ART.QTA University of California Berkeley Hyman Bradofsky collection of amateur journalism The Peter and Rosell Harvey Memorial Fund The Roger Levenson Memorial Fund and Bancroft Various Donors v PARISIAN SKETCHES, AND OTHER STORIES. BY STANTON S. MILLS, Author of " Love vs* Money" "Church Sociables" "The Pretty Soubrette? " What People Think of Us, " The Heart Bowed Down," Etc. ST. Louis, Mo.: FRANK L. SEAVP:R, PUBLISHER. 1879- Jo ALEX. ]V. PINGWALL, MILWAUKEE, Wis., THIS WORK is j^RATEF^NALLY JNSCF^IBED, BY THE AUTHOR, AS AN HUMBLE ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF ESTEEM FOR A TEUE FRIEND. PREFACE. To write a book is one thing ; to sell it is another. And as far as literature of every description is concerned, I unhesi- tantly assert that it requires a great deal more talent, more perseverance, and more cheek to accomplish the latter than it does the former, public opinion to the contrary notwithstanding. With especial reference to amateur literature it will be readily admitted, by all who have tested it, that this theory is eminently a practical one ; and fully rec ognizing this fact I am conscious of a feel ing, in the publication of "Parisian Sketches" in book form, that the work 6 PREFACE. will fail as a bonanza of wealth or fame. This result, however, is robbed of half its terror when it is remembered that my ambitions are more for a compilation of my works, for my friends and myself, than for any interest which the amateur public might manifest. Probably no one, into whose hands this volume may fall, will be more impressed with its failings than the author himself, who, realizing his chief error to be in an endeavor to write of that which he knows absolutely nothing, can only offer the apology that the man who is not familiar with your subject will never see your faults. Hence critics can do no less than grant me that lenientcy bestowed on many others who have taken the same liberty as STANTON S. MILLS. PARISIAN SKETCHES. ALLEN ATHERTON'S RECEIPT. Paris was never before so thronged with Americans as during the year 1873. The hotels were densely packed with foreign visitors attracted thither by the pomp and splendor of this beautiful and dangerous metropolis. Among others from New York were Allen Atherton and Guy Rodman, the former a junior member of a large mercantile establishment of that city, a young man of probably twenty-five years^ not particularly handsome, but accom plished, pleasing and gentlemanly in every particular; a most highly esteemed 10 PARISIAN SKETCHES. member of society, and considered an ex cellent example of those sterling quali ties, sound judgement and good sense. They were on a pleasure seeking tour, where away from business, they could, for a time, doff the mantle, Wall street care and anxiety, and enjoy the excite ment of a season on the continent, con sequently in a short time after their arri val at Liverpool they were among the guests located at the Hotel DeChambri, Paris. A few weeks after this latter event, young Atherton and Rodman were prom enading the grand balcony of the hotel, each absorbed in noting the magnificent toilets and beauties of fashion centered in that wealthy throng, when a lady, evi dently of French parentage, a most love ly, petite and saucy little creature as ever existed, withdrew her delicate jeweled ALLAN ATHERTON'S RECEIPT. 11 hand from the arm of the gentleman, with whome she was walking, and turning to Allan, smilingly said : "Monsieur Atherton, ^Giralfle-GiralflV has perfectly bewitched me and endeavor as I will I utterly fail to impress papa with the slightest degree of enthusiasm, and for an hour I have been trying in vain to convince him that if he should only hear M'lle Duchatel he would return home in extacies." "You have never heard the opera then, Monsieur DeVarville," observed Ather ton, as M'lle unfastening a flower from her hair, placed it in the button hole of his coat. "Thanks," continued Allan, as he turn ed to the beauty at his side, "I shall con sider this an acceptance to my intended proposal to visit the opera to-night. What say you ?" 12 PAKISTAN SKETCHES. u With all my heart; then papa prepare to hear a fresh budget of compliments on the morrow of M'lle Duchatel, for I am confident Monsieur Atherton will prove as great an admirer of her as I." Rodman and Monsieur DeVarville had by this time began an animated discus sion of the merits of France and America. Atherton's quick eye saw an opportunity to gain a delightful promenade with the vivacious M'lle, who, in the few weeks of their acquaintance, had so woven the web of love around his heart, that, struggle as he would, he found himself powerless to break asunder its fibers, gave her his arm and they passed into the parlors. The opera over, Allan and his beautiful companion were soon seated in their car riage, being driven slowly homewards. As the beams of the shinning moon fell on MMle DeVarville's countenance, im- ALLAN ATHERTON'S RECEIPT. 13 parting a most facinating appearance to her dark, winsome features, she seemed a perfect angel to poor Athertori who silent ly sat admiring her beauty. With a rip pling laugh M'lle DeVarville broke the stillness, saying: Monsieur Atherton appears unusually melancholy to-night; has he also lost his heart to the handsome prima donna?" Atherton looked up and gazing into the depths of her lustrous eyes replied. "No, Pauline, I must call you that, but you are the theif. This visit to the opera was but a ruse of mine to secure an oppor tunity of telling you how dear you have become to me, in short to ask you to be my wife." There was no murmuring of undying affection, no falling on his knees and vow ing life was chaos without her, no foolish stage nonsense in Allan Atherton's pro- 14 PARISIAN SKETCHES. posal, but a straight, honest and manly assertion. How tenderly he took her little hand in his and anxiously awaited her reply. His request had not the slightest effect on her for in a most aggravating manner she gave him her answer. "Why, Monsieur Atherton, I like and esteem you as deeply as I do or ever can love any one and I would as soon become the wife of you as another; but papa, what will he say? Will you ask him? And to console you, you dear, good fel low, I hope he will consent." "Nothing would please me better," Al lan fervently responded. "Don't, for pity's sake, ask him unless he is in a good humor, for of late he has been terribly vexed at something." "I will take good care not to anger him." ALLAN ATHERTON'S RECEIPT. 15 On their arrival at the hotel they were met in the parlor by Ninette, M'lle De Varville's waiting maid, who while re moving the elegant opera cloak of her mistress succeeded in placing a note in Atherton's hand with a glance that clear ly signified the secrecy desired. In a few momonts he bade them au revoir and re tired to his own apartments where he took occasion to peruse the note, the con tents of which aroused a train of curious thoughts in his mind. "MONSIEUR ATHERTON. You are too good, too noble, and too generous to be permitted to go on loving M'lle as you do. You will regret it one day for she is unworthy of you and seeks only your fortune." There was no signature, but Atherton knew Ninette's writing too well to doubt who the author was, and the following day he asked her to explain. She could or would not reveal anything farther than 16 PARISIAN SKETCHES. she had in the letter. A secret convic tion, however, led him to believe the girl foolish enough to construe the little com pliments and attentions he frequently paid her in a far different meaning from the one intended. He acknowledged to himself that he had acted unwisely in flattering Ninette's beauty. The more he thought of her singular conduct the more he regreted his hasty proposal to M'lle, and had it not been for his strict principles of honor he might have taken steps to have broken off the engagement. At any rate he half wished it had been Ninette instead of Pauline. u Ah ! well," he thought, "if Ninette has fallen in love with me it is my own fault, not hers," and he came to the conclusion that it was her jeatously which prompted the writing of the letter and consequently put no confi dence in its warning. ALLANS ATHEKTON'S RECEIPT. 