thimble-full of Romance 21 
 
 'Tis Better not to Know 33 
 
 Music as an Accomplishment, 35 
 
 Crossing the Ferry, 44 
 
 Angelina's Fainted, 46 
 
 Spring Joys, . 67 
 
 The Chatelaine, 69 
 
 Chimes, 74 
 
 Duty, 76 
 
 The Carrier-Pigeon, 94 
 
 The Maid of the Mill 97 
 
 The Heart's Awakening, Ill 
 
 The Adventures of Carlo Franconi, 114 
 
 The Blessing 147 
 
 Self-Love and True Love, 149 
 
 To M. A. G., 182 
 
 The Withered Rose, 184 
 
 1*
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Mountain Daisy, 196 
 
 Clemencc Isaure, 197 
 
 The Portrait 217 
 
 The Game of Proverbs, 219 
 
 Song of a Caged Bird 228 
 
 The Trifles of Life, 230 
 
 The Summer Evening, 239 
 
 The Flower Gatherer, ; 241 
 
 The Irish Mother, 246 
 
 The Life Ransom, 248 
 
 Woman's Faith, 264 
 
 Lessons in the School of Life, 266 
 
 The Gambler, 271 
 
 Love and Ambition 274 
 
 The Old Yew-Tree 280 
 
 The Angel and the Flowers 282 
 
 Sonnet, 288
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Subject. Painter. Engraver. Pugf. 
 
 PRESENTATION PLATE. 
 
 ILLUMINATED TITLE. 
 
 SPRING JOYS. BOITIREH. SMITH. 67 
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. CORBOULD. SMITH. 97 
 
 THE BLESSING. BONNAK. SMITH. 147 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. BOUIRER. SMITH. 196 
 
 THE IRISH MOTHER. SCANLAN. SMITH. 246
 
 THE GARLAND. 
 
 THE HEATHER BELL. 
 
 IT is not for the light that plays 
 In thy dark eyes' glancing rays, 
 Nor that arched and snowy lid 
 Where the glittering tear is hid, 
 Nor the long and silken lash 
 That softly veils its brilliant flash; 
 Not, not for these I love thee! 
 
 Nor for the airy, graceful form, 
 Nor mantling blushes quick and warm, 
 Nor for the fairy feet that bound 
 So gaily o'er the flowery ground, 
 Nor for that voice, whose lightest tone 
 Breathes silvery music all its own; 
 Not, not for these I love thee !
 
 10 THE HEATHER BELt. 
 
 But for the simple sterling truth. 
 That stamps its signet on thy youth, 
 And for the unpretending worth 
 That ranks thee with the good on earth, 
 And for that love so true and kind, 
 Thy Christian charity of mind; 
 For this, for this, I love thee !
 
 DROPPING IN TO TEA; 
 
 OR, HOUSEHOLD TROUBLES. 
 
 FROM SAD EXPERIENCE. 
 
 I AM at the head of a small but well-ordered house- 
 hold, and blessed with a scientific husband. If there 
 is any thing I pride myself upon, it is having things 
 neat and nice. I hate being put out of my way it 
 fidgets me ; and if there is one thing in particular that 
 ruffles my usually smooth temper, it is that awful habit 
 my husband has of bringing unexpected friends to 
 lunch, breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, as the case 
 may be. JHow often have I said to him, " My dear 
 John, nobody can be more happy to see my friends 
 than I am ; no one more happy to be introduced to 
 new ones ; but do not take me unawares ; let me know 
 in time to have something prepared." 
 
 But, alas ! it was always in vain. My dear husband 
 knows nothing of housekeeping, and he has no idea
 
 12 DROPPING IN TO TEA. 
 
 how hurtful it is to my feelings to see what would be a 
 comfortable little supper for two put before ten. He 
 can't conceive the horror of not having enough milk for 
 tea, and during that meal being obliged to send Jane 
 for more ; and then, somebody knocking at the door 
 during her absence, my poor deaf Mary answering the 
 summons, and bringing the most absurd name or 
 message. 
 
 " My dear aunt," said my niece, as she entered the 
 room one evening, " I have just had a letter to say 
 that poor little Annie is very ill, and mamma wishes 
 me to go home and nurse her, so will you just let 
 Mary carry my bag to the railroad, for I must be 
 
 \ 
 
 off as soon as possible, to get there in time for 
 tea; it doesn't take more than a quarter of an 
 hour, so I shall have plenty of time, if I start 
 directly." 
 
 " Certainly, my dear," I replied, " then you will 
 leave Robert with me." 
 
 " Yes, aunt, I think so, if you please. There is no 
 occasion for his going home ; and he always enjoys 
 himself so much with you, that I think it is a pity to 
 curtail his visit. 
 
 " Well, now, my dear, go and get ready, or you will 
 be too late," said I, as I rang for Mary.
 
 DEOPPIXG IN TO TEA. 13 
 
 Jane answered the bell. "Jane, just send Mary 
 to me." 
 
 " Yes, mum." 
 
 "Mary," said I, when she appeared, in my loudest 
 tone of voice, " I wish you to carry Miss Mordaunt's 
 box to the station; she is going home this evening; 
 get ready directly." 
 
 " Yes, mum ; and please could I stay and drink 
 tea with mother this evening, she lives close by the 
 station." 
 
 I considered a little, and then, in a moment of 
 weakness, I thundered out "Yes." 
 
 Mary curtseyed, and departed. 
 
 "And no'w, Jane," said I, when my niece and Mary 
 were fairly gone, " bring up tea, and tell your master 
 and Master Robert." 
 
 " Master's out, mum ; and said he shouldn't be 
 home to tea, but would have a quiet cup by himself, 
 like, when he did come." 
 
 " Well then, Jane, you need not bring up the urn 
 for Master Robert and me. The black kettle will do. 
 Here, Robert, my dear," said I to my nephew, as I 
 handed him his cup, " sit there by the fire. We'll 
 have our tea quite cosily together." So I drew 
 the small table, with my small Rockingham tea-pot,
 
 14 DROPPING IN TO TEA. 
 
 and the black kettle, and his thick bread and butter, 
 and my muffin, between us ; and we sat, one 011 each 
 side of the fire, as comfortable as could be. Just 
 then, there was a ring at our bell. "What can that 
 be, Robert?" said I. 
 
 " The post, perhaps, aunt, or my boots come from 
 being mended." 
 
 " Please, mum, it's master, and two foreign gentle- 
 men," said Jane, as she entered, looking much flurried. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " cried I, as I rose precipitately, 
 upsetting, as I did so, our small table ; so that nearly 
 all our store of milk was on the floor, mixing with 
 the tea and water, and bearing in its current my 
 unfortunate muffin, just as the gentlemen entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Why, my dearest Anne, what a state you are 
 in," said my husband, after he had introduced me to 
 the two foreigners. In answer to my husband's 
 question, I faltered out that " I did not expect him." 
 And it never struck me till afterwards, how strange 
 it must have appeared to foreigners, that the sight 
 of a husband unexpectedly should cause the wife to 
 upset her tea-table. But now my mind was much 
 relieved by the sight of my faithful Jane bringing in 
 our best tea-service and silver teapot, which she depos-
 
 DROPPING IX TO TEA. 15 
 
 ited on the large dining-table. Then she quickly 
 cleared away my broken Rockingham, the black 
 kettle, muffin, etc. ; but, to my horror, replaced the 
 milk-jug on the table. 
 
 "What, Jane, is there no more milk?" whispered I. 
 
 " Xo, mum, not a drop," whispered she in return. 
 I had just given the kitten the last, when master 
 rung." 
 
 " Then you must fetch some directly," whispered I. 
 And now, with the hissing urn and the best tea- 
 service before me, and the prospect of more milk 
 speedily, I thought my troubles were at an end. 
 
 "Anne, my dear, you have given me no milk," 
 said my husband. 
 
 " I thought you did not like it," said I, in a 
 rather significant tone ; endeavoring to make signs 
 that I had none. But my poor husband never could 
 take a hint, so he passed his cup all the same, and 
 I was obliged to tell him he must wait till Jane 
 brought it up. 
 
 Another ring "Ah, that reminds me," said my 
 husband, " that I asked Belmont and his wife to come 
 and take a friendly cup of tea with us." 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Belmont!'' repeated I. 
 
 "Yes, and they are on their bridal tour; she is a
 
 16 PROPPING IN TO TEA. 
 
 most elegant woman, and it was a very good match 
 for Belmont in money matters." 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Belmont," announced Jane, with 
 her bonnet and shawl on, ready to go for the milk. 
 
 " Mrs. Mordaunt, allow me to introduce you to my 
 wife," said Mr. Belmont to me. The lady bowed 
 coldly, as if she felt that she was an elegant woman, 
 and an excellent match ; and now behold us ! My 
 cheeks flushed, my hair untidy, no milk, and the 
 elegant bride by my side, making a placid remark, on 
 the weather ! ! 
 
 The milk came the tea was over, and the company 
 safe in our drawing-room ; as I led my bride up, 1 
 whispered to Jane, when we had been up about five 
 minutes to come and say somebody wanted to speak 
 to me, as I must see about the supper. The little ruse 
 answered; I gravely asked the bride to excuse me 
 for a moment, and then rose and left the room. 
 
 "Jane, just go and fetch me two shillings' worth 
 of tarts and cheesecakes," said I. Jane ran for her 
 bonnet. " And, Jane," I cried after her, " before you 
 go, ask Master Robert to go to the bell, if it rings 
 while you are out." " Yes, mum," "she answered, in 
 the distance. I wonder if she heard me at that 
 distance," thought I ; " but surely she would not have
 
 DROPPING IN TO TEA. 17 
 
 answered if she had not." Just as I had finished my 
 preparations, there was a ring at the bell ; " I will wait 
 and see who it is," thought I, " before I go up stairs 
 again." So I waited, but no one came. The bell 
 rang again. I ran up to the drawing-room wildly, 
 and opened the door ; the bride stared, I shut it 
 again, Robert was not there. "Robert," cried I, a* 
 the top of my voice ; faintly I heajd, " Yes, aunt." 
 
 "Where in the world are your" I cried angrily. 
 
 " In bed, aunt." 
 
 " Oh, you naughty, unfeeling boy, to go to bed 
 when you might be of so much use," I screamed, as 
 I rushed down stairs to open the door. I did open 
 the door, and what met my astonished gaze? the 
 Heriotts, the Blanters, and the Callers ! all in full 
 dress, guests my husband had invited to meet the 
 bride ! 
 
 I muttered, I blushed, I made excuses, which of 
 course made every thing worse, and eventually led the 
 new comers into my drawing-room ; and there, what 
 met my sight ? one of the foreigners on the floor ir 
 strong convulsions. My husband was trying to revive 
 him; he held up his head, while the other foreignei 
 was rushing about the room like one distracted, seizing 
 every thing in the shape of a scent-bottle, which h< 
 2
 
 18 DROPPING IN. TO TEA. 
 
 applied either to the other's nose, or in spilling over 
 his face ; and, at the other end of the room the placid 
 bride had fainted in the arms of her husband, who was 
 in vain endeavoring to revive her. 
 
 " Let Jane bring some cold water, and you get your 
 sal-volatile, and, stay, send Mary for Dr. Rent," 
 cried my husband. 
 
 "Alas!" shrieked I, "I have no servant at home." 
 I left the room, I ran and fetched the water, I fetched 
 the sal-volatile, and as I returned I saw the astonished 
 Robert, wrapped in an old dressing-gown of my hus- 
 band's, peeping in at the door, and sobbing, " I didn't 
 want to go to bed ; but Jane said you called after her, 
 and said I was to go to bed, and so I did." Regard- 
 less of his costume, I made him help me bring in the 
 water. Between us we revived the lady, and by the 
 time Jane came back, the gentleman was well enough 
 to be removed in a cab. The other guests were 
 dispersed before. Then, when all were gone, I threw 
 myself upon a sofa: "John," said I, "it will be the 
 death of me, if you ever do such a thing again." 
 
 I do think John was moved at my sufferings, for 
 this has been my last experience as to being taken 
 unawares.
 
 CHRISTMAS-DAY IN "THE BUSH." 
 
 BY MAEK LEMON. 
 
 I WONDER, Edward, who will meet 
 
 To-day around my father's fire ? 
 Dear sister May, with voice so sweet 
 
 The very sweetest of the quire ; 
 And Mary too poor widow'd girl, 
 
 She and her boy will sure be there : 
 Here is the little golden curl 
 
 She gave me of her baby's hair. 
 
 Old Uncle John to-night will sing 
 
 " WfXL WATCH," as he did years ago. 
 When I was quite a little thing, 
 
 I used to weep at " SUSAN'S " woe. 
 And when they have the elder-wine 
 
 That mother keeps for Christmas-day, 
 They'll drink your health, dear Ned, and mine, 
 
 And wish we were not far away.
 
 20 CHKI8TMA8-DAY IN "THE BUSH." 
 
 And then they'll talk of all we planned 
 
 Before we crossed the mighty sea, 
 And wonder if this distant land 
 
 Can ever be a home to me. 
 Then one by one they will recall 
 
 Your love for me, so strong and true, 
 Your ever trustful heart, and all 
 
 Will bless the God who gave me you.
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 THE tailor's wife had stitched since five in the 
 morning. It was now noon the day after Christmas- 
 day, and there really was something for dinner. The 
 tailor was from home the children were out, but it 
 was close upon twelve o'clock, and in a trice they 
 would be back, eager and hungry for their meal. Mrs. 
 Atkins put down her work a very handsome waist- 
 coat of sky-blue satin, sprinkled with stars, and 
 bordered, it might be, with the zodiac, (the border 
 was so strangely beautiful,) clapped her thimble on 
 the mantel-piece, and hurried to the cupboard. At all 
 events, there was a dinner to-day ; and something 
 seemed to promise the tailor's wife a brighter time, 
 and a fuller table for the time to come. Atkins had 
 gone to make inquiry about a ship that was to sail for 
 the other side of the world ; and though he had not at 
 the time a single piece of Queen Victoria's minted gold 
 to purchase a passage for himself and family, he never- 
 theless would learn all the particulars of cost and
 
 22 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 necessary preparation. It was a whim, he knew ; for 
 all that, it was a whim that controlled him beyond his 
 powers of self-argument, had he tried to exercise them. 
 And,, all alone, Mrs. Atkins spread the table. There 
 was a piece of beef left, and a small piece of plum- 
 pudding ; and still the pudding remained small, 
 although Mrs. Atkins turned the plate that contained 
 it round and round half-a-dozen times, and took half-a- 
 dozen side-long looks at it, as though endeavoring to 
 behold it in the most improved light. But pudding is 
 not to be thus magnified. 
 
 The table laid, Mrs. Atkins thought she would 
 execute a few more stitches, filling up the time until 
 Atkins and the children came. As Mrs. Atkins 
 approached the mantel-piece, extending her fingers 
 towards the thimble, the thimble of its own mo- 
 tion fell over upon its side, with one distinct 
 prolonged sound, as from a silver bell ; Mrs. Atkins's 
 thimble, by the way, being of no such precious metal, 
 but of working-day brass. Mrs. Atkins drew back 
 her fingers from the thimble as from a nettle, when 
 the thimble self-moved rolled off the mantel-piece 
 and fell upon the hearth. And then, to the astonish- 
 ment and terror of Mrs. Atkins, who, strange to say, 
 could not at that moment scream, though in no former
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF KOMAXCE. 23 
 
 accident had she failed, when otherwise determined 
 then, from the thimble began to pour forth, in small 
 quick puffs, smoke of silvery clearness. Mrs. Atkins 
 dropped in her chair, and sat with her eyes upon the 
 thimble, still puffing a shining vapor puffing and 
 puffing, until, in a few minutes, the room was filled 
 as with a cloud, and every object enveloped in it, 
 save the small brass thimble that glittered like a speck 
 upon the hearth. In the midst of her terror, Mrs. 
 Atkins thought of her little bit of beef and fragmentary 
 pudding; but they were lost to her sight, muffled up in 
 the one white cloud that possessed the apartment. 
 
 After some minutes, the cloud cleared away, slowly 
 rolling itself up the chimney, and Mrs. Atkins's brass 
 thimble lay, like any other two-penny implement, upon 
 the hearth. The same well-worn thimble the same 
 familiar common-place that for many a day had armed 
 her sempstress finger. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Atkins ? " said a voice from 
 the mantel-piece. 
 
 Mrs. Atkins jumped round with the shortest of 
 jumps. She looked and saw a gentleman " 
 
 Well, he was the strangest of gentlemen, and he 
 was in the strangest position ! But we will tell every 
 tittle we know about him.
 
 24 A THIMBLE-FULL OF KOAIANCE. 
 
 Measured by tailor's measure, the gentleman's 
 stature might have been about six inches. A gentle- 
 man with a very clean and lofty look ; his hair an iron 
 gray ; with a few wisdom scratches made with an iron 
 pen the sort of pen made out of Time's old scythes 
 about the corner of his eyes, that had a ceiling-ward 
 look ; a look, moreover, of self-satisfaction. He was 
 very soberly dressed in black very soberly ; and then 
 his white neckerchief was white and pure as a snow- 
 wreath. Mrs. Atkins thought she recognized in the 
 miniature man a well-known face ; one of those coun- 
 tenances that, like a royal face upon a shilling, is the 
 property of every body who can possess it. She had 
 seen a picture of the Poor Man's Friend, and no, it 
 could not be he ; it was impossible nevertheless, the 
 face of the manikin was wondrously like that flesh- 
 and-blood goodness. 
 
 And the little gentleman, though somewhat uneasily, 
 sat among a sprig of Christmas holly that was upon 
 the mantel-piece ; sat, and with his best pains, looked 
 secure amid his bower of spikes. 
 
 " Hadn't you better take a chair, sir, or this stool ? " 
 - said Mrs. Atkins, as she passed her apron over a 
 three-legged piece of deal, you'll be more com- 
 fortable, sir."
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF HOMAXCE. 20 
 
 " Thank you," said the little man ; his face puck- 
 ered as he spoke, and shifting uneasily, thank you, 
 but people condemned to live in thimbles are not 
 allowed to be comfortable." 
 
 Poor creatures ! cried Mrs. Atkins, " it must be a 
 strait lodging, goodness knows. I never heard of 
 such a thing." 
 
 " Benighted, darkened being ! " cried the little man 
 in black ; " miserable, forlorn person," he continued, 
 as though from a platform, did you never hear of 
 Solomon's brazen kettles ? " 
 
 " Never, sir,'-' said the tailor's wife, with great 
 humility. 
 
 " Know, then, that Solomon has at this moment a 
 thousand brazen kettles at the bottom of the sea ; and 
 in every kettle is a prisoner, confined for no good he 
 has done, depend upon it, to hear the sea moan and 
 roar, and answer it with his groans. And as in brazen 
 kettles, so" and the little man sighed heavily 
 " so in brass thimbles." 
 
 " I don't understand a word of it," said Mrs. 
 
 Atkins ; and with a resolute hand, she took up her 
 
 thimble, and turned it over and over, and almost 
 
 unconsciously brought the thimble to her nose. But it 
 
 3
 
 20 JL XIIIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 did not smell of sulphur the thimble was the like 
 thimble it was before. 
 
 " For ten years have I lived in that thimble. Ten 
 years," cried the little man and Mrs. Atkins stared 
 now at her visitor, and now took another look at the 
 thimble ; and then she courageously thrust her thimble 
 finger into the familiar brass, and nodded at the little 
 man among the holly, as much as to say, " Now you are 
 well got rid of, I'll take care you shan't get in again." 
 
 The little man seemed to understand the threat of 
 the look, for he said with a languid smile, " It's no 
 matter now : my ten years are up my time's out 
 to-day. All I have now to do is to confess my past 
 sins and the sufferings they purchased me, and then I 
 pass to peace. I've paid the penalty of my selfishness, 
 and my unquiet ghost will cease to haunt your brazen 
 thimble." 
 
 *' A ghost ! " cried Mrs. Atkins. " Well, I never 
 thought I could be so bold to a ghost. But then, to 
 be sure, you're such a very little one. What was 
 your name ? " 
 
 " Never mind," said the small man. " I was called 
 the Poor Man's Friend. And I can tell you, Mrs. 
 Atkins, that I have paid pretty sharply for the vanity 
 and vexation of the title."
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 27 
 
 "That is, I suppose," answered the spirited little 
 woman, "you wasn't his friend at all? Only the 
 name, like? " 
 
 "Listen to my story," said the little gentleman, 
 again shifting himself among the holly leaves. " I 
 was, when I was alive, and enjoying my proper 
 stature, I was a man of exceeding wealth. Rich 
 indeed was I, and as every hody thought and at 
 last I got myself to think so too very good, very 
 benevolent, very pious. Indeed, I had the hahit of 
 talking so much ahout the duties of the rich to the 
 poor, that, for the life .. e me, I never could find 
 sufficient time to perform them. Nevertheless, I 
 could not forbear to talk it was so pleasant, so 
 easy too ; and with no other effort, it made me a 
 name that smelt among my particular friends like a 
 sweet ointment." 
 
 " The more shame for you," said Mrs. Atkins. "To 
 get a good name, and live upon it and do nothing for 
 it; why it's worse than coining yes, passing bad 
 money is nothing to it." 
 
 "Very true, Mrs. Atkins," answered the unruffled 
 manikin. "Very true. Yet there's a deal of brassy 
 character passed for good. And it may sound right 
 enough upon the world's counter, but it won't do, Mrs.
 
 28 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 Atkins, when the angels come to ring it. It won't do, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " I should say not," replied the tailor's wife, with 
 womanly decision. 
 
 " And so I found. It is now, madam, ten years ago 
 since I died. If you doubt me, take your way to the 
 cemetery. There, madam, you vri.ll see my monument. 
 There's no mistaking it 'tis such a handsome thing, 
 with work enough in it to have kept the sculptor and 
 his family for a twelvemonth. I am there, ma'am, in 
 alto relievo in four compartments ; and in all four my 
 likeness by lamenting friends is considered very perfect. 
 In one place I am giving away quartern loaves in 
 another I have taken off my own coat, and am serenely 
 offering the garment to a beggar and the third" 
 
 "I recollect. Good as a picture to look at it I 
 saw it with Tom and the children one Sunday. Then 
 we could get a walk on a Sunday ; and now it's no 
 walk, but for ever stitch. La, bless me ! and that's 
 you in that monument! Well, I never!" ejaculated 
 Mrs. Atkins. " And now I recollect, what a lot of 
 fine stuff there's writ about you." 
 
 " Don't name it, ma'am," said the little man hastily; 
 " even as I am, ray cheek tingles to think of it. And 
 when I reflect"
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF BOMANCE. 29 
 
 "Never mind reflections," cried the tailor's wife 
 with decreasing deference towards her visitor- "but 
 come to the story at once. How did you get in my 
 thimble?" 
 
 " That was my sentence that was my dreadful 
 punishment," cried the little man. 
 
 " Punishment ! " echoed Mrs. Atkins. " Well, to 
 be sure, little as you are, it must have cramped you 
 terrible. And what's so very droll, I never felt you." 
 
 "But I felt you every stitch," said the manikin, 
 and he seemed to wince at the recollection. " How- 
 ever, to finish my story. You must know that, 
 although I talked to the last day of my life about the 
 duties of the rich, and the rights of the poor 
 although now and then, for the look of the thing, my 
 name sparkled in a guinea subscription for a Home for 
 the Homeless, or some such public benevolence, I 
 would buy buy where I might I would buy cheap. 
 Every shilling saved, I considered as a new victory 
 over the extravagance of trade. It was not for me to 
 inquire about wages it was no part of my economy 
 to be assured that the journeyman could get his 
 shoulder of mutton and potatoes " 
 
 " Shoulder of mutton and potatoes ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Atkins, as though she spoke of the culinary 
 3*
 
 30 A THIMBLE-FULL OF BOMANCE. 
 
 marvels of Mahomet's Paradise " Well, to be sure, 
 we had a bit of beef yesterday, but before then " 
 
 " I cared not if you, and such as you, lived upon 
 bran and water, if cheapness were in the stitches of 
 my coat if my heart, my philanthropic heart, beat 
 beneath a waistcoat that, for economy of cost, defied 
 competition." 
 
 " More shame for you," said the tailor's wife. 
 " Talking of waistcoats, what do you think I get for 
 that blue thing there ? " 
 
 " Starvation ! " answered the manikin ; " for I see, 
 fine as it is oh, I know the sort of thing now I 
 see it is one of the glories of prime cost that defy 
 competition. A pretty breastplate of defiance," said 
 the little man, " and Well is such defiance punished." 
 
 " How punished ? " asked Mrs. Atkins. 
 
 "That's it that's the marrow of my story. That 
 is the why and the wherefore that I am here. At this 
 moment now, woman, attend to me, for what I have 
 to say is worth the hearing at this moment there 
 are the ghosts of not less than ten thousand men and 
 women excellent persons when alive ; the very pink 
 of goodness, with delicate white satin feelings, as one 
 may say ten thousand spirits condemned for a certain 
 time to be imprisoned in thimbles."
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 31 
 
 " In thimbles ! " exclaimed the tailor's wife. 
 
 " In thimbles," repeated the miniature of the 
 departed Poor Man's Friend. "And their prison is 
 far worse than the brazen dungeon in which Solomon 
 shuts up his genii ; for they, at least, are not mocked 
 with an open cell with a promise of liberty never, 
 until the appointed time be come, to be obtained. 
 Now the victims of the thimble may not budge. They 
 have employed the cheapest thimble when alive, and 
 the cheapest thimble is for a time their punishment 
 when dead. My time is up, and my wounds are 
 healing but how, for these ten long years" 
 
 "That's just about the time not quite Tom 
 and I have worked for " 
 
 " For my tailor that was," said the manikin. 
 " How, for the time, have you tortured me ! " 
 
 "I I couldn't do it," cried Mrs. Atkins, sharply. 
 
 "You couldn't help it 'twas your duty and my 
 fate. Thus, for every stitch you took, I felt your 
 needle-head go clean into what seemed my flesh. 
 And my sense of feeling was sharpened into spiritual 
 suffering. For fourteen hours a-day, have I felt 
 incessantly felt the punctures of the tormenting 
 steel. Hundreds of thousands of little daggers 
 piercing me through and through, and with every
 
 32 A THIMBLE-FULI, OF KOMANCE. 
 
 stitch, a jerk that seemed to snatch at every 
 nerve." 
 
 " Mercy on us ! " cried the tailor's wife. 
 
 "Ah, mercy on us," said the little man. " But we 
 ask mercy in vain who have had no mercy on others. 
 Live and let starve, was my inner creed ; it's a wicked 
 religion, Mrs. Atkins, and carries its after-punishment. 
 And depend upon it, they who, without care for the 
 comforts, for the necessities of the workers, will have 
 only the cheapest work, big as their names may sound, 
 and large as their presence in the world may be, 
 their souls dwell in a thimble." 
 
 And here the little man vanished, and the Dutch 
 clock struck twelve, and Atkins with a brightened face, 
 with a child in either hand, and two follov/ing, came 
 home to dinner. Now whether Mrs. Atkins did, or 
 did not, tell to her husband her interview with the 
 manikin, is not here, or elsewhere, the business of 
 
 RED RIDING HOOD.
 
 'TIS BETTER NOT TO KNOW. 
 
 BO.VO, BY SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 You say you love me can I trust 
 
 That she, by many woo'd, 
 By me, at length, has had her heart 
 
 To constancy subdued ? 
 Perchance some other love is there 
 
 But do not tell me so : 
 
 *9 
 
 Since knowledge would but bring me grief, 
 'Tis better not to know. 
 
 Perchance that eye has beamed with love 
 
 In days I knew not thee, 
 That ruby lip hath bent in smiles 
 
 For others than for me ; 
 But let that lip, still, silence keep, 
 
 I'll trust its love-like show : 
 Since knowledge would but bring me grief, 
 
 'Tis better not to know.
 
 34 'TIS BETTER NOT TO KNOW. 
 
 Oh ! what a simple fondness mine 
 
 Whose wishes make its creed; 
 But let me think you love me still, 
 
 And I'll be blest indeed! 
 "Tis better that the eye ne'er see 
 
 Than that its tears should flow : 
 When knowledge would but bring us grief, 
 
 'Tis better not to know.
 
 MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 
 
 BY GEORGE HOGARTH, ESQ. 
 
 Music is peculiarly a female accomplishment. When 
 cultivated with regard to its true nature and its real 
 purpose, it brings into view some of the finest features 
 of woman's mind, and contributes to the fulfilment of 
 one part, at least, of woman's mission that of shed- 
 ding a softening and refining influence over human 
 society. It is not by brilliant displays of artistic 
 acquirement and skill, that music exerts its power in 
 the circles of private life ; it is in its simpler forms, 
 and by its melody, its grace, its expression, and the 
 additional charm with which it clothes sweet and 
 pathetic poetry, that it arrests the attention and 
 touches the heart. And this is the case, as much in 
 the gay and fashionable party as in the privacy of the 
 domestic fire-side ; though it is in the latter situation 
 "" that Music appears in her fairest aspect, and bestows 
 her best blessings.
 
 36 MUSIC AS AX ACCOMPLISHMENT. 
 
 Music is at present deprived of most of its charms 
 and most of its benefits by its end being mistaken. 
 It is regarded as the means of display, and with this 
 view its tuition is almost entirely conducted. Ladies 
 learn to sing, and to play on the pianoforte and the 
 harp, in order that they may " show off" when they 
 go into company. They spend an inordinate quantity 
 of time, labor, and expense, in the acquirement of this 
 one accomplishment ; they give enormous sums to 
 fashionable teachers, who make fortunes out of the 
 prevailing folly ; they practise three or four hours 
 a day for years together, to the neglect of more im- 
 portant and necessary studies ; and what, in nine 
 cases out of ten, is the result ? When a young lady, 
 thus " highly accomplished," brings her dearly-bought 
 accomplishment into action, what does it avail her? 
 She is, natiirally enough, eager to display that which 
 she has made it the chief business of her life to attain ; 
 and consequently makes a point of singing and playing 
 as much as possible whenever she can find an audience. 
 Poor girl ! she is little aware how thanklessly her 
 efforts are received. Instead of admiration she excites 
 nothing but ennui. Her bravura of Donizetti, or 
 fantasia of Thalberg, is the signal for a general buzz 
 of conversation, which she alone is too preoccupied
 
 MUSIC AS AX ACCOMPLISHMENT. 37 
 
 to hear ; or, if a sense of politeness imposes silence 
 as a duty, the constraint only heightens the annoyance 
 and impatience of the company. When the elaborate 
 performance is over, it is followed by a profusion of 
 thanks and compliments ; those who talked the loudest 
 while it lasted being the loudest also in professing the 
 delight and admiration it has given them. The fair 
 musician's vanity is flattered ; and she goes home quite 
 unaware of the real impression she has made, and 
 perhaps exulting in an imagined triumph over some 
 less successful rival. All this is so notorious, that a 
 
 highly-educated musical lady has come to be looked 
 
 
 upon as a bore, and music itself is felt, by those who 
 
 suffer from its inflictions, to be a social nuisance. 
 
 But the highly-educated musical lady, who " bestows 
 so much of her tediousness " on society, is more to 
 be pitied than blamed. She is the hapless victim of 
 a course of education which not only fails in its direct 
 object, but by precluding her from pursuing objects 
 of greater moment, tends to make her ignorant, friv- 
 olous, and vain. The blame rests with her parents 
 and friends, who ought to have sounder views of what 
 is really necessary to form her mind and promote her 
 happiness. 
 
 It ought to be considered, that music rannof, in 
 I
 
 38 MUSIC AS AX ACCOM I'L 
 
 private society, be successfully used for the sake of 
 display. In the present state of the art, no amateur 
 performer can hope to excite pleasure or admiration by 
 means of vocal power or great execution. It is not 
 now as it was once. At present, such is the variety 
 of public concerts, operas, and musical performances of 
 every kind, that the great body of the public are quite 
 accustomed to hear the principal singers and instru- 
 mentalists are able to appreciate their qualities and 
 criticise their defects. A lady in a drawing-room, who 
 sits down to entertain a company with a " scena " 
 from an Italian opera, or a brilliant production of 
 some fashionable pianist, ought to remember that 
 probably every body in the room has heard the same 
 piece sung by Grisi or Jenny Lind, or played by 
 Thalberg or Dulcken ; and that she is exposing herself 
 to an unpleasant comparison, by attempting lamely and 
 imperfectly what the company have heard executed 
 with finished excellence ; and this will be the case, 
 even though she may be, for an amateur, a really 
 superior performer. But the truth is, that not one 
 lady-amateur in a thousand who makes such ambitious 
 attempts, can acquit herself even decently. If she 
 sings, it is a thousand to one that she strains and 
 forces her voice out of all tone and tune, and trans-
 
 MUSTC AS AX ACCOMPLISHMENT. 39 
 
 forms the brilliant roulades of the composer into inar- 
 ticulate screams ; if she plays, that she produces a 
 mere clatter of unmeaning noise and confusion. And 
 these enormities are committed by persons who, con- 
 fining themselves within the limits of their own 
 powers and attainments, might really " discourse most 
 eloquent music," and gratify the ears as well as touch 
 the feelings of their listeners. 
 
 It is a great mistake to suppose that the best music 
 is the most difficult of execution. The very reverse, 
 generally speaking, is the case. Music of a high order 
 certainly demands high gifts and attainments on the 
 part of the performer. But the gifts of nature may 
 be possessed by the amateur as well as by the pro- 
 fessor ; and the attainments of art may be the result 
 of moderate study and application. A young lady 
 possessed of a sweet and tunable voice, a good ear, 
 intelligence, and feeling, may cultivate music in its 
 grandest and most beautiful forms, and may render 
 its practice a source of the purest enjoyment, not only 
 to herself but to her domestic and social circle. 
 
 Many ladies do this, but they have not been fashion- 
 ably educated. Sense and reason, not the prevailing 
 example, have been consulted in their studies, and the 
 result has made them really accomplished musicians.
 
 40 MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 
 
 In order to become so, every natural gift must be 
 cultivated by solid instruction. The principles of the 
 art must be well understood. The rules of harmony 
 and composition must be studied so far as to enable 
 the pupil, if not to compose, to comprehend the designs 
 of the composer, and the technical means whereby he 
 produces his effects. The voice must be strengthened 
 and purified, ungainly habits must be removed, and 
 distinct utterance and elocution acquired. The mind 
 must be opened, and the taste exalted and refined, by 
 acquaintance with the finest productions of the art 
 an acquaintance which ought to extend from the 
 Oratorio of Handel to the national ballad. With the 
 young pianist a similar course should be pursued. 
 A correct method of fingering, and a familiarity with 
 the scale in every variety of key, must be imparted 
 at the outset ; and this will give a command of the 
 instrument quite sufficient for every purpose of an 
 amateur performer. 
 
 A lady so educated is far above making music the 
 means of frivolous display. She never commits the 
 folly of endeavoring to rival professional artists in the 
 achievement of tours de force, and thus exciting ridi- 
 cule instead of admiration, and causing weariness 
 instead of pleasure. She select? Vx?r music from every
 
 MUSIC AS AX ACCOMPLISHMENT. 41 
 
 branch of the art, choosing what she knows to be 
 suitable to her powers, and what her taste tells her 
 is intrinsically good and beautiful. In such music 
 she may feel without vanity (and her hearers will 
 feel so too), that she subjects herself to no disparaging 
 contrasts ; and a well-grounded but modest confidence 
 will enable her to do justice to her own talents. Such 
 a singer will be at no loss for resources. She will find 
 them in the works of every school in Europe, not 
 excepting even (when discreetly chosen) the gems of 
 the modern Italian and German stage. She will be 
 able to give power to the inspired strains of Handel, 
 grace to the charming melodies of Mozart, and truth 
 and pathos to the simplest effusion of the rustic muse 
 of Ireland or Scotland. 
 
 Concerted music, both vocal and instrumental, is 
 getting more and more into use, in society. It is no 
 unusual thing to see a small party of ladies and 
 gentlemen grouped round the pianoforte, and engaged 
 in singing the duets, trios, and quartets of some fine 
 Italian, German, or English opera ; and the chamber 
 trios and quartets of Mozart, Beethoven, Hummel, 
 Heissiger, etc., for the pianoforte, violin, flute, and 
 violincello, give a delightful variety to the enjoyments 
 of a social musical evening. On these occasions the 
 4*
 
 42 MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 
 
 most prominent parts of the performance fall to the 
 ladies ; and those ladies only can acquit themselves 
 with intelligence, steadiness, and effect, who have had 
 a sound and substantial musical education. The 
 dashing bravura singer, and the pianist who aspires 
 to emulate Thalberg, are helpless and useless in music 
 like this. In their vain endeavors to gain the power 
 of dazzling and astonishing, by exhibitions of vocal 
 and manual agility, they have wasted ten times the 
 amount of toil that would have enabled them to join 
 in those musical conversations which abound in the 
 fairest flowers of genius, and the richest treasures of 
 art, conversations which afford delightful pastime to 
 those who carry them on, and, when supported with 
 grace, spirit, and feeling, never fail to engage the 
 animated attention of the listener. 
 