17 With a grave forboding of evil Allan presented himself, the following day. be fore M. DeVarville, and asked his consent to the marriage. "What ! Would you marry the daught er of a bankrupt ? I am hourly expecting the intelligence of our downfall, and un less aid from some source arrives soon, we are ruined. Already I am preparing to depart for Marseilles, and, upon my arri val there expect to find myself without a franc in the w r orld. Now, sir, you un derstand my position. Do you still wish to marry my daughter?" Instantly Atherton's mind called up the the words of Ninette, but the man appear ed so earnest, he at once dispelled his thoughts. Here was a chance for him. to show his love for Pauline by assisting her father in his financial distress and then secure his approval of their marriage. 18 I'AKISIAM SKETCHES. "What are your liabilities?" "Our resources are equal to our indebt edness, if it comes to that. Our assign ment, my partner informs me, will be made in favor of a London firm, for twen ty thousand francs, which must be paid in three days." "Can you not borrow?" "Our friends are as much in need of money as ourselves, so hope in that di rection is useless/' Allan hesitated a moment and then said: "I will advance you the sum and your daughter shall be my receipt. I do this, not as an inducement to gain your conseiu to our marriage but to show my love for Pauline by assisting you in your present e m b arr as s meat." k vl leave to-night for Marseilles. Give me the checks tor that amount, and in ALLAN ATHERTON ? S RECEIPT. 19 thirty days it shall be returned with in terest, and as to Pauline, gain her con sent and you have mine." Allen immediately drew a check for the twenty thousand francs, and handed it to Monsieur DeVarville, who, with all the flourish of a true born frenchman, thank ed him over and over again. Atherton was the happiest man in ex istence for the few following days, but his happiness had a sudden termination on glancing over the contents of a hasty letter left by MTle DeVarville, who, be fore Ninette really knew what was tran spiring, packed her trunks, and announc ed her determination of visiting her papa. "MONSIEUR ATHERTON. Papa has sent for me. Allow me to prescribe a remedy for your wound ed heart and purse, for you will never see dear papa or myself again. Marry Ninette, for she loves you with all her dear little heart and will prove a more valuable receipt for your twenty thousand francs, than myself. Content yourself 20 PA R I S I A N S K KTC 1 1 ES. with knowing that you are not the first Ameri can who has fallen a victim to the beauty of PAULINE DEVARVILLE." Atherton, like the cool business man he was, folded the letter and laid it away. Ninette's bright eyes opened with sur prise and astonishment when he informed her that she had lost her mistress through him. "She has gone to her papa,"' with a bit ter emphasis on the word papa, "and will never return She also leaves you as my receipt for twenty thousand francs loaned her dear papa a few days since, In other words she requests me to marry you, which I will only be too happy to do, for I know you love me for myself and not for my money. 11 Ninette, in her gentle, child-like man ner consented and ere the fortnight ex pired, Atherton and his beautiful little bride, accompanied by their faithful ALLAN ATHERTON'S RECEIPT. 21 Rodman, who by Allen's experience had vowed eternal allegiance to celibacy, were on their way to Baden-Baden. New York society, a few months later, was surprised to learn that Mr. Atherton was expected home soon, and that he was bringing with him a bride, which fact seemed to have a depressing tendency in the matrimonial market of what is called "good society.'- WLLE V AND ORE. A PARISIAN SKETCH. A lovely little creature whose spark ling laughing eyes and sweet, wiasome smile greets you as you pass. A musical voice, in a pleading, modest manner, asks: u Would Monsieur like some flowers?" The Rue De Orm presents a perpetual scene of commotion, and to the eye of strangers, proves a wonderful source of thought and study. Here from the dawn ing of one morn to the bright rays of anoth er, appear the thousand different phases of a life spent in that beautiful and dangerous French metropolis, Paris. Style, luxury rmd elegance are there beheld mingling M'LLE VANDORE. 23 in the vast throng of people with adver sity, poverty and beggary. Here the tat tered -and ragged populace jostle their way among fashion, wealth and nobility. The pretty flower girl (we never heard of a flower girl that was not pret ty ) who is daily and until the closing of operas, banquettes, feasts and public amusements, late at night to be seen, waiting, her lap full of tulips, jessamines, marigolds, in fact all American flowers, and often standing on the huge stone steps leading to the grand entrance of the Theatre Royal is the florist of all Ameri can visitors Young Neville, the son of a wealthly banker, doing business in a thriving city of New York, was enjoying his first sea son on the continent, and by his frequent visits to M'lle Vandore for flowers, had discovered in this simple, childlike girl, 24 PARISIAN SKETCHES. a person witty, well educated and refined to a marked degree. He it was to whom she addressed the words: " Would Monsieur, like some flowers ? ' Purchasing a pale white rose with a dainty leaf attached, he fastened it to the lapel of his coat, and passed into the lob by of the Theatre, thence to his box. The curtain had just gone down on the fourth act of that beautiful French drama, u The Marble Heart," when Ne ville, feeling fatigued, rose from his seat and leisurly strolled into the salon. The night was quite warm and the many cool, shady seats in the brilliantly lighted gar den at the rear, was a great temptation. He passed out and finding a vacant seat at the lower end of the garden near the great iron gateway which formed an exit to the Rue La Paris, he sank lazily into it. Scarcely had he seated himself when M'LLE VANDORE. 25 the gate was thrown suddenly open and M'lle Vandore, in a complete state of ex haustion, tottered through and sank help lessly at his feet, gasping : i'Oh, Monsieur, you will not let them harm me I know P "Why, poor child, what has happened," asked Neville as he handed her a glass of water from the beautiful fountain at his side. "I have been so frightened by some bad, cruel men who sought to rob me of my few francs. They pretended to be ill, and came to me as I was waiting for the Theatre to close,' and asked for money. I replied that I had but little and needed that worse than they, whereupon one of them grasped me by the waist and en- deavered to stop my calling for assistance by placing a cloth over my mouth. With a super-human effort I succeeded in free ing myself from his hold and fled. They 26 PARISIAN SKETCHES. followed me to the gateway there, then suddenly stopped." She seemed greatly excited and could with difficulty relate the particulars of her escape. u You are safe now, and if you will per mit me I will gladly escort you to your home.' 1 "Monsieur is very kind, and we will go at once." As they passed from Rue La Paris to Rue de Orm they came suddenly upon two men standing on the corner of the street. At the sight of them the girl tremblingly whispered: "Those are the men.*' Neville turned, and, by the light of the dimly shining street lamp could see their faces, which were perfect types of roughs and villians. The girl directed the way, and from M'LLE VANDOKE. 27 street to street they passed until Neville found himself in a quarter of Paris he had never before visited. At last they enter a dismal appearing street, or rather alley, devoid of pavements or lamps. Here the darkness became so intense he was una ble to discern the way a yard before. He began to experience a keen sense of uu- easiness and a suspicion took possession of his mind that he was being led into a trap. Before his thoughts were fairly clear he suddenly felt his arms pinioned to his side by a rope being thrown over his head, and the gleam of a revolver flashed in the darkness, while a hoarse voice hissed in his ear: u Not one word ! Make the slightest noise and you are a dead man." Not daring to utter a sound, Neville turned to see what effect this remarkable occurrence had on M'lle Vandore. She 28 PARISIAN SKETCHES. was no where to be seen, and he was alone in the hands of men whom he well knew would take his life should he breathe aloud. They bound and blind folded him, then the trio moved a short distance and Neville was placed in a carriage ; after a drive of a few moment, during which time not a word was spoken by the occupants, the vehicle stopped and they alighted. Here Neville was taken into a rear room of a low, obscure building and the band age, covering his eyes, removed. Glanc ing first about the the room he beheld a neat and plainly furnished apartment. The two men, who until now were dis guised, removed their masks, and, to Ne ville's utter astonishment, he immediate ly recognized them to be the men from whom he had but a short time before res cued the handsome flower-girl. Neville waited for them to break the silence. M'LLE VANDORE. 29 "Can you conceive our object in thus bringing'you here, Monsuire ?" "I confess that I am unable." "Monsieur, you are rich, and we are poor. We have taken this method of ob taining what valuables you posess. Your money is our object, not your life. We must have one or both. If you consent to deliver to us the wealth you now car ry, you shall, within the hour be a free man; refuse, and you will never see the rising of to-morrow's sun. Consider our proposition well." "What little I have at present you are welcome to on those conditions," was Ne ville's decision. What else could he do. He fully realized how useless it would be to resist. "Will you tell me if M'lle Vandore is an accomplish of yours," he continued. "We commit no one but ourselves. She 30 PARISIAN SKETCHES. is far more capable of taking care of her self, than you are of your wealth," replied the man evasively. "I have a suspicion that her part of these proceedings were bnt a ruse to lead me into your path. Here are the only articles of value, together with what mon ey I have about my person," said Neville as he handed the man his wallet, watch and jewels, with as much self-possession as though he was paying a just and hon est debt. "You are wise. We will once more blind-fold you and lead you to the en trance of Rue De Orm, when you will be at liberty to remove the covering from your eyes, which will require some time, during which we shall make good our escape. Your life depends upon your con duct. The first attempt to attract atten tion will meet with death." M'LLE VANDORE. 31 In a few moments they had left the house. After walking a great distance the men suddenly left his side, one say ing: ^This is Eue De Orm." Neville could not determine, so nois- lessly did they glide away, the direction they took, and by the time he had remov ed the cloth from his eyes, they were far beyond the hopes of ever seeing them. The following evening Neville wended his steps to the Theatre Royal, expecting to find M'lle Vandore at her usual post. She was missing. Then it was he became fully convinced that he had fallen a vic- time to one of the many ingenious de vices, only to be invented by a French man, for robbing foreigners. On returning to the hotel where he was stopping, Neville narrated his adventures of the foregoing night to the proprietor, 32 PARISIAN SKETCHES. a genial and whole-souled Frenchman, and asked his opinion. "My dear fellow," playfully remarked the landlord, "you will look in vain for the beautiful florist. It is as plain as the nose on your handsome face. Her fleeing to you for protection was but a ruse to get you to offer yourself as an escort, and you swallowed the bait, like the innocent American you are, hook and all, thus walking into a cleverly planned strategem with its chief opperfttor. It is the same old story, American galantry and French cunning. "I have learned a lesson that I w^ill never forget at any rate," observed Ne ville as he passed into the salon. The hotel proprietor was right. Ne ville saw no more of M'lle Vandore, al though he searched the great city from one end to the other. THE SPECTER OF CHATEAU DeCOURCEY. A PARISIAN SKETCH, ONE never becomes thoroughly ac quainted with the mysteries and miseries of Parisian Life until by some fortunate combination of circumstances he drifts in to the newspaper fraternity. Here he he finds an occupation which leads him through the highways and byways ; gives him a deeper insight to the hidden and public lives of Parisians, the chief ele- ements of which he soon discovers to be a curious mixture of trickery, romance and fashion, than is obtainable in any any other calling he may adopt. It is somewhat amusing to observe the pres- 34 PARISIAN SKETCHES. ence of these characteristics of the genu ine Frenchman wherever one may go. The rag-picker and the nobleman have alike a fondness for romance, trickery and fashion. Tell to the genuine Parisian a tale of romance, sprinkled with a trifle love and a vast amount of knavery, and you will have pleased his fancy beyond anything else you could have done for him, unless it be to introduce him to your wife, especially should she happen to be a charmingly handsome woman. The news paper reporter is no exception to the av erage Parisian, and equally delights in detailing the particulars of a little romant ic episode, with his readers in a perusal of them. How eagerly he watches the result of any mysterious chain of events which come under his observation, in hopes of obtaining a rare treat for his readers, in the shape of some startling SPECTER OF CHATEAU DECOURCY. 35 developments concerning a newly dis covered bit of romance. The Specter of Chateau DeCourcy was a mystery that puzzled all Paris and per haps would have remained a profound one to the present time, had it not been for Achile Duval, a reporter for the , who discovered and published an account, toned and polished to an extremely French degree, of the mysterious Specter. Not many years ago there came to Paris an apparently very wealthy and positive ly very eccentric Frenchman, named De Courcy, who purchased a lovely little vil la at the outskirts of the city, and called it "Chateau DeCourey.' He brought with him an only and accomplished daughter, whose extreme beauty and devotion to her aged lather excited no little curiosity. From the moment of their advent the Chateau became enveloped in a shroud of 36 PARISIAN SKETCHES. mystery, inasmuch as no one knew from whence Monsieur and M'lle DeCourcy came, and the most rigid efforts to discov er the slightest particulars of their past history proved futile. They made no ac quaintances and obstinately refused to mingle in any society whatever. With the exception of a few servants they lived all alone, and were rarely seen save when when driving along the Boulevards, al ways together. No wonder the Parisian appetite for romance found in these strange people excellent subjects for a vast amount of gossip. A year went by and all Paris still won dered more and more who M. and M'lle DeCourcy were. This formed the first part of Achille Du- val's tale of romance. The one which followed, terrible as it was, still left Paris in, if possible, a deeper wonderment. SPECTER OF CHATEAU DECOURCY. 