 We are not to suppose, however, that music, like 
 reading and writing, " comes by nature." Nature 
 supplies the requisite gifts ; and when these are 
 wanting, it is best not to attempt the pursuit. What 
 can be more absurd and more pitiable, than to see 
 an unfortunate victim of fashion condemned to scream 
 and thump the keys of the piano for several miserable 
 hours daily, without voice, ear, inclination, or the 
 slightest hope of success, while some fine talent that
 
 MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. 43 
 
 she really possesses is left wholly neglected ? When 
 the natural gifts do exist, it requires careful and judi- 
 cious cultivation to render them productive of fruit. 
 In this fastidious age, even the simplest music demands 
 a pure style and nice execution ; and the presence or 
 absence of these will be apparent even in the perform- 
 ance of a ballad or a waltz. But, so much being 
 necessary, it is the more essential that the youthful 
 pupil should be spared what is not necessary ; and it 
 is any thing but necessary to lead her to seek the 
 gratification of vanity and to find nothing but dis- 
 appointment and mortification by emulating the 
 mechanical achievements of professional artists.
 
 CROSSING THE FERRY. 
 [FROM THE GERMAN.] 
 
 BY DORA GREENWELL. 
 
 I CROSSED this Ferry once before, 
 All looks as then it looked of yore; 
 Before me still, in evening's gleam, 
 The Castle shines above the stream. 
 
 But not within this boat, as then, 
 Two dear companions cross again, 
 A Friend, a Father, one in truth ; 
 The other rich in hope and youth. 
 
 One wrought on earth in quiet, he 
 Departed also silently ; 
 The other foremost rushed, to fall 
 In storm and struggle first of all.
 
 CROSSING THE FEREY. 45 
 
 Thus when my musing fancy strays 
 To thoughts of earlier, happier days, 
 Must I the dear companions miss 
 That Death has snatched away from this. 
 
 Yet, what so close binds friend to friend 
 As soul with kindred soul to blend? 
 Those hours that fled like spirits past 
 Still link me unto spirits fast ! 
 
 Then take, oh ! boatman, take the fee 
 That threefold now I tell to thee, 
 With willing hand, for spirits twain 
 Have crossed the stream with me again!
 
 "ANGELINA'S FAINTED!" 
 
 BY RED RIDING HOOU. 
 
 THE talk was of Hottentots 
 
 " Don't speak of 'em," cried Miss Angelina Daffy, 
 "I'm certain of it if I were only to look at a 
 Hottentot, I should faint I must faint." 
 
 " Fiddledee ! " said Miss Lillyvvhite ; and there 
 was a hush a pause in the conversation ; for when 
 Miss Lillywhite exclaimed " Fiddledee ! " it behoved 
 thoughtless young ladies to look to themselves. JN'ow, 
 Miss Daffy had a great talent for fainting. Perhaps 
 the talent was originally a natural gift ; nevertheless, 
 it could not be denied that a frequent and earnest 
 cultivation of the endowment had brought it to per- 
 fection. Miss Daffy, at one minute's notice, could 
 faint at any time, and upon any subject. She could 
 faint at either extreme of the day faint at breakfast, 
 or faint at supper ; could faint with equal beauty and 
 truthfulness, whether the matter to be fainted upon
 
 "ANGELINA'S FAINTED!" 47 
 
 were a black beetle, or a blackbird a bull or a 
 bullfinch. She had wonderful powers of syncope ; 
 though, it must be allowed, like most folks haunted 
 with a despotic sense of their own genius, she now 
 and then employed it a little out of place. Vanity, 
 however, is a human weakness. For a philosopher, 
 to his own satisfaction, has proved, that the peacock 
 takes no pride in its own effulgent glories, but, all 
 unconscious of their beauty, spreads them because it 
 was ordained to do so ; and, after all, had Miss DafFy 
 been philosophically examined upon her proneness to 
 faint, she would have attributed the habit to no self- 
 complacency, but to the simple but inevitable truth 
 that she was made to faint. She would not have 
 recognized any beauty in the art of fainting, but 
 merely the natural consequence that to faint was 
 feminine. Eve, she thought, was made for sal- 
 volatile. 
 
 Miss Lillywhite was a spinster of seven-and-forty, 
 "I am six seven eight-and-forty, next birth-day," 
 Miss Lillywhite would blithely observe, as the year 
 might be. And this gay veracity was the more 
 pleasing in Miss Lillywhite, inasmuch as she might 
 have passed for forty ; nay, had she stickled ever so 
 little for it, she might have got off with six-and-thirty
 
 48 "ANGELINA'S FAINTED!" 
 
 at most a happy, blooming six-and-thirty ; for Miss 
 Lillywhite, like a true Englishwoman, carried in her 
 unfading beauty the assertion of her British race. 
 How much triumphant beauty all over the world fades 
 and yields, as teens blow into twenties, as twenties 
 wrinkle into thirties ! Now, your truly beautiful 
 Englishwoman, with her carnations and lilies, will 
 carry her colors up to two-score-and-ten. Nay, we 
 have known some veterans, blooming with a sprinkling 
 of years over tyrannous fifty. And Miss Lillywhite 
 was as jocund as she was handsome. It is said, 
 there is no better preservative against the melancholy 
 changes wrought by time than honey. We know not 
 whether Miss Lillywhite was acquainted with the 
 Egyptian truth : if not, she had unconsciously acted 
 upon the unknown recipe, and had preserved herself in 
 the sweetness of her disposition in the honey of 
 her goodness. She was a pattern old maid. Yet a 
 pattern, we would hope, never to be followed ; for it 
 is such women who make the real wives and mothers. 
 Miss Lillywhite, like Miss Venus de Medicis, should 
 remain a single perfection : alone in sweetness and 
 beauty, to show what celibacy and art can do ; to be 
 admired as samples, but never to be added to. 
 
 Miss Lillywhite was an old schoolfellow of Mrs.
 
 FAINTED 4) 
 
 Daffy's, and was passing the Christmas- time with her 
 early friend and family. Now Angelina Daffy a 
 pretty creature, with more goodness in her than she 
 dreamed of had, as we have indicated, this weak- 
 ness ; she must faint : and carrying out this will, as 
 a first principle, she had duly fainted through the 
 whole round of the holidays. She had fainted at 
 snap-dragons on Christmas-eve fainted, very emphat- 
 ically fainted, when surprised under the mistletoe on 
 Christmas-day fainted when the bells rang in 1850 
 and fainted, dead as a stone, as a nervous guest 
 declared, when prevailed upon to crack a ion-Jon on 
 Twelfth-night. " Angelina's fainted ! " had become 
 household words in the homestead of the Daffys. 
 
 And so, can it be wondered at that the ingenuous 
 Miss Lillywhite, at this last threat of Angelina's, to 
 faint at a Hottentot should rebuke the maiden with 
 more than ordinary vivacity? The truth is, Miss 
 Lillywhite had been much provoked : even on the 
 previous Sunday, when Angelina had menaced to 
 faint at the clergyman a very handsome, meek 
 young man, who preached a maiden sermon with great 
 promise of preferment Miss Lillywhite could only 
 scold the maiden into firmness, by threatening to give 
 her up, unattended, to the care of the beadle. There -
 
 50 "ANGELINA'S FAINTED!" 
 
 fore, when Angelina, returning to her weakness, 
 expressed herself ready to go off at the very look of 
 a Hottentot therefore, all previous provocation con- 
 sidered, can it be wondered at that the patience of 
 Miss Lilly white fairly exploded with "Fiddledee?" 
 We think not ; and take up the stitch of our little 
 story. 
 
 " Fiddledee ! " said Miss Lilly white. 
 
 Miss Angelina looked surprised amazed and 
 gradually became very deeply wounded. At first, she 
 raised her eyes towards Miss Lillywhite as though 
 doubtful of the truth of her impressions ; but the set, 
 stern features of Miss Lillywhite if you can couple 
 the expression of sternness with the thought of a clear, 
 bright open face, bright and clear as Dresden china 
 convinced Angelina that it was the lady visitor who 
 had really spoken. What, under the new and painful 
 circumstance, could Angelina do ? Why, she fell back 
 iipon the strength of her weakness : she instantly made 
 an ostentatious preparation to faint. Her eyelids were 
 slightly tremulous she swallowed one sob her neck 
 took one swan-like curve, and and, in another 
 second, there would have been the old, old cry of 
 the house of Daffy "Angelina's fainted!" 
 
 But
 
 " AXGELIXA'S FAINTED!" 51 
 
 Miss Lillywliite jumped from her chair, and reso- 
 lutely passing Mrs. Daffy, made direct to the sufferer, 
 who, half conscious of the attempted rescue, was 
 fainting all the faster. "Angelina," cried Miss Lilly- 
 white, with a restorative shake, "this is affectation 
 folly hypocrisy nonsense ! '' 
 
 Miss Angelina Daffy opened her orbs, and in a 
 moment sat upright, with her prettily cut nostril 
 dilated, and the tear that was coming into her aston- 
 ished eyes almost frozen, and indeed, altogether, in 
 such a state of amazement that she must no, she 
 would not faint ; it was not a time to faint, when so 
 cruelly offended. 
 
 Miss Lillywhite drew her chair beside Angelina, 
 who was every moment hardening in dignity. " My 
 dear child," said Miss Lillywhite, " you must give 
 up fainting it's gone out of fashion." 
 
 " Fashion, Miss Lillywhite ! Do you think that 
 feelings " 
 
 " Fiddledee ! " again repeated Miss Lilly white ; and 
 Angelina sternly resolved not to say another word to 
 so strange a person to so unpolite a visitor. Angelina 
 crossed her arms in resignation, determining since 
 her mamma would not interfere to suffer in silence. 
 Miss Lillywhite might be rude might say her worst.
 
 52 " ANGELINA'^ FA i NTI;I> ! " 
 
 "When I was eighteen, your age,'' said Miss 
 Lillywhite, " and that, my dear, is nearly thirty years 
 ago, I used to faint, too. I enjoyed fainting very 
 much ; indeed, my dear, I question if ever you take 
 greater pleasure in fainting than I did." 
 
 " Pleasure ! " exclaimed Miss Angelina. Who could 
 remain dumb under such an imputation? 
 
 "Oh, I know all about it pleasure, my dear," 
 said the remorseless Miss Lillywhite. " You see, it 
 gave me a little consequence ; it drew upon me general 
 notice ; it made me, as it were, the centre of a picture ; 
 and it was a pleasure not a healthful one, certainly, 
 but still a pleasure to enjoy so much sympathy about 
 one. To hear, whilst I was in the fit I don't know, 
 my clear, whether you hear, when fainting, quite as 
 well as I did to hear expressions of concern, and 
 pity, and admiration, and do you hear them dis- 
 tinctly r " Angelina could not answer such a question: 
 she could only look lightning harmless, summer- 
 lightning at Miss Lillywhite, who inexorably con- 
 tinued. "I can confess it now I used to enjoy the 
 excitement, and therefore went off upon every reason- 
 able opportunity. It was very wrong, but there was 
 something pleasant, exciting in the words ' Miss 
 Lillywhite's fainted ! ' Oh, I can remember them, my
 
 "ANGELINA'S FAINTED!" 53 
 
 dear, as though it was only yesterday. But, my love," 
 said the cruel spinster, taking the young maid's hand 
 between her own, and looking so benignly, and 
 speaking so sweetly "but, my love, we may faint 
 once too often." 
 
 Angelina was very much offended deeply hurt that 
 Miss Lillywhite should for a moment associate her own 
 past affectation with the real existing weakness then 
 and there before her. Nevertheless, there was such 
 quietness, such truthfulness, and withal such an air 
 of whim in the looks, and words, and manner of the 
 elderly spinster, that the young one gradually resigned 
 herself to her moni tress. 
 
 " We may faint once too often," repeated Miss 
 Lillywhite, and she sighed ; and then her customary 
 smile beamed about her. " Of this dreary truth am 
 I a sad example." 
 
 "You! Miss Lillywhite!" said Angelina. 
 
 " Listen," said the old maid. " 'Tis a short story ; 
 but worth your hearing. When I was nineteen, I was 
 about to be married. About, did I say ? Why, the 
 day was fixed ; I was in my bridal dress ; at the altar ; 
 the ring, the wedding-ring at the very tip of my finger, 
 when " 
 
 "Mercy me!" cried Angelina, "what happened?"
 
 54 "ANGELINA'S FAINTED!" 
 
 "I fainted," said Miss Lillywliite, and she shook 
 her head, and a wan smile played about her lips. 
 
 "And you were not married because you fainted?" 
 said Angelina, much awakened to the subject. 
 
 "As I have confessed, it was my weakness to faint 
 upon all occasions. I enjoyed the interest that, as I 
 thought, fainting cast about me. My lover often 
 looked coldly suspiciously ; but love conquered his 
 doubts, and led him triumphantly before the parson. 
 Well, the marriage-service was begun, and" 
 
 " Do go on," cried Angelina. 
 
 "And in a few minutes I should have been a wife, 
 when I thought I must faint. It would seem very 
 bold of me in such a situation not to faint. I, who 
 had fainted on so many occasions, not to swoon at the 
 altar would have been a want of sentiment of proper 
 feeling, on so awful an occasion. With this thought, I 
 felt myself fainting rapidly ; and just as the bridegroom 
 had touched my finger with the ring, I went off; 
 yes, my dear, swooned with all the honors." 
 
 " Do go on," again cried Angelina. 
 
 "As I swooned, the ring slipped from the bride- 
 groom's fingers, fell upon the stove, and was rolling 
 rolling to drop through the aperture of the stove 
 that, from below, admitted heat to the church, when
 
 "ANGELICA'S FAIXTKD!" 55 
 
 thougli swooning I somehow saw the danger, and, 
 to stop the ring, put forth my foot." 
 
 " Well ! " exclaimed Angelina. 
 
 " Too late the ring rolled on disappeared down 
 the chimney of the stove, and then I fainted with 
 the greatest fidelity. Hartshorn and sal-volatile came 
 to my aid. I was restored but where was the ring ? 
 'Twas hopeless to seek for it. Half-a-dozen other rings 
 were proffered ; but no it would be an evil omen 
 there would be no happiness, if I were not wedded 
 with my own ring. Well, search was made and 
 time flew and, we were late at church to begin 
 with and the ring was not found when the church- 
 clock struck twelve.'' 
 
 " Well ! " said Angelina. 
 
 " Well ! " sighed Miss Lillywhite, " the clergyman, 
 closing his book, said, ' It is past the canonical hour ; 
 the parties cannot be married to-day ; they must come 
 again to-morrow.'' 
 
 " Dreadful ! " exclaimed Angelina. 
 
 " We returned home ; my lover upbraided I 
 retorted ; we had a shocking quarrel, and he left 
 the house to write me a farewell letter. In a week 
 he was on his -voyage to India; in a twelvemonth he 
 had married an Indian lady, as rich as an idol, and
 
 56 ANGELINA'S FAINTED!'' 
 
 I after thirty years am still Caroline Lillywhite, 
 spinster." 
 
 It is very strange. From the time of the above 
 narrative there were two words never again breathed 
 beneath the roof- tree of the Daffys. And these 
 unuttered words were 
 
 " Angelina's fainted ! "
 
 PffillR
 
 SPUING JOYS. 
 HY C. "W. 0. 
 
 LIKE the sweet whisperings 
 
 Of some blessed spirit, 
 From, the immortal world 
 
 The good inherit, 
 Are these delicious airs, 
 
 This breath of Spring, 
 Whispering of coming bloom 
 
 On zephyr's wing. 
 
 But many a stormy day 
 
 Perchance may rise, 
 Ere Spring descend on earth, 
 
 From azure slues : 
 And many a cutting blast 
 
 May blight the bud, 
 And shake, with sullen howl, 
 
 The flashing wood.
 
 58 SPUIXC; JOYS. 
 
 Then, wliile the prosperous gales 
 
 Of Fortune blow, 
 While Pleasure takes the helm 
 
 And Youth the prow, 
 Think not, too happy one ! 
 
 That joy shall be 
 Always as bright as now 
 
 It shines on thee !
 
 THE CHATELAINE; 
 OH, "PUT IT DOWN IN THE B I !!..' 
 
 " Now, my dearest Agnes, do look ! Here is the 
 most exquisite little basket I ever saw." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Oh, there ; at the end of that chatelaine. Oh, I 
 positively must have it. You know I really want one, 
 Agnes. One of the swivels of my chatelaine came 
 undone the other day, and all the things dropped off. 
 I found two again, to be sure ; but still, that's not 
 enough. Come, Agnes, let us just go in, and ask the 
 price, at any rate." 
 
 The two girls entered the shop, and their footman 
 remained outside. 
 
 "Agnes," continued Rosalie, "look! Here is 
 a bracelet that would just suit mamma. It was 
 but the other day she was saying she wanted one.
 
 60 THE CHATELA1MK. 
 
 How beautiful it is ! What is the price of it, Mr. 
 Newman ? " 
 
 " Let me see," said the man, taking up the bracelet. 
 " Six pounds ten, Miss." 
 
 " Well ; that really is not much. Is it, Agnes, 
 considering how beautiful it is. And how much is 
 that little basket?" 
 
 " Thirteen shillings, Miss. Solid gold." 
 
 " And how beautifully chased it is ! " observed 
 Agnes. 
 
 " Well, Agnes," said Rosalie, " I think I must have 
 it. It's true, I have not any money left ; but I'm sure 
 I can make mamma give it me. Besides, if we get 
 the man to put it down, she must have it; and it's 
 not like ready money, you know. We have a bill 
 here, and it won't make much difference. Indeed, she 
 does want a new bracelet dreadfully ; and, somehow, 
 she never will buy expensive things for herself, unless 
 I have them set down ; and then, you know, she is 
 obliged to keep them." 
 
 Agnes Blandford was one of a large family, carefully 
 educated not to be extravagant herself, and trusted 
 with very little pocket-money ; but she had a bound- 
 less idea of the wealth of mammas in general (Rosalie's 
 in particular), and thought it a most excellent thing if
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 61 
 
 they could be inveigled into buying any thing : they 
 having, as a race, a marvellous propensity to covetous- 
 ness, which must be carefully checked by their daugh- 
 ters. Rosalie was of the same opinion. She also had 
 no pocket-money regularly allowed her, but lived upon 
 mamma, getting five pounds from time to time, when- 
 ever poor mamma was in a weak mood, and would 
 suffer herself to be coaxed over. 
 
 " Then, you'll send them this evening, about eight, 
 Mr. Newman, if you please," said Rosalie; and the 
 two girls left the shop, both thinking they had done 
 a very clever and virtuous action. 
 
 Rosalie's parents, the Hargraves, lived in great 
 style ; they appeared both rich and fashionable 
 fashionable they might be, but the appearances of 
 riches were most deceptive. The money for Mrs. 
 Hargrave's weekly bills issued in weekly struggles 
 from Mr. Hargrave's pocket they were living beyond 
 their income ; but out of three daughters and four 
 sons, two of the daughters were comfortably married, 
 and all the sons were established in professions ; so 
 there was only Rosalie to be provided for; and she 
 was betrothed, and would probably be married in 
 about three or four months' time ; so that the dashing 
 town establishment need only be kept up but a very 
 G
 
 62 THE CHATELAINE 
 
 short time longer, and then Mrs. Hargravc would 
 remove to a pretty villa in the suburbs, where she 
 would live in complete retirement, for the health of 
 self and pocket ; and Mr. Hargrave would come up 
 and down by the omnibuses, being careful not to 
 bring in a friend to dinner over often. With this 
 prospect in view, Mrs. Hargrave struggled on, with 
 what misery, and with what hairbreadth escapes, only 
 those who have kept up an expensive establishment 
 on small means can ever tell. In the mean time, she 
 thought it was no use telling Rosalie of their diffi- 
 culties : she was shortly to be married to a wealthy 
 young merchant ; and though she was extravagant, 
 what did that matter ? she would have plenty ; and it 
 was a pity to check the generosity of her nature ! 
 Besides, Mrs. Hargrave had some strange feelings, as 
 though it would lessen her daughter's respect for her 
 parents, if she knew of their money troubles. The 
 little daughter was only eighteen, and understood 
 nothing at all about money ; and she was so gay and 
 thoughtless, that she would scarcely have believed 
 Mrs. Hargrave if she had told her. Indeed, several 
 times, when she had said, " Really, you must not 
 be so extravagant, Rosalie, I cannot afford it," 
 Rosalie had laughed : " Ah, that's the old story,
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 63 
 
 mother dear. Xow you know it's ull nonsense, 
 isn't it : " 
 
 So Mrs. Hargrave determined to let matters e'en 
 go on as they had done, and contented herself by' 
 making sacrifices of various little things which she 
 otherwise would have had for herself, to make amends 
 for her daughter's extravagance, part.ly from affection 
 for her child, and partly from that miserable feeling of 
 secrecy in money matters which makes so much misery, 
 and which exists too often between mothers and 
 daughters, fathers and sons, husbands and wives. 
 Had Rosalie known from the first that her father's 
 apparent wealth was really all appearance, her natu- 
 rally good heart would have made her most willing to 
 forego all extravagances, and she would have learned 
 the wholesome art of self-denial, and have been much 
 more fitted for her future career in life, whatever it 
 might be. 
 
 That evening after dinner they were all assembled 
 comfortably in the drawing-room ; Mr. Hargrave in a 
 large arm-chair, with a handkerchief over his face, in 
 a quiet dreamless sleep. Mrs. Hargrave was sitting at 
 the table, with a green shade between her and the 
 lamp, and an open book on a small reading-desk 
 before her ; but, what with the heat of the fire and
 
 64 THE CHATELAINE. 
 
 the quiet of the room, she was gradually nodding off 
 to sleep also. Leopold Malvern, Rosalie's betrothed, 
 was sitting on the other side of the fire, and Rosalie 
 at his feet on a cushioned footstool, which she was 
 very fond of. They were quite a pretty picture, they 
 looked so happy and comfortable ; he stooping down to 
 whisper something in her ear, and she leaning her 
 pretty little head almost against his knee, like any 
 child. Rosalie was always treated like a child and 
 she liked it ; but she was a woman too, and capable 
 of doing more than any one suspected for those she 
 loved. 
 
 The formal automaton footman opened the door : 
 " If you please, mum, here's a parcel from Newman 
 and Hardwick's." 
 
 " Mrs. Hargrave awoke. " It must be some mistake, 
 James," said she; "I have not ordered any thing." 
 
 " It is directed to you, mum," said James, as he 
 brought the packet to the table. 
 
 " Oh, I ordered it, mamma," broke in Rosalie. She 
 had been so >ccupied with what Leo had been saying, 
 that she haan't heard what had passed at first. 
 
 Mrs. Hargrave looked round in utter fright, for 
 visions rose up before her of the sacrifices of neces- 
 saries that mxfst be made to cover this extravagance.
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 65 
 
 But nothing could be done ; so she told the man to 
 put down the parcel, for that it was all right, as Miss 
 Rosalie had ordered it ; and the man left the room. 
 Mrs. Hargrave endeavored to look as if she thought 
 what she said, totally unconscious that the obsequious 
 servant, who disappeared at her bidding, and who 
 seemed neither to see nor hear any thing that passed 
 before him, had often talked over her difficulties in the 
 kitchen, and lamented what a thorn in her side she 
 must find Miss Rosalie's extravagance. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Hargrave opened the jewelry, and Rosalie 
 sprang to the table to show it off; she put the bracelet 
 on her own round white arm, and held her fanciful 
 little basket up to the light. " Now, my dearest 
 mother, ain't they beautiful ? Leo, just look at this 
 bracelet." 
 
 "And pray how much did they cost, Rosalie?" 
 asked her mother. 
 
 " Six pounds ten shillings the bracelet, and thirteen 
 shillings for this little love," answered Rosalie. 
 
 "That is too much I really cannot afford it," said 
 Mrs. Hargrave rather seriously. " They must be sent 
 back," continued she, after a short pause. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, mamma, pray don't send them back ; 
 it will look so shabby so horrid : besides, it was but 
 6*
 
 66 THE CHATELAINE. 
 
 the other day tnat you said that you wanted a bracelet 
 so much ; and I really must have this dear little 
 basket. Now do there's a good mother." 
 
 " My dear Rosalie, I have told you that I do not 
 choose to have the bracelet ; I am the best judge of 
 what I want, I should think." 
 
 " Well, then, I will just take the money out of 
 papa's pocket; lie won't be angry with me, I know, 
 for he hates any thing to look stingy." Rosalie sprang 
 forward to her father. 
 
 " Rosalie, Rosalie don't disturb your papa. How 
 very troublesome you are ! I really beg you'll never 
 do such a thing again without asking my leave. I can 
 buy what I want, without your doing it for me." 
 
 Rosalie retired to her seat. Again she leaned her 
 head towards Leo's knee, almost crying. He stroked 
 her hair (as though she were a child) to comfort her. 
 
 " Leo," said she, looking up, " when I belong to 
 you, you won't scold me if I do such a thing, will 
 you?" 
 
 Leo stooped down, and kissed her forehead, but he 
 said nothing ; for he knew he should not have the 
 heart to scold her, and yet he felt that hers was an 
 awkward propensity. 
 
 The three months passed on rapidly, and, at last,
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 67 
 
 Leo and Rosalie were married. It was a very gay 
 wedding ; the bride was lovely, the bridegroom was 
 handsome. Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave were in the most 
 excellent spirits, and gave a magnificent breakfast, 
 which was very well attended. The speeches were 
 much less stupid than usual on those occasions ; and 
 nobody cried. Indeed, the people were all very 
 merry ; for every body said what a good match it was 
 in every respect. They went their bridal tour, and 
 returned home. Leo took a beautiful house for his 
 bride, and she chose beautiful furniture. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hargrave retired to their country villa, and 
 things w r ent on as comfortably as possible. Rosalie 
 had no mamma to ask now ; so she just had the things 
 the liked put down in her own bills. She was fond 
 of dress ; fond of jewelry ; fond of novelties ; but Leo 
 liked to see his dear little wife beautifully attired 
 and wished her to have what she liked besides, he 
 was rich and could afford to spend a little more than 
 was, perhaps, absolutely necessary on his young bride ; 
 and as they had a large acquaintance, and brides are 
 expected to go out a great deal and to dress well, he 
 was not surprised that his expenses were considerable, 
 but he hoped they would soon decrease, and so for 
 the first year or two they went on capitally.
 
 68 THE CHAXKLAIXE. 
 
 After that there came a change : the wheel of 
 fortune turned. Leo lost first one of his ships, and 
 then another ; his speculations failed ; and, at last, 
 one sad gloomy Christmas, he came home one day 
 through the dark fog to his Avife, and told her that 
 he feared he was a ruined man. Rosalie was aston- 
 ished ; she had thought the riches of her husband 
 inexhaustible, and she had acted accordingly. The 
 dinner was passed over in gloomy silence ; and, after 
 it, the husband and wife, with thoughtful faces, left 
 the dining-room, and with the doors of their drawing- 
 room close shut, they sat down to talk matters over. 
 Leo sat in the chair by the fire, and Rosalie where 
 she always did, at his feet ; but she was quite a 
 different Rosalie now, to what she was two years 
 before ; there was no thoughtlessness in her face 
 now no, nor passionate grief even. Leo was aston- 
 ished ; he had expected quite a scene : hysterics and 
 reproaches, and bewailings, or, at any rate, tears ; 
 but Rosalie was calm and serious. She looked 
 determined to meet her misfortune courageously ; 
 and Leo felt it a great help to him, as it gave 
 him courage : and he loved his little wife still more 
 than ever; though it was no longer as a mere 
 child, but as an esteemed friend, with whom he
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 69 
 
 could reason calmly as to what was best to be 
 done. 
 
 " Must we leave our house : " asked Rosalie, tim- 
 idly ; for she felt that would be indeed a trial. 
 
 " Xot if I can manage to meet my expenses this 
 Christmas," replied Leo ; " I hope and trust your 
 bills are not large." 
 
 Rosalie was silent. 
 
 "Have any of the Christmas bills been sent in, 
 Rosalie ? " 
 
 " Yes, some of them, Leo." 
 
 " Have you any idea how much they come to, 
 dear ? I mean not the house bills, but your bills, 
 my love." 
 
 "I don't know, but I am afraid it's a great deal. 
 Are your bills heavy, this half-year, Leo ? " 
 
 "Xo, I knew that things were going badly with 
 me, though I had no idea how badly, so I took care 
 to keep my bills under." 
 
 " Oh ! if I had but known too," said Rosalie, 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " I wish you had ; but I thought it would only 
 frighten you, perhaps needlessly. And besides I did 
 not know, darling, how well you can bear things. 
 Will you get those bills you have," continued he,
 
 70 THK CHATELAIXK. 
 
 after a short pause, " that \\c may look them over, 
 and see if it will be possible for us to remain in our 
 house ? " 
 
 Rosalie rose ; she opened her exquisite little desk, 
 and gloomily took out three or four long bills ; silently 
 she put them in Leo's hand, and sat down again. He 
 looked them over, and she heard him sigh heavily, 
 but he said nothing. She knew they were enormous ; 
 higher this year than they had been before. 
 
 " Leo, may I look at your bills ? '' she said, meekly. 
 
 He gave her his accounts, and she looked them over. 
 She was astonished how much lower they were than 
 hers ; astonished to find how many things he had 
 denied himself. Then, for the first time, she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "Ah, my dearest Leo, how many things you have 
 done without ! How many things you have denied 
 yourself that you really must have wanted, and all to 
 spare me ! Oh, I see it all ; you thought that, by 
 being so economical yourself, we might get over this 
 Christmas very well in spite of my extravagance. Oh, 
 Leo ! Leo ! how selfish I have been ; I might have 
 known that you did not leave off port wine and cigars 
 because you were tired of them. Oh, will you forgive 
 me, Leo ? I know I am the cause of all our difficulties.
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 71 
 
 If I had not been so extravagant, all might have been 
 well but even now, perhaps, with a little assistance 
 from papa " 
 
 " Your father cannot assist us," returned Leo, 
 gloomily ; " he says he has the greatest difficulty to 
 live himself." 
 
 " Well, well," cried Rosalie, " then we must sacrifice 
 every thing, so that we can pay but what we owe ; for 
 it's no matter being poor, so that one is not in debt. 
 Oh, how selfish I have been ! But Leo ! dearest Leo ! 
 will you promise me one thing? that another time 
 you will tell me how poor we are, that I may make 
 sacrifices too. There are so many more things I can 
 do without than you can (oh, how blind I was!) 
 I'll have no more jewelry. Ellen shall make all my 
 things at home (oh, how I hate the sight of that 
 wretched name Mademoiselle Delphine de Paris /) ; 
 and I'll do without millions of things that are of no 
 consequence to me : I will have no more bills ; and 
 I shall be so happy, for I shall feel that I am doing 
 right." 
 
 " My darling Rosalie," said Leo, as he kissed her 
 affectionately, " how foolish I was not to have told 
 you my difficulties from the first ; it would have saved 
 you much sorrow and privation now. We must let
 
 72 THE CHATELAINE. 
 
 this house, and go into lodgings. I will make the 
 greatest exertions ; we will sell the furniture of our 
 house to pay our private debts ; my father will help 
 me with my business ones ; and in another year I 
 trust we shall be all right again ; and I will confide 
 all my joys and troubles, my wealth and poverty, to 
 you ; and you shall be my dear darling wife and 
 helpmate." 
 
 How worthless and paltry her trinkets appeared 
 now ! How she hated ever to think of them, and 
 how firmly she resolved, if she should once be free 
 from the load of debt that weighed so heavily upon 
 her, how differently she would act for the future ! 
 All this passed through Rosalie's mind with the 
 rapidity of lightning ; and when Leo ceased speaking, 
 she felt an altered being. From that moment might 
 be dated the commencement of a new era in her 
 life. 
 
 It is pleasant to add, that the timely aid of a 
 friend prevented the sacrifice of the house and furni- 
 ture ; and that the following Christmas found Leo 
 and Rosalie free from all debts, but those which 
 they could easily pay. Rosalie, however, never 
 forgot the lesson she had received ; and during the
 
 THE CHATELAINE. 73 
 
 whole of her after life, if she took a fancy to any 
 expensive trinket, she always paid for it at the 
 time, and never, on any account, desired the jeweller 
 to put it down in the bill. 
 7
 
 CHIMES. 
 
 BY FLORENCE WILSON. 
 
 THOSE joyous bells fall heavy on my ear, 
 That used to murmur with so sweet a tone ; 
 
 Nature, in unison, looks dark and drear, 
 
 And all the blandishments of life seem gone, 
 
 Now that thou'rt passed unto that haven blest, 
 
 Where world-worn spirits find at last a place of rest. 
 
 Yet, in my fancy, I behold once more 
 
 Those kindly features and that thoughtful brow ; 
 
 I press to mine those loved lips o'er and o'er, 
 And rest thee on my bosom even now, 
 
 As I have rested in mine infant day, 
 
 When thy caresses charmed each childish grief away. 
 
 Mother ! I think it still to thee is given 
 To bless me with thy presence, even now,
 
 CHIMES. 75 
 
 The ministering angel under Heaven, 
 
 Who calms my mind and soothes my fevered brow. 
 Ah, no ! upon this shadowy vale of tears, 
 We're parted now, to meet in brighter spheres.
 
 DUTY: 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 STERN Lawgiver ! yet dost thou wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor knew we any thing so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 
 And the most ancient heavens, through thee, 
 
 are fresh and strong. 
 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "WHY do you dwell so much, dear mamma, upon 
 the necessity of acting from a principle of duty ? It 
 seems so cold and severe a word ! and it is so much 
 easier and happier to obey you and papa because I 
 love you, than because it is my duty to do so." As 
 Lucy Edwardes gave utterance to these words, she 
 fixed her eyes with so fond and earnest a gaze upon
 
 77 
 
 her mother, that Mrs. Edwardes looked sadly on her 
 for a moment ; but her pale countenance was soon 
 lighted up by a soft tender smile, such as mothers 
 only can bestow upon their offspring, and she replied, 
 " may it long be your privilege, my child, to obey 
 your parents joyously and freely as you do now, but, 
 perhaps, in after life, you may remember your mother's 
 word, that affection is never so pure or steadfast as 
 when it is guided and controlled by duty. Duty, 
 not cold and stern, as it exists in your imagination, 
 but tender and gentle amid its high and firm resolves. 
 Duty, such as I trust will be familiar to your heart, 
 when the earlier and more ardent impulses of affection 
 may have passed away. . . . But I will not enlarge on 
 this subject now, as it seems distasteful to you, my 
 love ; " added Mrs. Edwardes, while her head sank 
 back upon her couch, as if she were wearied by the 
 effort of speaking. Lucy pressed to her lips her 
 mother's hand, which she had held within her own 
 during the brief moments of their conversation ; and 
 rising from the footstool whereon she had been seated, 
 entered the conservatory, near whose open door, the 
 invalid's sofa was placed, and plucking a sprig of 
 heliotrope, which she knew to be her mother's favorite 
 flower, laid it on the work-table at her side. Mrs.
 
 Echvardes smiled gratefully upon her daughter ; and 
 Lucy inquired whether she would like some music. 
 " Yes, let me have one of your heautiful Scotch airs." 
 "Or my last new Italian song, mamma?" 
 " Whichever suits your own taste best, my love." 
 Lucy seated herself at the piano, and poured forth a 
 full tide of song, which at other times would have 
 gratified her mother's ear ; but the closed eye and 
 hectic flush bespoke suffering too acute to be soothed 
 by mortal melody. 
 
 All this while, Mrs. Edwardes had been watched by 
 another anxious eye ; for Lucy had a sister, about a 
 year older than herself ; and just then, Marion 
 Edwardes was seated at the other end of the drawing- 
 room, seemingly engaged in sketching, but her pencil 
 was held in silent thoughtfulness, while she looked 
 earnestly towards her mother. After a moment's 
 hesitation, she arose and going into the next room, 
 brought back a restorative which she offered to the 
 invalid ; a look of grateful love rewarded her consid- 
 eration, and she inquired in a low voice : "Is the 
 music too much for you, mamma ? " " Oh, no ; 
 don't mar Lucy's pleasure : I am stronger again." 
 But Marion turned round and whispered to her sister, 
 "I think, Lucy, some simpler melody would please
 
 DUTY. 79 
 
 mamma better, for she docs not seem well enough 
 to-day to enjoy such brilliant music/' " That is 
 just one of your old-fashioned notions, Marion ; as if 
 an air of Bellini's could be more hurtful than some 
 ditty which has been sung for ages by shepherds and 
 ploughboys ! . . . but if mamma is suffering, I had 
 better not play at all," she continued ; and closing 
 the instrument, rose up from her seat. Observing 
 that Marion looked grieved, she added in a contrite 
 tone : "I hope, dearest Marion, you are not displeased 
 with me; I would not vex you for worlds." So 
 saying she kissed her cheek, and resuming her em- 
 broidery, seated herself once more at her mother's 
 side. 
 
 This little scene had passed behind Mrs. Edwardea' 
 couch, but she had overheard some of her children's 
 words, and her eye rested anxiously on them both. 
 The entrance of her husband introduced new topics 
 of conversation, and as she exerted herself to enliven 
 the leisure hour which was always devoted to her, 
 he could not realize to himself that the being, whose 
 soft cheerfulness and harmless wit formed the delight 
 of his home, was about to pass away like a shadow 
 iroin the face of the earth. 
 
 A year had elapsed since the day just alluded to.
 
 80 DUTY. 
 
 The sun shone as brightly as ever upon the gay con- 
 servatory, whose fragrance had often been so grateful 
 to the drooping invalid. The sound of music was 
 still heard within that pleasant drawing-room. Books 
 and work were, as heretofore, scattered throughout the 
 apartment. But she, whose presence had once shed a 
 calm joy around these household comforts, was gone: 
 and her young daughters looked, sad and desolate in 
 their sable garments. Yet theirs was the sadness of 
 a spring morning, whose clouds and sunshine are so 
 happily blended together, that one would not give up 
 the tempered brightness of that changeful sky for the 
 brilliancy of the noontide hour. She who was gone 
 hence, had spoken words of peace and hope which 
 dwelt within their hearts, as pledges of their mother's 
 bliss ; and her spirit seemed to hover around their 
 domestic hearth, binding together more closely than 
 ever those who were dearest to her on earth. Her 
 widowed husband seemed to centre all his love and 
 all his hopes in his two daughters, who now formed 
 his only household treasures. 
 
 Marion and Lucy were at an age which peculiarly 
 needed a mother's care, for they were just springing 
 into womanhood ; but all that a father's tenderness 
 could supply was bestowed by Mr. Edwardes, who, in
 
 DTTTY. 81 
 
 each leisure hour, directed their studies, shared in. 
 their pursuits, and gave them every healthful recreation 
 they could desire. He seemed to live for his children, 
 and they loved him with that devoted affection which 
 is the happiest bond between a father and his daugh- 
 ters. Marion was his daily counsellor and stay, for 
 she united to all the freshness of seventeen, the 
 ripened judgment of a more advanced age ; but Lucy 
 was his pride and his darling. Her dark eyes rested 
 on him with such fond affection her childlike play- 
 fulness was so bewitching her voice so full of sweet 
 modulation ! Yes, Lucy was her father's favorite, and 
 she knew it. 
 
 In the earlier days of his widowhood, Mr. Edwardes 
 had turned chiefly to Marion for comfort, and her silent 
 tears were his best earthly solace ; but as his grief 
 became less poignant, he found relief in the society 
 of his younger daughter, whose occasional bursts of 
 sorrow were less oppressive to his spirits than the 
 quiet sadness of her sister. 
 
 As time wore on, Marion spoke more rarely than 
 heretofore of her beloved mother, whose image, how- 
 ever, dwelt within her heart, and whose words she 
 treasured up as a storehouse of wisdom and conso- 
 lation. Lucy, on the other hand, loved to talk with
 
 82 DUTY. 
 
 her lather of the being so dear to them both ; and 
 these conversations tended to lighten the burden of 
 their sorrow, and to prepare them for a participation 
 in other thoughts and joys, connected with the present 
 rather than with the past. 
 
 It was a calm autumn evening. The sisters were 
 standing together in a bay window, from whence they 
 watched the setting sun as it sank behind the distant 
 hills which bounded their horizon. Marion's hand 
 rested on her sister's shoulder, and it seemed as 
 though some painful recollection had been awakened 
 by the beauty of the scene, for a tear stole down her 
 cheek, which, being observed by Lucy, she gently 
 kissed away. At this moment their father entered 
 with an open note in his hand. 
 
 " Here is an invitation for you, my children, to 
 Florence-court." 
 
 " Are we to go ? " 
 
 " May we go ? " escaped at the same moment, from 
 Marion and Lucy's lips. 
 
 " Just as you please ; for I have no wish to deprive 
 you of any innocent enjoyment. What say you, my 
 grave and gentle Marion:" inquired Mr. Edwardes, 
 addressing his eldest daughter. 
 
 " Oh, papa, as far as my choice is concerned," began
 
 DUTY. 83 
 
 \ 
 
 Marion, but perceiving a shade of disappointment on 
 Lucy's countenance, she added, "let dear Lucy decide; 
 I will do whatever she likes best." 
 
 Lucy's features lighted up as she expressed the 
 delight it would give her to accept Lady Leslie's 
 invitation, saying that Isabel Leslie was such a 
 charming person that she longed to see her again. 
 
 " Well, my little enthusiast, you shall go there ; but 
 this is rather an impromptu friendship you have formed 
 for Miss Leslie ; you have met but once besides, she 
 is several years older than you are." 
 
 " Yes, yes, papa ; but she is so beautiful and so 
 kind, and sings so divinely ! I cannot help loving 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Edwardes rallied her for a few moments longer, 
 and then returned to his study. Marion looked rather 
 graver than usual ; but Lucy was too happy in antici- 
 pation of the morrow, to observe her sister's saddened 
 aspect. 
 
 The second year of Mr. Edwardes' widowhood had 
 passed away, and the beloved mother of his children 
 was about to be replaced by a younger and more 
 beautiful companion. Isabella Leslie was on the eve 
 of becoming the mistress of Hazlewood. Lucy's heart 
 leaped with joy at the prospect of having her friend
 
 84 DUTY. 
 
 the inmate of her home, so that she could enjoy her 
 society without the many interruptions which had 
 of late somewhat excited her impatient disposition. 
 There was but one drawback to her happiness. She 
 could not conceal from herself that the union in which 
 she so fondly rejoiced, was painfully unwelcome to her 
 sister. Marion's calm smile and quiet demeanor might 
 have deceived an ordinary observer; but the eye of 
 affection could detect a struggling heart beneath this 
 peaceful exterior. This discovery would have affected 
 Lucy still more deeply, had she not thought it 
 strangely unreasonable of Marion not to share in the 
 ardent attachment she felt for her friend. At times, 
 the remembrance that her mother had not desired the 
 acquaintance of the Leslie's family for her children, 
 would give her a momentary pang ; but this unwel- 
 come thought was quickly expelled by her determi- 
 nation to believe, that had Isabella's excellences been 
 known to her mother, she would gladly have chosen 
 her as the companion of her daughters. 
 
 The bridal pair had returned from their wedding 
 tour, and on their arrival at home, Isabella was greeted 
 by Lucy with the same ardent enthusiasm which had 
 marked her attachment since the first day of their 
 meeting ; Marion was there too, and in the cordial
 
 DUTY. 85 
 
 welcome she gave her father's wife, no shade of 
 gloom was suffered to overcloud this their first family 
 meeting. Mr. Edwardes was too much engrossed with 
 his own happiness to observe the changing color of his 
 eldest daughter at this trying moment ; but the 
 haughty expression of Isabella's eye, as her glance 
 rested on Marion, showed that there was one at least 
 who had detected the hidden feelings of her heart. 
 Isabella was not destitute of many good qualities, but 
 her natural vanity had been fostered by an injudicious 
 mother into arrogance and self-conceit. Alas ! how 
 often does mistaken affection check the unfolding of 
 kindly virtues within the bosom of its idol ! even 
 like some parasitic creepers which stifle the blossoms 
 of those fragrant shrubs around which they have 
 entwined themselves with an aspect of clinging 
 tenderness. 
 
 The sisters were now emancipated from the restraints 
 of the schoolroom, but their old place of study was 
 still appropriated to their exclusive use; and there, a 
 few hours were daily spent by Marion in reading or 
 in other favorite pursuits. There too, she often sought 
 refuge from petty mortifications which awaited her in 
 the drawing-room; nor did she ever trust herself to 
 rejoin the domestic circle, until she had obtained
 
 86 
 
 strength to fulfil cheerfully the new duties which were 
 now allotted to her. 
 
 In this quiet apartment she was seated one after- 
 noon, when Lucy rushed into the room, and throwing 
 her arms round her sister's neck, exclaimed passion- 
 ately, " You are the only one now left to love or care 
 for me, dearest Marion ! Oh how bitter it is to 
 be deceived where one has trusted so fondly so 
 entirely ! " 
 
 "What do you mean, my love?" inquired Marion, 
 with an anxious look. 
 
 "You know, Marion, how I have devoted every 
 thought to my father and Isabella, how I longed 
 for their union, how I rejoiced at its accomplishment. 
 Well, they no longer care for me. I am not necessary 
 to their happiness ; nay, my presence seems unwelcome 
 to them; but," added she, rising up with an air of 
 offended dignity, "I will not tamely submit to such 
 insulting treatment. They shall learn that I can exist 
 without them. The world is wide enough for them 
 and me." 
 
 Marion, though used to occasional outbursts of her 
 sister's ardent temper, looked perplexed and grieved. 
 After a moment's hesitation, she said : " Surely, you 
 are mistaken, Lucy ; although papa has, of course, less
 
 DUTY. 87 
 
 leisure to bestow on us now than in former days, yet 
 he is very kind ; and as for Isabella, it is impossible 
 but that she should love you." 
 
 " Yes, with such love as a stepmother may bestow, 
 but not such as I have a right to expect from my 
 chosen friend. And, as for papa, he is so engrossed 
 with his young wife, that I believe, at heart, he cares 
 very little for you or me, although you may choose 
 to believe the contrary ; for my part, I will not be 
 deceived by him or by Isabella either." 
 
 " Dear, dear Lucy," said Marion gravely, " do you 
 remember that he is our father, and that it is our duty 
 to love him, and to love her for his sake ? " 
 
 " Duty ! that is so like you, Marion. You are a 
 very wise teacher truly, but you cannot make me 
 love by rule," said Lucy scornfully. 
 
 " Indeed, I did not mean to teach you, dear Lucy ; 
 but you cannot forget who it was," she added with a 
 trembling lip, " who it was that taught us that Duty 
 was the highest and holiest principle of life. You 
 cannot forget who it was that warned us how the 
 strongest affection might sometimes waver, if not 
 controlled and guided by a sense of duty." 
 
 Lucy burst into tears, and throwing herself anew 
 into her sister's arms, cried out, " Ah ! my behoved
 
 88 DUTY. 
 
 mother, would that she were here again, to pity and 
 direct us." 
 
 "We cannot recall her, dearest Lucy, nor, perhaps, 
 ought we to wish to do so; but may we not best 
 cherish her memory by endeavoring to obey all her 
 wishes concerning us? " 
 
 " It is so hard ! so very hard ! " observed Lucy. 
 "You cannot know, Marion, how difficult it is to be 
 gentle and loving to those who are wounding and 
 annoying you ; for you are naturally so kind and good 
 that you have no struggle in doing what is right." 
 
 " No struggle ! " replied Marion, mournfully. " Oh, 
 Lucy! how little do you know of the long, bitter 
 struggles I have had before it was possible for me 
 to overcome painful and rebellious feelings, so as to 
 be able cheerfully to fulfil the duties of my present 
 position." 
 
 "Is it possible, dearest Marion? and I knew 
 nothing about it. How cold, how hateful, you must 
 have thought me ! " 
 
 "No, no. I always felt sure that you loved me, 
 although we seemed unhappily to be estranged for a 
 while." 
 
 "Oh! I shall never never be like you, my dear, 
 good Marion," said Lucy, in a renewed agony of grief.
 
 DUTY. 89 
 
 " Say not so, dearest Lucy ; for are we not both 
 equally weak and frail in our best resolutions ? and 
 have we not the same unfailing promise of strength to 
 cheer and support us in every time of trial ? Only let 
 us ask earnestly for it, and act honestly up to our 
 convictions of what is right, then all will be well, and 
 happy too." 
 
 " Happy ! " reechoed Lucy, with an incredulous 
 smile. 
 
 " Yes, happy, my dearest sister ; for we cannot but 
 remember how often our beloved mother told us, that 
 the path of duty is the way to happiness, even in this 
 present life." 
 
 We "will now pass over two years of the domestic 
 life at Hazlewood; and, at the end of this period, we 
 find Isabella the mother of a lovely boy, whose birth 
 had made her dearer than ever to Mr. Edwardes ; 
 indeed, the little stranger seemed to be a sweet bond 
 of love, drawing the whole household nearer to one 
 another. 
 
 Hour after hour Marion would steal into the nursery 
 to gaze upon her new-born brother, and her gentle 
 caresses soon made her welcome to the infant. As 
 for Lucy, her admiration of him was unbounded ; 
 and Isabella, whose whole being seemed softened 
 8*
 
 90 DUTY. 
 
 and elevated by the new sensation of maternal love, 
 could not but look kindly upon those by whom her 
 little one was so tenderly cherished. 
 
 Alas ! a worm was within this early bud of domestic 
 joy. Isabella saw her babe droop and wither at a 
 time when her own failing health rendered her unable 
 to yield all those fond offices of love which a mother 
 best can bestow. Marion supplied her place with 
 untiring devotion ; nor was Lucy less anxious to 
 watch over her dying brother ; but the ardor of her 
 spirit somewhat disqualified her for the patient stillness 
 which a sick room requires. Marion directed her zeal 
 into the more active channel of attendance on Isabella, 
 whose indisposition, combined with anxiety, often 
 made her sensitive and irritable. This was a time 
 of trial to the new-formed principles of Lucy ; but, 
 amid some failures and discouragements, she gradually 
 learned the blessedness of forbearing, as well as of 
 acting from a sense of duty. Keeping this high aim 
 steadily in view, she found, moreover, that insensibly 
 her affection for Isabella was reviving, and that it was 
 no longer a passionate emotion, but a kindly, unselfish 
 love. 
 
 When Isabella came to suffer that bitter anguish 
 which a bereaved mother alone can know, Lucy saw
 
 DUTY. 91 
 
 without jealousy that she turned intuitively to Marion 
 for comfort ; to Marion, who had borne with Christ- 
 ian meekness her neglect and scorn ; to Marion, who 
 had fostered her little one with unwearied tenderness. 
 To her she now sought for sympathy ; and it was 
 yielded to her in all its gentle and unalloyed purity, 
 fresh from the fountain-head of mercy and of love. 
 
 The first agony of maternal grief was past, and 
 Isabella, unwilling to make others more miserable by 
 indulging in the luxury of solitary woe, had rejoined 
 the domestic circle. It was a cold autumn evening, 
 and the family party were collected around their 
 .fireside, at that twilight hour when English reserve 
 is wont to be unlocked, and the thoughts of English 
 hearts to be more freely spoken. Isabella had just 
 placed on Marion's finger a mourning ring, in 
 remembrance of the babe who was so dear to them 
 both, and almost involuntarily she pressed the finger, 
 with its precious burthen, to her lips. 
 
 " Oh, Marion." she exclaimed, " how could I have 
 been so cruel to you ; and how were you able to bear 
 so gently with my unkindness?" 
 
 " Surely, it was my duty to do so ; besides, you 
 never meant to be cruel or unkind, dear Isabella." 
 deliberately, perhaps, but that is no excuse
 
 92 DTTTY. 
 
 for my conduct, neither can I be so ungenerous as to 
 
 i 
 accept it as such." 
 
 That confession is worthy of you, my noble-minded 
 Isabella," said Mr. Edwardes to his wife; "nor can I 
 feel myself guiltless of having somewhat neglected 
 those who are very dear to me; but how can we 
 atone better for past errors, than by acting for the 
 future on Marion's principle?" 
 
 " Not mine, dear papa, do not call it mine ; it was 
 taught us by our beloved mother, and you know from 
 what high and holy source she drew it." 
 
 Isabella drew a deep sigh. "Ah! Marion, what a 
 treasure your mother must have been; would that I 
 were like her." 
 
 " That is a wish, which every heart here might well 
 reecho for itself," rejoined her husband; "but why, 
 dearest, should we not adopt the same principles which 
 were her guide, and seek for the same strength which 
 was her stay ? then we, too, shall know the happiness 
 arising from a steady adherence to duty, and which, 
 my children," he added, with a look of affection upon 
 his daughters, " which my children, I rejoice to think, 
 have already found." 
 
 Isabella's glance bespoke a deep though silent 
 acquiescence. Lucy almost sobbed for joy, as she
 
 DUTY. 93 
 
 threw herself into Isabella's arms, exclaiming, " Ah ! 
 we shall all be happy again, shall we not ? dear 
 Isabella." 
 
 The mother's heart had been too recently wrung 
 with misery to respond cheerfully to Lucy's expectation 
 of happiness ; but, while returning her affectionate 
 embrace, she whispered, " We shall, at least, have a 
 home of peace and love." 
 
 " And shall we not indulge in bright hope too ? " 
 inquired Marion, softly. A gentle pressure of her 
 hand was the only answer given. 
 
 Mr. Edwardes sat silently by, gazing upon his wife 
 and daughters ; his look was one of tenderness and 
 admiration. 
 
 That twilight conversation was prolonged until the 
 shades of night fell thickly around the inmates of 
 Hazlewood ; and that dull autumn evening, which 
 began with such sorrowful reminiscences, was followed 
 by a long course of tranquil happiness, such as can 
 only be experienced by those whose love has been 
 strengthened by trial, and whose most ardent affections 
 are swayed by the firm yet gentle hand of Duty.
 
 THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 
 
 SPEED, speed upon thy way! 
 I send thee on a gentle errand, fly, 
 And work my bidding ere the parting ray 
 
 Fades from the western sky. 
 
 The summer woods are dark, 
 And murmur lovingly, yet pause not thou 
 That bearest tokens onward to thine ark, 
 
 More sure than leaf or bough ! 
 
 In sunshine bathe thy breast, 
 Stay not within the swift and glancing rill 
 To dip thy wing ; for thee a sweeter rest. 
 
 Is waiting, onward still ! 
 
 Forth from the casement there 
 She leans to gaze upon the sky ; and now 
 The evening light lies golden on her hair, 
 
 Lies warm on cheek and brow.
 
 THE CARKIER-riGEOX. 95 
 
 She looks unto the west, 
 It is for thee she watches : thou wilt be 
 Soon by her hand, her gentle hand, carest, 
 
 How softly, tenderly ! 
 
 But first beneath thy wing 
 It trembles, while she seeks my letter ; well 
 She knows, ere yet she frees the silken string, 
 
 All that it hath to tell! 
 
 And yet the heart would fain 
 Hear what it best hath loved repeated oft; 
 It falls and rises, beating with the strain, 
 
 In measured cadence soft. 
 
 Like childhood's ear that drinks 
 Some oft-told story, some remembered rhyme, 
 It knows and greets each coming word, yet thinks 
 
 Them sweeter every time. 
 
 Ah ! would that to her heart 
 She chanced but once to press the folded line, 
 Then all the warmth to sudden life would start 
 
 I breathed on it from mine !
 
 96 THE CAKllIEE-PIGEOIs'. 
 
 The love, the tenderness, 
 
 That found in words no kindred language, tJiere 
 Would seek a fond interpreter to guess 
 
 All they may ne'er declare. 
 
 I do but stay thy flight, 
 
 Speed on thy way! The summer Heavens are wide, 
 Yet through their broad and untracked fields of light 
 
 Thou wilt not need a guide. 
 
 My thoughts before thee fly, 
 Thou needest but to follow where they lead; 
 They have one way ah, would that with thee, I 
 
 Might also follow! Speed!

 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 
 
 " THE Maid of the Mill ! " exclaimed Janet Foster, 
 as she glanced at a pretty engraving she held in her 
 hand. " What a picturesque costume ! How much 
 more becoming than these uniform dresses we are all 
 wearing now-a-days ! And such a uniform life as one 
 must lead, too ! Every body talks on the same 
 subjects lives through their days in the same way. 
 Dear me ! why was not I born a Maid of the Mill, 
 that I might live a freer life, where I should not have 
 to discuss the opera and the latest polka ! Such 
 tedious men as there are about ! And I have the 
 consciousness, all the time, that none of them care a 
 penny for me. I am Miss Foster, the orphan heiress, 
 and so Harry Stanton laughs at my jokes, and Mr. 
 Gray sends me flowers. Old Mr. Beauseant makes 
 his weekly visits, and all the girls look at me with 
 envy. But, really, with this pretty costume on, this 
 9
 
 98 THE MAH) Of THE MILL. 
 
 short dress, so much freer than our sweeping robes, 
 this becoming little hat, to say nothing of the little 
 white feet, if I had only been born to these, I think 
 I might have made a picture, too!" 
 
 So soliliquized pretty Janet Foster, who had been 
 all her life petted and spoiled, and had never once 
 expressed a wish but it was gratified as soon as it 
 was uttered. And in this instance, her usual fortune 
 did not fail her. 
 
 A letter was brought in to her : " From Sandis- 
 knowe! What out-of-the-way place is that? Ah, 
 from dear Miss Milicent : now for a long letter upon 
 rural felicity ! " 
 
 Dear Miss Milicent was no longer Miss Milicent; 
 but she had so long borne that name, that it was 
 difficult to bestow upon her her new appellation of 
 Mrs. Stubbs. 
 
 Miss Milicent had held the office of governess to 
 Janet Foster. This had not been a trying duty ; for 
 her pupil had possessed such a boundless good humor, 
 and such veneration for Miss Milicent, that the task 
 of educating her had pjoved an easy one. 
 
 Nevertheless, Miss Milicent did not so much enjoy 
 eating " the bread of dependence," but that she could 
 prefer to accept Mr. Stubbs's offer, and live on flour
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 99 
 
 of his own making. When, upon the death of his 
 first wife, and the marriage of his only daughter, Mr. 
 Stubbs had looked round for some worthy person to 
 take charge of his menage, his thoughts turned towards 
 the rosy-cheeked maiden who had left Sandisknowe 
 in her youth, to seek her fortune in the world. Since 
 then his own fortunes had risen ; he owned himself 
 the little mill that decorated the valley of Sandisknowe, 
 and found now that Miss Milicent was not sorry to 
 retire there again, and leave behind her a world that 
 had never treated her flatteringly. 
 
 And now her letter enlarged upon her new-found 
 domestic happiness. She described the care with 
 which Mr. Stubbs had arranged the pretty cottage 
 that formed her home, the neat vegetable garden, but, 
 most of all, the picturesque beauty of the country 
 round about, that truly equalled all those pictures 
 that the memory of her childhood had painted for 
 her, and which she had often retraced to Janet. She 
 concluded by hoping that when Miss Janet should 
 be longing for a retreat from the gayeties about her, 
 she would come to Sandisknowe, and take possession 
 of the cottage chamber, that was already adorned 
 with reference to her taste, 
 
 "With Janet, action followed upon thought, as
 
 100 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 
 
 quickly as her words were wont to flow; and it was 
 not many days before she found herself on her way 
 to the happy valley. She had found no difficulty in 
 obtaining the consent of her Uncle and Aunt Standfast 
 (with whom she had lived from her infancy), to this 
 step. Mrs. Standfast, too, promised secrecy upon the 
 subject. She agreed not to let Harry Stanton, or 
 the Grays, or any of Janet's friends, know of the 
 place of her retreat. She was the more willing and 
 able to promise this, for she was not a woman of 
 many words. Whether from the depths of her 
 philosophy and experience, v she had learned that 
 silence is golden, or whether she had educated herself 
 to the habit of never speaking until she had something 
 to say, and her placid mind was seldom awakened 
 by the dawning of an idea, it would be useless to 
 strive to discover. Mr. Standfast was so enveloped 
 in politics, that after Janet had mentioned the spot to 
 which she was going, and he had recalled that the 
 village had never a vote to throw, he dismissed the 
 whole subject from his mind. 
 
 Thus it was without any obstacles, Janet found 
 herself ensconced in her governess's new home. Nay, 
 more had her fond hopes been realized ; she had 
 gained possession of the wardrobe that Miss Emily
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 101 
 
 Stubbs had left behind, when she had gone to foreign 
 parts with her officer bridegroom. The costume of 
 this true Maid of the Mill had suited Janet admi- 
 rably the little mirror in her apartment had shown 
 her it was not unbecoming. The kindly Mr. Stubbs 
 was willing to humor her fancy, and allow her to 
 imagine that, in occasionally weeding his borders, in 
 drawing the water from the light bucket in the well, 
 and filling a picturesque pitcher at times, that she 
 was performing the duties of the Maid of the Mill. 
 To these services she at length added another that 
 of carrying to Mr. Stubbs his noon-day meal. The 
 good-hearted man was willing to forgive her, when 
 ier love of the beautiful occasionally interfered with 
 h.er punctuality, and when she lingered on the little 
 bridge to watch the water plunging below, or some 
 cloud hovering over the tree-tops in the little valley. 
 Aunt Milicent, as Janet now insisted upon calling 
 her, would kindly pass over in silence any little 
 mishap, such as the letting fall of the rustic pail, that 
 Janet occasionally strove to bear upon her head in 
 peasant fashion ; and the privileged Janet was able 
 to taste of all the sweets of rural life, fancying she 
 was bearing its burthens. 
 
 It was one lovely day, Janet had started towards 
 9*
 
 102 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 
 
 the mill, with her little pail in hand, when she paused 
 a few moments, as she often did, to look up the 
 stream, and watch the sparkling waters, as they 
 trickled along their rocky bed, with the long plants 
 drooping over them, refreshed by the dropping spray. 
 As she turned away her head, her eyes caught those 
 of a young man, who was leaning on a fence near 
 by, who had apparently been watching her for some 
 time. He moved away when he was observed, and 
 Janet, a little confused, hastened on. But her 
 thoughts all day Avere filled with the remembrance 
 of the large striking eyes that had been fixed upon 
 her, though she, at the same time, recalled that the 
 young man had been simply dressed, and from his 
 manner she had fancied he must be one of the farmers 
 in the neighborhood. Towards evening, as Janet was 
 moving about in the cottage garden with Mr. Stubbs, 
 the same young man was seen to pass along. Mr. 
 Stubbs beckoned him in, and then explained to Janet 
 that he was a "new hand," that he had employed 
 only a few days, but he considered him a smart young 
 man, and was anxious to encourage him. Janet turned 
 away as Mr. Stubbs greeted the young man: "What 
 a pity," she thought, at first, " that his station is not 
 a little higher, such a figure and such eyes as he has ! '
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 103 
 
 Afterwards, she reflected that such were the characters 
 she had wished to become acquainted with ; that 
 honesty and sterling worth such as this young man's 
 face seemed to show, ought to have a charm in her 
 eyes greater than the gifts of intellect or of position. 
 Perhaps the simple grace, and the diffident, reverential 
 manner of the young man, assisted Janet in these 
 conclusions ; and she found herself soon entering into 
 conversation with Mr. Stubbs and his guest. This 
 was the first meeting, but was followed up by many 
 others with Oswald Lansing. In conversation, he 
 appeared so unassuming ; he showed such a pure, 
 even refined love of nature ; and, besides these, a 
 desire for information on many subjects, that Janet 
 was insensibly attracted towards him. He appeared 
 to have found time to read a great deal, and testified 
 i a familiarity with the poets. Janet was glad, too, that 
 fortune had favored him with a more euphonious name 
 than that of her new protector. 
 
 " I wonder," said Janet, one evening, as, with Mr. 
 and Mrs. Stubbs, and their new friend, she sate in 
 the pretty porch, " I wonder if any of the truly 
 high-born ladies did ever lay aside their gay life, and 
 live happily in such a spot as this ? Or are there 
 really any pleasures greater than these, such as we
 
 104 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 
 
 'enjoy to-night, which they would look back upon 
 with regret?" Janet, with her new-formed love of 
 rural life, asked this question from her heart, but she 
 tried to veil it under her assumed character of the 
 miller's niece. 
 
 "I have often wondered, rather," said Oswald, 
 " whether Tennyson's tale of Lord Burleigh can be 
 a true one. Have you read it, Miss Burns ? (Janet 
 had preserved, in her retreat, only the ' Janet Burns ' 
 of her name) You remember, then, that the village 
 maiden, as the wife of Lord Burleigh, could not sustain 
 the 'burthen of an honor unto which she was not 
 born.' " 
 
 "I remember," said Janet, "that it is the only 
 time I ever heard of any one dying of humility, and 
 I have wondered if that were a possible thing." 
 
 People have suffered," said Aunt ^lilicent, " from 
 thinking they were not great enough for their duties." 
 
 " It is my private opinion," said Janet, "that a 
 woman is equal to any rank, and can become it well, 
 if she has only the heart for it. And I believe that 
 the Lady Burleigh suffered more from the deceit her 
 lover had played off upon her than from the honors 
 that had been thrust upon her shoulders." 
 
 Oswald wished to discuss the question, to show
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 105 
 
 that, as Lord Burleigh, the village maid would never 
 have recognized as a lover the landscape painter whom 
 she could listen to. But Janet was afraid she was 
 assuming too high a tone for her present character. 
 She was constantly surprised at the quickness and 
 originality of Oswald's mind. "How much more 
 suggestive and fresh," she thought, " than those of 
 my old lovers ; it must be true, then, that such a 
 life as this, is a greater awakener of genius, than one 
 passed in the conventionalities of society." Oswald 
 Lansing had discovered that Aunt Milicent and Janet 
 occasionally devoted some hours to the study of 
 Italian. Much to Janet's surprise, he begged to be 
 allowed to join them at times. It was a language 
 which he had coveted the knowledge of. His reading 
 of Milton had excited in him a desire to become 
 acquainted with the language of that country, of 
 which that great poet seemed to preserve so warm a 
 remembrance. Janet was surprised at the readiness 
 of their new scholar, while Oswald was on his side 
 astonished to find how much Janet had already 
 acquired. Thus many weeks passed away. Janet's 
 daily walks to the mill were at a more quick pace 
 than formerly ; but, in returning, she would linger 
 along the path, seemingly deep in thought. Oswald
 
 106 THE MAIU OF THE MILL. 
 
 was always busily at work at the mill, full of animation 
 in his occupation, yet ready to say something so truly 
 original, and sometimes witty, that it would form the 
 subject of Janet's thoughts on her way homeward. 
 
 It was after an evening at the cottage, that Oswald 
 took his way down the stream towards his home. 
 " Can it be possible ? " said he to himself, " that all 
 my romantic visions are realized ? Have I really 
 found a country maiden, unsophisticated, unacquainted 
 with city airs and wiles, who adds to a graceful person 
 and face, a cultivated mind, or one quite susceptible 
 of cultivation ? Such refinement of manners, too ! 
 How much more meaning is there in a single motion 
 of Janet's, than in the set airs and graces of a gay 
 lady of fashion! " 
 
 Abstracted in these thoughts, Oswald did not 
 observe the approach of an angler, who was lazily 
 strolling along, till he was roused by an excla- 
 mation : 
 
 " Oswald ! Oswald Lansing ! thanks to the new- 
 moon, I have hit upon some game worthy a whole 
 day's angling! And so we have come upon your 
 concealed retreat! Here it is that the philosopher 
 finds in nature that peace that the world denies him ! 
 But tell me now, what brought you here to this dull,
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 107 
 
 quiet nook of the world, what keeps you here, and 
 will you come away with me to-morrow ? " 
 
 *' Nonsense ! " said Oswald. " Why should not 
 the same thing draw me here that brought you, 
 Frank?" 
 
 "And in costume, too, if my eyes do not deceive 
 me. Is that an Italian debardeur's dress, or is it 
 the true peasant of the country that you assume ? It 
 is not unbecoming, in truth ! " 
 
 "It is appropriate to the place," said Oswald. "I 
 tell you I am tired of your drawing-room life. There 
 is more variety in the changes that morning, noon, 
 and night bring on this little valley, on the little 
 stream that flows through it, with its picturesque 
 bridge, its ancient mill, than" 
 
 " Oh, a mill ! a miller's daughter, perhaps ! Have 
 you a poem upon the fair maiden's eyebrows : " 
 
 " Mr. Stubbs's only daughter is married, and, at 
 present, I believe in India, where" 
 
 " Where you would not object to my following her. 
 But I am not inclined to accept your polite invitation 
 at present. I would give you a day, and allow you 
 to initiate me into rural delights, but I have wasted 
 my only spare day in a fruitless search after the trout 
 that my innkeeper promised me ; so this night is all
 
 108 THE MAIJ) OF THE MILL. 
 
 that I can bestow upon you, and you must show me 
 my way back to the rural mansion where I hope a 
 savory supper is awaiting me." 
 
 A month had passed away, when, as Janet sat at 
 the cottage window with Aunt Milicent, an unac- 
 customed sight, a letter, was brought her. Janet read 
 it once, twice, then gave it to Aunt Milicent ; and, at 
 length, when she had concluded it, both burst out into 
 laughter, of which Janet's was the most immoderate 
 as well as the most musical. The letter was from one 
 of her old friends, who began by saying she had, at 
 last, drawn out from Aunt Standfast the place of 
 Janet's retreat; and knowing she must be famishing for 
 want of tidings from the world, she had seated herself 
 to write her a gossiping letter. After relating Harry 
 Stanton's last joke, describing the last fashion, and 
 giving an account of the last ball, (which Janet 
 recognized as the very picture of all the balls she had 
 ever attended in B.,) Maria went on, "Pray, in 
 your wilds, did you ever meet with Oswald Lansing ? 
 Frank Vivian declares that he fished him up, in just 
 such an out-of-the-way place, with just such an unpro- 
 nounceable name, as your Aunt Standfast says you 
 have retired to. He would be a real jewel, if you 
 could find him! He is rich and handsome, then he
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL. 109 
 
 is the best polker I ever knew, and has the greatest 
 amount of small talk of any gentleman of my acquaint- 
 ance. Harry Stanton is silent before him. After 
 flirting with all the girls at the seaside, where I met 
 him last summer, it seems he has retired, in disgust 
 with society. But I must tell you how Harry Stanton 
 wears his willow for you " 
 
 But Janet neglected to notice what were the motions 
 of Harry Stanton, in her amusement at the thought 
 of the masquerade she had been playing with Oswald 
 Lansing. A gleam of light came over "that wonderful 
 breadth of information and depth of intellect," that 
 she had detected in the young rustic. 
 
 In the midst of their merriment, Janet and Aunt 
 Milicent were aroused by the voice of Oswald Lansing 
 without the window. He wished to know the subject 
 of their amusement. Janet answered thoughtlessly, by 
 giving Oswald her letter. 
 
 Could Janet reconcile herself to marrying one who 
 was a leader in high society? Could Oswald forget 
 his dreams of elevating a maid of the mill to that 
 refined circle she was worthy to move in? These 
 were questions that were quickly answered. A rural 
 cottage rose soon, on the pretty knoll looking down 
 upon the mountain stream. Harry Stanton facetiously 
 10
 
 HO THE MAID OF THE MILL. 
 
 called it Stubbs's Lodge ; but Janet and Oswald 
 Lansing were quite too happy to heed the idle jokes 
 of their old society friends. Oswald occasionally 
 acknowledged that he was not sorry that Janet had 
 already compared the gay life of the world with the 
 quiet routine of her country home, and had seen 
 " the folly " of the former ; while Janet was obliged 
 to confess that beside the attractive simplicity she had 
 fancied in the rustic Oswald, she was not sorry to 
 have a refined high breeding, that he must have 
 learned elsewhere than in the mill of SandisknoNve. 
 But the principal ornament of the new cottage, is a 
 sketch of Janet, in her pretty costume as the " Maid 
 of the Mill," watching the flow of the water.
 
 THE HEART'S AWAKENING 
 
 BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND. 
 
 ONI/Y yesterday a Child, 
 
 She the little rosy maiden, 
 Hers the glee of laughter wild ! 
 
 Now her brow with thought is laden. 
 From behind her eyes there gleams 
 Light which tells of stranger-dreams, 
 Faint, like summer morning breaking, 
 With the shadows warfare making ; 
 
 It is waking it is waking ! 
 
 Gone for aye the childish peace, 
 Bounding, trotting at our call ; 
 
 Slowlier, with a sweeping grace, 
 See her tiny foot-prints fall : 
 
 Silenter the babbling tongue, 
 
 When her elder friends among;
 
 112 THE IIEAUX'S AWAKENING. 
 
 Yet her speech new music making, 
 And her words new meaning taking, 
 
 Now her Girlish Heart is waking! 
 
 She hath opened Nature's books, 
 
 Leaf by leaf they turn for her; 
 And her soul, as still she looks, 
 
 Heaveth with a gentle stir. 
 Stars, that were but stars before 
 Shown by scientific lore, 
 Off such prosy fetters shaking, 
 Are with spirit-lustre breaking 
 
 On the Heart that's newly waking! 
 
 She will sit in listless thrall 
 
 Gazing on a fleecy cloud; 
 Or upon the waterfall; 
 
 Or upon a flowery crowd ; 
 Or on bee and butterfly ; 
 Or on birds that climb the sky; 
 As she were dull earth forsaking 
 Life from dream-land only taking, 
 
 Meet for Young Hearts just awaking !
 
 THE HEART'S AWAKENING. 113 
 
 There is yet another change 
 
 For the pensive little maiden : 
 Now good angels near her range ; 
 
 Be their Avhite wings wisdom-laden ! 
 She no longer solely looks 
 Into Nature's extern books, 
 
 Though she musing sits apart : 
 She hath found a subtler teacher, 
 And a more impassioned preacher, 
 
 In her wakened Woman's Heart! 
 10*
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI, 
 
 AN ITALIAN PEASANT. KELATED BY HIMSELF. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY MRS. JAMES "WHITTLE. 
 