37 One beautiful morning the Chateau, usually so calm and quiet, presented a scene of excitement never to be forgotten. The servants were hurrying to and fro in a terrible state of agitation. Passers-by were stopped and conducted into the house, soon emerging with awe stricken and terrified countenances, telling only too plainly that something dreadful had occurred. In a few hours all Paris was made acquainted with the particulars of the great tragedy at the Chateau. Pale as death Mons. DeCourcy slowly paced the hallway, while from his eyes was emitted that peculiar gleam which betrays a dethroned reason. He seemed utterly unconscious of what was transpir ing around him, paying not the least at tention to the many persons who stopped to watch his singular actions. In a small but elegantly furnished boudoir, a piti- 38 PARISIAN SKETCHES. ful sight met the eye. Lying, on the soft brussels carpet, with the paleness of death on her beautifnl countenance, was M'lle DeCourdy, her long, dark hair falling loosely about her fair, white shoulders. Death had accomplished its work quietly and quickly. The servants were questioned and the terrible life secret of Mons. and M'lle De- Courcy revealed. It was a long story which they had gathered, little by little, from conversations with their master and mistress. For years Monsieur DeCourcy had been the victim of a mild and harm less state of insanity, during which he had conceived the singular idea that he and M'lle were proof against the poisionous effects of all deadly drugs, and had re peatedly endeavored to illustrate to his daughter that they could not die, by at tempting to induce her to drink of various SPECTER OF CHATEAU DECOURCY. 39 mixtures he would prepare. How care fully had the poor girl guarded the secret of her father's insanity, only to become the victim of a cruel, untimely death at his hands. The usual ceremonies of the law were gone through with and M'lle DeCourcy quietly laid to rest, while her father, adjudged insame, was sent to an asylum at Marseilles. Thus the second part of Achile Duval's novel was com plete. Another year had passed and the Chat eau DeCourcy, through the agency of an administrator had passed into the hands of new tenants, and with then came another and a deeper mystery. "Surely,"' said Duval, in one of his articles, "the Chateau was doomed to become a contin ual scene of wonderment to the end of its existence." Mons. Sartory, the new occupant of the Chateau, used every en- 40 PARISIAN SKETCHES. deavor to hush the whisperings that were being indulged concerning the "Specter of Chateau De Courcy," but without avail. In a few weeks after his arrival all Paris was teeming with excitement over the pale, sad face that nightly appeared at the window of poor M'lle DeCourcy ? s bou doir. The apartment was never occupied thereafter, and Mons. Sartorys, supersti tious as he was, would permit no effort to be made towards discovering the cause of the strange apparation, placing the ut most confidence in the theory that it was the spirit of the ill-fated girl. On one or two occasions he had been prevailed upon to allow persons to occupy the chamber over night, in hopes of ascertaining some clue to the mystery. No one appeared able to arrive at any definite conclusions other than that the apparition seemed to appear and disappear leaving no trace of SPECTEK OF CHATEAU DECOURCY. 41 its entrance or exit, Achile Duval, vex ed at the unsuccessful efforts of others, determined to visit the Chateau, and there remain until he could explain to all Paris the true cause of their foolish superstition. Mons. Sartorys received him courteously and offered every assistance in his power, but ventured to remark that it was a haz ardous undertaking, and feared would ter minate with no more satisfactory results than others had achieved. Achile was shown through the Chateau, and made ac quainted with Mme. and M'lle Sartorys, the latter being a beautiful neice of the courteous Frenchman. M'lle, unlike her guardians, seemed pleased at Duval's de termination, and expressed a sanguine hope that his mission would prove a tri umphant one. Every preparation being perfected, Achile bid all a reluctant good-night, and 42 PARISIAN SKETCHES. retired to the mysterious room. Only partially disrobing, he lay down to watch and wait the appearance of the spectre. The moon shown brightly, and as its rays came through the window he could dis tinctly see every object in the room. How long he waited he could not tell ; for be coming weary and tired, he at last sank into a slight slumber, only to be awaken- en by the rushing of a cold, damp gust of wind through the room. The moon had sank below the horizon and the Chateau was in total darkness. He felt certain that the door or some of the windows to apartment were open, and on examina tion, to his utter astonishment, he found that the door, which he had so carefully locked, was indeed open. How hard he endeavored to persuade himself that he was not frightened, and courageously he again closed the door, this time placing SPECTER OP CHATEAU DECOURCY. 43 a chair in such a position, that it would be impossible to open the door without causing a crash from the chair falling to the floor. Again he lay down, this time with a determination to allow nothing to escape him unnoticed. With all his efforts to keep his eyes open he experienced, as time flew by, and no appearance of the specter, a sense of drowsiness creeping over him; and ere he was aware of it he had fallen into a broken sleep. With a start he awoke to find the chair removed and the door again standing wide open. If he was frightened before, he was doubly so now. With a face as pale as death and trembling like an aspen leaf, he closed the door. What should he do ? His first impulse was to arouse the family, but up on a second consideration he determined not to do so. He had came there for the purpose of meeting the dreaded spectre 44 PARISIAN SKETCHES. face to face, and he would fulfill his mis sion come what might ; and with this re solve he drew a chair to the window, threw up the sash, and concluded to pass the remainder of the night watching the exterior instead of the interior of the building. For a long time he sat watch ing and thinking, endeavoring to account for the mysterious opening of the door, when suddenly he became conscious of a dull red light filling the room, and then upon the wall before him he beheld a sight which caused his heart to beat wild ly with terror; he tried to speak, but his tongue seemed paralyzed ; he made an effort to move, but found it impossible. Through an aperture in the wall he could distinctly see the hand and arm of a hu man being, evidently a woman, for they were of exquisite mould, white as marble ; and the small tapering fingers were busy SPECTER OF CHATEAU DECOURCY. 