 MY parents resided within a short distance of 
 Campiano, one of those mountain villages remote 
 from the high road, and rarely visited by strangers; 
 here they possessed a small farm, and were at the time 
 of my birth amongst the wealthiest people of the 
 district. One of the earliest events I can remember 
 .was the festival in celebration of the christening of 
 my little sister ; relations and friends came from miles 
 around, and during several days kept up one continued 
 scene of festivity and dancing. My childish heart was 
 delighted with the bright, gay costumes of the women, 
 pleasant stories, and friendly faces of the men, the 
 music, dancing, and usual accompaniments of such a 
 festival. Yet with all my pleasure, it seemed to me 
 that the little being, whose admittance into the church
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRAXCOXI. 115 
 
 of Christ had given rise to all this gayely, was 
 forgotten ; and I stole away from the busy scene, 
 climbed up the steep and narrow stairs, and, kneeling 
 down beside the cradle, gazed on her, as a devotee 
 upon the image of the Virgin Mother. The child at 
 length awoke and began to cry. I took her in my 
 arms ; and, as if conscious of the love that swelled 
 within my heart, she soon ceased her wailing, and 
 nestling in my bosom, again fell asleep. A feeling 
 then arose in my heart which influenced my whole 
 after-life. Xanina ! gioja mia ! as I then watched your 
 slumbers, I tasted the bliss that crowns man's life with 
 rapture, of loving and protecting a beloved object. 
 The birth of this sister had been a source of intense 
 happiness to me. Child as I was, (at that time but six 
 years old,) I felt when first her dark eyes opened on 
 me, that life became brighter and happier. As years 
 passed on we were inseparable ; we neglected the 
 companions of our own age, and knew no greater 
 pleasure than to wander hand-in-hand through the 
 mountain pastures, watching the sheep and goats as 
 they browsed on the scanty herbage around us. I 
 cannot define the thoughts and feelings which then 
 filled our young hearts to overflowing ; it seemed as 
 if every thing in Nature spoke to us.
 
 116 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 In this blissful state our first years were passed, and 
 another infant was added to our little family. Sorrow 
 was as yet unknown to us ; but soon, too soon, alas ! 
 it came how sudden, how desolating was the evil 
 that befel us ! One morning early in the month of 
 July, Nanina and I had risen betimes to accompany 
 our parents to the neighboring town of San Stefano, 
 where the annual festival of the Madonna dei Fiori was 
 to be celebrated. We had never before quitted our 
 village, and the proposed journey filled us with 
 delight. Two mules were brought to the door, on 
 one of which my mother was quickly mounted, with 
 Nanina before her; the other was intended for me, 
 while our father walked beside us. The day, though 
 cloudy and unpromising, had but little influence on 
 'our gayety; and as we climbed the steep mountain, 
 we talked and laughed merrily, regardless of the 
 stormy clouds that gathered around us. When we 
 reached the summit, the rain began to fall, but the 
 valley beneath us was bathed in sunshine, and we 
 hastened forward ; behind us all was darkness ; black 
 masses of clouds obscured the horizon, and a dense fog 
 veiled Campiano from our sight. On reaching San 
 Stefano, however, all trace of storm had disappeared ; 
 the sun shone down with golden splendor; crowds
 
 THE ADVEXTURES OF CARLO FRAXCONI. 117 
 
 \vere thronging to early mass in the principal church, 
 and acquaintances greeted us at every step. Arches 
 and festoons of flowers decorated the streets, and 
 garlands of ribbons and bright pieces of carpet were 
 displayed from the windows of the houses ; the steps 
 and centre aisle of the church were strewn with 
 flowers ; hundreds of tapers burned on the high altar ; 
 and before the shrines, ornamented with pictures and 
 statues, knelt crowds of men, women, and children, 
 in various and, to us, -novel costumes. On quitting 
 the church, we joined a procession of priests and friars, 
 which accompanied the image of the Madonna, in 
 whose honor the Festa was held. This figure was 
 once a year borne through the streets with great 
 solemnity, and presented to the adoration of the 
 people ; it was placed on a platform, and, covered 
 as it was with gold, silver, and artificial flowers, it 
 seemed to us the most beautiful and wonderful sight 
 we had ever beheld. 
 
 When we had seen the Madonna conveyed back to 
 the *hurch, we hastened to the house of a relative 
 where it had been agreed that we should pass the 
 night, returning to Campiano the following morning. 
 During the afternoon, the sky again became overcast, 
 and the ridge of mountains we had passed in the
 
 118 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRAXCOXI. 
 
 morning was hidden by dark and heavy clouds ; the 
 wind suddenly rose and blew a hurricane, while the 
 rain fell in torrents. My father, who well knew the 
 nature of these storms, became uneasy ; his eye 
 wandered restlessly to the hills behind which lay our 
 home, and turning to my mother, he said, "Would 
 to God, Francesca, that we were safe at home ! " The 
 storm continued through the night ; but it was evident 
 that its greatest violence had been spent before it 
 reached San Stefano. The morning dawned in 
 loveliness ; all Nature seemed refreshed by the late 
 rain, and my father reanimated by the scene, cast 
 aside the gloomy forebodings of the night. We took 
 our departure early, and slowly wended our way up 
 the narrow road, which was slippery with the late 
 rain ; but our sure-footed mules marched steadily on, 
 and we reached the summit in safety. What a scene 
 then met our eyes ! what terror seized upon our hearts 
 as we gazed below ! The country around Campiano 
 was converted into a vast lake, from which the 
 village, placed on an eminence, rose like an island. 
 The Taro had burst its banks, and the whole valley 
 was inundated. My father turned to us in speechless 
 horror, and my mother falling on her knees, buried her 
 face in her hands. No time, however, was to be lost,
 
 THE ADVEXTUBJES OF CAKLO FRAXCOXI. 119 
 
 and we hurried down the mountain. The villagers 
 were watching our descent, and where the waters 
 rendered it impossible to proceed on mules, they had 
 a boat in readiness to transport us to the village. 
 
 Never can I forget the awful scenes that met our 
 eyes as we rowed on ; we saw within a few hundred 
 yards of us the spot where our home had stood ; 
 house, out-buildings, all had disappeared, and the 
 rushing waters flowed over the ruins. The Taro, 
 foaming and boiling, rolled on, its former bed marked 
 by the greater strength of the current ; beams and 
 rafters of houses, dead bodies of animals, and, still 
 more horrible, of men were drifting down the ti'de. 
 As we gazed, my father's face became deadly pale, 
 and my mother clasped her hands in agony, when 
 they beheld a cradle tossed on the agitated waves. 
 " My child, my child ! " shrieked the wretched mother, 
 but ere the words had passed her lips, the cradle was 
 overwhelmed, and disappeared. This was but the first 
 of a series of trials. The river had swept away all 
 that we possessed. Ere the domestics left in charge 
 of the premises could escape, death had overtaken 
 them : not one was left to tell the tale of desolation. 
 
 We readily found shelter in the village, for my 
 father's high character and kindly nature had made
 
 120 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FKAXCOXI. 
 
 him universally beloved ; every one pitied Bernardo 
 Franconi, and many doors were opened to receive 
 the houseless family. Night closed on the dismal 
 spectacle, but brought no rest to my poor father ; he 
 was a ruined man ; all, all had perished in this dire 
 catastrophe all, save his wife, Nanina, and myself. 
 I remember to this hour the expression of his face, as, 
 clasping my mother to his heart, he said, " God leaves 
 me you, Francesca ; blessed be His holy name ! " 
 
 But even this source of happiness was not long 
 spared to him. My mother, at all times in delicate 
 health, never recovered the effects of that dreadful 
 night ; her rest was broken by the fancied cries of 
 her drowning child, and though she strove to keep 
 the knowledge of her state from us all, she yet knew 
 that she was dying ; and soon, before the spring 
 flowers succeeded to the winter floods, she was laid 
 in her quiet grave. From that time I never saw 
 my father smile; he was kind, and careful to provide 
 what comforts he could for us, but his heart was 
 broken; I have seen him sit and gaze upon Nanina, 
 until his eyes were blinded with tears ; her beauty 
 and gentleness so forcibly reminded him of his 
 Francesca, that her presence only gave him pain 
 instead of comfort. By the assistance of some
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRAXCONI. 121 
 
 relatives lie established himself in another little 
 farm ; but he was listless and dispirited, and our 
 present was a sad contrast to our former home. 
 Repressed in all expression of cheerfulness or childish 
 glee, by the silent sorrow of our father, we sought 
 amusement in the village ; and amongst the many 
 houses in which we were welcome guests, none had 
 such powerful attractions for us, as one small cottage. 
 There is something beautiful in the friendship that at 
 times springs up between the old and young, when 
 age remembering its early days, gives warm and loving 
 sympathy to youth, and youth laying aside its too 
 boisterous mirth, listens reverently to the teaching of 
 age. Pietro Dossi, the aged inhabitant of our favorite 
 cottage, had in his younger days visited many distant 
 lands ; travelling from place to place in company with 
 other boys, as a vender of images, he had at length 
 amassed a sum sufficient to enable him to realize his 
 early dream of purchasing a small piece of land in 
 the neighborhood of his native village ; this he had 
 cultivated with his own hands, until the approach of 
 age rendered repose necessary to him, and he now 
 dwelt in Campiano surrounded by his old friends, 
 honored and respected by all who knew him, 
 imparting, from his store" of traveller's tales, pleasure 
 11
 
 122 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCOS!. 
 
 and instruction to the young. Nanina and I were never 
 happier than when listening to him, she seated on 
 the old man's knee, and I, sitting at his feet playing 
 with Jacopo, the pet monkey, who was Pictro's sole 
 companion. He related his adventures for our diver- 
 sion ; and as he told of foreign countries, I longed to 
 follow in his track, and see and learn for myself. Thi? 
 desire grew stronger and stronger within me ; hut the 
 thought of my father and his loneliness, checked its 
 fulfilment. Events, however, soon happened which, 
 by throwing me on my own resources, opened my 
 path to England, for it was to London that all my 
 longings turned. 
 
 I had barely attained my fourteenth year, and 
 Nanina was in her ninth, when my father was 
 suddenly attacked by a fever, which in a few days 
 carried him to his grave. We were now left orphans 
 in a world of which we as yet knew nothing ; strangers 
 alike to the cold unkindness and to the genuine benev- 
 olence, that have in turn chilled our hearts or cheered 
 our wandering steps in foreign lands. I was too 
 young to undertake the management of a farm; and 
 as my father, since our heavy loss, had only rented 
 a few acres of land, it was soon arranged that we 
 should quit our home.
 
 THE ADVENTUBES OF CARLO FKANCOKI. 123 
 
 In our sorro\v we had repaired to Pietro for 
 sympathy and counsel : to him I revealed the 
 longing of my heart ; and, entering at once into 
 my views, he offered to give me, as my stock in 
 trade', my playmate Jacopo, the monkey. I was 
 unwilling to deprive him of his old favorite ; but he 
 said that Xanina should live with him during my 
 absence, and thus his gain would be greater than 
 mine. Poor Nanina heard my proposal with dismay : 
 she could not imagine a life in which I should have 
 no share, and at first she opposed herself vehemently 
 to my leaving her. With tears and sobs she implored 
 me to take her with me; but to this Pietro opposed 
 so many arguments, that at last she seemed to yield 
 assent. She now busied herself in preparing my little 
 wardrobe, which was carefully tied up in a handker- 
 chief, and fastened to my back. Jacopo was gayly 
 dressed in a new suit of scarlet cloth, and Nanina had 
 attached to his collar a blue ribbon which she took 
 from her own slender waist. Putting this into my 
 hand, she kissed me passionately, and, leading me to 
 the door, said, " Carlo, you will see me in your 
 dreams." I did not then heed her words, but had 
 afterwards good cause to remember them ; I then 
 wondered at her calmness, and thought she could
 
 124 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 not love me as I loved her ; for my own heart was 
 torn with anguish at leaving her, while she seemed 
 cheerful, and parted from me with a smile. 
 
 With a heavy heart I ascended the hill from which 
 I was to take the last view of my native village. 
 When I reached its summit I sat down on the grass, 
 and for the first time in my life felt the misery of utter 
 loneliness. I strove to recall the delight with which 
 I had dreamed of setting out on this journey, but in 
 vain. Nanina's image rose before my mind ; and, 
 covering my face with my hands, I burst into tears. 
 I soon however remembered, that although I should 
 no longer be near to love and guard her, God and 
 the Virgin would still protect my sister ; and to their 
 care I now solemnly committed her. I felt that, 
 though I should no longer walk forth with her to 
 see the rising sun gild our beloved mountains, or 
 watch the moon shedding her soft light over the 
 scenes endeared to us by memory, yet wherever I 
 wandered, the same sun and the same moon would 
 shine on me that shone on Nanina ; and in this thought 
 I found much consolation. Then, gaining hope from 
 the future, my heart leaped with joy to think of the 
 time when I should again return to Campiano, and 
 pour the riches gathered in my travels at Nanina's feet.
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRAXCONI. 125 
 
 Thoughts such as these gave wings to my feet, and 
 I ran briskly down the hill that led to Vizerano. 
 There I was to spend my first lonely night. I was 
 unused to beg, and it was with a timid step that I 
 approached a small but well-stocked farm-house that 
 lay in my road. I did not ask for food : Pietro had 
 carefully stored my little wallet with what would last 
 me several days : I only begged to be allowed to 
 shelter my weary limbs in the barn. My request was 
 kindly granted ; and, after sharing a morsel of bread 
 with Jacopo, and taking a draught of milk which the 
 good woman gave me, I lay down on a bundle of 
 straw, with my monkey nestling close to me, and 
 fell asleep thinking of Nanina. Early in the morning, 
 a faint streak of light falling on my face aroused me 
 was I awake, or was it only a dream ? beside me 
 sat a figure, so beautiful, that for a moment I took 
 it for the good angel who is said to watch ovei 
 the slumbers of young children ; yet it had the form 
 and face of my sister. I started up, and, rubbing my 
 eyes to assure myself that it was no dream, I found 
 myself clasped in Nanina's arms. " Oh ! Carlo," she 
 exclaimed, " did you think that I could live without 
 you? You must not send me back, for I should die, 
 away from you. Let me go where yon go : I will 
 11*
 
 126 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCON1. 
 
 never vex you, if you will only let me follow you." 
 With these words she clung to me with an energy it 
 was in vain to resist ; and, as I returned her embrace, 
 I felt that death alone should ever again separate us. 
 
 As we journeyed on, Nanina told me how she had 
 stolen away when Pietro thought she was in hed, 
 and creeping softly down, had set off in the twilight. 
 She had heard Pietro describe the house at which I 
 was to sleep, and reaching it in the early dawn, she 
 entered the barn, and taking her station beside me, 
 had patiently watched for my awakening. We spoke 
 of our dear Pietro, and grieved for his loneliness, thus 
 left without Jacopo or Nanina, but we soon forgot this 
 sorrow in our joy of being together, and proceeded on 
 our way, until after some hours we came within sight 
 of a large town. 
 
 We now began our trade, and soon a crowd of boys 
 gathered round us, attracted by Jacopo's gambols. 
 Nanina, amused by the laughter and delight of the 
 children, excited him to show off all his tricks ; and 
 when at last putting her hat into his paw, he ran 
 round the circle, bowing and grimacing to each 
 individual, and soliciting charity in his own facetious 
 way, it was returned with more money in it than we 
 had ever before possessed, and we pursued our journey
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 127 
 
 in good spirits. Pietro had desired me not to sleep in 
 any town, cautioning me that my funds would soon 
 melt away if I trusted to the hospitality of cities ; 
 we therefore journeyed on from place to place, meeting 
 with various fortune, but on the whole with kindness 
 and liberality. "Whenever, weary, hungry, and foot- 
 sore, we were refused the shelter we solicited, we 
 comforted each other with the thought of London, 
 recounted the wonders we had heard, and creeping 
 close to each other, fell asleep under a hedge, 
 dreaming of rich, beautiful England. 
 
 Our way lay through France ; and the kind-hearted 
 peasantry, who were then busied in the vintage, often 
 invited us to join their noon-day meal. It was a 
 lovely autumn, and as yet we had experienced no 
 severe weather ; an occasional storm drove us to seek 
 shelter beneath some shed, or wide spreading tree, but 
 we were too well inured to a mountain life to fear what 
 rain or wind could do to us. At length we reached 
 Boulogne, and by this time our little stock of money 
 enabled us boldly to take our passage in a vessel that 
 was sailing for London. Poor Nanina was terrified 
 when she saw the steamboat, and was told that in it 
 she would sail away on to the wide sea. I comforted 
 her as best I could, hiding my own fears that I might
 
 128 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 not add to hers. We had a fine passage, and about 
 noon entered the Thames. The sight of the num- 
 berless vessels that crowded the noble river filled 
 us with astonishment, and Nanina's exclamations of 
 natural and unfeigned delight interested many of the 
 passengers for us. One young lady came to us, and 
 sitting down by Nanina began to speak to her ; but, 
 alas ! not one word could we understand ; we could 
 only shake our heads in reply, when much to our 
 surprise she addressed us in our own beloved language, 
 asking where we came from, and what we were going 
 to do. Nanina simply replied, that we were come 
 from Campiano to London, to make our fortune ; at 
 which the young lady smiled. We told her that we 
 were going to see a friend of our father's, who lived 
 in London, and who would, we were sure, take care 
 of us. She looked at us sorrowfully, and stroking 
 back Nanina's raven locks said, " poor children ! " 
 (poveretti,) and then turning to a gentleman spoke 
 to him in English. I am sure she asked him to be 
 kind to us, for when the vessel stopped at the great 
 Custom House in London, the lady bade us keep 
 close, and follow them on shore. What we should 
 have done but for their care, God only knows. We 
 were so pushed and jostled by the crowds of people
 
 THE ADVENTUKES OF CAELO FHANCONI. 129 
 
 who were hurrying to land, that Nanina began to 
 cry; hut the kind gentleman lifting her in his arms 
 carried her safely to shore, and placed her on a large 
 trunk beside his daughter, then calling a little carriage 
 he put us into it with Jacopo, and, paying the driver 
 his fare, told him to take us to the place where we 
 hoped to find our friend. 
 
 It was now dark ; the lamps were lighted, and 
 as we drove rapidly along the streets, our surprise 
 was excited by the brilliant gas-lights, and Nanina 
 contiually exclaimed, " See ! Carlo, see ! how beautiful ; 
 another, and another ! and the fine shops, and crowds 
 of people ; London is, indeed, beautiful ! " Still we 
 drove on ; there seemed no end of streets and houses ; 
 my brain whirled, and I scarcely knew whether I were 
 waking or dreaming. At last we turned into a narrow 
 lane, and soon our driver checked his horse, and I 
 heard him say something I did not understand, but I 
 knew by his mentioning the name of Manelli that we 
 must be near our destination ; he drove on a few steps, 
 and then opening the door signed to us to alight. 
 Taking Nanina' s hand, with Jacopo seated on my 
 shoulder, I followed a boy who led the way through a 
 dark passage to a house, at the door of which he 
 knocked and then left us ; it opened as by magic, and
 
 130 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 a loud voice called to us from the top of the stairs in 
 no very gentle tones. I was afraid we had been 
 wrongly directed, and Nanina, terrified at our strange 
 situation, the darkness and the harsh sounds of the 
 English tongue, followed me up the steep stairs, 
 clinging tightly to my arm. At the head of the 
 stairs we found a woman with a candle in her hand; 
 she spoke roughly to us, and I suppose asked what 
 we wanted. I blushed and stammered, and drawing 
 from my pocket a letter which had lain carefully 
 concealed there since I left Campiano, I gave it to 
 her, saying, "II Signor Manelli e in casa?" She 
 grumbled out some angry words, but a voice from 
 the interior of the room replied, " Si, si, entrate : 
 son qui, cosa volete?" These words, uttered in oui 
 own sweet language, reassured me, and we entered. 
 Manelli was seated at his table, employed by the light 
 of a powerful lamp, in constructing something, which I 
 afterwards found was a barometer ; he seemed a man 
 about forty years of age, and the kind expression of 
 his countenance encouraged me to speak to him. I 
 related my simple tale, and asked if he remembered 
 Pietro Dossi, who had given me the letter for him. 
 At the mention of his name Manelli's face brightened ; 
 " Remember him," said he, " yes, truly, we were dearer
 
 THE ADVENTUHES OF CABLO FBANCOXI. 131 
 
 to each other than brothers." He then kissed Nanina, 
 and bade us hearty Avelcome to his home. I saw, 
 however, that our arrival was by no means so agreeable 
 to the woman who had shown us to the room, and soon 
 an angry contest ensued between her and Manelli upon, 
 the subject. It ended by our being provided with 
 supper, and told to lie down on some straw in a corner 
 of the room, where, tired and exhausted, we soon fell 
 asleep. In the morning Manelli took me aside, and 
 told me that the woman I saw was his wife ; that she 
 was an Englishwoman, and could speak but little 
 Italian ; that she was really good and kind-hearted, 
 but had a strange way of showing it, and that unless 
 Nanina and I could resolve to be obedient to her, 
 and do all she asked, we must make up our minds to 
 bear many a scolding. He added that he was too poor 
 to maintain us in idleness, and proposed that I should 
 go out into the streets with my monkey and see what 
 I could earn, while Nanina remained at home to help 
 his wife. I did not like the plan, I was afraid that 
 Madame (as we were bid to call her) would be harsh 
 to Nanina ; but as Manelli spoke kindly, and as if he 
 desired really to help us, I acceded to his wish, and 
 sallied forth, begging Madame to take care of my little 
 sister, and promising to bring back what I earned,
 
 132 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 to pay for our supper ; she gave me a crust of bread 
 to eat when I was hungry, and desired me to be 
 careful of my money. 
 
 My first day's ramble produced but little; I was 
 bewildered by the novel sights and sounds that met 
 me at every step, and wandered on from street to 
 street, forgetful of the object of my expedition, until 
 tired of walking, I sat down on a door-step to eat 
 my bread. I then remembered, that, if I took nothing 
 home with me, Nanina and I were to have no supper ; 
 and seeing that Jacopo's attempts to snatch the food 
 from my mouth faster than I could put it in, had 
 already collected a little crowd around me, I excited 
 him to more and more antics ; each new trick elicited 
 fresh bursts of merriment from the bystanders, and 
 when I held my hat and said, as Madame had taught 
 me, " Give a penny to poor Italian boy," many were 
 dropped into it. Elated by my success, I now tried 
 to retrace my steps, anxious to show my gains, and 
 feeling richer than I had ever been before, for amongst 
 the pence I found a silver coin, which seemed to me a 
 fortune in itself; this I intended to give Nanina: but 
 when I reached our miserable lodging, the landlady 
 seized upon me, insisted on my showing her all my 
 money, and grumbling that it was no more, told
 
 THE ADVENTUBES OF CAKI-0 FRAJfCONJ. 133 
 
 me we could have little supper that night. I was 
 indignant at this treatment, but a look from Manelli 
 checked the angry words which were ready to burst 
 from my lips. Nanina was silent, and I thought I 
 saw traces of tears in her eyes, but did not venture 
 to ask their cause, for I had begun to tremble before 
 Madame. As we fell asleep, Nanina whispered softly, 
 " Carlo, do not leave me ; I will go with you." The 
 next day I proposed that she should accompany me, 
 but this Madame vehemently opposed, threatening to 
 turn us both out of doors if I dared again to speak 
 of such a plan, and adding, that I had better take 
 care to bring home more money, as she could not 
 keep us for nothing. Days and weeks passed on, 
 during which our life continued much what I have 
 described it ; Madame was kind or cross in propor- 
 tion to the money I brought home, and I gradually 
 became more and more afraid of her. I could not 
 help sometimes asking myself where was all the kind- 
 heartedness which Manelli had told us we should find 
 in Madame, and I often wondered why he, who really 
 loved us, did not interfere in our behalf; but I found 
 out afterwards, that he stood in as much awe of his 
 wife as I did. 
 
 After some months I began to feel that, with all my 
 12
 
 114 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRAKCONI. 
 
 labor, I had not laid by a single shilling towards the 
 object that was ever present to my thoughts. I dared 
 not ask to be allowed to do so, but the thought made 
 me miserable. I saw, too, that Nanina was changed ; 
 the brightness of her eyes was dimmed, the elastic step 
 was gone, and, what was worst of all, her merry laugh 
 was hushed ; she was pale and languid, and I thought 
 she drooped like a flower shut out from light and air. 
 She had ceased to ask to accompany me, but often 
 when I left her, I saw the tears spring to her eyes ; she 
 never complained, but I knew she was unhappy, and I 
 determined that we would leave Manelli's house, and 
 try our fortunes in the world alone once more. My 
 resolution' was strengthened by a circumstance which 
 awakened me more fully to the real state of affairs. 
 Returning earlier than usual one afternoon, I heard 
 in ascending the stairs the screams of a child ; as I 
 listened my heart stood still ; could it be Nanina, my 
 darling Nanina ? Again the sound struck on my ear. 
 It was her voice ! and amidst cries of pain I heard 
 her say, " Let me go, let me go, indeed I did not tell 
 him; I will never let Carlo know how ,you beat me, 
 only let me go now, I will do all you bid me." 
 Furious, and not knowing what I did, I rushed into 
 the room, flew upon Madame, who was raising hex
 
 THE ADVEXTUKES OF CARLO FKANCONI. 135 
 
 hand to strike the child, aimed a blow at her head, 
 which stunned her for a moment, and quickly seizing 
 Nanina I hurried down stairs, and ran along the 
 streets, until feeling safe from pursuit, I sat down, 
 and placing my sister beside me, comforted and pacified 
 her alarm, promising never to allow her to return to 
 Madame. She then told me how often she had been 
 beaten, and that Madame had always threatened to 
 make me go without supper if she ever told me how 
 she was ill-treated. Thus the intrepid little creature 
 had patiently endured all, rather than that I should 
 lose a meal. " I could not let you starve, Carlo, mio," 
 she said, " you who worked so hard for me." How 
 could I help loving this sister ? how ever reward her 
 for such devotion ? 
 
 The evening had now closed in ; a keen wind was 
 blowing from the north, and to us, with our Italian 
 temperament, the suffering occasioned by the cold was 
 extreme. Hitherto we had known nothing of personal 
 hardship, we had been sheltered in a warm room, had 
 slept on dry straw, and though our food had been 
 grudgingly given and often in scanty portions, yet 
 we had never known what actual hunger was ; now, 
 we were houseless, supperless, friendless, but not 
 hopeless ; we were free, and in this lay a happiness
 
 136 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 that we could neither define nor comprehend. 1 
 took Nanina's hands in mine, chafed them, and 
 wrapping her in my coat drew her close to me, 
 and crept under the slight shelter afforded by the 
 doorway of a shop. Here, with Jacopo crouched 
 beside her, she fell asleep, and I was happier when 
 thus watching beside her, than I had been since we 
 entered London ; I was once more her protector, and 
 I would not have exchanged my bleak and lonely 
 post for the softest bed in London. I did not. sleep, 
 for my mind was busily revolving plans for the future ; 
 remembering Pietro's advice, I determined to quit 
 London with the early dawn; I thought that in the 
 country we might find kind people, who would give 
 us food and perhaps money. Having thus resolved, 
 I waited patiently until the morning began to break, 
 when, awakening Nanina, I told her my intention; 
 she eagerly caught at the idea, for a vague fear of 
 remaining near Madame still occupied her mind. The 
 streets were already alive with carts and foot passen- 
 gers, and we walked on through long interminable 
 streets ; Nanina, who had rarely left the one room we 
 had inhabited, was equally amazed and delighted. 
 The shops were opened one by one, and she gazed 
 in at the large windows, on all the beautiful things
 
 THE ADVENTUEES OF CARLO FKANCONI. 137 
 
 displayed, with childish, curiosity. I had, fortunately, 
 about a shilling in my pocket, the proceeds of the 
 previous day's campaign, and with part of this I 
 bought two rolls and a cup of warm coffee from a 
 man at the corner of the street. Jacopo came in for 
 
 his share, and thus refreshed we resumed our walk. 
 
 t 
 
 In about an hour's time, the long rows of tall houses 
 gave place to detached villas with gardens before them, 
 and by-and-by these became less frequent, and then 
 ceased entirely. 
 
 We were once more in the country ; our spirits 
 revived under its influence, and we involuntarily 
 quickened our pace. Hitherto we had kept along the 
 high road, but I now deemed it advisable to quit the 
 beaten track, and we turned into a little lane which 
 seemed to lead towards a village at some distance. 
 We wandered on more and more slowly, for we had 
 come many miles, and evening was now drawing near. 
 We soon approached a large farm, whose well-filled 
 court-yard and homestead bespoke true English com- 
 fort ; before the house was a pretty little garden, where 
 a few bright crocuses and snow-drops already peeped 
 above the ground, and in a little porch sat a fat and 
 rosy farmer's wife, beside whom a little girl, about 
 Nanina's age, was playing. Attracted by the sight of 
 12*
 
 138 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO PRANCONI. 
 
 the child, Nanina, who had run on before me, stopped 
 at the wicker-gate and called me to come quickly to see 
 "la bella fanciullina." I feared to offend the good 
 woman, and chid Nanina for her rudeness, but Jacopo, 
 who had leaped upon the gate, began to play off his 
 antics, and so charmed the little girl, that she screamed 
 with delight, and clapping her hands, began to talk 
 to us. We had learned a few English words, and 
 quickly made acquaintance with her. We were 
 invited with Jacopo to enter the court-yard, and soon 
 a number of the servants, with the master and mis- 
 tress themselves, were gathered round us. When the 
 monkey had played off all his tricks, the goodman 
 turned to us, and asked us whither we were going, 
 and where we intended to pass the night. Finding 
 that we did not know, he invited us to go in with 
 them, and share their supper. After eating a hearty 
 supper, I ventured to ask, as a further boon, that we 
 might be allowed to sleep in the barn; this was 
 readily granted, and a promise of breakfast before 
 we started the next day, sent us to bed with happy, 
 grateful hearts. It had been a prosperous beginning 
 to our travels, and we set forth on the following 
 morning with renewed hope. 
 
 I cannot tell of all our adventures. At times we
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 139 
 
 met with rough unkindness ; at some houses the dog 
 was set upon us, and often we were compelled to lie 
 down under the hedges and shelter ourselves from the 
 biting blast, as best we could ; at other times we were 
 treated kindly, and many were the acts of generosity 
 we met with even amongst the poorest classes. Spring 
 came at last, and summer brought us comparative 
 comfort. Our little purse grew heavier and heavier, 
 for we never willingly drew from its store, but con- 
 tented ourselves with the food that was given us in 
 charity ; and when this failed we frequently suffered 
 actual hunger, rather than take from our treasure. 
 Alas ! alas ! I did not know that by this course, I was 
 laying the foundation of a future misery which I would 
 have given every farthing of that hoarded money, nay, 
 every drop of my heart's blood, to have averted. My 
 mind recalls but little of the time that followed ; the 
 events of that summer and autumn rest dimly in my 
 memory ; my thoughts revert to one period marked 
 by such sorrow as I had never before known ; all 
 other things seem trivial, and I hasten on to the 
 following winter. 
 
 The season was unusually severe even for England, 
 and our sufferings were intense ; whilst I tried, and 
 often, as I thought, successfully, to shield Nanina from
 
 140 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FKANCONI. 
 
 the keen frosty air, I saw not, I knew not, the canker 
 that was secretly undermining her constitution. I did 
 not even guess that such things were, or that death 
 could touch that lovely creature. I saw that she grew 
 less able to walk; I heard her cough through those 
 long weary nights ; I felt her hot burning hands, and 
 wiped from her fair forehead the moisture that gathered 
 there ; yet still I dreamed not she must die. Nanina, 
 my beloved! how gladly would I then have died for 
 you ! Yet no ; the gentle, timid girl, rests in her quiet 
 grave, safe from the blasts of chilling wind, free from 
 all care; and I was even then content to live alone, 
 since she was spared all further sorrow. 
 
 One afternoon, soon after Christmas-day, Nanina, 
 who had never before complained, sat down on a 
 stone, by the roadside, and told me she could go no 
 further; her sunken cheeks were bright with a hectic 
 bloom ; her eyes shone with unnatural lustre, and 
 unused as I was to illness, I thought she did but 
 jest. I took her hand, and begging her not to give 
 up so soon, pointed to a house at a little distance, 
 to which we were directing our steps. She rose and 
 tottered on, leaning more and more heavily on my 
 arm, until with a faint sigh she fell on the ground. 
 "Carlo," she said, "I cannot move; let me lie here
 
 THE ADVEXTTIKES OF CAKLO FEA.XCOXI. 141 
 
 and rest; by-and-by I will try again. Oh, let me 
 rest ! " I was now alarmed, and covering her with 
 my coat, I ran on to the large house I had pointed 
 out to her. Emboldened by my terror for Nanina I 
 knocked at the door, and the lady of the house 
 fortunately passed through the hall at that moment, 
 and hearing the earnest tones of my voice came 
 forward ; my tale was soon told ; she instantly 
 offered to go with me to Nanina, and giving orders 
 to the servants to attend us, we' hastened to the 
 spot where my dear sister lay. She was quickly 
 carried to the house, and there my poor fading 
 flower was tended with a kindness that God will, 
 I trust, reward. My prayers are all I have to give 
 in return for it ; but surely they are heard in Heaven, 
 when offered so fervently as mine are, night and 
 morning, for our benefactress. Nanina never rose 
 from the bed on which they laid her. Beautiful as 
 an angel, she won all hearts by her sweetness and 
 patience. All, but myself, saw that her hours were 
 numbered. I alone watched and hoped with confi- 
 dence to see the fever leave her : daily she failed ; 
 but pain had left her. She called me to her one 
 morning, and said, " Carlo, I wonder what death is. 
 Sometimes I think, as I lie awake in the night, that
 
 142 THE ADVENTURES OF CAKLO FHAJfCONI. 
 
 perhaps I am dying." I looked at her ; and the truth 
 thus simply put before me, flashed upon my mind with 
 a conviction that 'its dread fulfilment was at hand. I 
 covered my face, and sobbed convulsively. She went 
 on : " Carlo, you must not cry : it is not hard to die ; 
 it is no pain like that I had before I came to bed ; all 
 is so quiet, it is so sweet to look thus into your face ; 
 I shall not leave you long, and you will spare me to go 
 to our mother and the Virgin, and I shall pray for you, 
 Carlo, and still be with you, and you will come to me 
 in Heaven ; now stoop down close to me, and let me 
 feel your face, for it is getting dark, and I cannot sec 
 it. Carlo, dearest Carlo, I am so happy ! now let me 
 sleep." She lay with my hand clasped in hers, and I 
 watched beside her, thinking that she slept ; for hours 
 I sat, until startled by the change in her countenance, 
 and the cold rigidity of her hands, I tried to waken 
 her. Nanina was not there, her spirit had fled, and 
 before me lay the cold remains of the most lovely of 
 God's creatures ! 
 
 I do not know what followed ; all is darkness ; I can 
 recall no event ; days, weeks passed on unheeded by 
 me ; I sat in the small churchyard beside that grassy 
 mound, with poor Jacopo by my side, dead to all 
 consciousness of things beyond. At length she who
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 143 
 
 had given shelter to my beloved Nanina's last hours, 
 called me to her room ; she told me that she felt for 
 my sorrow, and did not blame it, but that the time 
 was come when I must rouse myself; that I could not 
 live in idleness, for God had given me strength and 
 understanding, and I must use them; she added, that 
 to grieve for the dead with such absorbing sorrow was 
 selfish ; that God who had taken Nanina to Himself, 
 required me to show my love for Him, by not 
 indulging in useless grief, and thus murmuring at 
 His decrees ; that I must strive to live, so that when 
 Death came to me, I might be worthy to go, where 
 that pure and gentle spirit had already gone before 
 me. I was not insensible to her words; I felt their 
 truth, and resolved to rouse myself. My kind patroness 
 had already laid a plan for my future life. I know 
 not how it was that such an interest had been 
 awakened in her heart ; surely it was for Nanina's 
 sake ; I was her brother, and as such became the 
 object of so much kindness. 
 
 Mrs. Morton had friends in London whom she 
 
 interested for me, and by their means I was admitted 
 
 into one of the many schools in which instuction is 
 
 liberally and gratuitously given to the poor; here I 
 
 i year, ;:n-l Oicn hiving by the bounty of Mrs.
 
 144 THE ADVENTURES OF CARLO 1'HAXCONI. 
 
 Morton been apprenticed to a barometer-maker, I 
 learned this trade thoroughly, and by pursuing it 
 steadily for a few years, became possessed of a sum 
 beyond my early dreams of wealth. Amidst all my 
 trials, I had never lost sight of the object for which 
 Nanina and I had toiled and suffered ; my heart turned 
 more and more to my native country, and when at last 
 I revealed to Mrs. Morton my strong desire to return 
 to Campiano, she met it with her usual kindness ; 
 encouraged me to put my plan in execution, and 
 added to my store so generously, that I was placed 
 beyond the reach of poverty. 
 
 Before I set off on my return to Italy, I visited 
 Nanina' s grave, and prayed that her spirit might 
 accompany me on my homeward journey, and share 
 in that return ; thus cheered by the consciousness of 
 her presence with me, I might be less oppressed by 
 the loneliness of that journey which we had so often 
 in fancy performed together. I revisited many of the 
 places in France which I had seen with Nanina, and 
 arrived at length at Campiano. Pietro Dossi was 
 still alive, and I felt that, in my reunion with him, 
 something was left me to live for; I bought a small 
 farm, and taking the old man to my home, I had the
 
 THE ADVENXUEES OF CARLO FB.ANCOXI. 145 
 
 comfort of rendering his last days happy. This source 
 of interest had roused me from the melancholy which 
 had settled on my soul, and when Pietro urged me 
 to marry, I listened at first impatiently, then by 
 degrees with interest, and finally, as the idea took 
 a more definite form by my increasing admiration 
 for Maria Donelli, an old playfellow and friend 
 of Nanina's childhood, I yielded an unhesitating 
 assent to his wishes, and took my bride home in 
 time to aid me in fulfilling the last duties to our 
 good old friend. 
 