45 removing the panels of a secret door, till a space was vacant sufficient to admit the body. Slowly and cautiously the appari tion came through the opening, bearing in her hand a beautiful lamp, which, when its red glare shone in Duval's face, re vealed to him the countenance of the "Spectre of Chateau De Courcy." To say Achile was astonished seems foolish ; he was completely dumbfounded ; for, with her eyes still closed in sleep, and her fair white shoulders hid by a mass of long shining hair, there before him stood M^lle Sartorys, her face as white as the snowy night clothes she was clad in. With a noiseless step she advanced to the door and removed the chair, then turning the key she gently swung the door open. Duval deemed it prudent to make no movement towards awakening the fair sleeper, and permitted her to leave the 46 PARISIAN SKETCHES. room unmolested, which she did by means of the secret door in the wall. Carefully the unconscious girl replaced the panels, and all was again as still as death. Morning came at last, and how joyful ly Achile welcomed its first bright rays. He had accomplished what had been con sidered impossible, but at what a cost! He was thoroughly exhausted and very weak from excitement and fright. At the breakfast table he met M'lle Sartorys, who, in answer to his inquiry, informed him that she had never rested better. He thought it best to \ keep his knowledge of her sleep-walking a secret, until it should be made known through the columns of the next morning's paper ; and when M. Sartorys asked what his success was, he merely replied that he had saw no spectre. The particulars were soon published, and Duval became the lion of the hour. SPECTER OF CHATEAU DECOURCY. 47 The problem was solved at last and he had done it. Paris was satisfied, Mons. and Mme. Sartorys were nonplussed, MIPe was at a loss to comppehend its meaning, and Achile's romance was ended, and with it the excitement over the "Spectre of Chateau DeCourcy." AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. A PARISIAN SKETCH. A lovely face. The expression of ten derness, beaming from a pair of large blue eyes, caused George Lesparre's heart to throb wildly with admiration. Vainly he endeavored to persuade himself into the belief that he only admired the beau ty of the face and not the person herself. He flattered himself that he was too wise to ever imagine Lucille Chandoce, beau tiful, accomplished and heiress to a world of wealth, ever becoming foolish enough to forget her station in life and bestow her love upon a poor artist, far beneath her in rank and intellect. u No, not intel- AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 49 lect,' 1 he argued with himself. "I am cer- *tain she possesses no more of what the world pleases to call learning than my self." But rank rendered impassable the gulf between them, and as he permitted his deep, dark eyes to wander toward her own, he felt the folly of ever aspiring to think of her as the wife of a toiling, strug gling artist with nothing in the world but an education calculated to create hopes and expectancies impossible ever to re alize. The scene was one of rare beauty, such as only Parisians delight to dazzle the eye with, and as George Lespare's glance beheld the brilliantly lighted parlors of Monsieur Chandoce's magnificent man sion, where mingled the grandeur and el egance of a Parisian gathering, he won dered why he was permitted to be pres ent. However unworthy he had seemed 50 PARISIAN SKETCHES. of Lucille before he could but think, as he saw her courted and admired by all* around her, how far above him she was. He dared not approach her and beg the indulgence of a mazourka as others did, but quietly stole away into a deserted corner of the drawing room and endeav ored to concentrate his thoughts in a vol ume of Dumas. How utterly incapable of doing aught but eagerly watch the sweet face of Lucille, as she promenaded the hallway before him. He began to ex perience keenly a feeling that his reserve and silence were being noticed by the guests, and he wished a thousand times that he could frame an excuse that he might leave the house. George Lesparre was a man upon whom nature had bestowed that faculty, one rarely encounters, of sincerity in every word uttered and every thought of his AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 51 mind. Giddyness and hypocracy could never be traced in the slightest action of his life. When he spoke people knew he was in earnest. Lucille had just tinge enough of sentiment in her nature to rec ognize in these qualifications a man whose esteem, if once gained could never be al tered, come what would. She knew when he told a woman he loved her it was with a love constant as the changing of hours into days, days into years, and years into eternity, and, as she thought of these things, she saw how, a contrast with the many admirers around her, revealed his invaluable worth as a man and a friend. Cold and distant, as he always seemed to her, she was learning to love him, for the more she saw of him, the more she found many things to admire in his upright, hon est character. "Monsieur Lesparre, you seem lonely 52 PARISIAN SKETCHES. here, all by yourself,'' quietly spoke Lu cille, as she ventured into the drawing room. He looked slowly up, with a smile which Lucille thought more of sadness than pleasure. "I should not feel at home in there, and I do here by myself,'' and he lowered his eyes to the book again. Lucille w r aited some moments for him to speak again and when the silence was becoming awkward she said pleasantly: "I am tired of waltzing and have come to you for a stroll in the conservatory, thinking perhaps I might dispell your lonliness. Will you accompany me ?" "With pleasure," and replacing the book with a carefulness that pleased Lucille he offered her his arm and they passed out into the conservatory. "Why do you so persistently avoid me, Monsieur," asked Lucille, when alone. AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 53 He stopped, withdrew her hand from his arm, and, casting a look full of earn estness into her troubled face, said : u Ah, M'llle, you should have asked why I am unable to make myself agree able as you wish. I wi]l tell you. I can not play the part of a hypocrite and com pliment the frivolity and vanity with which I am surrounded, thus rendering me an object of dislike." "Monsieur Lesparre, I abhor flattery and false compliments even as you, but for the sake of society I am constrained to listen to it. Surely, whatever your aversion to society may be, it should be no excuse for your indifference towards me.' 1 Something like a sound of sadness and reproach seemed to characterize her words, and the drooping head and tremb ling voice betrayed her thoughts too well. 54 PARISIAN SKETCHES. Lesparre noticed it and in his heart he thanked her. When he replied he could not conceal the thoughts which filled his mind, and passionately told her all. ^Lucille, I love you. That is why I avoid you ; and I dared not speak for fear of betraying myself. I know the folly of loving you, and fully understand the great difference of our positions. I know I can not please you with my sober, silent ways, therefore I am content to see and admire you without the privilege of telling you of my admiration. u ()h ! Monsieur. I am so glad you have spoken of this ; it gives me a pretext for telling you how much more I value your nobleness of mind than the light, trilling customs of society, as does every woman with one spark of honesty in her nature/' u And yet she would refuse the love of such a niiin ! v rapidly responded Lesparre, AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 55 as he leaned toward her to note the effect of his words. She raised her head and looked straight at him for the first time and firmly said: "Never, if she loved him ! " "Dare I hope, then, that you would not refuse to listen to me if I would ask you to become my wife. Can I think you would overlook my poverty and grant me one word of encouragement. Speak, Lu cille, and tell me." He trembled like an aspen when she looked up again, this time her face pale, and her voice low and quivering, as she answered : "George Lesparre, my father would rather see me shut forever within the walls of a convent than the wife of a poor man, but for all that I love you, for I know you are good, generous and kind, I will marry you in spite of my father's 56 PARISIAN SKETCHES. remonstrances, if you will brave the con sequences with me." The world never before seemed half so bright to George Lesparre, as when he leaned tenderly down and pressed a sweet passionate kiss upon Lucille's white hand. Poor Girl ! She little thought of the mis ery and sorrow she. was bringing upon herself. She had but one thought her love for George and in that she could be happy anywhere. With a heart sad and sorrowful, George listened to M. Chandoce's kind, sympa thetic refusal of his daughter's hand. 