 Years have rolled on ; around my hearth are many 
 little beings, in whose childish joys my youth is 
 renewed ; amongst them is one, dearer to me in my 
 secret heart than all beside another Nanina ; in her 
 lovely features and infantine grace I see my sister live 
 again. Maria, my gentle wife, is sitting beside me as 
 I write, wondering at the deep emotions that have been 
 roused as I have recalled my past life : she loves me, 
 and I am blest in her affection. 
 
 At the request of my kind friend and benefactress, I 
 
 have written this sketch of my life. She says that 
 
 from my tale many may learn to regard the poor 
 
 Italian boys who travel through the world, without 
 
 13
 
 146 IKE ADVENTURES OF CARLO FRANCONI. 
 
 home and without friends, with more consideration, 
 and cheer them in their lonely wanderings by a 
 kind word or act : such are like the dew that 
 falls on the thirsty earth to blossom like the rose.
 
 THE BLESSING. 
 
 DARK is the sky with thunder- clouds, 
 
 While breathes that aged one 
 His fervent gratitude to Heaven 
 
 Amid the mountains lone, 
 For the mercy of the present hour, 
 
 And for the mercies shown 
 To him and his continually, 
 
 In the seasons that are gone. 
 
 His little grandson calmly views 
 
 The tempest gathering round ; 
 For though the words cannot be heard, 
 
 Yet, in their whisper'd sound, 
 The boy a heartfelt safety finds; 
 
 And it seems holy ground 
 To his young eye, where they two sit 
 
 On the gray rocky mound.
 
 148 THE BLESSING. 
 
 Not oft in crowded scenes of life, 
 
 When the richest feasts are spread, 
 Does such accepted prayer arise 
 
 As o'er the peasant's bread, 
 Who at the close of every day, 
 
 Rests a toil-wearied head, 
 Soothed by a hope that Heaven remains, 
 
 When mortal life is fled.
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 BY MRS. JAMES WHITTLE. 
 
 IN the deep bay-window of the library of Oldcourt 
 sat two girls absorbed in honest discourse ; the varying 
 expression of their faces, as the conversation proceeded, 
 showed that the subject which occupied them was one 
 of strong and peculiar interest to both. They were 
 beautiful, but their beauty differed as the hues of 
 Spring and Autumn. The youngest was graceful as 
 Hebe herself; her bright hazel eyes sparkled with 
 gayety or melted into tenderness ; now quick as light- 
 ning flashed from beneath their long silken lashes, and 
 then overflowed with tears, as some softer emotion 
 touched her heart ; her rich auburn hair fell in wild 
 beauty over her snowy neck, and her form, slender as a 
 sylph's, was replete with grace ; formed to love and 
 to be loved, she seemed too bright and joyous a 
 creature to face the cares and troubles of this world. 
 The countenance of the other, on the contrary, was 
 13*
 
 150 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 remarkable for its calm serenity ; her fair high forehead 
 bespoke a powerful intellect, and the pensive expres- 
 sion of her clear gray eyes, while it spoke of past 
 suffering, told of present peace, and far from marring 
 the perfeQt beauty of her face, gave it a character so 
 pure, so heavenly, that unconsciously a reverence 
 mingled with the love which she inspired. 
 
 " Margaret," said the younger girl, " I wish you were 
 as happy as I am ; surely you cannot love my brother 
 as I love Alfred, or you would not to-night look so 
 serious." 
 
 " If it is a proof of love to be always merry," said 
 Margaret, with a smile, " then, indeed, must I plead 
 guilty to your charge." 
 
 " No, Margaret, I do not mean exactly that ; but 
 love seems to me so absorbing a feeling, that it should 
 drive all care, all clouds, away. I should think it 
 high treason to my love for Alfred," she added, with 
 a blush, " to be sad to-night." 
 
 " I am not sad, Emily ; thoughtful I cannot but be 
 on the eve of such a day." 
 
 A shade of disappointment crossed Emily's face, as 
 she exclaimed, " Oh, Margaret ! I thought that you 
 loved Edward with your whole heart." 
 
 " Do you doubt it ? Do you not know that I
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 151 
 
 have loved your brother for years, and that to-morrow 
 I am to become his wife ? Could I marry him unless 
 I loved him r " 
 
 " Xo, dearest ! I could never doubt you, who are the 
 soul of truth and goodness ; but your present feelings 
 are so strangely different from my own. To-morrow I 
 too, shall become a wife ; but the thought which 
 brings only rapture to me, makes you grave and full 
 of care." 
 
 " I am older than you, my dear Emily, and, there- 
 fore, less sanguine. I have, however, no fears for the 
 future that interfere with my present peace of mind ; 
 in Edward's noble character, sweet temper, and firm 
 religious principles, I shall find a secure anchorage fof 
 my happiness. I love him, and trust him implicitly ; 
 and yet I cannot take this important step without some 
 anxiety. When I think how high Edward's standard 
 is, and that he has chosen me to be the friend and 
 companion of his life, I tremble lest I may fail 
 him." 
 
 " Fail him ! Oh, Margaret ! can you believe it 
 possible that your love should ever change?" 
 
 " Xo ! not while life and reason last ; but there 
 must be a higher, sterner principle than even love 
 itself, to guide us safely through the dangers of this
 
 152 SELF-LOVE AXD THUE LOVE. 
 
 life. Impulse is at best an uncertain pilot ; and love, 
 without reason, often leads to misery.'' 
 
 "Love such love as I feel for Alfred can never 
 mislead. I love him better than myself, better than 
 the whole world beside ; to live for him, to die for him, 
 is all I ask. With him every joy will be doubled; 
 nay, pain and care themselves will lose their bitterness 
 when endured for him. Such love as this fills the 
 heart, to the exclusion of every doubt, of every fear." 
 
 Tears rolled down Margaret's cheeks as she gazed 
 on the enthusiastic girl ; for she knew that time must 
 dispel her dream, as care and trouble are the portion 
 of all, and sorrow too often visits us through the beings 
 we love best. Drawing the fair girl close to her, she 
 imprinted a long and fervent kiss upon her brow, and 
 whispered a prayer that it might be long ere the 
 brightness of that spirit should be dimmed by sorrow. 
 
 The following morning dawned in perfect beauty ; 
 the sunshine streaming through the deep-set windows 
 awakened all to the business of the day. Oldcourt 
 had never before witnessed such a scene the whole 
 neighborhood was astir at early dawn ; trains of 
 villagers flocked from all parts, eager to be present at 
 the important ceremony, and to join their voices to 
 the prayers and blessings that were showered on the
 
 SELF-LOVE AXD TRUE LOVE. 153 
 
 young people whose weddings were that day to be 
 celebrated. 
 
 The noble domain of Oldcourt, and the large estates 
 thereto belonging, had for many centuries' been in the 
 possession of one family, who had transmitted their 
 rich acres, together with a fair unsullied name, from 
 generation to generation. Simple and unostentatious 
 in their habits, upright and liberal in their dealings, 
 the Mortons were respected by their aristocratic 
 neighbors, revered by their equals, and idolized by 
 their tenantry and dependants. Marmaduke Morton, 
 the present head of the family, was a fine specimen of 
 an English country gentleman ; his noble countenance 
 and demeanor bespoke that independence of character 
 which is found peculiarly amongst the class to which 
 he belonged ; and while his courteous manners won 
 the love of all, no one had ever dared to take a liberty 
 with him, or infringe the bounds of intimacy he pre- 
 scribed. He had two children ; a son, in whom his 
 hopes centered ; and a daughter, whose gay, volatile 
 nature, while it shed sunshine through the house, yet 
 caused her parents many an anxious hour. Emily 
 had been from infancy the petted darling of the 
 family ; her sparkling vivacity, graceful figure, and 
 beaming countenance, rendered her so fascinating, 

 
 154 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 that her faults were unheeded ; she took the heart 
 by storm, and if reason would at times have whispered 
 blame, she disarmed it by an ingenuous confession of 
 her folly, or by the playfulness with which she parried 
 all attempts at remonstrance. Her brother Edward 
 was the idol of her heart ; thoughtless and giddy 
 as she was, she had sense to perceive, and a heart 
 to feel, the beauty of his character. Edward was 
 worthy her affection ; trained under the careful eye 
 of his parents, his education had been eminently 
 calculated to fit him for his future position, as one 
 of the wealthy landholders of England. His father 
 had early taught him to regard wealth as one of 
 " the talents " committed to man by God himself. 
 He pointed out to him the duties and responsibilities 
 which the possession of such an inheritance as his 
 involved ; taught him to respect the rights of all his 
 fellow-men ; and while he inculcated virtue by good 
 and noble precepts, by his own example, more potent 
 far, he won the heart of his son to love it for itself. 
 Edward inherited his mother's gentle nature, and to 
 her he was indebted not only for the softer graces of 
 his character, hj^t for a reverence for holy things, 
 which, imbibed/- in childhood, had in after years 
 matured into deep religious feeling. Yet must we
 
 SEXF-LOVE AND IKUE LOVE. 155 
 
 confess that this gentleness often degenerated into 
 indecision, and led him at times to acts unsanctioned 
 by his better judgment. 
 
 Within a mile of Oldcourt, nestled amidst the hills, 
 lay a beautiful old manor-house, called the Grange ; a 
 fine avenue of chestnut trees led to the house, which 
 looked the abode of peace and happiness. The large 
 mullion windows were twined with the most luxuriant 
 climbing plants ; the deep porch, embosomed in roses 
 and myrtles, opened into a spacious hall, the walls of 
 which were ornamented with antlers, whips, horns, and 
 other implements of the chase, without any pretension 
 or show ; and there was throughout the house an air 
 of refinement and elegance which none could mistake. 
 Many might have called the old house dull, but none 
 who had ever enjoyed its boundless hospitality, or 
 breathed its atmosphere of tranquil happiness, would 
 have uttered such treason. In this peaceful spot had 
 dwelt for many years a family of the name of Grahame ; 
 in its happiest days five daughters and one son had 
 gladdened the hearts of their parents ; but death had 
 been busy amongst them ; four girls had followed each 
 other in quick succession to the grave, and Margaret 
 and her brother Alfred alone remained to cheer their 
 aged father ; their mother, a delicate fragile being, had
 
 156 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 sunk beneath the weight of her afflictions, and now 
 slept beside her children in the quiet churchyard. 
 On Margaret these sorrows had fallen with peculiar 
 severity ; in her sisters she had lost the sweet com- 
 panions of her childhood, and the friends of her youth ; 
 she beheld them, one by one, sinking to the grave, 
 with calm fortitude, but the final blow given by her 
 mother's death seemed to stun her. In the first 
 moments of her grief, she had sunk into a state of 
 dejection, from which nothing could rouse her; but as 
 soon as the last rites were performed, Margaret awoke 
 from her sorrow, and in the efforts she made for those 
 she loved, she found a peace which the world cannot 
 give : none knew, however, that her calm, unselfish 
 conduct, concealed a sad and weary spirit none knew, 
 but one beloved friend ; to him she had long confided 
 her most secret feelings, and in his devoted love had 
 found the sweetest consolation earth could afford. 
 Edward Morton had loved her since they had first 
 played together as children, and time had ripened 
 these youthful feelings into a firm arid enduring 
 attachment. Margaret had yielded a slow consent 
 to listen to his vows of love ; sorrow had left an 
 indelible impression on her character ; she viewed 
 life, if not gloomily, yet earnestly ; to perform its
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TETIE LOVE. 157 
 
 duties, to bear, and to suffer submissively, seemed 
 all that she now looked for ; it was therefore long 
 before Edward could induce her to seek in his affection 
 a new source of hope and comfort. " No, Edward ! " 
 she had replied to his oft-repeated entreaties, " I am 
 not able to be to you all that a wife should be ; seek 
 not to darken your own bright future, by taking to 
 your home so sad a heart as mine." Edward's love 
 was too sincere, and founded on too accurate a 
 knowledge of her excellences, to be influenced by 
 Margaret's distrust of herself; he waited patiently, 
 and saw with joy the veil gradually dispelled that 
 overshadowed her noble spirit. 
 
 A circumstance soon occurred that tended to hasten 
 their union. Mr. Grahame's pecuniary affairs had 
 become embarrassed for a time, owing to the unex- 
 pected failure of his banker, in whose hands he had 
 placed a large sum, preparatory to its investment in 
 an advantageous speculation ; but the retrenchments 
 rendered necessary by this loss, were regarded as 
 trifling evils where so much real sorrow existed. On 
 Alfred's prospects, however, this event exercised an 
 important influence ; he had passed through college 
 with honor, and had just returned home, uncertain 
 what path in life to choose, when this misfortune 
 14
 
 158 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 happened. It incited him to immediate action, and 
 stimulated him to secure an independence by the 
 pursuit of an honorable profession. The law was his 
 choice ; his talents were great, and the excellence of 
 his connections promised him a shorter probation as a 
 briefless barrister, than is the lot of most young men. 
 Alfred Grahame was by nature sanguine and ardent, 
 perceiving no evil until it was forced upon him in its 
 stern reality, thinking all men true, until compelled 
 by their acts to acknowledge them otherwise ; he was 
 the very reverse of his sister ; life to him Avas all 
 brightness ; sorrow, though acutely felt for the time, 
 glanced off his gay spirit, as arrows from the polished 
 steel; to live and to enjoy were synonymous with him, 
 but sorrow has its own blessed task to perform, and 
 fails not, sooner or later, to find its way to all hearts. 
 Alfred had been settled in London several years, and 
 had risen high in his profession. His handsome person 
 and refined manners, united to his brilliant powers of 
 conversation and sparkling wit, rendered him a favorite 
 wherever he went, and admitted him into the best 
 circles. Society was his element ; in the conflict of 
 intellectual warfare, in the strife of gay repartee, in 
 the sallies of sarcasm and wit, his soul delighted; 
 the flattered and courted favorite of all, there was
 
 SELF-LOVE AXD TRUE LOVE. 159 
 
 s 
 
 reason to fear that he might become vain and selfish, 
 when after an absence of many months he returned to 
 the Grange. 
 
 The intimacy that subsisted between the Mortons 
 and the Grahames had been rather increased than 
 diminished by the events recorded above. Sorrow 
 and distress had awakened all the best feelings of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Morton, and what had been at first 
 but a mere acquaintance between the two families, 
 had, in adversity, ripened into a warm friendship. 
 Alfred had spent but little time under his father's 
 roof, since he first quitted it for school, and during 
 the last two summers, his vacation had been spent in 
 travelling ; so that his visits to the Grange had been 
 limited to a few days ; it was not surprising, therefore, 
 that he and Emily Morton had not met for several 
 years ; he remembered her as the petted plaything of 
 her father's house, he found her a lovely woman, such 
 an one as in his dreams he had pictured to himself, the 
 heroine of his life's romance. There was so much in 
 their characters mutually to attract, that it was matter 
 of little surprise when it was reported that Alfred 
 Grahame was the accepted lover of the fair Emily. 
 Visions of a more splendid alliance for this darling 
 child, might have visited her father's heart, but in
 
 160 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 the unimpeachable honor of his family, and in the 
 talents and rising fame of Alfred, he found ample 
 compensation for the want of rank and fortune. 
 Emily loved him with a passionate devotion that, 
 in Alfred's eyes, heightened every charm ; she 
 exercised over him the most unbounded sway ; it 
 was her delight to make him feel and glory in the 
 
 fetters she had cast around him, and to lead him 
 
 f 
 a willing captive to her caprices. Alfred pleaded 
 
 for a speedy union, urging his want of all domestic 
 ties, and loneliness, when absent from his beloved 
 Emily. Edward Morton, too, emboldened by the 
 successful issue of Alfred's suit, pressed his own so 
 earnestly, that Margaret consented that the same 
 day should witness the marriage of the two brothers 
 and sisters. 
 
 Our digression has been long but not unnecessary, 
 since it enables us to recognize friends in the party 
 now assembled round the altar in the village church 
 of Oldcourt ; the wedding arrangements have been 
 made in accordance with the simple taste of the two 
 families, the ceremony is performed in the quiet little 
 church, in the midst of a numerous assembly of the 
 tenantry and villagers ; no procession of gay equipages, 
 no retinue of servants, no splendors attend the
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 161 
 
 important event; all that can gratify the heart or 
 please the fancy has been thought of, but cold 
 formality finds no place on such a day ; the cere- 
 mony is regarded by all parties as a solemn religious 
 rite, not to be profaned by any worldly pomp. The 
 church stands in the park ; the path which conducts 
 to it winds through beds of sweet flowers and wild 
 tangled shrubberies, until it enters the open park, 
 where, overshadowed by ancient oaks and other 
 forest trees, beneath which herds of deer graze 
 unmolested, it terminates in an avenue of lime trees 
 which conducts to the little gate of the churchyard ; 
 the picturesque tower of the church, partially covered 
 with ivy, forms a pretty object at the end of this vista. 
 Along this path the villagers have ranged themselves, 
 to see their beloved benefactors pass ; the ground is 
 strewed with flowers, and many a murmured blessing 
 breaks the silence of the scene. The ceremony is 
 ended, the irrevocable vows are uttered, and in the 
 hearts of all there reigns a deep and holy joy, that 
 shines forth on the countenances though the tongue 
 utters no sound. And now the procession is seen 
 quitting the church, dispensing with the carriages as 
 needless appendages ; the party is returning, and, as 
 they proceed, the villagers fall into their train, forming 
 14*
 
 162 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 a long line, until they reach the hou.se> on the lawn in 
 front of which tables are spread, and with true English 
 hospitality all are invited to partake of the feast. The 
 family retire to the repast prepared for them, and soon 
 the sound of rattling wheels announces the departure 
 of the young people ; a departure undimmed by aught 
 of sorrow, for in such unions there is cause alone for 
 thankful joy even in the hearts of those who are left 
 behind. 
 
 Three months have passed away. Let us peep into a 
 pleasant drawing-room looking into Hyde Park ; 
 beside the open window Alfred is ensconced in a 
 lounging chair ; at his feet, on a pile of cushions, her 
 arms resting on his knee, and with eyes gazing up 
 to him with unutterable love, Emily is kneeling ; 
 lovelier than ever, radiant with happiness, she looks 
 more like an angel than a mortal : at least so Alfred 
 seems to think, for, parting the luxuriant ringlets on 
 her fair brow, he suddenly exclaims 
 
 " Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, 
 But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not, 
 Chaos is come again." 
 
 " Love me not, Alfred ? The thought has madness 
 in it;" and tears filled her eyes.
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 163 
 
 " Foolish child," said he, kissing her fervently, " I 
 did but speak that which is impossible ; the world 
 were in truth, a chaos without thee, my heart's joy ! " 
 
 " Yet, Alfred, she to whom those words were 
 addressed, found cause to rue the day that she had 
 listened to the voice that uttered them : ' men are 
 deceivers ever,' so runs the old song." 
 
 " Men may deceive, but never where they love." 
 
 " And thou dost love me," said she, with an arch 
 smile, "to have and to hold, for better, for worse, 
 love, and honor, and cherish those were the words, 
 Alfred till death do us part?" 
 
 " Ay, Emily, till death do us part ! Now let us 
 go into the Park: the air is cooler, and a saunter 
 beneath the trees will refresh us." 
 
 " Trees, said Emily, contemptuously, where shall we 
 find them ? Heigho ! for the green sward and the 
 old oaks of dear Oldcourt ! London is suffocating in 
 this hot weather." 
 
 " London versus Oldcourt, with me," said Alfred, 
 gayly. 
 
 " Oh ! a desert or a dungeon were Heaven with 
 thee, beloved as thou art," said Emily, twining her 
 arms round him in sportive fondness ; "so come 
 into the Park, and I will swear the grass is greener,
 
 164 SELF-I,OVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 the trees finer, the air purer than in any other 
 
 spot." 
 
 ****** 
 
 And what were Edward and Margaret doing? 
 They had agreed to take up their residence at the 
 Grange ; Margaret could not resolve to leave her 
 father, nor Avould they either of them consent to the 
 desire of Mr. and Mrs. Morton, that they should 
 take possession of Oldcourt, while they sought a 
 home more suited to their present wants and wishes, 
 near their children ; to supplant his father there, 
 to deprive him of any part of his estates, one day 
 sooner than death would compel him to do, was an 
 idea not to be harbored for a moment. The Grange 
 was so near Oldcourt, that in fixing their residence 
 there, Edward would still be able to help and advise 
 with his father, while at the same time he left Mar- 
 garet to comfort the declining days of her remaining 
 parent. The evening was closing in, and Margaret 
 was sitting beside her father's chair, having read him 
 to sleep as usual ; she remained absorbed in thought ; 
 her sweet face had lost much of its pensive expression, 
 and a feeling of deep calm happiness seemed to per- 
 vade her whole being. There Avere eyes resting upon 
 her, as she thus sate, that told volumes in the intensity
 
 SELF-LOVE A.ND TKUE LOVE. l65 
 
 of their gaze ; she raised her head and met them ; a 
 bright gleam stole over her countenance as she said, 
 "Ah, Edward ! are you there ? " 
 
 " Yes, Margaret, I have been sunning myself in 
 your quiet happiness ; dearest, may I not believe my 
 prophecy already fulfilled ? Joy and peace have again 
 taken up their abode in your breast, and I I am the 
 happy cause." 
 
 " Yes, Edward, day by day brings me fresh sources 
 of contentment ; could I dare to be sad, while you 
 are beside me ? Can I witness your goodness to 
 all around you, your active beneficence, and not 
 desire to be like you? I believed that my heart 
 was with the dead, but you have taught me that 
 for every being there is a sphere of usefulness and 
 duty. You have roused me to a sense of new 
 responsibilities, and in accepting them, I find new 
 life, new joy springing in my heart, all this I 
 owe to you, dear Edward ! " 
 
 "And what do I not owe to you? You are my 
 counsellor, my better self, my resource in all 
 difficulties." 
 
 "May it ever be thus; thus mutually dependant, 
 may we never fail each other. Will you walk to 
 Oldcourt ? I have sadly neglected my school of late,
 
 166 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 and want to speak to Mrs. Bond about some work ; 
 will you come ? " 
 
 Ours can be but glimpses into the lives of those 
 whose history we attempt to sketch. Again we visit 
 Emily's home. Is all there as bright as when last we 
 saw her kneeling beside her husband ? Alas, it is 
 not so ! A demon has insensibly crept into the 
 charmed circle, and is despoiling its beauty. 
 
 "Emily, why will you not go with me to Lady 
 Bil ton's this evening ? " said Alfred, laying down his 
 book ; " you know how I like to have you with me, 
 how I delight to see you admired, as you are wherever 
 you go." 
 
 " I am tired, I cannot go," was the only reply. 
 
 " Nay, darling, if I ask you to oblige me you will 
 go ; time was," he added, incautiously, " that you 
 thought only of pleasing me, nothing that I could 
 wish seemed irksome to you, but now," and he 
 sighed. 
 
 "Alfred," she said, fixing her keen eye on him; 
 " time was when I was all you needed, all you 
 desired ; when my love sufficed you, and in my 
 society you found all that made existence sweet, but 
 now, and she paused with an abruptness that 
 betrayed a jealous, wounded spirit.
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 167 
 
 " Now, you would say, I need other excitement." 
 
 " No, Alfred, now I would say you love me no 
 longer!" and she buried her face in the cushion of 
 the couch on Avhich she was reclining. 
 
 "Emily," he exclaimed; "I love you, passionately 
 love you ; I would sacrifice life, and all I value most, 
 to secure your happiness ; but I fail in every thing ; 
 you deny me the pleasure of feeling that I succeed, in 
 this, the first desire of my heart. I see you restless, 
 and often, forgive the word, wilful. Love accepts no 
 enforced sacrifices, and I shall not ask you to oblige 
 me, if my requests are always to be met in this 
 spirit;" so saying, he quitted the room, and quickly 
 returned, dressed for the evening. 
 
 "Oh! Alfred, you are not going without me," she 
 said, peevishly, raising herself on the sofa ; " how 
 cruel you are ! " 
 
 " Xo, Emily, I am not cruel ; but if you choose 
 your part, I must take mine ; I can no longer 
 exclude myself from the society of my friends, as I 
 have hitherto done, in accordance with your wishes; 
 neither will I force you unwillingly into society." 
 He bent down, kissed her, and went away. 
 
 " Poor Emily ! it was the first time Alfred had 
 shown a determination to follow his own judgment
 
 168 SELF-LOVE AND TKUE LOVE. 
 
 rather than her caprices ; hitherto she had led 
 him whither she would, but the time was come 
 when the force of habit had begun to make itself 
 felt; he had lived too much in excitement, and 
 Emily's power to fascinate him was already failing. 
 Had she known that neither wit nor talent, beauty 
 nor grace, can avail a wife in the attempt to rivet 
 the chains which she has thrown round her lover, 
 she might still have preserved his love and their 
 mutual happiness ; but alas, for her ! a creature of 
 impulse, she knew not that her love, to be the pure 
 ennobling principle of life, must be founded on self- 
 conquest ; that self must be subdued, and the tyrant 
 temper overcome, ere it can rule with its best and 
 holiest sway ; that love, to its perfect work, must be 
 first gentle and patient, then firm and courageoiis, 
 holding as its highest aim, the well-being of its 
 object ; indifferent to all that interferes with this, 
 and ready, at every call, to sacrifice itself to ensure 
 the happiness of the one beloved. Such was not 
 Emily's love; she would have died to save Alfred 
 one pang ; she lived but in his presence, drooping in 
 his absence like a flower deprived of sunshine and 
 air ; she idolized him, worshipped the ground he 
 walked upon, but she could not yield to him one
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 169 
 
 single caprice, or for his sake control one petulant 
 word. Poor Emily! she now hid her burning face 
 in the sofa cushions, and with the feeling of desertion, 
 sobhed herself to sleep. Such scenes were now, alas ! 
 too frequent ; Alfred had truly loved Emily, and 
 would have been easily won by her to become a 
 domestic character, had she possessed the true key 
 to his heart and mind ; but she continually wounded 
 his self-love by reproaches, which he felt to be unjust, 
 and resented in anger. Reconciliations took place, 
 amidst tears and protestations of unchanged and 
 unchanging affection ; but the wounds thus inflicted 
 are never healed ; they bleed inwardly, and burst out 
 afresh on the slightest suspicion of offence. 
 
 At the Grange, on the contrary, all was peace. 
 Margaret's disposition to sadness had gradually given 
 place to a cheerful, healthy tone of mind ; and as she 
 bent over the cradle of her darling child, if tears stole 
 into her eyes, they were tears of grateful joy. One 
 thing alone startled her at times from her tranquillity ; 
 she saw that in spite of Edward's great virtues, and 
 strong religious feelings, he needed strength of pur- 
 pose, and steadiness in the pursuit of what he knew 
 to be right. Many would have recognized in this, 
 only one of those faults that, leaning to virtue's side, 
 15
 
 170 SELF-LOVE AXD TKUE LOVE. 
 
 are too easily overlooked and pardoned ; but not so 
 did Margaret view this weakness in her husband's 
 character ; she saw the dangers to which it exposed 
 him, and, with a wisdom that love alone could have 
 inspired, she gently warned him against them. 
 
 " I shall not go to Enable ton to-day, Margaret," he 
 said one morning. 
 
 " Why not ? I thought that you had appointed to 
 meet Sir John Gascoigne there ; your father seemed to 
 think delay might bring further trouble on the poor 
 Ashtons ; surely you will go, dearest." 
 
 " One day can make but little difference, I think ; 
 I shall be sure to meet Gascoigne at the cricket 
 match to-morrow ; I had every intention of going 
 this morning, but Frank Ardley is just come from 
 Oxford, and he wants me to go to Hensley to give 
 him my opinion of a horse he wishes to pur-, 
 chase." 
 
 " I am sorry it has happened so unfortunately ; you 
 know best whether in this case delay is permissible, 
 but surely appointments on business should be kept, 
 Edward, even at the cost of disappointing Mr. Ardley." 
 
 "Why, Margaret, Ardley is such a good-natured 
 fellow, that I do not like to refuse him." 
 
 "I thought he was no favorite of yours, Edward;
 
 SELF-LOVE AXI) TRUE LOVE. 171 
 
 I have often heard you blame his extravagance and 
 dissipation." 
 
 " True, my love, I have not much dependence on 
 his principles, but he has a kind heart, and that 
 covers a multitude of sins. Have you any commands 
 at Hensley? We shall be home to dinner, dearest." 
 
 Edward knew that he was wrong ; and hastened 
 to make a speedy retreat, lest Margaret's arguments 
 might divert him from his purpose ; but as he drove 
 along, his conscience smote him : it was however too 
 late to retract. The horse was bought, and the two 
 acquaintances were preparing to return, when they 
 met a friend of Ardley's who persuaded them to 
 adjourn to the hotel, where a party of Oxonians was 
 assembled; dinner was served, and "it was impossible" 
 to refuse their urgent entreaties to remain : Edward was 
 mneasy ; he knew that Margaret would wait for them, 
 and perhaps grow anxious ; but as he had never yet 
 learned the important art of saying "No," he yielded 
 It was late ere they reached the Grange at night. 
 
 Margaret had indeed watched anxiously for her 
 husband's return ; during his absence Mr. Morton 
 had called, and he expressed the greatest surprise 
 and indignation on learning that his son was not 
 gone to Embleton. He entreated Margaret to urge
 
 172 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 him on his return to lose not a moment in executing 
 the commission he had entrusted to him, adding, " By 
 this delay Edward has not only placed in jeopardy 
 the welfare of an honest and respectable family, but 
 he has caused his father, whose word has hitherto been 
 honored by all men, to forfeit a solemn promise ; let 
 Edward look well to this matter, for Marmaduke 
 Morton cannot brook dishonor." Hour after hour 
 passed ; dinner had been announced, but Margaret 
 could not eat ; surely he would soon return ; the old 
 turret clock struck ten, eleven, still he 'came not ; 
 midnight was long passed when Margaret's ears, 
 rendered keen by intense listening, detected the 
 sound of approaching wheels. " There he is at 
 length ! " said she, and she rose to meet him ; but 
 before she reached the outer door a gentleman pre- 
 sented himself, who in extreme agitation apologized 
 for the unseasonable intrusion, and asked if Mr. 
 Morton were at home. On Margaret's replying that 
 he was not, but that she expected him every moment, 
 the stranger exclaimed : " It will be too late ! My 
 poor wife ! " Margaret, affected by his genuine grief, 
 invited him into the library; he tottered to a chair, 
 and covering his face with his hands, said, " Forgive 
 me, madam ! it is a cruel blow ; my wealth I could
 
 SELF-LOVE AXD TRUE LOVK. 173 
 
 have parted with; I have with unshaken trust laid 
 my children in the grave, for death is God's own 
 messenger; but disgrace, dishonor, ruin oh, it is 
 too much ! " and the unhappy man burst into an 
 agony of tears. 
 
 "Calm yourself," said Margaret; "I believe I see 
 my husband's friend, Mr. Ashton; Mr. Morton will 
 be here ere long, and all will be right; he will do 
 all he can to aid you." 
 
 Her kind words and kinder tones i$ some degree 
 reassured Mr. Ashton, and he went on to say, "If 
 before nine o'clock to-morrow certain sums are not 
 forthcoming, I shall be dragged to prison; my credit, 
 my good name will be gone, and I shall be a ruined 
 man ; of this money your excellent father-in-law 
 offered to advance a part, if Sir John Gascoigne 
 jrould guarantee the remainder ; his verbal promise 
 I held as secure as any legal deed, and failed to 
 procure a written paper from him; this evening I 
 found to my dismay that without such a document 
 Sir John refused to fulfil his part of the contract ; 
 to-morrow morning is the latest moment that I can 
 hope to keep my creditors amused by promises, and 
 a prison will be my only portion ! " 
 
 Margaret now saw at a glance all the distress that 
 lo*
 
 174 SELF-LOVE AXO TUUK LOVE. 
 
 Edward's delay had occasioned ; to his care this paper 
 had been entrusted, with the injunction that he should 
 see Sir John and negotiate the business for Robert 
 Ashton, who had been suddenly thrown into pecuniary 
 embarrassments by the failure of an extensive mercan- 
 tile speculation, in which he had been incautiously 
 engaged. Edward's dismay was great, when, on his 
 return home, an hour afterwards, he found Mr. Ashton 
 sitting with his wife, and learned from them, that his 
 weakness of purpose had nearly betrayed him into 
 being the cause of his friend's ruin. He lost no 
 time in repairing the evil ; he was with Sir John by 
 early dawn ; secured his written engagement to 
 advance the needful money, and waited on Ashton's 
 principal creditors. On his return home, Margaret 
 met him with tearful eyes, but she uttered no word 
 of reproach ; Edward, touched by her forbearance, 
 pressed her to his heart. " Oh, Margaret," he 
 exclaimed, " how unworthy I am of such a friend, 
 such an adviser! would that I could become more 
 like you, more firm, more true to my own heart; 
 but weak and irresolute, I do the very things my 
 soul abhors; guide me, strengthen me, that I may 
 be more worthy of you." 
 
 ''Nay, dearest Edward, do not speak thus," said
 
 SELF-LOVE AXD TRUE LOYE. 175 
 
 Margaret, leaning on his shoulder and looking on 
 him with admiring love ; " the fault, though fatal in 
 its consequences, is in itself but trivial ; and surely," 
 she added, smiling, "by our united efforts, we shall 
 succeed in routing a feeble enemy." 
 
 And so they did ; faithful to each other in all things, 
 faithful even in blame, did these two noble beings walk 
 on through life, aiding and strengthening each other's 
 virtue. 
 
 About six months after the above incident, Alfred 
 and Emily came to Oldcourt to spend the summer 
 months. The lovely girl had changed into the pale 
 and listless woman, and every one who looked at her 
 mourned over the alteration. Margaret mourned too, 
 but it was for the moral change she detected not only 
 in Emily, but in her brother. Emily's countenance 
 bore the traces, even in its sweetest moments, of a 
 settled discontent, while a fretful, restless expression 
 marred all its former beauty. She had now two lovely 
 little girls, but even for their sake she scarcely roused 
 herself to exertion ; even to their winning ways and 
 exquisite grace she seemed indifferent, while to Alfred 
 they were the source of unbounded joy and pride ; 
 he lived in them, and seemed careless of all beside. 
 To Margaret this appeared as unnatural as it was
 
 176 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 distressing ; she saw that Emily shrank from the 
 delight which Alfred felt in these children, and 
 became impatient and fretful whenever he noticed 
 them in her presence, as if she were jealous of the 
 love he felt for them. 
 
 One fine summer morning, Margaret having tempted 
 her sister to stroll in the park, they found themselves 
 in the path which led to the church, and by which, four 
 years since, they had returned to Oldcourt, two happy 
 brides. Margaret recalled that day to Emily's remem- 
 brance, adding, how different were her feelings as a 
 wife to those she then experienced. 
 
 " Different, indeed ! " Emily replied, with bitterness : 
 " you were right, Margaret, to fear marriage as you 
 did ; oh ! how cruelly have my dreams been dispelled 
 how mad and foolish it is to think that love can 
 last; it is truly our unhappy lot 
 
 1 to make idols, 
 
 And then find them clay.' 
 
 Alfred, whom I believed so true, so kind, so devoted 
 to me, sec him now he scarcely knows if I am 
 present or absent. Oh, Margaret, my heart is broken : 
 would that I could lay my head down and rest in that 
 churchyard."
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TKTJE LOVE. 177 
 
 " Dearest Emily, do not say so ; you have far too 
 many blessings to venture on such a wish ; at all 
 times wrong, in you it is doubly so." 
 
 " Ah ! you do not know all. I look at you some- 
 times with wonder, and, I am afraid, with envy ; you 
 are so happy, you have found Edward all you believed 
 him." 
 
 " And has Alfred been false to you, that you should 
 envy me? " 
 
 " Not false, perhaps ; but he has ceased to love me, 
 and I am wretched." 
 
 " Alfred does not appear to me more happy than 
 yourself, and yet you still love him." 
 
 "Love him! yes, it is.my misery still to idolize 
 him ; I cannot leave him out of my sight I care 
 for no earthly thing but him." 
 
 "But your children?" 
 
 "Oh! yes of course I love them; but" She 
 stopped, and tears choked her voice. 
 
 " But what, dearest ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you you would not understand me, 
 and would only blame me." 
 
 " "When did I ever blame you ? Surely you can 
 trust me ; I desire to see you happy, and if I think 
 you have erred from want of experience, I will strive
 
 178 SELF-LOVE AND TKUE LOVE. 
 
 to set you right, as one frail, sinful creature should 
 alone correct another, in the spirit of true love ; speak 
 freely to me, my dear sister, let me be your friend and 
 comforter." 
 
 Emily, unused to such kind and reasonable 
 treatment, covered her face and burst into tears ; 
 then recovering herself, she went on to say, " If 
 you had been always by my side, I should have 
 been wiser and happier, but I have no hope, no 
 comfort now; Alfred will never love me again, 
 and the world is all dark to me." 
 
 " Are you sure he has ever left off loving you ? 
 Alfred is not one to change lightly ; what has 
 happened to make you think him less loving than 
 formerly ? " 
 
 "Cannot you see," rejoined Emily, pettishly "how 
 indifferent and careless he is about me ? he never 
 wants me, any one's society is preferable to mine ; 
 he leaves me alone for hours, sits in his room 
 studying, he says, while I am solitary and deserted." 
 