'It cannot be, George. Much as I es teem and regard you, I could never think of Lucille becoming your wife. You may, as you say, love her, and love may be very pleasant, but money is omnipotent, and therefore indispensable, 71 and George knew how true his words were. "It is AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 57 better you go away for a time to Italy, or Switzerland, or England, where, in the pursuit of your profession, you will soon learn to think of Lucille as only a friend. 1 " "Oh ! Monsieur, I could never do that. It would look too much like I had regret ted my action and was eager to shut Lu cille forever from my mind." But Monsieur Chandoce was inexorable, and, at last, when George quit the house, he felt that Lucille was farther from him than ever. For two days Lucille waited and watch ed for the coming of George with an anx iety tljat almost made her ill, and still he did not come to tell her to hope one. M. Chandoce, perceiving her solicitude, en deavored te urge her to believe that George, seeing the error of his conduct, had departed for England where he could drive the thoughts of herself from his 58 PARISIAN SKETCHES. mind. She tried hard not to think him so cruel and false, but when one evening there came a letter from him she doubt ed no longer. "LUCILLE. By the time you will have receiv ed this I shall be far away. I have realized be fore it was too late, how unsuited we are to each other, and I quit Paris forever to-night, that I might aid you in forgetting one who could only make your life a miserable one. Regretfully, GEORGE. It was all over now. Henceforth the name of George Lespare, a few hours be fore so dear, was but the name of an ut ter stranger whom she could meet at any moment and dispel from her mind the next. These were Lucille's thoughts as she threw the fragments of the letter, which had brought so much pain and sor row to her heart, into the fire. Alone in his room George Lesparre was suffering the pangs of a bitter, bitter life ; the past, dark and mournful, haunting AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 59 him like a dream, the future foretold naught but distress. His head was bow ed and in his hand he clasped a letter, murmuring, as he gazed upon it, not words of censure but words of compassion and pity. Lucille was false to him, but he loved her deeply and devotedly, knowing as he did that she was lost to him forever. "Why did I allow myself to speak ? I could have lived on in happiness if I had never told her how I loved her. I will go away as she requests, and wait till time effaces the memory of her falseness." In one short week he had left Paris, the scene of the happiest and the saddest mo ments of his life. He wrote Lucille a long, tender letter forgiving her and ask ing that he be remembered when, as the years flew past, she was the happy wife of one whom she could love more than she had him. 60 PARISIAN SKETCHES. * * * # * * Along the almost deserted Rue St. Ma ry walked George Lesparre, once more in Paris, after an absence of two years abroad ; long and weary years to him ; years of suffering to Lucille. And now he has returned because way down in his heart was a longing to see Lucille, which, try as he would, he could not resist. The silence and solemnity of the night were only broken by the deep toned bell of the grand Cathedral of St. Peter as it rang out the hour. A moment more and the great organ of the Cathedral was heard. How solemn the music sounded, as he lis tened to the strains of the Sonata from "Martha." Some strange presentament seemed to guide his footsteps to the church where he had often been with Lu cille, and urged him to enter. Slowly he ascends the steps and enters. The sight AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 61 which greets him was one he never can forget. It seemed to stop the pulsations of his heart. His head grew dizzy and the room appeared to swim before his eyes. There before the altar, her face pale as death, robed in garments white as the snow covered ground without, stood Lucille Chandoce. What did it all mean. Alas ! the appearance of the Bishop told him too well. It was the beginning of a ceremony which would shut Lucille for ever from the world. A ceremony that would close before her the doors of liber- tv and happiness. Poor Lucille! Sick at heart with herself and all around her she was soon to be ushered within the iron walls of a convent. For a moment George stood gazing at the scene before him, and then in a voicfc tremulous with emotion he speaks, scarce ly knowing why he does so, while the 62 PARISIAN SKETCHES. eyes of all within the church were turned towards him. "May heaven bless you. Lucille, false as you have been to me/' The voice, the face of one, whom, for two years she had striven to forget, brought back the memory of the moments when he had told her how he loved her. Her brain was whirling ; the very air seemed to stifle her, and with a low moan of anguish Lucille sank helpless and mis erable to the floor. Tenderiy they placed her in her car riage anc conveyed her to her home. For a long time Lucille lay unconscieus and when at last she slowly opened her eyes the physician forbade any one but the nurse entering the room. George came every day to inquire af ter her, bringing with him flowers, books, and many other things to aid her in pass- AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 63 ing the weary hours away How his heart bounded when they told him he could see Lucille. He trembled in every limb as he entered the room. Their eyes met and looked the love that neither could speak. Gently he kissed her as she look ed up with a smile full of love and con stancy. A "But, Lucille," said George, when their first greeting was over, "why did you send me this cruel letter?" "Oh ! George, I never penned that let ter. I could not be so false as that. Ev en when your letter came telling me you could never see me again, I forgave you, for I still loved you." "Never penned that letter?" asked Les- parre, in astonishment. "Then there must be some terrible misunderstanding r He was interrupted by the entrance of M. Chandoce, who said : 64 PARISIAN SKETCHES. U I can explain all. George, I am a scoundrel. It was I who penned those letters which came so near severing your hearts, I was mad enough once to think it best to seperate you and Lucille, and for that purpose the letter which you re ceived was written under my directions. Your reply was treated in like manner ere it reached Lucille. But I have suffer- ered untold misery ever since. I could not be blind to her feelings, and yet I dared not tell her. Lucille, my child, can you forget the past and forgive me?" U I would do anything in my power to make you happy again, and if forgivness will accomplish it, there's a kiss, dear papa, to seal my pledge that all is for given," replied the happy girl, as she seated herself an a ottoman at his i'eet. "George,'' continued Monsieur, U I have wronged you deeply, and I beg your for- AT THE DOOR OF A CONVENT. 