 " This is so unlike Alfred ; are you sure you have 
 made his home a happy one ? Have you always been 
 cheerful and considerate of his wishes, have you met 
 him with smiles, and been willing at times to 
 sacrifice your own inclinations to gratify his ? "
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TKUE LOVE. 179 
 
 " I would have given up every thing to him, 
 Margaret, but he told me he wanted no sacrifices." 
 
 " If you made him feel them as such, no wonder he 
 would not accept them. Love does but half its work, 
 if it cannot succeed in making all sacrifices appear 
 as nothing. As wives, we must not expect to receive 
 the same outward marks of devotion that were yielded 
 to us before marriage ; the manner of evincing affec- 
 tion may, nay, it must change, and yet the feeling can 
 remain unaltered. Have you not looked for too much 
 from Alfred, and exacted too much subservience to 
 your wishes, while you yielded too little deference 
 to his?" 
 
 Emily colored and hesitated, then replied: "You 
 may be right to a certain extent; but Alfred has 
 thrown me off, he goes his own way, seeks his own 
 amusements, cares only for the children, and forgets 
 my existence ; he is always in society, while I do not 
 care for it." 
 
 " Perhaps you let him see too clearly your dislike 
 to society, forgetting, Emily, that the habits of 
 years' standing may have become a second nature 
 to him." 
 
 "Alfred knew that I hated those stupid dinner- 
 parties, and yet he teased me to go with him; 1
 
 180 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 
 
 only wanted him, while he found my company 
 wearisome." 
 
 "Then you refused to accompany him?" 
 
 ** Yes, certainly ; why should I go, when I have 
 no pleasure in such things? and he could not want 
 me, you know," she added rather doubtfully. 
 
 "Alfred may have submitted to your caprices, 
 Emily ; but a man who loves his wife, as he loves 
 you, likes to have her always with him ; even in a 
 crowd he is conscious of her presence, and rejoices 
 in the admiration she excites." 
 
 " I care for no admiration but that of my husband," 
 said Emily, coldly. 
 
 " But you may care whether you give him pleasure, 
 or selfishly refuse to do so. Believe me, Emily, a 
 woman not only contributes to her husband's 
 happiness by studying his wishes, but acquires 
 influence of the best kind an influence, for the 
 use of Avhich she is responsible to God." 
 
 " Do you think, Margaret, that I could ever gain 
 such an influence over Alfred? He looks upon me 
 as a spoiled child, and treats me as such." 
 
 " You can gain it, dearest Emily, if you earnestly 
 desire to do so ; learn to be patient, endeavor to find 
 out what your husband really desires ; he will not
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUE LOVE. 181 
 
 lead you astray, for he is kind and generous, and 
 high-principled. Do not think of yourself so much; 
 think more of him; and you will find the happiness 
 that you have hitherto sought in vain." i 
 
 " Saying this, Margaret kissed her sister, and left 
 her to reflect on what had been said ; conscious that, 
 in spite of her waywardness, Emily had too much 
 good sense not to perceive and act upon the truths 
 she had heard. Faithful to her brother as to Emily, 
 Margaret pointed out to him the rocks on which 
 he had wrecked his own and his wife's happiness; 
 and long before they quitted Oldcourt, she saw a 
 better understanding established between them. Nor 
 were her warnings forgotten on their return to 
 London. Emily was amazed to find that Alfred 
 sought less, than before, the excitement of society, 
 while she was more than ever ready to be his com- 
 panion in all he desired. By a slight mutual 
 concession, these two hearts were preserved to each 
 other, and peace and joy took the place of fretfulness 
 and misery. Thus may it ever be ! Warned in time, 
 may the selfish learn that safety can alone be found 
 in loving others better than ourselves ; and may 
 love become in all hearts an active principle of good, 
 seeking not its own, but the happiness of others. 
 16
 
 TO M. A. G. 
 
 i KNOW not what a nameless charm 
 
 Invested all thy motions ; 
 And, as I gazed my heart grew warm 
 
 With strange, yet sweet, emotions. 
 
 We met again ; thy gentle touch 
 Thrilled all my latent pulses; 
 
 But, lest my soul should hope too much, 
 I thought of Love's repulses. 
 
 We met again; I watched thine eye; 
 
 It ever shunned my glances ; 
 And I began to brood and sigh 
 
 O'er fortune's fickle chances. 
 
 Thy smiles were given to all but me ; 
 
 To all but me thy speeches; 
 How flatt'ring such neglect may be, 
 
 Experience only teaches !
 
 TO M. A. 6. 183 
 
 A sickly feeling o'er me came ; 
 
 I felt my spirit dying ; 
 Thy gentle self I could not blame, 
 
 So blamed my fond relying. 
 
 We met again, to say farewell; 
 
 But when I spoke of parting, 
 Regretful tears in silence fell, 
 
 Thy secret love imparting. 
 
 What fond emotions stirred my breast 
 
 When I beheld thy sorrow! 
 Then every doubt was set at rest, 
 
 And brightly dawned the morrow ! 
 
 And still around thee hangs the charm 
 
 That drew my first attention ; 
 And still my heart as fondly warm, 
 
 In love knows no declension.
 
 THE WITHERED ROSE. 
 [FEOM A PASTOB'S RECOLLECTIONS.] 
 
 IT is now between thirty and forty years since 1 
 entered on my pastoral office in the quiet neighborhood 
 where I live. When I first undertook its duties I was 
 young and energetic ; and though I feel myself to be 
 as active as I could reasonably expect after the lapse 
 of so many years, I begin to think myself not quite 
 so young as when I first took charge of my flock. 
 My tastes are more subdued. I no longer aspire 
 after bold, wild scenery, but become every day more 
 satisfied with the tranquil views which surround me ; 
 and as I look from the window of my snug parsonage, 
 I fancy that the pleasant fields, sprinkled with their 
 store of daisies, are fresher and greener than when 
 first I saw them ; the gurgling brook, across whose 
 waters the willow here and there casts a shadow, 
 seems to make sweeter music as it winds its way, 
 than it used when first I heard it. The very sound
 
 THE WITHERED ROSE. 185 
 
 of the mill, which formerly disturbed me, has now 
 such a lulling effect, that I should feel something 
 was wanted to my repose were it to cease ; and each 
 year the steeple which out-tops the trees in which 
 the church is embosomed, becomes a dearer object to 
 me. How often have I seen groups on the Sabbath 
 morning leading their way through the pleasant green 
 lanes to the House of Prayer, called by the chimes 
 of its bells ; on many an one of that dear flock 
 whom I had christened, have I bestowed the nuptial 
 benediction ; and over, alas ! not a few of those I 
 held in my arms at the baptismal font, I have 
 performed the last rites. Among all my young 
 parishioners, there was not one that I loved more 
 than Jessie Williams ; it was not for her beauty, 
 remarkable as it was; it was her pleasant and 
 caressing ways and her sensitive nature which made 
 her irresistible. She was but a few months old 
 when I christened her, and she had already lost her 
 father ; and this dear child was now all in all to her 
 poor mother. I have often seen her when an infant 
 lying on the lap of the widow, whose silent tears fell 
 as she leant over her, trying to trace in her infantine 
 features a resemblance to him who was gone. I felt 
 deeply interested in the early sorrows of the young
 
 186 THE WITHERED KOBE. 
 
 widow, and in the piety which sustained her under 
 them. As the child grew apace, her affectionate 
 disposition, and the manner in which she attached 
 herself to me, made me love her so dearly, that she 
 became almost necessary to my happiness. She was 
 about seven years old when I was slowly recovering 
 from a severe fit of illness, and she would steal softly 
 to my bedside every morning with the bunch of flowers 
 which she had collected, and with the little basket of 
 strawberries gathered by herself, and she would feed 
 me with tliem from her own tiny fingers. She was 
 of such a warm and confiding nature, that she was the 
 favorite among all her young companions ; and it 
 was even remarked of her that she never lost a 
 friend except by death her kindness was so 
 unwavering, and her constancy so secure. No 
 wonder that she was the comfort and the delight 
 of her mother's days ; the pride with which she 
 looked at her was but natural, for she was indeed 
 lovely ; and years, as they sped on, stole nothing 
 from the innocence and warmth of her heart. One 
 of her young friends, her own especial friend, was to 
 be married, and Jessie was to be bridemaid, and the 
 bride entreated to have her home to spend some 
 time. Jessie longed to accept the invitation, and the
 
 THE WITHEEED BO8E. 187 
 
 young girls in the neighborhood promised to be 
 company for her mother during her absence ; and 
 she, glad to see her darling gratified, gave a ready 
 permission. The bridal-party went to the town of 
 
 , and it so happened that the bridegroom's 
 
 greatest friend, Captain Danvers, was quartered 
 here. The friends were delighted to meet, and the 
 young officer was soon domesticated in his house. 
 He was a great acquisition to the little party, for 
 besides being remarkably prepossessing in manners 
 and appearance, he was skilled in the accomplishments 
 most prized in society ; and, captivated immediately 
 by Jessie's beauty, he made himself as agreeable as 
 possible. Ever by her side, he could look at or 
 listen to nobody but her. He attended her to all 
 the pleasantest walks in the neighborhood ; he sung 
 for her beautiful songs of his own composition with 
 the most exquisite taste. Jessie was enchanted, and 
 could have listened for ever. Week after week sped 
 on, intimacy and confidence increasing every day. 
 All the verses which he wrote were repeated to her, 
 and copies given ; and never were verses more 
 expressive of deep affection and touching tenderness. 
 Jessie's name was not mentioned in the effusions, 
 but her heart told her for whom they were meant.
 
 188 THE WITHERED ROSE. 
 
 Once, indeed, the name did escape, and the betrayal 
 produced the greatest confusion on his part as well 
 as on hers ; but in this very confusion there was 
 so much meaning and sympathy that it was very 
 delightful to her. Sometimes vague expressions of 
 affection, and allusions to feelings and intentions, 
 seemed but the prelude to an open avowal of his 
 attachment and his wishes ; to Jessie's truthful and 
 confiding disposition, his words, his looks, and his 
 attentions were as sure a pledge of affection as any 
 verbal declaration. As the time for her return home 
 drew near, he became sad and abstracted, and tears 
 rose to Jessie's eyes when the moment of leave-taking 
 came ; and then he spoke, as he often did, of their 
 meeting very, very soon, for he had got her permission 
 to visit her at home. 
 
 " You may be sure," he added, " that I shall not be 
 long after you ; and will you promise me, that when 
 you see me wending my way up your avenue one of 
 these days, you will not desire the servant to say not 
 at home?" 
 
 A smile and a blush gave Jessie's answer, and he 
 
 raised the fair hand, which he had fondly clasped, and 
 
 kissed it passionately. Jessie travelled homewards, 
 
 elated by love and trust. As she threw herself into
 
 THE WITHERED KO3E. 189 
 
 her mother's arms, she felt that there was not in all 
 the wide world one so happy as herself. .... Long 
 did she wait for that promised visit, and still she would 
 saunter to the window, and watch as far as eye could 
 reach the windings of the road ; and often has her 
 heart jumped to her lips, as she fancied that she could 
 discern in the horseman who approached, the air and 
 figure of him for whom she looked. The first glow 
 of morning light and the last of departing day dis- 
 covered the poor girl watching for her lover. Thus 
 weeks and weeks passed over, and then doubts arose ; 
 he might have never loved, as she had thought ; he 
 might have forgotten. But ah ! that cannot be did 
 he not write those lines with his own hand and his 
 own heart and is he not. good and true ? And then 
 she would read Over and over again the passionate 
 lines which he had penned lines so fixed in her 
 memory that she needed not to have read them, but 
 that she loved to see the very words that he had 
 written, as if they could ensure his constancy ; and, 
 reassured, she would look to the clear blue skies, and 
 think that the blessing of Heaven would rest upon 
 love pure and unalterable as theirs : but months went 
 by, and still he did not come. At length, she heard 
 by mere chance that the regiment was under orders
 
 190 THE WITHERED ROSE. 
 
 for foreign service ; he then would surely come to 
 open his mind before the seas parted them, at least 
 to take leave of one who had appeared for a few happy 
 months to have been all the world to him. He came 
 not ; but ere long was on his way to a distant land. 
 Poor Jessie strove to stifle her feelings, but she could 
 not hide them from her mother, from whom she had 
 no secret. They soon wrought a sad change in her, 
 which even a casual observer could not but perceive. 
 Her mother's looks constantly followed her, for her 
 languid air and dejected countenance awakened most 
 anxious fears ; for my part, I could not see her without 
 the most melancholy foreboding that we were not to 
 have her long. There seemed a sublimity* in her 
 shadowy form as she passed along the aisle of our 
 little church, as if she were no longer of the earth ; 
 and the tones of her voice were so sweet and touching, 
 as she joined in the psalmody, that I thought them 
 already fitted for mingling with a celestial choir ; tears 
 would trickle down the cheeks of her young com- 
 panions as she sung. I felt greatly troubled about 
 her, physicians were consulted. Alas ! they cannot 
 prescribe for disappointed feelings ! They could only 
 recommend tonics ; and, as they could not specify any 
 particular ailment, they referred her case to general
 
 THE WITHERED BOSE. 191 
 
 delicacy, and pronounced it somewhat precarious, and 
 requiring great care. Every month that went was 
 evidently loosening her hold of life, and she was 
 gradually fading away. Some family arrangements 
 just at that time, required my presence in London, 
 where I was detained for a few weeks. When I 
 returned, I was shocked to see how much worse 
 Jessie was than when I had left home. She was 
 sadly wasted. Her poor mother still had hopes ; for 
 hope is the last thing with which we will part, " albeit, 
 though that hope is vain ; " and at times when I have 
 called and talked with her, I have been persuaded to 
 hope, though there was nothing to justify it. Few 
 have not experienced the delusion so often described 
 by poets ; and Moore has spoken the feelings of many, 
 when he says of those who were under similar circum- 
 stances with ourselves 
 
 "We still had hope for hopes will stay ' 
 
 After the sunset of delight; 
 So like the star that ushers day 
 "We scarce can think it heralds night ! " 
 
 However, increasing weakness became too evident, 
 and the dear child could no longer take her seat by
 
 192 THE WITHEBED KOSE. 
 
 the open window, to look out upon the green fields 
 and woods ; but was obliged to keep entirely to bed. 
 One morning a message was brought that Mrs. Will- 
 iams was anxious that I should go over as soon as 
 possible, for that Miss Williams was much worse, 
 and was wishing earnestly to see me. With a heavy 
 heart I obeyed the summons. As I went on my way, 
 fancy conjured up the scenes in which I had been 
 accustomed to see Jessie take her part ; I could 
 picture her a merry little sprite, bounding on through 
 the paths before me, filling her held-up frock with 
 wild flowers, which she gathered at random on her 
 way, and ever and anon turning to look back at me 
 with a lightsome laugh, while the breeze blew her 
 hair about her sweet face. As I drew near the porch 
 before the door, the odor of the roses and woodbine 
 with which it was covered brought many a recollection. 
 How is it that the perfume of flowers, so evanescent 
 in itself, is so powerful in recalling feelings and 
 awakening the memories of other days ? How often 
 the sweet girl welcomed me at that porch ! What 
 affectionate looks and glad tones used to await me 
 there ! I was soon by the bed where she lay, and 
 by which her disconsolate mother was sitting. She 
 looked at me with a sweet smile, but none of us could
 
 IHE WIIHEBED BOSE. 193 
 
 speak for a moment ; she then said a word, but it was 
 so low that I did not hear it. Her mother, to whom 
 it was addressed, took a glass which held some flowers 
 from the table where it stood, and brought it to her. 
 With a weak and trembling hand she took a rose 
 from among them, and handing it to me, said, " It 
 is not the first time." "No darling no darling 
 it is not indeed." " How kind you are, my dear sir, 
 how very, very kind. I perceive how sorry you are 
 to see your little Jessie lying sick ; but I sometimes 
 think that I may recover. You are used, dear sir, 
 to see sick people; do you think I may recover? I 
 should like to walk along the green fields, and among 
 the shady trees, as I used ; and to hear the singing 
 of the birds ; do you think that I shall ever ? " I 
 could not speak, but I pressed the dear wasted hand 
 which I held. " But I have things to say," resumed 
 she, after a moment's silence : " what I have upon my 
 mind, before you pray beside me what I feel most 
 of all is my own dear mother I should like to stay 
 by her side but you will say all to comfort her, and 
 you will often sit by her, aiid.talk of me. I have very 
 often heard you say, my dear sir, that you thought we 
 should know our friends in heaven ; think of that, dear 
 mother don't cry so think of that, dear mother. 
 17
 
 194 TUi; \VIXHJBHED KOSE. 
 
 And another thing that I would ask you to do and 
 that is all I would ask you, my dear sir, if ever 
 chance should throw in your way any that may think 
 that they have done me wrong that may think that 
 through their means I have been disappointed in any 
 way to tell them I had no anger towards them ; 
 and if such a word as forgiveness should come to be 
 mentioned, say that I forgave, and bid them not to 
 let a thought of me disturb their peace." A tear 
 trembled on her eyelash as she spoke, but she soon 
 looked in our faces with a smiling countenance. 
 There was a holy calm about her, as she joined in 
 our devotions, which was soothing to her mother's 
 feelings, as well as to mine. Towards evening she 
 appeared very languid, and complained of fatigue, but 
 said that if her mother rested her head on the pillow 
 beside her, she thought she could sleep. I thought 
 she had fallen into a sweet slumber before I left the 
 house, but I found, on sending early the next morning 
 to inquire for her, that it had been her long last sleep, 
 so easily did that sweet spirit pass away. I had taken 
 the rose that she had given me from my bosom, and 
 placed it in the page that I had last read to her, in my 
 prayer-book, and I felt it was no profanation ; it has 
 remained there ever since, and whenever I look at
 
 THE WITHERED ROSE. 195 
 
 the poor faded flower, it recalls a scene which I can 
 never forget. Though " all her pleasant things are 
 laid waste," the poor mother bears her affliction 
 patiently, and takes comfort in thinking of so good 
 a child. Nearly two years after Jessie's death, I 
 saw in the newspaper, a notice of Captain Danvers's 
 marriage to a rich heiress. I need not say how I 
 felt. I opened the book which lay beside me, and 
 looked at the poor withered rose. 

 
 THE MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 O FLOWER upon the mountain top ! 
 
 With tints so soft and rare, 
 What charm, in this sweet world of ours, 
 
 Shall we to thee compare? 
 
 Thou'rt like this gentle maiden's cheek 
 
 So delicately fair, 
 Than which in this sweet world of ours 
 
 There's naught so soft or rare. 
 
 O maiden fair and delicate ! 
 
 With lowly modest mien, 
 Among the lovely things of earth, 
 
 Can aught like thee be seen? 
 
 Is not the lowly mountain flower 
 
 A fitting type of thee, 
 Blooming unconscious that an eye 
 
 Looks on it lovingly?
 
 
 
 -. 
 
 jjJMiss
 
 CLEMENCE ISAURE; 
 
 OR, THE FLOEAL GAMES. 
 
 A HISTORICAL TALE. 
 
 IT was a cold frosty morning in November, 1478, 
 two knights, mounted on noble and richly-caparisoned 
 steeds, advanced rapidly along the banks of the 
 Garonne towards the city of Toulouse. At some 
 distance from the gates of this ancient capital of 
 Languedoc, they approached an humble dwelling, 
 whose outstretched sign proclaimed the important 
 fact, that " Here Poirot lodges both man and liorse." 
 The youngest of the travellers, addressing mine 
 host, who had hastened to his open door on hearing 
 the sound of horses' feet, inquired of him which 
 was the way to the castle of the Countess of 
 Toulouse. 
 
 " You have not far to go, Sir Knight," replied the 
 man, pointing towards the town ; " follow the course 
 17*
 
 198 CLEMENCE ISAUEE. 
 
 of the river, and where yon dark shadow rests so 
 heavily, you will find the castle. But may I not 
 offer you some refreshment, noble sirs ? " continued 
 the host. 
 
 " Not now," replied the younger stranger, " but 
 I thank you for your information ; " and dropping a 
 piece of money into his hand, he galloped on. After 
 a moment he reigned up his steed, and addressing his 
 companion : " Have I made my wishes clearly under- 
 stood by thee, my good Raymond ? Thou knowest 
 how my honored and lamented father, the Lord of 
 Nesle, pledged himself before his death to the Count 
 of Toulouse, that I should marry his daughter, 
 Clemence Isaure. All the articles of the contract 
 have been drawn out between them, and a fine of 
 ten thousand golden crowns imposed on either of 
 the parties who may decline fufilling the engage- 
 ment. I have never seen my betrothed, and truth 
 to say, I thought of nothing less than coming to 
 claim her hand, when last week, I received through the 
 king's courier a letter from the countess, acquainting 
 me that her health was failing fast, and that she 
 dreaded leaving her daughter alone in the world, 
 and therefore requested my presence at her castle, 
 for the fulfilment of my father's engagement."
 
 CLEMENCE ISATJKE. 199 
 
 " The heiress of the house of Toulouse must be 
 wealthy, Sire Amaury." 
 
 " Immensely rich, Raymond." 
 
 "Is she young and pretty?" 
 
 " Ah ! that is what I am somewhat doubtful about, 
 Raymond ; and therefore am I come incognito, to 
 ascertain for myself, whether it be not better to pay 
 the ten thousand golden crowns than to marry." 
 
 " I have heard, far and near, of the wit, talents, 
 and learning of the lady Clemence." 
 
 " That is just what alarms me, Raymond ; a learned 
 woman, who perhaps understands orthography ! Out ! 
 How tiresome that would be, Raymond ! Why, I 
 would as soon marry my preceptor as a learned 
 lady. But here we are at the castle gate. Now, 
 let me see if thou dost remember thy part." 
 
 " Listen, my lord. I am a messenger from you, 
 
 old Richard, your trusty attendant, and the bearer of 
 a letter from you to the countess as well as a gift 
 to her noble daughter. So far, all is true, but now 
 comes the fiction ; for you, the Sire of Nesle, the 
 most amiable and distinguished young nobleman at 
 the court of France, are to be my squire the poor 
 scion of an honorable family, and now your name
 
 200 CLEMENCE ISATJRE. 
 
 "Gerard," said Amaury, smiling. "Now, sound 
 the horn." 
 
 Raymond having obeyed, the porter appeared ; and, 
 after conveying Raymond's message to the lady of 
 Toulouse, quickly returned to summon the travellers 
 to her presence. 
 
 " What an ancient castle, my master ! " whispered 
 the young Marquis de Nesle to his companion, as they 
 followed the servant through a long suite of gloomy 
 apartments. How sad and silent it is ! methinks 
 that science breathes in every corner of it. I lay 
 a bet that the lady Clemence is as old and as stiff 
 as these portraits of her ancestors." 
 
 At this moment, the servant who preceded them 
 having raised a tapestry-hanging, they found them- 
 selves at the entrance of a vast saloon, at the 
 extreme end of which were two ladies ; one of whom 
 presented the very image just portrayed by Amaury. 
 She was seated in a large easy chair, and on a low 
 stool at her feet was a young girl, whose rich dark 
 ringlets fell in profusion on her neck and shoulders ; 
 her back was towards the door, and she was repeating 
 aloud some poem, to which the elder lady listened 
 with the deepest attention. The strangers were no 
 sooner announced, than the young lady, rising up
 
 CLEMENCE ISATJUE. 201 
 
 hastily, revealed to the Sire de Nesle a countenance 
 radiant with health and beauty." 
 
 "Be welcome," she said, addressing Raymond. 
 " Pray, sir, excuse my lady-mother from advancing 
 to greet you." And then, with a look of inexpres- 
 sible sadness, she pointed to her mother's closed and 
 sightless eyes. 
 
 Raymond bowed with profound respect; and 
 drawing from beneath his cloak a Bible superbly 
 bound, and clasped with gold, together with a 
 parchment sealed with green wax, whereon were 
 stamped the arms of the noble house of Nesle : 
 "Madam," said he, "these are sent by my lord 
 and master, the Sire of Nesle. A very important 
 affair detains him unwillingly for a few days at 
 court." 
 
 Amaury's eyes were fixed upon the lady Clemence 
 with surprise and admiration. 
 
 " A Bible, a printed Bible ! " exclaimed Clemence, 
 opening the book and placing it on her mother's knees. 
 " Oh, what a treasure ! I have never seen one of this 
 impression before." 
 
 "Is it very readable, my daughter?" inquired the 
 countess, feeling with her long white fingers the pages 
 of the book.
 
 202 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 
 
 " O ! perfectly so, my dear mother ; only listen a 
 moment," and her eye fell on the following passage : 
 ' And now, if ye will deal kindly and truly with my 
 master, tell me ; and if not, tell me, that I may turn 
 to the right hand or to the left.' " It is the passage 
 of Genesis, where Abraham's servant arrives in Meso- 
 potamia, to choose a wife for his master, Isaac," said 
 Clemence, addressing her mother. 
 
 " The history of Abraham's servant is my own, noble 
 lady," rejoined Raymond. 
 
 Clemence blushed deeply. 
 
 " Your allusion to this history, sir, reminds me of 
 my neglect in not offering you and your young 
 companion some refreshment ; " and summoning an 
 attendant, she desired that the evening repast might 
 be served as speedily as possible. 
 
 "Clemence," said the countess, "read to me the 
 Sire de Nesle's epistle." 
 
 While breaking the seal, her daughter observed in 
 a low voice, "You know, dear mother, the only 
 condition on which I would consent to accept the 
 Sire de Nesle for my lord and master." 
 
 " There is a fine, my child," said the countess. 
 
 "We can pay it, my lady-mother." 
 
 " But there is a promise pledged, child."
 
 CLEM.EXCE ISAUKE. 203 
 
 " There is also a Sauf la Vue, madam, and I may 
 not perhaps please the Sire de Nesle." 
 
 . " Oh, impossible ! " imprudently exclaimed the pre- 
 tended squire. 
 
 Clemence looked at him with so noble and severe 
 an aspect, that the aged Raymond hastened to address 
 her. 
 
 " Pardon my squire, noble lady ; he is the 
 impoverished scion of an ancient family, and 
 my master has somewhat spoiled Gerard by his 
 kindness." 
 
 " Gerard ! " repeated the lady Clemence, " your 
 name is Gerard, sir?" said she, addressing Amaury 
 with an air of modest dignity. 
 
 "It is impossible to deceive you, noble damoiselle. 
 I am the Sire de Nesle ; " for before the candid and 
 inquiring glance of Clemence deception seemed useless. 
 
 The aged countess rose up hastily. 
 
 "The Sire de Nesle here already? Oh! pardon 
 my emotion, Sire, but the desire for my child's 
 happiness is mingled with sorrow at the thought of 
 losing her so speedily." 
 
 " Behold in me, madam, the most respectful of 
 sons," said the Sire de Nesle, bending his knee to 
 salute the countess's hand. Then turning towards
 
 204 CLEMENCE ISA.UHE. 
 
 Clemence, and seeing her pale and silent, he added, 
 "Are you displeased with me fair lady?" 
 
 " Although it would have been more generous of 
 you, Sire, to appear at first in your own character," 
 replied Clemence, " I bear you no ill-will ; but before 
 we pledge ourselves" 
 
 " Clemence ! " interrupted her mother hastily. 
 
 " Pardon me, dear mother," resumed the young 
 girl, with a trembling voice. " Sire de Nesle, my 
 mother has me only in the world. You see her 
 misfortune. I alone am able to make her smile, to 
 shed a little sunshine on her darkened life. Promise 
 me, therefore, here on this Bible, on the first gift I have 
 received at your hand, that you will never separate me 
 from my mother. With this assurance, I am willing 
 to accept you as my lord and master; to be your 
 wife, your companion, your attendant, if needs be." 
 
 " I promise it," said Amaury, as deeply moved as 
 the Lady Clemence herself. 
 
 " Dear, dear child," said the countess, pressing her 
 daughter to her bosom, "God has been merciful in 
 leaving me such an angel. Sire de Nesle, know 
 what a treasure you are receiving from me. For 
 the sake of relieving the tedium of her blind 
 mother's life, she has devoted herself to study
 
 CLEMENCE ISAUEE. 205 
 
 during the joyous spring-time of her life. She has 
 passed many a midnight hour in searching the olden 
 chronicles, that she might find wherewith to amuse 
 me on the ensuing day. She has made herself 
 mistress of the gay science, that she might sing to 
 me, at twilight, lays of love and glory. Peace, my 
 daughter, I will say all. She has studied not for 
 fame, not even for the mere love of knowledge, but 
 for her mother's sake. Such a daughter must prove 
 a tender wife, a virtuous mother. Sire de Nesle, oh, 
 love her well, and make her happy ! " 
 
 Tears rolled down the aged countess's cheeks ; nor 
 could Amaury and Raymond listen, without being 
 deeply moved. As for Clemence, she concealed her 
 emotion beneath a smile, and, addressing the countess, 
 said, " Leave my praises, dearest mother, I pray 
 you, to less interested judges, and let us think only 
 of these noble gentlemen, who honor us with their 
 company. Perhaps they may favor us with some 
 account of what is doing at court in Paris. Tell us 
 somewhat, I pray you, concerning this wondrous art 
 of printing, and whence this costly Bible was 
 procured." 
 
 " My father purchased it from Gutenberg himself, 
 during a journey he made to Mentz, in 1452. John 
 18
 
 206 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 
 
 Gensfleisch, for that was his real name, had just 
 then entered into partnership with Fust, one of 
 whose workmen, Peter Scheffer, had invented cast 
 metal types instead of those rude wooden letters, 
 strung together with pack-thread, which had been 
 previously used." 
 
 " They have, no doubt, raised statues to Gutenberg 
 and Fust," said Clemence. 
 
 " So far from it, fair lady, that Fust had a narrow 
 escape of being burnt to death," replied the Sire de 
 Nesle. 
 
 Both the ladies made exclamations of surprise. 
 " Yes, truly, for so it was, that Fust coming to 
 Paris with the hope of selling his Bibles there, the 
 copyists were so enraged at his offering them at a 
 lower price than they demanded for their own books, 
 that they accused him of magic ; and, by my faith, he 
 was about to be burnt, when the king took him under 
 his protection, purchased his books, and gave him an 
 asylum in his palace." 
 
 " Well done of Louis ! I love him for that ! " 
 exclaimed Clemence, with almost childish glee. 
 
 At this moment, supper was announced ; and after 
 having gracefully fulfilled the duties of hospitality 
 Clemence, at a late hour of the" evening, announced
 
 CLEMEXCE ISAURE. 207 
 
 to the travellers, that their apartments were prepared ; 
 so bidding a courteous good night to the ladies of 
 the castle, Amaury and his companion followed the 
 attendants, who preceded them with torches of 
 blazing resin. 
 
 The city of Toulouse discoursed joyously concerning 
 the splendid alliance about to be formed by the last 
 remaining scion of the noble house of Toulouse ; * 
 and even the aged countess seemed for awhile to 
 forget her own sorrows in the approaching happiness 
 of her child. Amaury was deeply enamored of the 
 lady Clemence, and she received with gentle satis- 
 faction the many proofs of his tenderness and 
 devotion. Sometimes, however, even in her happiest 
 moments, a shade of sadness would steal across her 
 features, clouding for a while the bright serenity of 
 her countenance. 
 
 It was the eve of that eventful day on which their 
 marriage contract was to be signed. Clemence, who 
 had often expressed her peculiar love for violets, 
 found, on rising, a large nosegay of her favorite 
 
 * The house of Nesle was one of the most ancient and noble, 
 as well as one of the wealthiest families in France.
 
 208 CLEMENCE ISAXJRE. 
 
 flowers upon her toilet-table. The weather being 
 intensely cold, she expressed her surprise and admi- 
 ration at so unexpected a gift. 
 
 "And how much more would my dear mistress prize 
 them," said Susan, her foster-sister and attendant, " if 
 she knew that they well nigh cost the Sire de Nesle 
 his life this morning." 
 
 "Good heavens! what do you mean?" inquired 
 Clemence, turning deadly pale. 
 
 "And it would have been all my fault too," 
 continued Susan. " Oh ! I never would have for- 
 given myself. Only imagine, my dear mistress, that 
 having overheard the Sire de Nesle say yesterday 
 that he would gladly give a pound of his blood for 
 every violet he could procure, I told him that he 
 might obtain them at a much cheaper rate ; for that 
 the astrologer who lives at the opposite side of the 
 Garonne, possessed the marvellous art of making 
 them flourish at all seasons, and was willing 
 enough to sell them for a few livres tournois. So, 
 this morning at break of day, Pierrelle rowed the 
 Sire de Nesle across the river in his boat ; it was 
 Pierrelle who told me all about it. The astrologer 
 had only this one bunch of violets, for which the 
 Sire de Nesle gave I don't know how many crowns;
 
 CLEMENCE ISATJRE. 209 
 
 and on his return in the boat, he was so overjoyed 
 at his prize, that in a fit of laughter he leant carelessly 
 over the boat, and dropped the flowers into the river. 
 Behold you ! without making any more ado about 
 it, my lord springs into the water and seizes the 
 nosegay, but the water was so deadly cold that it 
 chilled his limbs and he could not swim. Fortunately, 
 Pierrelle drew him safely into the boat." 
 
 "And he has not been hurt?" inquired Clemence, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " He has only caught cold," replied Susan. 
 
 Clemence, looking upon the violets with emotion, 
 placed them in her dark hair, and descended to the 
 saloon, where she! found Amaury seated by the blazing 
 hearth. He rose to greet her, and fixing his eyes 
 upon the violets, seemed by his glance to thank her 
 for wearing them. 
 
 " I ought to scold you, Sire Amaury," she said 
 to him, " for thus adventuring so precious a life, 
 but I go to seek my mother, that she may do so." 
 
 " Stay a moment, dearest Clemence," said the 
 knight ; " let us converse awhile, I have so many 
 things to say to you. Raymond is gone to Paris 
 this morning, and I have charged him to prepare 
 your house without delay, and to engage your 
 18*
 
 210 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 
 
 domestics. He has my commands to spare no 
 expense, and all must be ready before spring." 
 
 " Do you think, Amaury, that my mother will then 
 be able to undertake so long a journey?" 
 
 "Your mother, Clemence! does she mean to 
 accompany us to Paris?" 
 
 "Amaury! do you already forget the stipulation 
 I made on the evening of your arrival, and your 
 own promise on the Bible ? " 
 
 " Pardon me, dear Clemence ; but have you also 
 remembered that my duty will recall me at that time 
 to court? And will you refuse to accompany me 
 thither ? " 
 
 " No, assuredly, Amaury, but my mother can come 
 with us." 
 
 " And she shall be mistress under my roof, even 
 as she is here," said Amaury, with tenderness. 
 
 " I expected no less from your courtesy. Thanks, 
 dear Amaury," said Clemence, in a grateful tone. 
 
 " How I shall rejoice, Clemence, to present you at 
 court; to see you loveliest among the lovely, wittiest 
 among the witty ; for you will eclipse all those 
 noble ladies with your wit and your acquirements." 
 
 "What an idea," said Clemence, laughing ; "as if 
 one studied for the sake of eclipsing others ! Oh, no,
 
 CtEMEXCE ISAUKE. 211 
 
 Amaury ; it was only to amuse my poor mother, I 
 assure you," she added with a sigh. 
 
 " Be it so, Clemence, but you will not object to 
 shine at court for the sake of pleasing your husband, 
 win you?" 
 
 " It will be my happiness and my duty, Messire." 
 
 " There are to be brilliant fetes in honor of the 
 marriage of the Dauphin with Anne of Brittany. 
 You shall be present at them all, and no lady there 
 shall surpass you in magnificence of dress." 
 
 " And my mother, what will she do, Amaury, while 
 I am dancing ? " inquired Clemence, after a moment 
 of sorrowful hesitation. 
 
 Her question was unheeded by Amaury, who 
 continued : " And if I am called to the king's 
 councils, of which there is an early prospect, you, 
 beloved Clemence, shall be the sharer of every secret ; 
 you shall ever be at my side in the hours of my 
 retirement, and my own opinion shall never be 
 suffered to prevail over yours." 
 
 " But, while I am thus occupied with affairs of 
 state," said Clemence in a melancholy and reproachful 
 tone, " who will take care of my mother, Sire de 
 Nesle ? " 
 
 "Your mother?" said Amaury, suddenly struck
 
 212 CLEMENCE ISAUEE. 
 
 with the change in Clemencc's countenance. " Your 
 mother ! I thought not of her, dearest ; your mother 
 is her own mistress, nor would I presume to regulate 
 her course of life. But what ails you, Clemence? 
 Have I said aught to displease you ? If I have been 
 so unfortunate, it has been most unwittingly, believe 
 me. Wherefore are you going away ? " 
 
 " I have not seen my mother to-day, Sire de Nesle," 
 replied the young Toulousaine, gently disengaging her 
 hand from Amaury, who held it between his own ; and 
 she left the apartment hastily. 
 
 The Sire de Nesle saw her no more on that day, 
 and the ensuing morning, while he was yet unrisen, 
 Clemence's page presented him Avith a letter from his 
 young mistress, accompanied by a small ivory casket. 
 Amaury's heart beat violently while he broke open 
 the blue waxen seal, whereon were impressed the 
 arms of the house of Toulouse. He read as 
 follows : 
 
 r< MESSIRE You know not with what deep sorrow 
 5y heart has been filled since yesterday morning ; that 
 conversation has engrossed all my thoughts, and now 
 my resolution is formed. Sire de Nesle, I can never be 
 your wife, nor that of any other knight ; in afflicting
 
 CLEMEXCE ISAURE. 213 
 
 my poor mother with blindness, God has said to me, 
 ' thou shalt never quit her,' and ought I to suffer any 
 human being to reverse this sentence, and say to me, 
 ' Quit thy mother and do my pleasure ? ' 
 
 " Yesterday, in planning your future life and mine, 
 you thought not of my mother, and when I reminded 
 you of her, you seemed astonished, and said to me, 
 I 0h, I did not think of her.' This is not said to you 
 by way of reproach, Sire ; or it would come with an 
 ill grace from me. How could I have expected you 
 to reserve the first place in your thoughts for my 
 mother, when I had forgotten, that, in becoming your 
 wife, she could no longer be my first thought, my 
 first duty ? 
 
 " You are young, noble, rich, Sire, de Nesle, and 
 you will find women who will be happy to bear your 
 name and to devote their whole being to you. As for 
 me, I could not do so, for I owe it all to her whose 
 happiness depends solely upon me. If I were married, 
 my poor mother would, in fact, be alone in the 
 world. Where could she find another daughter, 
 when the child whom Heaven had bestowed on 
 her, had preferred her own happiness to hers ? 
 No, my mother, thy daughter will never leave 
 thee.
 
 214 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 
 
 *' Ah ! Sire, you cannot love my mother as I do, 
 and in depriving her of a part of my love;, what 
 could you give* her in exchange ? 
 
 "If your heart is sad, because of this decision, 
 remember that mine is breaking ; but my mother ! 
 what would become of her without me ? Even 
 yesterday, see the evils I was preparing for her in 
 future ! yesterday, while conversing with you, I had 
 forgotten her a moment ; she was already risen when 
 I entered her chamber; I had lost her first greeting 
 and her earliest smile. Think then what it would 
 be afterwards ; no, no ! my decision is made. It has 
 caused me much misery, I assure you ; and so I have 
 a favor to ask of you. If you wish me to see you 
 again without painful disquietude, to be in your 
 presence without distress, speak to me no more, I 
 beseech you, of your past projects ; for pity's sake, 
 act towards me as if we had never been affianced to 
 each other. I can be your sister, your friend, but 
 never can I be either a wife or a mother. This is 
 God's will, let us bow to it. 
 
 " Among your many gifts, I have kept only one, 
 the bunch of violets, which is very precious because 
 of the life which was endangered in its preservation. 
 The others are enclosed in a casket which will be
 
 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 215 
 
 delivered to you by my page ; you will find therein, 
 also, the ten thousand crowns fine. 
 
 " If your delicacy forbids your acceptance of this 
 sum, I pray you give it to the printers in Paris, who 
 are such benefactors to our country, and to whom I 
 heartily wish success in their work. 
 
 " And now, Sire Amaury, if you have the courage 
 to come and say, ' Farewell, my sister ! ' I am ready 
 to receive you ; if not, depart, and may heaven's 
 choicest blessings be your portion. 
 
 " CLEMENCE ISAURE." 
 
 The Sire of Nesle was overwhelmed with sorrow on 
 reading this letter, for its earnest simplicity deprived 
 him of all hope of shaking Clemence's determination- 
 He admired the courage of this young girl, who 
 renounced all the pleasures of the world for one 
 only bliss, that of tending her mother ; and amid 
 the fullness of his admiration, he would again and 
 again feel tempted to combat her resolution ; but 
 there was something so holy and so pure in this 
 devoted love of a daughter to her widowed parent, 
 that at length he overcame the desire of his heart. 
 
 As for Clemence, always guided by the wish to 
 amuse her mother, whose love was her dearest
 
 216 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 
 
 recompense, she gave herself up to literature, and 
 by her example and influence, rekindled among her 
 countrymen a taste for the belles lettres. 
 
 In former times, Toulouse possessed an institution 
 designated the " College of the Gay Sciences." 
 Clemence Isaure reanimated it by a magnificent 
 foundation, the floral games, which, established 
 during her lifetime, was confirmed by her will. 
 On the 3d of May, prizes were distributed annually 
 to the best poems presented to the College, and 
 these prizes consisted of golden violets of the richest 
 and most delicate workmanship. This annual fete 
 was opened by a mass, a sermon, and an ample 
 distribution of arms to the necessitous poor. 
 
 Clemence Isaure died at the age of fifty, unmarried ; 
 and was quickly followed to the tomb by that mother 
 whose life had been embellished by her talents and 
 filial piety.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 BY VT. C. BENNETT. 
 
 YES, there it blooms for ever! 
 
 That girlish face so fair, 
 Upon the breathing canvas, 
 
 And yet not only there ; 
 For, like as is its sweetness, 
 
 Far fairer is it wrought, 
 In all its gentle beauty, 
 
 Upon the painter's thought. 
 
 Lo, while his pencil drew her, 
 
 Within the stately room 
 Love took his stand beside him, 
 
 Amid its gorgeous gloom; 
 And as upon the canvas 
 
 Each feature stole to sight, 
 Love stamped it in the painter's thought 
 
 In colors yet more bright. 
 19
 
 218 THE rORIHAIT. 
 
 Nor fleeting were the touches 
 
 Of that immortal art 
 They bloom in hues unfading, 
 
 Though youth and years depart; 
 The painter's head is hoary, 
 
 Her fair face wrinkles fill, 
 Yet, bright as when Love drew it, 
 
 His thoughts retain it still.
 
 THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 
 [FKOM THE F BENCH.] 
 
 BY H. H. W. 
 
 A PARTY had assembled at the seat of Sir John 
 Hatton to spend the Easter recess. The host and 
 hostess were a little of the parvenu genus, but they 
 were very amiable, and their great wish was to make 
 their country-place, to which they had only lately 
 succeeded, agreeable. As they were very rich, and 
 had a magnificent house in a beautiful country, and 
 as, moreover, Sir John kept a good table, had a 
 first-rate chef de cuisine, and was remarkable for his 
 excellent wines (for before the death of his cousin, 
 the late Sir John, he had been a wine-merchant), Sir 
 John and Lady Hatton had no difficulty in collecting 
 a host of friends about them in town, and of these 
 they determined to select only quite the elite for 
 their country party. The only difficulty was whom
 
 220 THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 
 
 to choose. Lady Hatton, whose father had kept a 
 shop, wished to invite only the great and fashionable ; 
 but Sir John, whose education had been somewhat 
 neglected in early life, preferred men of talent and 
 science. Lady Hatton was too amiable to contend 
 with her husband, and so Sir John invited all the 
 first-rate statesmen, men of science, poets, novelists, 
 and artists he could get. Unfortunately, however, 
 the result was not exactly what he expected. The 
 men of science did not mix well with the men of 
 letters and the artists ; for they had no subjects in 
 common, they felt as strangers to each other ; and 
 each, conscious of the celebrity attached to his name, 
 was afraid of committing himself, and doing any 
 thing which a stranger might think unworthy of 
 his previous reputation. Nothing can cast a greater 
 chill over society than a fear of this kind. It is 
 a perfect wet blanket to the fire of genius. So the 
 party, though consisting of some of the cleverest men 
 of the day, was undeniably slow ; it was worse, it was 
 dreadfully dull ; and in spite of the good cookery, and 
 the good wines, the dinners did not go off well, for 
 the guests would not talk. In the drawing-room they 
 were still silent ; they sauntered about, opened books 
 and laid them down again, and looked the pictures
 
 THE GAME OF PROVERBS. '221 
 
 of ennui, though Lady Hatton bustled about and tried 
 to make herself agreeable, and Mrs. Delcour, a young 
 widow, who was pretty, and quite aware that she was 
 so, flirted with all the men she could get to listen to 
 her. Lady Hatton's own two daughters, who had 
 just left school, gave no assistance in entertaining 
 the guests, for they were too shy to talk, and made 
 so many difficulties about playing or singing, that it 
 was quite painful to ask them. 
 
 Only two days of the week, for which the party 
 had been invited, had passed, when it became quite 
 evident to Mrs. Delcour, that something must be 
 done, to save the whole party from dying of ennui, 
 or eloping how they could : indeed one or two had 
 already begun to talk about expecting letters on 
 urgent business, "which would compel them to tear 
 themselves away, etc., etc. On the evening of the 
 second day, therefore, when the whole of the party 
 had left the dining-room, and the gentlemen were 
 lounging about the drawing-room in a most discon- 
 solate manner, Mrs. Delcour suddenly exclaimed, 
 " We must get up a proverb." 
 
 "What an excellent idea!" cried Lady Hatton, 
 " I have often heard of proverbs being performed by 
 persons of rank and fashion." 
 19*
 
 222 THE GAME OF PKOVERBS. 
 
 " It shall be done," said Mrs. Delcour. " But 
 how shall we set about it? Stanhope, you are just 
 the man to assist me. Don't you approve of the 
 plan?" 
 
 " I think it admirable ; but as to assisting you, I 
 must beg you to excuse me." 
 
 " No excuse. You are quite celebrated for things 
 of this kind. I heard that you had the entire 
 management of the proverbs at Lady Herbert's last 
 winter." 
 
 " It was precisely what happened there that has 
 decided me never to attempt to get up a proverb 
 again." 
 
 "But what did happen there?" 
 
 " You know Lady Herbert's gouty old uncle, the 
 Admiral, and how much Lady Herbert always wishes 
 to please him?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ! He's an old bachelor, and very 
 rich. Well?" 
 
 " He was to choose the proverb, and he chose ' Good 
 wine needs no sign.' " 
 
 " Rather an odd subject; but you have such talents, 
 you can spiritualize any thing." 
 
 " So they all said ; and so, at last, I suffered 
 myself to be persuaded to undertake it. There is
 
 THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 223 
 
 a fine picture gallery at Herbert Castle, with an arch 
 near the centre, from which it was easy to let fall 
 a curtain, and doors at each end for the separate 
 ingress and egress of the performers and audience. 
 There were plenty of performers, and the ladies 
 were all crowding round me, eager to know what 
 they should wear. I told them what they pleased, 
 so that they did but act as I pleased. They promised 
 every thing that could be desired, and so I drew out 
 my plan." 
 
 " I dare say you had a good deal of difficulty in 
 making them learn their parts." 
 
 " Difficulty ? Difficulty is no word for it ! It was 
 absolute martyrdom ! They would not learn ; they 
 would not remember ; and I could never get them 
 all together to rehearse." 
 
 " But what was the end ? " 
 
 " You shall hear. Finding that some of my actors, 
 who would perform in spite of every thing, had neither 
 memory nor presence of mind, the idea struck me, to 
 tell them, if they found themselves in any difficulty, 
 to say, ' I hear some one coming ; ' and, unfortunately, 
 I communicated this idea to them all." 
 
 " But why unfortunately ? The idea appears to me 
 a very good one."
 
 224 THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 
 
 " So it did to me ; but it did not work well." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " The company were all assembled. All the beauty 
 and talent of the neighborhood were collected together. 
 Every body was in high spirits, and all were impatient 
 for the performance to begin and as Lady Herbert 
 had whispered about that the whole was arranged by 
 me all eyes were turned towards me, and 
 and" 
 
 " Well ! well ! We can imagine all that. Go on ! " 
 
 " The first person who was to appear was the sister 
 of the Admiral, an old maid, tall, thin, and bony, with 
 a very long neck, and a skin like shrivelled parchment ; 
 and she would absolutely take the character of a Swiss 
 peasant, with all the accoutrements complete." 
 
 " Oh ! I see her ! Miss Priscilla in a boddice, short 
 petticoats, and a little flat hat, stuck on the side of her 
 head ! How absurd ! " 
 
 " Absurd, indeed ! She was reclining in a pensive 
 attitude with a crook, when the curtain drew up, and 
 when she came forward, waving her lean, naked arms, 
 and sighed deeply, the effect was so ludicrous, that a 
 suppressed titter ran through the assemblage ; and the 
 poor shepherdess, losing her presence of mind, gazed 
 wildly around, and then pressing her hand upon her
 
 THE GA.ME OF PBOVERBS. 225 
 
 side, she exclaimed, 'I hear some one coming,' and 
 then sat down, looking just ready to faint." 
 " How very droll ! " 
 
 " So the audience seemed to find it ; but it was 
 any thing but droll to me, for she should have made 
 a long speech, which would have served as a key-note 
 to all the rest ; and it was now clear, that if the others 
 did remember their parts, the audience would be in 
 the dark as to what they were about, for want of 
 the explanation which was to have been given by 
 this unlucky shepherdess." 
 
 "Well! what happened next?" 
 "The second performer, who was rather dull, but 
 who had worked hard to master the difficulties of his 
 part, hearing his cue, rushed in, totally unconscious of 
 what had happened (for he was absorbed in what he 
 was to do himself) and began his first speech, which 
 unluckily turning upon what the shepherdess ought to 
 have said, but did not say, and which he was supposed 
 to haje heard, quite overcame the politeness of the 
 audience, and they burst into peals of laughter; and 
 when the unhappy actor, whose part was tragic, and 
 who could not think what made them laugh, after 
 looking round for a moment or two in dismay, said, 
 also, 'I hear some one coming,' the effect was over-
 
 226 THE GAME OF PROVERBS. 
 
 whelming. The audience, including even the Admiral 
 and Lady Herbert, were almost in convulsions ; and 
 the curtain fell amidst vehement cries of ' Bravo ! 
 Encore!'" 
 
 "At any rate, the audience were amused?" 
 " Yes ! And we laughed it off as well as we 
 could ; but it was rather hard work, particularly as, 
 during the remaining three or four days that I was 
 obliged to remain in the house, if ever I hesitated or 
 stammered about any thing and really I did make 
 more blunders than I ever did before in my life 
 my friends were sure to laugh, and to* suggest that 
 probably ' I heard some one coming.' " 
 
 During this dialogue the whole party had collected 
 round Mrs. Delcour and Mr. Stanhope ; and as the 
 ludicrous distresses of the latter made them laugh, 
 it had the effect of thawing the ice that seemed to 
 have bound up their faculties ; and they all agreed 
 to take a part in a new proverb, in performing which 
 they promised to behave better than the unfortunate 
 performers at Herbert Castle. A proverb was selected, 
 and a rough outline of the mode in which it was to be 
 worked out having been settled, the rest was left to the 
 performers to fill up, which they did so admirably, that
 
 THE GAME OF PKOVEKBS. 227 
 
 every body was delighted ; and proverbs and charades 
 were performed alternately during the remainder of the 
 week of vacation, which they all agreed was one of the 
 pleasantest they had ever passed.
 
 SONG OF A CAGED BIRD. 
 
 OH, could I gain yon woodland grove, 
 How light would be my wing ! 
 
 How would I gayly, wildly rove 
 Amid the flowers of Spring! 
 
 And, oh ! how jocund were my song, 
 How free my bounding flight; 
 
 Roving my native hills among, 
 And fluttering with delight ! 
 
 And with first rosy peep of day, 
 From waving branch I'd rise; 
 
 My blithesome song from spray to spray 
 Should echo thro' the skies. 
 
 But no! the gay and happy band, 
 
 Singing in careless glee, 
 And wandering free in sunny land, 
 
 Have no fond thought of me !
 
 SOKG OF A CAGD BIKD. 229 
 
 In flow'ry mead, and forest glade, 
 
 Sad should I sit alone ; 
 E'en in the hawthorn's silvery glade, 
 
 My song would be my moan. 
 
 And where would be the kindly voice 
 
 That cheers my lonely hour, 
 If it were my ungrateful choice 
 
 To fly her fav'rite bower? 
 
 But the fair hand that tends me here, 
 
 Is kind and constant too ; 
 Ah ! would those distant shades be dear 
 
 If from that hand I flew? 
 
 Ah, no ! the heart that fondly beats 
 
 With Gratitude's sweet chain, 
 Tho' smiling freedom kindly greets, 
 
 Would ne'er be free again ! 
 20
 
 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE; 
 OB, THIFLES NOT ALWAYS TRIVIAL. 
 
 IT is wont to be affirmed of women, in a sarcastic 
 tone, that their lives are made up of trifles, and, 
 perhaps, in a certain sense the accusation may be 
 a true one, for the duties which are allotted to our 
 sex consist chiefly of quiet and unobtrusive offices, 
 which, in their rapid succession, may seem trivial 
 to those whose minds are occupied with the stirring 
 business of life ; but we would venture to remind 
 these contemners of our homelier lot, that small 
 matters only become trifling by the trivial spirit in 
 which they are pursued ; that this material world 
 itself, "clogged with its weighty mass of joy and 
 woe," is composed of atoms, and that the long 
 flight of ages, bearing upon their wings the destiny 
 of humanity, is measured out by single moments.
 
 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE. 231 
 
 Let us not, therefore, undervalue the value of trifles, 
 but strive to impart a dignity to every occupation, 
 however humble or however passing be its nature, 
 by the spirit of truth and kindliness with which it is 
 performed. It would, indeed, be well for us women, 
 if, even in our highest and gravest duties, we kept 
 in mind the gentle admonition of the poet, 
 
 " He prayeth best who loveth best 
 All things both great and small; 
 For the great God who loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 Even in our efforts to do good to others, may we 
 not oftentimes fail from a want of that loving spirit 
 which clothes the most trivial acts with grace, and 
 which enables the possessor of it, whether poor or 
 rich, to soothe the sad and ruffled spirit, and to 
 strengthen the feeble one ? It has occurred to me 
 more than once in my life, to observe from my own 
 experience how closely the bonds of human fellowship 
 may be drawn together by some small links of passing 
 kindliness, so trivial that they scarcely seem to merit 
 record ; and yet I am tempted to note down here one 
 or two such instances, in the hope that they may 
 encourage others of my own sex whose circumstances
 
 232 THE TEIFLES OF 1,1 FE. 
 
 may preclude their doing great things for others, but 
 whose hearts may nevertheless long for opportunities 
 of aiding those whose spirits droop as they pass wearily 
 
 along the highway of life. 
 
 # ^ * * # 
 
 "She won't give you a flower not she, indeed!" 
 Such were the words which met my ear, as I hurried 
 through the streets on a showery spring morning, 
 carrying in my hand a nosegay of those early blossoms 
 which are doubly welcome to our sight, as the har- 
 bingers of sunnier hours and brighter skies. I was 
 on my way to an invalid, to whom flowers were indeed 
 even a valued gift to her they cheered the long 
 hours of lonely suffering, and every bright hue and 
 lovely form seemed to suggest thoughts of soothing 
 hope and comfort, whilst they directed her mind to 
 that All-mighty and yet All-loving Father who, whilst 
 He " calleth the stars by their names," is yet careful 
 thus to clothe the grass of the field, and to lavish 
 beauty on the very herbs that we tread beneath our 
 feet. 
 
 A far different being from this patient sufferer was 
 she whose cold, scornful words had fallen so harshly 
 upon my ear. As I walked hastily along, anxious to 
 escape from the increasing rain, I had not perceived
 
 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE. 233 
 
 by the side of the path a middle-aged woman, of 
 repelling aspect, who held in her arms a sickly child, 
 that reached out its little hand, with a longing gaze, 
 towards the bright flowers which I held, and struggled 
 in its inarticulate language to express its wish to pos- 
 sess the treasure. It was in answer to these demon- 
 strations on the part of the child, that the mother had 
 made the observation which had drawn my attention, 
 and arrested me in my course. I stopped, and pulling 
 out some of the gayest and gaudiest of the group, 
 placed them, with a few words of kindness, in the 
 infant's grasp, whilst the mother thanked me, and 
 fondled her crowing child with an expression of 
 mingled surprise and pleasure. 
 
 The incident was a trifling, and might seem an 
 unimportant one ; but how often has it since recurred 
 to my mind, as I have passed in the way those whose 
 countenances have betrayed inward feelings of discon- 
 tent with their own lot, and dislike towards those who 
 possessed more of the comforts and luxuries of life than 
 themselves. What a key to the heart-burnings, the 
 jealousy, the dislike, which are felt, alas! by many 
 a poor man and woman to their neighbors, lies in 
 those words, spoken by a mother, in bitterness of 
 spirit, " She would not give you a flower! " 
 20*
 
 234 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE. 
 
 For the relief of absolute want and wretchedness, 
 few who are blessed with this world's goods, are 
 so hard-hearted as to refuse the contribution which 
 it costs but little effort to bestow but it is not 
 money, mere money, given and received, which will 
 draw together in kindly union the hearts of the 
 richer and the poorer classes amongst us. It is 
 rather that interchange of words and deeds of 
 kindness, which it might seem almost trivial to 
 enumerate, but which speak more to the hearts of 
 our fellow-men than hundreds given with a cold 
 heart or a careless hand. Well has it been said by 
 a writer of the present day, whose observations on the 
 "Ways of the Rich and Great"* arc full of valuable 
 hints on this and kindred subjects : " In the ordinary 
 intercourse of good offices, it is very important to be 
 pleasant to the poor, for services alone will not 
 cultivate their affections, and those who would visit 
 them for every-day purposes of charity, should be, 
 by their nature and temperament, genial, cordial, 
 and firm. In order that the poor may feel that the 
 rich are in sympathy with them, the rich must take 
 a pleasure in their pleasures, as well as pity them 
 
 * Taylor's "Notes from Books."
 
 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE. 235 
 
 in their distress. When the rich give of their 
 abundance to those who want bread, it may be 
 supposed to be done for very shame, under the con- 
 straint of common humanity. When they take order 
 for the instruction and discipline of the poor, they 
 are conferring a species of benefit, for which, however 
 essential, they must not expect a return in gratitude 
 or affection. But if they bear in mind, that amuse- 
 ment is in truth a necessary of life, that human nature 
 cannot dispense with it, and that, by the nature of 
 men's amusements, their moral characters are in a 
 great measure determined, they will be led so to 
 deal with the poor as to make it manifest to them 
 that they like to see them happy, and they will be 
 beloved accordingly." 
 
 Xor is it merely those who are rich in this world's 
 goods who have the power thus to dispense happiness 
 around them. Well would it be for us each one to 
 remember that every man who breathes, whether 
 master or servant, employer or employed, young and 
 old, rich and poor, each has it in his power, as he 
 passes along his own life-path, either to shed a ray 
 of sunshine on that of his fellow-man, or to darken 
 it by his shade. Well do I remember, though many 
 a year has passed since then, how pleasant to me
 
 236 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE. 
 
 was one such little act of kindness, shown by one 
 who was herself dependent upon the bounty of others 
 for her daily bread. Old Bessie Milman had the 
 charge of an empty house which we were furnishing, 
 and, whilst it was still in an unfinished state, I went 
 thither during several successive mornings, tempted 
 by a new piano, to practise before breakfast. Poor 
 Bessie thought that " the young lady must surely 
 be cold and hungry, so long without her break- 
 fast ; " and never shall I forget the look of anxious 
 kindness with which she came up to me in her neat 
 old-fashioned white cap, and well-folded kerchief, 
 carrying a nice roast apple, surrounded with crumbs 
 of bread, which she thought I might " perhaps be 
 able to relish," nor the pleasure she seemed to feel 
 when she saw that I was gratified by her kind 
 thought of me. This may seem almost too trivial 
 an incident to notice, but it was one which early 
 impressed on my mind the conviction, that the poorest 
 as well as the wealthiest has it in his power either to 
 bestow a flower upon his neighbor, or to plant a thorn 
 in his path. 
 
 Which of us are so fortunate as not to remember, 
 amongst the circle of our acquaintances, some from 
 whose society we shrink with a sort of instinctive
 
 THE TRIFLES OF LTFE. 237 
 
 dread ? not on account of any moral evil in their 
 character or disposition, but simply because we never 
 leave their presence without feeling, as some one has 
 rather quaintly expressed it, as if " we had been rubbed 
 up the wrong way" They may be, in reality, most 
 kind-hearted people. If you had a fever, and required 
 their care, they would watch over you night and day ; 
 but, in your hour of health, and, as they conceive, of 
 happiness, they would never think of "giving you a 
 flower;" they would not even be able to understand 
 why you should want one. 
 
 On the other hand, can we not each recall to mind 
 some happy being whether he be rich or poor, it 
 matters not whose very presence seems to cast oil 
 upon troubled waters, whose kindly tones cheer the 
 drooping spirit, whose look of sympathy and love is 
 balm to the wounded heart, and to whom the poor, 
 the suffering, even the little child, will turn as if by 
 instinct, and feel assured that there, at least, no 
 chilling repulse is to be feared, but that " such as 
 he has," even if it be only a flower, he will give it 
 to them with an ungrudging heart. 
 
 Happy, notwithstanding "all the ills that flesh is 
 heir to," would this world be, if we were each one, 
 in our own sphere, to cultivate more of this spirit;
 
 238 THE TRIFLES OF LIFE. 
 
 to seek, as we pass onwards through life, for oppor- 
 tunities of gladdening the heart of our fellow-man, 
 and being ever ready to 
 
 " Give and forgive, do good and love ; 
 By soft endearments in kind strife, 
 Lightening the load of daily life."
 
 THE SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 I ZOVE the summer evening 
 
 When the sun has left the west, 
 And when upon the wood-crowned hill 
 
 The golden clouds still rest. 
 The light breeze sweeps the unmown grass, 
 
 Refreshing, sweet, and cool, 
 And shadows from the birch trees pass 
 Upon the surface still as glass 
 
 Of the shallow meadow-pool. 
 
 The sheep upon the barren downs, 
 
 The copse upon the hill, 
 The hawthorn on the village green, 
 
 All now are hushed and still; 
 And let me lean upon the stile 
 
 Above the corn-clad slope, 
 Which oft has heard the whispered word 
 
 Of dawning love and hope.
 
 240 THE SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 Beside it in the running brook 
 The flow'ring rushes wave, 
 
 And in the waters cool and bright 
 Their rosy clusters lave ; 
 
 The dewy grass beneath your feet, 
 The calm blue sky above, 
 
 The wild flowers bright beneath the hedge, 
 
 All whisper now of love 
 
 That power which to man is given 
 To leave on earth one trace of heaven, 
 To cheer in toil, and care, and strife, 
 To brighten all our mortal life, 
 To check our sighs and dry our tears, 
 And chase away our craven fears, 
 And whisper, There is hope above, 
 For love is Heaven, and God is Love.
 
 THE FLOWER GATHERER. 
 [FROM THE GERMAN OF KKUMMACHEK.] 
 
 GOD sends upon the winds of Spring 
 Fresh thoughts into the breasts of flowers. 
 Miss BREMER. 
 
 THE young and innocent Theresa had passed the 
 most beautiful part of the spring upon a bed of 
 sickness ; and as soon as she began to regain her 
 strength, she spoke of flowers, asking continually 
 if her favorites were again as lovely as they had 
 been the year before, when she had been able to 
 seek for and admire them herself. Erick, the sick 
 girl's little brother, took a basket, and sho wing it to 
 his mamma, said in a whisper, " Mamma, I will run 
 out and get poor Theresa the prettiest I can find in 
 the fields." So out he ran, for the first time for 
 many a long day, and he thought that spring had 
 never been so beautiful before ; for he looked upon 
 it with a gentle and loving heart, and enjoyed a run 
 21
 
 242 THE FLOWER GATHERER. 
 
 in the fresh air, after having been a prisoner by the 
 sister's couch, whom he had never left during her 
 illness. The happy child rambled about, up and 
 down hill. Nightingales sang, bees hummed, and 
 butterflies flitted around him, and the most lovely 
 flowers were blowing at his feet. He jumped about, 
 he danced, he sang, and wandered from hedge to 
 hedge, and from flower to flower, with a soul as 
 pure as the blue sky above him, and eyes that 
 sparkled like a little brook bubbling from a rock. 
 At last he had filled his basket quite full of the 
 prettiest flowers ; and, to crown all, he had made a 
 wreath of field strawberry flowers, which he laid on 
 the top of it, neatly arranged on some grass, and 
 one might fancy them a string of pearls, they looked 
 so pure and fresh. The happy boy looked with 
 delight at his full basket, and putting it down by 
 his side, rested himself in the shade of an oak, on 
 a carpet of soft green moss. Here he sat, looking 
 at the beautiful prospect that lay spread out before 
 him in all the freshness of spring, and listening to 
 the ever-changing songs of the birds. But he had 
 really tired himself out with joy ; and the merry 
 sounds of the fields, the buzzing of the insects, and 
 the birds' songs, all helped to send him to sleep.
 
 THE FLOWER GATHERER. 243 
 
 And peacefully the fair child slumbered, his rosy 
 cheek resting on the hands that still held his 
 treasured basket. 
 
 But while he slept a sudden change came on. A 
 storm arose in the heavens, but a few moments before 
 so blue and beautiful. Heavy masses of clouds 
 gathered darkly and ominously together ; the light- 
 ning flashed and the thunder rolled louder and 
 nearer. Suddenly a gust of wind- roared in the 
 boughs of an oak, and startled the boy out of his 
 quiet sleep. He saw the whole heavens veiled by 
 black clouds ; not a sunbeam gleamed over the 
 fields, and a heavy clap of thunder followed his 
 waking. The poor child stood up, bewildered at 
 the sudden change ; and now the rain began to 
 patter through the leaves of the oak, so he snatched 
 up his basket and ran towards home as fast as his 
 legs could carry him. The storm seemed to burst 
 over his head. Rain, hail, and thunder, striving for 
 the mastery, almost deafened him, and made him more 
 bewildered every minute. Water streamed from his 
 poor soaked curls down his shoulders, and he could 
 scarcely see to find his way homewards. All on a 
 sudden a more violent gust of wind than usual 
 caught the treasured basket, and scattered all his
 
 244 THE FLOWER GATHERER. 
 
 carefully collected flowers far away over the field. His 
 patience could endure no longer, for his face grew 
 distorted with rage, and he flung the empty basket 
 from him, with a burst of anger. Crying bitterly, 
 and thoroughly wet, he reached at last his parents' 
 house in a pitiful plight. 
 
 But soon another change appeared ; the storm 
 passed away, and the sky grew clear again. The 
 birds began their songs, anew, the countryman his 
 labor. The air had become cooler and purer, and a 
 bright calm seemed to lie lovingly in every valley 
 and on every hill. What a delicious odor rose from 
 the freshened fields ! and their cultivators looked 
 with grateful joy at the departing clouds, which had 
 poured the fertilizing rain upon them. The sight of 
 the blue sky soon tempted the frightened boy out 
 again, and being by this time ashamed of his ill- 
 temper, he went out very quietly to look for his 
 discarded basket, and to try and fill it again. He 
 seemed to feel a new life within him. The cool 
 breath of the air the smell of the fields the 
 leafy trees the warbling birds, all appeared doubly 
 beautiful after the storm, and the humiliating con- 
 sciousness of his foolish and unjust ill- temper 
 softened and chastened his joy. After a long search
 
 THE FLOWER GATHERER. 245 
 
 he spied the basket lying on the slope of a hill, for 
 a bramble bush had caught it, and sheltered it from 
 the violence of the wind. The child felt quite 
 thankful to the ugly-looking bush, as he disen- 
 tangled the basket. 
 
 But how great was his delight, on looking around 
 him, to see the fields spangled with flowers, as 
 numerous as the stars of heaven ! for the rain had 
 nourished into blossoms thousands of daisies, opened 
 thousands of buds, and scattered pearly drops on every 
 leaf. Erick flitted about like a busy bee, and gathered 
 away to his heart's content. The sun was now 
 near his setting, and the happy child hastened home 
 with his basket full once more. How delighted he 
 was with his flowery treasure, and with the pearly 
 garland of fresh strawberry-flowers ! The rays of the 
 sinking sun played over his fair face as he wandered 
 on, and gave his pretty features a placid and con- 
 tented expression. But his eyes sparkled much 
 more joyously when he received the kisses and 
 thanks of his gentle sister. " Is it not true, dear," 
 said his mother, " that the pleasures we prepare for 
 others are the best of all ? "
 
 THE IRISH MOTHER. 
 
 DRINK, child, 'tis the last drop in the can, 
 
 Yet it is all for you; 
 Our poor old cow, that too is gone, 
 
 And what are we to do? 
 
 Yet drink, child, drink! 
 
 They drove her off, the poor old cow, 
 
 She went to pay the rent; 
 There's nothing left to keep us, now 
 
 That every thing is spent: 
 
 Yet drink, child, drink ! 
 
 Your father, he has gone away, 
 
 Far, far over the seas, 
 To a happy land, wherein, they say, 
 
 There's naught but wealth and ease: 
 Then drink, child, drink!
 
 THE IRISH MOTHER. 247 
 
 "And we will follow him there, we two, 
 We will follow him over the sea 
 
 To the land where there is so little to do, 
 And a lady perhaps you will he ! 
 
 Then drink, darling, drink!
 
 THE LIFE RANSOM. 
 
 BY GEOROIANA C. MUNBO. 
 
 SOFTLY the west wind stole over the sunny lake, 
 and welcome to us was even its low faint breath, as 
 we sat in the deep shadow of the forest trees in the 
 sultry hour of summer noon-tide. Before us the broad 
 Huron was flashing in the sun rays, divided from the 
 flower-gemmed bank by a belt of glittering sand, while 
 on our right the bold headland stretched far into the 
 sleeping waters, whereon rock, and tree, and grassy 
 mound were brightly mirrored. 
 
 Nothing of life stirred in the silent wilderness, save 
 the brilliant butterflies hovering around more gayly- 
 tinted blossoms, and the bright humming-birds, with 
 their emerald and ruby plumage, glancing like jewels 
 in the sunshine, fluttering over the flowery shrubs, 
 and darting away across the honey-comb quartz that 
 gleamed between. us and the point, with a low hum 
 as though they were murmuring tales of the gold
 
 THE LIFE HANSOM. 249 
 
 which slept below. But all the unsunned treasures 
 which the gold-bloom might indicate, were in worth 
 far below the priceless offering once laid upon those 
 stones ; and many, many years must pass away, ere 
 time, or change, the foot of the stranger, or the 
 hand of the gold-seeker, shall banish the memories 
 which cling around the spot. Though strange to 
 us, they were familiar to more than one of our 
 companions, and as we sat there beneath the lofty 
 sycamores, with the noonday sun pouring down light 
 and beauty on the fertile earth and deep blue waters, 
 the tale to which we listened, gained, perchance, a 
 deeper interest from the scene of its relation. 
 
 The coming winter had breathed his first frost- 
 spell over the forest, turning to crimson and gold, 
 and silver, its garb of varied green, when, one eve- 
 ning, a girl sat on the grassy bank watching the 
 latest sunbeams fade from the glowing sky and 
 darkening lake. The sunset hues had left the 
 clouds, and the stars were glancing forth to mirror 
 themselves in the blue waters, but still the girl kept 
 her post ; gazing along the shore, and afar in the 
 distance. She was alone, yet the line of tall trees 
 bordering the forest concealed an Indian encampment, 
 and above their heads several columns of. gray smoke
 
 250 THE LIFE HANSOM. 
 
 were soaring up into the evening sky, while the mur- 
 mur of voices rose on the air, and at times peals of 
 laughter echoed through the woods. 
 
 But Wabegwona cared not to join in the merriment. 
 She was watching for the return of her nearest rela- 
 tive, who had ever been to her as a brother, and 
 dreaming such dim visions as she could dream of 
 the scenes and the people among whom her mother 
 had been born. For, though her hair was dark as 
 midnight, and her features those of the race with 
 whom she dwelt, there was enough in the maiden's 
 fairer complexion and deep blue eyes to have won 
 her the name of Wabegwona (White Lilly), which 
 was bestowed upon her by her tribe. 
 
 " Her father, long dead, had been a great chief, 
 but her mother had been found as a child by the 
 Ottowas among the ruins of an American out-post 
 which another nation had destroyed ; and, carried 
 away and adopted by them, had become the wife of 
 one of their bravest warriors. Yet, amid all the 
 contrasts of her wild forest life, the fair-haired 
 daughter of the pale-faces had retained some faint 
 recollection of the past to breathe into the wondering 
 ear of her child, before she, also, was called away, 
 and Wabegwona was left an orphan alone, save
 
 THE LIFE BANSOM. 251 
 
 for Laguiab, the son of her father's brother, who 
 had taken her to his home, and bade his mother 
 look upon her as a daughter. And the young men, 
 to whom her smile was cold as sun-lit snow, and the 
 old women, who were for ever whispering like the 
 forest leaves, said that Laguiab would make her his 
 wife. But the maiden's heart was still in her mother's 
 grave, and the boldest hunter and bravest warrior of 
 the Ottowas feared to draw it thence too rashly, lest 
 it might shrink away from his touch. 
 
 And now a dark speck glided among the starbeams 
 on the lake, and a canoe came bounding forward 
 eagerly, like a wild deer to its favorite haunt. It 
 was that for which Wabegwona watched, and a smile 
 lit up her features as she beheld it, and her thoughts 
 which had been wandering far beyond the dark forest 
 and the gleaming waves, flew back to the present. 
 
 " The rifle of Laguiab has not been idle," said 
 Wabegwona, who stood on the shore to welcome her 
 cousin. " He has lingered long, but his canoe is 
 heavy." 
 
 " The rifle of Laguiab has been his enemy," replied 
 the hunter mournfully. " Let my sister bid the young 
 men come hither, for the load in his canoe lies heavy 
 on the heart of Laguiab."
 
 252 THE LIFE HANSOM. 
 
 One glance had told the girl that a stranger lay 
 to all appearance lifeless in the canoe, and she 
 hastened to summon the hunters from the fires, 
 around which they were talking of the past day's 
 exploits. Then she went on to tell her aunt of the 
 guest they might expect. 
 