65 giveness also. I will do what I can to atone for that wrong. Give me your hand. I refused you the hand of Lucille ; I now revoke that refusal. Take her, and may the sorrow which I brought upon you reap only happiness add contentment. Another month had flown past when the bells of the old Cathedral St. Peter rang out the glad welcome of a new life for George and Lucille Lesparre, while the sweet tones of "Wedding Bells March" told too truly the story of their happi ness. EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. "Dumb jewels, often,, in their silent kind, More than quick words, do move a woman's mind." SHAKESPEARE. GOLD! This was the bright and glitter ing shrine at which beautiful Edna Sey mour, obeying the mandates of a fashion able society, in which she moved as the reigning queen, bowed her head in hum ble worship. Grace, beauty and frivolity found in her a most worthy exponent. A lovely creature whose dark, luminous eyes betrayed a depth of passion so gentle and yet so dangerous. From infancy every thing that heart could desire or money purchase, were lavished upon this fairy- EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. 67 like being who found in them the value and power of those great levers of this world's opinion, wealth, luxury and ele gance, and now that the time was fast ap proaching when she must accept one of the many applications for her hand in marriage, she had tutored her mind to re gard money as the first consideration of wedded life. Proud, haughty and willful, no wonder her mind shuddered at the possibility of -one day becoming the wile of a penny- less man. Love, the ruling passion of some lives, w r as a stranger to her heart a heart of marble dead to every thing save gold. Edna was an orphan, and her uncle and aunt, Sir John and Lady Winthrop, upon whom she was dependent, always urged the necessity of a wealthy marriage, pic- uring to her the sorrowful life spent as 68 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. the wife of a commoner. Give up the many joys and pleasures of her present home for the toil and care of another? How her mind revolted. Ah ! Edna lit tle dreamed how near was the dawning of the day when the folly of her life would appear, never to be forgotten. The great lesson, which was destined to work a won derful change in her icy heart was soon to be learned. Not more than an hour's ride from the bussy, bustling, English metropolis, Lon don, the quiet, little parish, called Lawn- dale, is situated. Lawndale was indeed a lovely place, and rightly named too. Ed na often called it paradise, and truly, with it magnificent gravel drives, winding here and there through the trees lining the mossy banks of a murmuring stream, it reminded one of that enchanting spot so beautifully described bv Milton. Here EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. 09 was the home of Sir John Winthrop "Winthrop Place'' it was called and ad joining, with its grand old estates, stood Vivan Hall, half hid from view by the thick foliage of trees forming an avenue, picturesque and romantic, leading to the great iron gate fronting the highway. Vivan Hall was the pride of Lawndale, and frequently had Edna, in her morning- rambles, stopped to note the beauty and elegance of its surroundings, always won dering if the young heir, when he came to -take posession of his inheritance, would keep the doors of the grand old building closed against tourists and visitors as did his uncle, Sir Mortimer Vivan. Here for years, hermit-like and alone, save the presence of a few servants, had Sir Mort imer lived, rarely venturing outside his lonely room- Suddenly one morning the 70 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. news was rung; throughout the parish tli at the master of Vivan Hall was no more. It was only too true. In the lon- liness of his room Sir Mortimer had quiet ly passed from earth. The old hall, it was soon learned, reverted to a nephew, a stranger to Lawndale, and who, after com pleting his studies at one of the English Universities, would come to his new home Jor the first time. This it was that turn ed the thoughts of beautiful Edna into a strange current, as she stood gazing through the trees. Her plotting mind was busy at work. She was dreaming of a hope, a hope which sprang from the great object of her life, that one day she might become the mistress of Yivan Hall ; the thought sent a thrill of determination tli rough her mind, and she was slowly forming a resolution to win the the heir. cost what it mav. True, she had never EDNA SEYMOUR 8 MISTAKE. 71 seen Walter Fivan, but she cared little for that. Her nature taught her to love his money, not himself. She knew well the power of her facinating beauty, but she realized not the bitter ending of false expectations which its blandishments were fast leading her to. Two months have passed since the death of Sir Mortimer, and the smiling summer days slowly fading into autumn, brought many changes to Vivan Hall. The great, old-fashioned paneled doors, which for years had remained closed, were now thrown open and the warm sunlight steal ing in, imparted a bright, genial appear ance to the dingy rooms of the old build ing. Already the servants were busy making preparations for a grand recep tion of the new master, and the little parish seemed to take a renewen interest r2 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. in the coming of the voting heir, who was coming on a visit to his new home during vacation. Changes had occurred at Winthrop Place as well. Sir John, Lady Winthrop and Edna, according to custom, had gone to London to spend the Winter season, "for," said Edna, a Lawndale was so lonely during the Holidays." Edna loved society and at the many brilliant reception parties, where throng ed English nobility and fashion, she al ways seemed the magnet to which they were drawn. The turning point in Edna's life was drawing nearer and nearer. A fashiona ble soiree was given at the home of Col. Ellington, a wealthy London banker. Mere Edna's beauty became the object of many admiring eyes, for never before had she appeared so lovely. It was a EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. 73 very brilliant assembly and Edna made many new acquaintances, among whom was a friend of Col. Ellington, Arnold Burdette by name, then visiting relatives in London. Cold and distant as Edna had always seemed to every one, she found it impossible to be so with Arnold. From the moment their eyes met they seemed intimate friends, They waltzed together and ever and anon she found herself glancing around half expecting, half hop ing he was near. Life's path had sudden ly taken a new turning it appeared to Ijer. The season wore on and still Sir John and his family remained in London. Ev ery opportunity found Edna and Arnold together. One evening as she sat at the piano, idly fingering the keys, Arnold ab ruptly turned the conversation and in a trembling voice said: 74 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. "Edna, for weeks I have been vainly trying to say what I am determined to now. I have come to-night to ask you to be my wife. I am poor as you doubtless ly know, but bright prospects are before me and with willing hands and you to toil for, our future has no shadow.