 How Wabegwona's heart beat as the Ottowas bore 
 the wounded stranger into the lodge, and she saw 
 that he was not merely young and handsome, for 
 that was little then to her, but of the race her 
 mother had always loved ! And when the medicine- 
 men had done their best, and so they said, charmed 
 the bullet out of the wound, and spoken the wise 
 words which would make their herb-potions drive 
 away the evil spirit of fever and call back health 
 to the sufferer, then Laguiab came to her and told 
 her how a branch had caught the trigger of his 
 rifle, and, without his touch, it had struck down 
 the white hunter in the moment he first beheld 
 him. 
 
 " But "Wabegwona will be a sister to the pale 
 face," continued the young Ottowa. " She will know 
 that it is the heart of Laguiab which lies wounded 
 in his lodge, and she will watch over the stranger 
 as the eagle watches over her young one, until
 
 THE LIFE KAJfSOXT. 253 
 
 his wings are strong, and his eyes can look boldly 
 on the sun." 
 
 As the summer wind was Laguiab's voice, and 
 the maiden's will was the rush which loved to bend 
 before it ; for no brother could be dearer than he had 
 ever been to her. But the strong grasp of sickness 
 was on the stranger's frame, and it was long ere all 
 their care could loosen it ; and often, as she sat 
 beside his couch, while the spirits of the past and of 
 the absent seemed hovering around and in communion 
 with him, did Wabegwona fear that he would pass 
 away to the Happy Gardens of the pale-faces, and 
 leave a shadow on the soul of Laguiab. For, though 
 the Ottowa had slain many foes on the war-path, 
 until his fame was on the earth, as the lights* 
 whose name he bore were in the sky, and shone in 
 the sight of many nations, and women trembled at 
 its rushing sound, and warriors mused on what it 
 might portend ; still the young chief sorrowed for the 
 aimless blow which had struck down a tree whose fall 
 might crush many flowers, but gave no place for glory 
 to spring up. But the summons had not gone forth, 
 and the Englishman was left to find the life to 
 
 * Laguiab is the Indian name for the Aurora Borcalis 
 
 22 *
 
 254 THE LIl'K HANSOM. 
 
 which he awoke, a wilder dream than all his fever- 
 visions. 
 
 Weeks and months had glided by ; the snows which 
 hud not fallen when Seyton was brought to the Ot- 
 towa's encampment, had melted away with the hours 
 for ever vanished, and leaves were bursting forth on 
 the trees, and flowers were starting up among the 
 bright fresh grass with all the rapidity and vigor of the 
 vegetation in that region. But spring did not find 
 the Ottowas where the autumn left them, on the point 
 beside the gold-bloom. Death had breathed on one 
 of their fairest plants, and when it withered and died, 
 they, as is frequent among the Indians, deserted the 
 scene of the misfortune, and their lodges were now 
 raised, and their fires lighted on the shores of a quiet 
 bay several miles lower down the lake. 
 
 Again it was evening, and Wabegwona sat on the 
 star-lit strand. But this time she was not alone, for 
 Seyton was by her side, telling her of the mighty river 
 beside which dwelt her mother's people and his own ; 
 and of the stately dwellings along its shores, and 
 down where the salt waves broke in restless murmurs 
 that were for ever whispering of the distant island far 
 towards the rising sun, where it moaned and dashed 
 around their forefathers' graves.
 
 THE LIFE KA.XSOJI. 255 
 
 And lie told her, too, of one who would gladly bear 
 away the fairest flower of the forest to bloom within, 
 one of those proud dwellings ; and of a love which 
 would guard it against the tempest, and shelter it from 
 the burning sun-ray, and cheer it, if the breath of 
 sorrow, which wanders every where, should bow it to 
 the earth. 
 
 The maiden smiled as she listened, but the English- 
 man wondered if it were in pleasure or in scorn, for 
 the faint light revealed her face but dimly. 
 
 " Has Wabegwona no words ? " he asked. " Say, 
 must the pale-face regret that her voice called him 
 back, when his spirit was on the wing ? " 
 
 There was a minute's silence, and then the low 
 sweet voice of Wabegwona came like music on the 
 ear. ' " Why should an Ottowa girl speak ? " was her 
 reply. " The words of the pale-face are the stars ; the 
 heart of Wabegwona is the lake Avhereon they rest. 
 Let them look down and they will see no other light 
 reflected in it." 
 
 A joyful exclamation was on Seyton's lips, but it 
 was stayed, as a shadow fell on the sand, and a form 
 stood before him. It was Laguiab ; the starbeams 
 showed him deadly pale, and his arms were folded, 
 and his lips compressed, while his glance was as
 
 256 THE LIFE HANSOM. 
 
 though the true Aurora Borcalis had flashed upon 
 them. 
 
 " Laguiab is a fool," said he, bitterly. " His rifle 
 was wise, but he was angry with its wisdom. Are 
 there no blossoms beside the distant waters, where the 
 pale-faces build their lodges so high up into the sky, 
 that the stranger must come with a tongue keener and 
 brighter than the knives of his people, to steal away 
 the only flower an Indian loved to look upon ? The 
 heart of Laguiab was spread before my sister," con- 
 tinued the warrior, reproachfully, to Wabegwona. 
 " Had the White Lily looked into it she would have 
 seen nothing but herself. But a white mist has come 
 before her eyes, and she cannot see a strange wind 
 has whispered in her ear, and the voice to which she 
 once listened is forgotten." 
 
 The Ottowa paused ; but, surprised by the accusa- 
 tion of treachery, of which he had no thought of being 
 guilty, Seyton hesitated to reply. And Wabegwona 
 bowed her head in silence, for love for Laguiab was 
 strong within her heart ; but it was only as a brother 
 that he had always mingled in her thoughts, and she 
 had never dreamed of hearing such words from his 
 lips. After a moment, he resumed more fiercely - 
 
 " But why should that mist stay to blind the eyes
 
 THE i.irr. KAXSOM:. 257 
 
 of "\Vabegwona ? Laguiab's arm is stronger than bis 
 voice, and bis anger is a migbty tempest, which breaks 
 down tbe forest as it passes. It sball sweep tbe mist 
 from bis patb, and tbe 63 r es of tbe "Wbite Lily can look 
 once more on bis face." 
 
 A's he spoke tbe last words, Laguiab drew tbe 
 tomahawk from his belt. Seyton bad risen to bis 
 feet, but not to fly ; though a strange thrill shot 
 through his heart, as he stood for a moment defence- 
 less before the enraged Indian, like a fawn awaiting 
 the panther's spring. Tbe bright weapon gleamed in 
 the starbeams as the Ottowa raised his arm ; but the 
 next instant it was whirled far over tbe lake, to bury 
 its keen edge in the slumbering waters. 
 
 " Xo," said the Indian, in a low deep voice, " the 
 arm of Laguiab is strong, but not strong enough to 
 strike his friend. The pale-face has slept in his lodge, 
 and hunted by his side, and an Ottowa chief cannot 
 take the life be has watched over. There is a cloud 
 on Laguiab ; but the stars are bright, and the clouds 
 cast no shadow on the lake. Let it be so tbe path 
 of my brother shall be open to the great villages of 
 his people. But let not his glance be ever dark 
 towards the "White Lily, which his hand has torn 
 from the home where it was loved and sheltered in 
 22*
 
 258 THE LIFE KA.XSOM. 
 
 the forest, to plant it afar where the axe of the 
 stranger has left no branches to cover the earth." 
 
 And before either had time to answer, Laguiab, 
 had plunged amid the dark cedars which reared their 
 lofty heads near the shore ; nor did he return to the 
 encampment until the silence of midnight rested on 
 its bark-covered lodges and smouldering fires. The 
 next morning, Seyton asked in vain for his host ; for, 
 before the last star faded from the sky, the young 
 chief, with some half-dozen hunters, had gone into 
 the woods in quest of game. Had they remained, 
 they would have found more need for their rifles. 
 But no thought of danger was in the minds of the 
 Ottowas. Not that they had no enemies, but that 
 they dreamed no^ that any of their foes were near 
 enough to raise the war-whoop within their hearing. 
 
 It was the oft-repeated tale in those regions, the 
 wildcat stealing on her prey while it slept. But this 
 time in the daylight. All was hushed and still, as 
 though the voice of pain or discord had never echoed 
 through the wilderness, when suddenly a youth rushed 
 into the centre of the lodges, crying : " The Winne- 
 bagoes ! the Winnebagoes ! " 
 
 A wild shriek of woman's terror was the reply, to 
 be instantly followed by a shriller cry of agony, which
 
 THE LIFE EAXSOM. 259 
 
 told that the work of destruction had begun, and to 
 be in its turn lost in the terrible war-whoop of the 
 Winnebagoes, as they rushed upon the unprepared 
 and unsuspecting Ottowas. We will not describe 
 the scene of bloodshed and desolation. It is enough 
 that death and fire reigned every where, and that 
 Wabegwona, who had taken shelter beneath the 
 branches of a fallen tree, saw Seyton, stunned and 
 bleeding, carried away alive to meet a darker fate 
 than had befallen her tribesmen. 
 
 When Laguiab and his hunters returned at sunset, 
 they found their encampment a heap of ruins, and 
 those they had left in life claimed nothing now at 
 their hands, except a grave and revenge; so said the 
 sorrowing and indignant warriors, .when they heard 
 the tale which Wabegwona alone remained to tell. 
 But other thoughts were in the young chief's mind, 
 as he looked upon the maiden's face, and saw in 
 it the agony which rent her heart ; and his gaze 
 lingered on her pale features while his tribesmen 
 spoke of seeking another band of their nation, some 
 days' journey distant, to join with them in wreaking 
 on their foes the vengeance they were too weak to 
 take alone. 
 
 " Another chief will lead the young men," said he,
 
 260 THE LIFE RANSOM. 
 
 quietly ; " Laguiab's path is over the water, but he 
 must go alone. Let not Wabegwona weep as though 
 the sun were gone for ever. Day will come back to 
 pour sunshine on the darkened lake, and the drooping 
 Lily will raise her head again." 
 
 The night had passed away, and the morrow's sun 
 was shining gayly and brilliantly on the scene we first 
 described, and Seyton stood in the centre of that spot 
 of gleaming quartz, to take his last farewell of life, 
 and view calmly as he could the terrible preparations 
 for its close. How the thought of Wabegwona, and 
 of that distant home, whence the wild spirit of adven- 
 ture had lured him, came round him in that moment 
 when death in its most dreadful aspect stood before 
 him, and cruel hands, and savage looks, and taunting 
 words, surrounded him in that lonely and beautiful 
 spot, where he must close his eyes in agony, far 
 away from all he loved, with not one kind glance or 
 friendly voice to support him in the fearful hour of 
 trial! 
 
 Just as the signal for its commencement was to be 
 given, a youth, who had accompanied the war party 
 to serve as an unsuspicious-looking scout, approached 
 the chiefs, and intimated that a stranger claimed the 
 privilege of entering and leaving the camp unmolested.
 
 THE LIFE RANSOM. 261 
 
 Safe conduct was accorded, and in a few minutes a 
 young Indian advanced into the circle of expectant 
 .warriors, with the haughty step and lofty air of one 
 accustomed to be honored and obeyed. Despite the 
 usual self-control of such assemblages, the name of 
 " Laguiab ! " ran in wondering tones around the 
 circle. 
 
 "The Winnebagoes looked for Laguiab," said an old 
 chief, with a hidden sneer. " Had he flown up into 
 the sky, or dived like an otter into the lake, when 
 the war-whoop was sounding through the woods ? " 
 
 " Laguiab has followed the Winnebagoes," said he 
 coldly, " to ask if they ever heard his name." 
 
 " It is the name of a brave warrior," replied the 
 Winnebago. " There is no greater in his nation." 
 
 The dark eye of the Ottowa flashed proudly for a 
 moment, then he said, as coldly as before "Would 
 the Winnebagoes like to boast to their women that 
 they had slain that warrior? or a pale-face whose 
 name they never heard?" 
 
 "The path of Laguiab is open," replied the old chief. 
 " The Winnebagoes will not keep what is not theirs." 
 
 " Let the pale-face be as free as the wind which 
 wanders over the lake," said Laguiab, " and an Ottowa 
 chief will be the prisoner of his foes."
 
 262 THE LIFE RANSOM. 
 
 The old chief waved his hand, and in an instant a 
 ready knife severed the thongs which boiind Seyton 
 to the stake. 
 
 " Laguiab ! Laguiab ! this must not be!" exclaimed 
 the Englishman, springing to his side. " What have 
 I done, that you should die for me ? " 
 
 A mournful smile flitted over the Ottowa's face. 
 He pressed Seyton's hand, and whispered in his ear : 
 " There is sorrow in the heart of Wabegwona, and 
 the eyes of Laguiab could not look upon her tears. 
 It is well Laguiab is content. The voices of his 
 fathers are in his ears, calling him away, and an 
 Indian must follow to the Land of Spirits. Why 
 should he stay ? The light of Laguiab will shine 
 no more upon the night of the Ottowas ; but the 
 White Lily will be happy in the shelter that she 
 loves." 
 
 Then turning away, he spoke a few words to his 
 captors ; and before the Englishman well knew the 
 purpose of the Indians, who once more seized him, 
 he was speeding over the deep waters, far away from 
 the fatal spot where the life of Laguiab was being 
 paid the fearful price of his liberty. 
 
 And there, on the gold-bloom, was offexed up to the 
 noble heart of the Ottowa chief, the sacrifice of a self-
 
 THE XI1' RANSOM. 263 
 
 devotion, against which, not all the wealth, slumbering 
 in the untouched mine, could ever weigh. The next 
 tempest swept away the traces of the sacrifice; and 
 when we heard the tale, and looked upon the spot, 
 all was calm and bright, as though the passions of 
 man had never cast a shadow upon the earth, though 
 oven then the name of Laguiab was still loved and 
 wept over in one dwelling far away on the banks of 
 the St. Lawrence. And many, many more years must 
 glide into the past, ere the memory of that deed shall 
 die away, or it cease to be recounted to those, who, 
 like ourselves, may chance to rest in that wild but 
 lovely scene, amid their wanderings in the West. .
 
 WOMAN'S FAITH. 
 
 BT E. B. M. 
 
 " LA.DY ! he gives thee back the vow 
 
 He once might call his own ; 
 For fallen are his fortunes now, 
 
 And all his bright hopes gone. 
 Now poverty, thou peerless maid ! 
 
 Rests on his noble brow." 
 She raised her tearful eyes and said 
 
 " I love him better now." 
 
 " Lady ! the noble form ye loved 
 Is marr'd with care and woe ; 
 The step that once so graceful moved 
 
 Is thoughtful, sad, and slow. 
 He may not claim his promised bride, 
 
 He gives you back your vow." 
 " I love him still," she softly sighed, 
 " I love him better now."
 
 WOMAN'S FAITH. 265 
 
 " I love him better now," she said, 
 " Though wealth and lands are gone, 
 Than when proud nobles homage paid, 
 
 Though now he's left alone. 
 Tell him that true love ne'er hath known 
 
 Change, when it loved before ; 
 Tell him the heart that was his own 
 Is his for evermore." 
 23
 
 LESSONS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 BY MRS. JAMES WHITTLE. 
 
 " WHAT did my aunt mean, when she said to 
 you this morning that my education would never 
 be finished? Surely, mamma, I am not always to 
 remain at school. I am sure I often wish the time 
 were come, when, instead of having to leave you at 
 the end of every holiday, I could always stay with 
 you, dear mamma, and wait on you, and nurse you, 
 and try to amuse you, when you look so sad, and 
 so weary ; and sometimes it seems to me that I learn 
 more in listening to you, and hearing you read to 
 me, than I do from all the regular lessons I learn 
 during the whole half-year. Do you know, mamma, 
 I remember every thing you tell me, while all that I 
 learn by heart, to say to Miss Brewster, is forgotten 
 in a minute. When shall I leave school, and be 
 always with you?" 
 
 The little girl, as she asked this question, looked
 
 LESSONS IX THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 267 
 
 eagerly into her mother's face, and saw that large 
 tears were rolling down her cheeks. Fearful lest 
 she had been the cause, she threw her little arms 
 round her neck, and kissed her again and again. 
 The mother raised her languid head from her pillow, 
 as she replied, " Fanny, sit down beside me, on the 
 sofa, and let me tell you what your aunt and I 
 mean, when we say that your education will never 
 be finished. While we live, we may still learn some- 
 thing, and the school in which you at present study 
 is only the first class in that wider school, the world, 
 in which, by-and-by, you will have to take your place, 
 
 in which I, Fanny, am a scholar." 
 
 " You, mamma, a scholar ? Why, you are a woman 
 
 a wise, grown-up woman. You have no lessons to 
 learn, no tasks to repeat, no punishments to bear, 
 no" 
 
 " Stay, Fanny, I have all these. I have many 
 lessons to learn daily, many tasks to perform, many 
 punishments to endure. Do you think that I lie 
 here on this sofa, day after day, and month after 
 month, without learning any thing ? " 
 
 " Oh no, mamma ! You are always reading large, 
 wise books." 
 
 " Yes, my dear child ; but it is not always from
 
 268 LESSONS IX THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 books that we learn lessons in the great school I 
 told you of. Life is bestowed upon us by God ; 
 that great and good Being, who creates nothing in 
 vain, had some wise purpose in breathing into each 
 of us the breath of life ; it is for us to find out 
 what particular task God has apportioned to us ; to 
 learn what this is, is the important lesson which must 
 be studied in the great school of life." 
 
 " But, mamma," said Fanny, after a longer pause 
 than was usual with her, " how can a little girl hope 
 to find out what God intends her to do ? God cannot 
 care whether my lessons are said well or not ; what 
 can I do, that can please God, or show Him that I 
 am wishing to find out what He intends me to do ? " 
 
 " You can do what you know to be right in the school 
 in which you are for the present placed ; you can learn 
 to be obedient to those who are older and wiser than 
 yourself; you can be kind and affectionate to your 
 schoolfellows, willing to give up your own will to 
 theirs ; you can be careful not to resent any unkind 
 word which may be said to you ; you may help those 
 who are weaker than yourself; you may comfort any 
 who are unhappy ; and if, amongst your playfellows, 
 one has done a wrong action, you may, perhaps, by 
 kindly pointing out to her the harm she has done,
 
 LESSONS IX THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 269 
 
 induce her to strive in future to avoid all sin. These 
 duties, my little girl, belong to your position as a 
 schoolfellow ; and the same duties, rightly and faith- 
 fully discharged, make good men and women, good 
 servants and good masters, good parents and good 
 friends, good statesmen and good kings. Greater 
 duty there is none, whether in you, as a little child, 
 or in the queen upon her throne, than that you 
 should do unto others what you would wish others 
 to do unto you. And this, Fanny, is one of the 
 lessons that we all have to learn in the great school 
 of life. Another, and far more difficult one, is that 
 of bending our wishes to the will of our Father in 
 Heaven. You, who are happy and gay, to whom 
 sorrow seems a thing still far distant, a sort of 
 awful stranger, who may one day come into your 
 home, but who is as yet unknown to you, may 
 think it an easy thing to say those words, which 
 daily you repeat : ' Thy will be done ; ' but, Fanny, 
 dear, it needs a brave heart, and a firm trust in 
 God, to say that little sentence when sorrow really 
 comes ; when Death first enters our home, and takes 
 away the little girl from her mamma, or perhaps the 
 mother from her child ; then it is that we must learn 
 
 the hard task of submission ; and many are the tears 
 23*
 
 270 LESSORS IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 
 
 that are shed ere that difficult lesson be learned. Or 
 it may be that sickness comes, as it has come to me, 
 Fanny, binding me like a prisoner, with fetters of pain, 
 to one spot ; depriving me of all my former pleasures, 
 and rendering me useless to others. To bear the pain 
 that never leaves me, to lie here, and never again 
 go forth into the fields with you, and show you the 
 glorious works of God, there set before us to do 
 this, and be patient and content, and be able to say, 
 ' Thy will be done,' is not an easy thing ; and this, 
 Fanny, is the lesson I study daily." 
 
 The little maiden's eyes were full of tears ; she 
 knelt beside the couch, hid her face in her mother's 
 bosom and was silent. Then looking up, a smile 
 brightened her sweet face, as she said, "And yet, 
 mamma, you are happy ; no one smiles as you do, 
 no one looks more cheerful ; " then, after a minute's 
 pause, she added, "Ah! mamma, I see it all now; 
 you have learned your lessons well, and as I am never 
 unhappy when I do and say all my governess requires 
 from me, so you are happy, because you have learned 
 to do and say all that God requires of you." 
 
 The mother smiled, and said, " Not all, my child ; " 
 but her heart was glad that Fanny had thus learned 
 one of the lessons of Life's Great School.
 
 THE GAMBLER. 
 
 BY ANNETTE BLA.SHFORD. 
 
 I LOVED her with a love profound, 
 
 Oh ! a love which made all seem 
 A blank, and desolation, 
 
 Save the halo round that dream! 
 I garner' d in my fond heart 
 
 Those happy thoughts of joy, 
 Which from their very freshness 
 
 Made me feel again a boy ! 
 
 She was very fair to look on, 
 
 And I oft in fondness thought 
 That influence superhuman 
 
 Had that wond'rous beauty wrought. 
 Her eyes, they were so purely blue, 
 
 That when they skyward turned, 
 It seemed as Heaven sent down the light 
 
 Which there serenely burned.
 
 272 THE GAMBLER. 
 
 Yet she forsook me ! prayers were vain 
 
 To change a foredoomed fate : 
 She bowed to Mammon ! life to me 
 
 Became a tedious weight! 
 We met and parted. Yes, she wept, 
 
 As though her heart too bled ; 
 And when she left me, wreaths of snow 
 
 Had gathered o'er my head ! 
 
 My hair was bleached in one short night ; 
 
 Oh, she -thinks not of the cause ! 
 My bosom turned against mankind, 
 
 Whose worldly, unjust laws, 
 Make it no crime to doom the heart 
 
 To sorrow, gloom, and sin, 
 Because a rich man coveting 
 
 Our prize, with gold may win ! 
 
 She married. On that fatal day 
 
 My birthright home I sold ! 
 And with a maniac shout, I blest 
 
 Her darling idol, Gold ! 
 " I'll buy forgetfulness," I cried, 
 
 " And love ; for that she's proved ; " 
 Yet somehow, though I squandered much, 
 
 Nc sorrow was removed !
 
 THE GAMBLEK. 273 
 
 I flew to cards, and wine, and dice, 
 
 Yet not one heart's pang stirred, 
 For even midst the wildest mirth, 
 
 Her soft, sad voice I heard. 
 It called to me with prayers and tears, 
 
 Beseeching me to think 
 Of the gulf which I was hanging o'er, 
 
 With ruin on its brink. 
 
 I often thought she loved me still, 
 
 And for her parents' sake, 
 Had taken up this weight of woe, 
 
 For them a home to make. 
 I saw her once, and in her eye 
 
 Arose a sudden dread ; 
 I was so changed, remorseless fear 
 
 Visioned me from the dead! 
 
 I'm poor and ruined now, and all 
 
 Look coldly down on me ; 
 And every thing has past away, 
 
 Save that curst memory! 
 Around it, wreathe her golden curls, 
 
 I look on my silvered hair; 
 And think, does she remember still? 
 
 Is she still loved, and fair?
 
 LOVE AND AMBITION; 
 OB, THE OLD MAN AND THE ROSE. 
 
 IT is not very long ago since the aged Marchese di 
 
 B used to be seen occasionally within the walls 
 
 of our "fair Florence,"* visiting her noble works of 
 art and aiding her Institutions by his counsels and his 
 liberality. This venerable man, after having spent the 
 flower of his years in the public service of his country, 
 and filled with credit the highest offices of the state, 
 had, on the approach of old age, withdrawn into an 
 honorable retirement, where his days rolled on in the 
 enjoyment of literary ease and kindly benevolence. 
 
 Rarely did he quit his beautiful Villa, except for a 
 brief visit to some of the Italian cities, where he loved 
 to seek out the remains of antiquity, or to wander 
 through the noble picture-galleries, with which so 
 many of them abound. On such occasions, he was 
 
 * " Fircnze la Bella."
 
 LOVE AND AMBITION. 275 
 
 wont to leave behind him his numerous retinue of 
 servants, and set out in a modest equipage, accom- 
 panied only by a confidential valet, and a favorite 
 nephew, whose enthusiastic love of the beaux-arts 
 made him a suitable companion in such excursions. 
 
 One day they were visiting together a celebrated 
 picture-gallery. The guide who accompanied them 
 passed along from one chef-d'oeuvre to another, des- 
 canting fluently on their various merits, and scarcely 
 deigning to stop a moment before any works of lesser 
 note. They stood before a painting of Titian's, and 
 the guide had commenced his accustomed panegyric, 
 when hF perceived that the old gentleman was gazing 
 intently on a work of inferior merit, which hung close 
 to Titian's gorgeous painting. It represented a youth- 
 ful lady, simply yet elegantly clad, who was in the act 
 of placing in her bosom a rose, on which she gazed 
 with a gentle smile, as if it were the bearer of some 
 message of kindness or of love. Her countenance 
 beamed with ingenuous candor, and the innocent 
 brightness of her glance added to the loveliness of her. 
 features. 
 
 The old man appeared to be fascinated by the 
 portrait which absorbed his whole attention, so that he 
 allowed the guide to go on with his professional story
 
 276 I.OVE AND AMBITION. 
 
 without giving the slightest heed to what he was 
 talking about. The latter, observing this engouement, 
 stepped back a little, and pointing to the lady's 
 portrait, said aloud : " It must be conceded that this 
 also is a good painting. It is by Francisco Porbus, 
 a distinguished portrait painter. The subject is 
 unknown; but it may readily be perceived that the 
 likeness is an admirable one, for it breathes life in 
 every feature. The position is full of grace .... the 
 coloring of the flesh is faultless .... What transpa- 
 rency ! what light ! Observe the harmony subsisting 
 between the white robe and the dark upper garment, 
 although the tints contrast so strongly . . . . " But at 
 this moment, a gay young noble entered, with all the 
 airs of a fashionable connoisseur ; and the guide, 
 leaving his discourse unfinished, hastened to welcome 
 the new comer with a profusion of bows, leaving the 
 old man still entranced before the unknown portrait. 
 
 Rousing himself at length from his reverie, and 
 drawing a deep sigh, the Marchese addressed his 
 nephew, on whose arm he was leaning, and whom, 
 unconsciously, he had in the depth of his emotion 
 almost pressed to his bosom. 
 
 " Be not surprised," said the old man, " at the 
 lengthened contemplation I bestow upon this unknown
 
 XOVE AND AMBITIOX. 277 
 
 picture. It revives the saddest and yet sweetest 
 emotion that was ever awakened within my breast. I 
 was like unto thee ; in all the vigor of my youth 
 beloved by my parents surrounded by every earthly 
 good heedless about the future little dreaming of 
 the luminous career (as flatterers call it) which I 
 should afterwards pursue. It was at sunset, in the 
 dear and joyous month of May, and I was walking 
 with a fellow-student in his garden. His only sister 
 was with us. Her features did not resemble this 
 lady's, but she had the same sweet and ingenuous 
 countenance, and like her, she was dressed with perfect 
 simplicity, unadorned, save by one beauteous rose 
 which she had gathered while we were standing 
 together gazing on the glorious sunset. I almost 
 mechanically plucked one from the same branch, and 
 after a few moments' silent admiration, we pursued 
 our walk. While conversing together, my fair com- 
 panion's flower dropped out of her hand, whereupon I 
 hastily picked it up and offered her mine in its stead. 
 She accepted it with a smile, and placed it in her 
 bosom, worn as is represented in the picture before us. 
 I cannot describe the happiness which at that moment 
 filled my breast: but too soon the impression wore 
 away, for it was about that time that I obtained my 
 24
 
 278 LOVE AND AMBITION. 
 
 first official employment. It is true, that I accepted it 
 out of obedience to my father's wishes, for no dream 
 of ambition had yet bewildered my mind ; but before 
 long its snares were successfully spread around me ; 
 and amid the smiles of princes, and the adulation of 
 courtiers, the image of my fair young friend gradually 
 faded out of my thoughts. I scarcely knew that I had 
 loved her, until, in a time of mental anxiety and deep 
 disappointment, I bethought me of the young maiden 
 and the rose. Her image floated across my vision, 
 like those refreshing waters which are often seen afar 
 off in the desert, but which vanish from the longing 
 gaze of the traveller as he approaches nearer unto 
 them. Even so did the idea of domestic love and 
 peace pass like a pleasing dream before me amid the 
 turmoils of public life ; but such moments of happy 
 thought were rare and fleeting. I had entered a 
 career of emulation, and could not bear to be sur- 
 passed by my rivals in fame. Titles, honors, wealth, 
 luxury, all these have I attained ; and yet, on looking 
 back at my long and brilliant course, my thoughts rest 
 with pleasure only upon the one bright yet tranquil 
 hour which preceded all this glory. Now, all is over 
 early love .... manly ambition .... successful pride 
 .... But amid the many favors scattered around my
 
 I.OVE AXD AMBITION. 279 
 
 path, I have slighted the only one which could have 
 brought a daily sunshine into my domestic life." 
 
 The old man ceased, and after a moment's pause, he 
 added, with a deep sigh : 
 
 " My friend, when these eyes are closed in death, 
 suffer not a deceiving hand to record in marble that I 
 was great and good, and wise and happy ; but take 
 care, I charge you, to have a simple rose sculptured 
 upon my tomb."
 
 THE OLD YEW-TREE. 
 
 OH ! solemn and dark is the old Yew-Tree, 
 That has braved a thousand years ; 
 
 In the churchyard it waveth gloomily 
 Amid the mourners' tears. 
 
 And its gnarled old boughs of massy mould 
 Have heard strange language spoken; 
 
 What tales could their changeless age unfold, 
 Were its lasting silence broken ! 
 
 They have heard the merry joy-bells peal 
 For battles won triumphantly ; 
 
 They have echoed the heavy passing-bell 
 When Death hath had the victory. 
 
 They have seen the gushing stream of mirth 
 Rolled back by the tide of sorrow, 
 
 And the joy, that a morning gave to birth, 
 All quenched in woe to-morrow.
 
 THE OLD YKW-TKEE. 281 
 
 They have seen the pomp of the bridal day, 
 
 And beauty by true love won ; 
 They have watched the widowed mother pray 
 
 O'er the grave of her only son. 
 
 Oh ! mournful thoughts dwell around the Yew, 
 
 'Neath its black and mossy shade ; 
 But ages pass, it rests green and true, 
 
 While stately forests fade. 
 
 And though the Yew Tree hath entwined its root 
 Round the dead, where they peaceful lie, 
 
 Yet its fadeless branches upward shoot, 
 Emblems of immortality ! 
 24*
 
 THE ANGEL AJSTD THE FLOWERS. 
 [TRANSLATED FROM: THE DANISH.] 
 
 " EACH time that a good child dies, an Angel of 
 God comes down to earth, takes the dead child in 
 his arms, spreads abroad his large snow-white wings, 
 flies forth over all those places which the child had 
 loved, and plucks a whole handful of flowers, which 
 he bears upwards with him to the throne of God, 
 that they may bloom there in yet greater loveliness 
 than they had ever bloomed on earth. The good 
 God folds all these flowers to His bosom, but upon 
 the flower which He loveth best, He breathes a kiss, 
 and then a voice is given to it, and it can join in 
 the song of universal blessedness." 
 
 Lo, all this did an Angel of God relate, whilst he 
 bore a little child to Heaven ; and the child heard 
 as if in a dream, and the Angel winged his flight 
 over those spots in the child's home where the 
 little one had been wont to play, and they passed
 
 THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 283 
 
 through gardens which were filled with glorious 
 flowers. 
 
 " Which of all these shall we take with us, and 
 plant in Heaven?" asked the Angel. 
 
 Now there stood in the - garden a slender and 
 beautiful rose-tree, but a wicked hand had broken 
 the stem, so that its boughs hung around it withered, 
 though laden with large half-unfolded buds. 
 
 "The poor Rose-tree!" said the child; "let us 
 take it with us, that it may bloom above there in 
 the presence of God." 
 
 And the Angel took the rose-tree, and kissed the 
 child because of the words it had spoken ; and the 
 little one half opened his eyes. They then plucked 
 some of the gorgeous flowers which grew in the 
 garden, but they also gathered the despised butter- 
 cup, and the wild heart's-ease. 
 
 " Now then we have flowers ! " exclaimed the child, 
 and the Angel bowed his head ; but he winged not 
 yet his flight towards the throne of God. It was 
 night all was still they remained in the great city, 
 they hovered over one of the narrow streets in which 
 lay heaps of straw, ashes, and rubbish, for it was 
 flitting day. 
 
 Fragments of plates, broken mortar, rags, and old
 
 284 THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWEBS. 
 
 hats, lay scattered around, all which bore a very 
 uninviting aspect. 
 
 The Angel pointed out in the midst of all this 
 confused rubbish, some broken fragments of a flower- 
 pot, and a clump of earth which had fallen out of it, 
 and was only held together by the withered roots of 
 a wild-flower, which had been thrown out into the 
 street because it was considered utterly worthless. 
 
 " We will take this with us," said the Angel ; " and 
 I will tell thee why, as we soar upwards together to 
 the throne of God." 
 
 So they resumed their flight, and the Angel thus 
 related his story : 
 
 " Down in that narrow street, in the lowest cellar, 
 there once dwelt a poor, sick boy ; from his very 
 infancy he was almost bed-ridden. On his best days, 
 he could take two or three turns on crutches across 
 his little chamber, and that was all he could do. On 
 a few days in summer, the beams of the sun used to 
 penetrate for half an hour to the floor of the cellar ; 
 and when the poor boy sat there, and let the warm, 
 sun shine upon him, and looked at the bright red 
 blood flowing through his delicate fingers, as he held 
 them before his face, then was it said of him ' He 
 has been out to-day.' A neighbor's son used always
 
 THE AXGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 285 
 
 to bring him one of the young boughs of the beech- 
 tree, when it was first budding into life, and this 
 was all he knew of the woods in their beauteous 
 clothing of spring verdure. Then would he place 
 this bough above his head, and dream that he was 
 under the beech-trees, where the sun was shining, 
 and the birds were singing. On one Spring day, the 
 neighbor's son also brought him some wild flowers, 
 and amongst these there happened to be one which had 
 retained its root, and for this reason it was placed in. a 
 flower-pot and laid upon the window-sill quite close to 
 the bed. And the flower was planted by a fortunate 
 hand, and it grew and sent forth new shoots, and bore 
 flowers every year ; it was the sick boy's most precious 
 flower-garden his little treasure here on earth he 
 watered it, and cherished it, and took care that the 
 very last sunbeam which glided through the lowly 
 window, should shine upon its blossoms. And these 
 flowers were interwoven even in his dreams for him 
 they bloomed, for him they shed around their fragrance 
 and rejoiced the eye with their beauty; and when the 
 Lord called him hence, he turned, even in death, 
 towards his cherished plant. He has now been a year 
 with God, a year has the flower stood forgotten in the 
 window, and now it is withered, therefore has it been
 
 2bG THK AXGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 thrown out with, the rubbish into the street. And this 
 is the flower, the poor withered flower which we have 
 added to our nosegay, for this flower has imparted 
 more joy than the rarest and brightest blossom which 
 ever bloomed in the garden of a queen." 
 
 " But how comest thou to know all this ? " asked 
 the child whom the Angel was bearing with him to 
 Heaven. 
 
 "I know it," replied the Angel, "for I was myself 
 the little sick boy who went upon crutches. I know 
 my flower well." 
 
 And now the child altogether unclosed his eyes, and 
 gazed into the bright glorious countenance of the 
 Angel, and at the same moment they found themselves 
 in the Paradise of God, where joy and blessedness for 
 ever dwell. 
 
 And God folded the dead child to His heart, and he 
 received wings like the other Angel, and flew hand in 
 hand with him. And all the flowers, also, God folded 
 to His heart, but upon the poor withered wild flower 
 He breathed a kiss, and a voice was given to it, and it 
 sang together with all the Angels which encircled the 
 throne of God ; some very nigh unto His presence, 
 others encompassing these in ever-widening circles, 
 until they reached into Infinity itself, but all alike
 
 THE AXGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 287 
 
 were happy. And they all sang with one voice, little 
 and great ; the good, blessed child, and the poor wild 
 flower, which had lain withered and cast out amongst 
 the sweepings, and under the rubbish of the flitting 
 day, in the midst of the dark, narrow street.
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BY CALDEK CAMPBELL. 
 
 " No more, oh ! never more shall I retrace 
 
 Through seaward brae, and yonder sandy shore ! " 
 
 It was a prophecy, for never more 
 
 Hath it been mine, in that dear native place, 
 
 To look on many a loved familiar face ; 
 
 For death hath oft been there, as sickness sore 
 
 With me, since then. Yet memory, oft, before 
 
 Mine eyes doth set each scene, and fill each space 
 
 With objects of the past : autumnal fields, 
 
 Strewed with gold sheaves, Avhere sleepy Ceres nods 
 
 'Neath the sun's smile, -^ stretches of heath that yields 
 
 Abundant honey, moors, where hares abound, 
 
 And throbbing furzes, heat-struck, burst the pods, 
 
 Scattering ripe seeds amidst the moss around ! 
 
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