*" Her head was buried in her hands, and a heart, which but a moment before had been so light, was now aching with sor row. It was a fierce struggle between love and gold with her. In that single sentence "Will you be my wife?" spoken so tenderly came from the almost buried thought of Walter Vivan, and the vow she had made. She loved Arnold Bur- dette with all her soul and mind, but she loved Vi van Hall better. At last she look ed up, the same old haughty, cold look upon her face and with a quivering lip said : EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. 75 "Arnold, you do not know how it wrings my heart to hear you speak thus. It grieves me worse, if possible, to say it, than you to hear me when I tell you that I can never become your wife. You will think me the incarnation of falseness, ca price and selfishness were I to tell you why. You say you are poor. Look at me now, surrounded with every luxury imag inable. Divest me of these claims to the respect of society and what am I. A per son to mocked and spurned. I am de pendent on the charities of my uncle and aunt, while you are no better situated. No. Arnold, wealthy marriage is my only hope, aye, it is the object of my life. It is better that we part and learn to forget each other." u Edna, that is an answer prompted by an avaricious nature, and not by your heart." 76 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. "Call it what you may, it is my answer.'- " Fare well then. You reject my love because I am poor and not because you do not love me in return. I can read this in your eyes, your smile and your ac tions. Edna, we may meet again ; till then, adieu. r He was gone. Edna half regretted the step she had taken. She could not bear to give up ail hopes of Vivan Hall and yet she longed to call Arnold back and at least tell him that she loved him, poor as he was. She arose from the piano and walked to the window, while a feeling of sadness and sorrow began to take posession of her. In vain she endeavored to drive all thoughts of Arnold's pale face from her mind. The bright spring days were rapidly ap proaching and the Winthrops were pre paring to return to Lawndale. EDNA SEYMOUR S MISTAKE. i ( * * #- * * Summer had again rolled 'round and Lawndale was anxiously and eagerly await ing the arrival of Sir Walter to take pos session of Vivan Hall. Edna, once so desirous to see the young heir, seemed to have lost all interest in the change which the Hall was soon to undergo. The coming of Walter Vivan had no effect up on her, and when the invitations to attend the reception were received at Winthrop Place, she expressed a desire to remain away. Lady Winthrop was surprised and urged her to go, and plainly hinted that Sir Walter would probably look for a bride among the assembly. Edna understood the meaning of her aunt's allusion, and suffered herself to be present. It was a bright moonlight night when 78 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. the coachman drove to the gates of Win- throp Place ; and in a few moments Edna, pale, trembling and silent, with Sir John and Lady Winthrop, was on her way to Vivan Hall. The old building was throng ed with guests, filling the great corridors, and verandas, and in a few moments Edna was to be presented to the man she h*id once vowed to win. Why did she, co quettish and merry as she usually was be fore she knew Arnold Burdette, now re main so silent and reserved? Her face, now as white as the robes she wore, seem ed more beautiful and lovely than ever before. "Miss Seymour, allow me to present to you Sir Walter Vivan, the new master of Vivan Hal L Sir Walter, Miss Seymour. ' r " Arnold I" "Ednal" EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. 79 The lesson was learned. There before her, with the same look of sadness as on the night she refused his hand, stood Arnold Burdette. Arnold, or Sir Walter, was the first to speak : "Edna, we are still friends ; at least, I hope?" He offered her his arm, as she mechan ically responded: "Always friends, if no* thing more." They passed through the throng of people out into the observatory. " Here we will be unmolested for a few moments, Edna," said Arnold, as he offer ed her a seat; " and I want to tell you now what I have longed to since that night, the memory of which will ever be as fresh in my mind as 1 know it will be in yours. The deception I practiced, 80 EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. while in Lbndon, was the result of Col. Ellington's devices to keeping identity unknown until I came to Vivan Hall. It- was perhaps foolish and unwise, but it- taught you to love me for myself aud not for my wealthy position. I do not cen sure you for refusing me, believing as you did that I was a penniless man ; for I, too, have seen poverty and love go through this world hand in hand down to a bitter grave. Edna, once again I ask you to take back those words and say that you will be my wife." " Can you so forgive me, Arnyld, as to ask that?" was Edna's reply, as tears filled her eyes. 44 Aye, more; I can forget. Will you not recall your words" ? Edna's answer brought a bright joyous look into the deep blue eyes of Arnold, EDNA SEYMOUR'S MISTAKE. >1 while the color came again to Edna's cheeks. Three months later, Vivan Hall \va< the scene of another happy ^itlierinir when " T\v<> souls with but a single thought. Two licarts that heat as one." And Edna was Ladv Vivan after ail. THE HEART BOWED DOWN. In the Art Gallery of Florence, Italy, there hangs a portrait bearing the inscrip tion, "THE HEART BOWED DOWN." The portrait is that of a young and beautiful girl, whose sorrowful face rare ly fails to attract attention, and excite the sympathy of visitors. The interest awak ened in the painting is greatly augmented by reference to the catalogue, and the name of a once promising young artist of America is found appended as the author, whose life seems to have been a 83 THE HEART BOWED DOWN. hitter failure ; as the following history of the work, written by the artist himself, would indicate. No one has ever been able to obtain any definite information concerning the girl referred to, other than that vouchsafed by the artist. It is sup posed, however, that the painting was ex ecuted in America and brought to Florence, together with the accompanying account of its production, at the dying request of the unfortunate artist : " There conies a voice that awakes my soul. It i< the voice of years gone by : they roll before me with their deeds." OSSIAN. Nature's cold, inanimate touch was fast spreading a mantle of dreariness over Oak Dale Cemetery, as I stood before its great iron gate ; peering through the rail ings, my glances wandered up the road way, now strewn with dead and withered leaves. The once green and verdant for- THE HEART HO WE I) DOWN. 84 est, reaching far away 'till the summits of its lofty trees seemed to pierce the gray skv overhead, now presented a view bar- re a and desolate. Instinctively I closed my eyes that imagination might again bring to my mind the memory of sunny summer days, when, beneath the luxur iant foliage, I had wandered, a little sketch-book as my companion, listening to the sweet warbling of birds as they fluttered to and fro among the branches. But as I looked again the same bleak and gloomy scene appears. Why could not nature forsake her duty and leave the world to enjoy the beauties thus destroyed ? I asked myself, as my hand involuntarily grasped the gate to swing it open. Alas ! Man and nature seldom harmonize. Slowly I swung the ponderous gate on its hinges, and I stood within the enclos- THE HEART BOWED DOWN. 85 ure, J p wised and shuddered, so impress ive was the scene before me. Trees, flow ers and shrubbery seemed sharing in the death sleep of those who had passed away from earth and were forever laid to rest. The white marble monuments, staring* me i n the face $ a s I s i 1 e n tl y p a s s e d u p 1 1 1 e a v e - nue, seemed to tell the story of dear and de parted friends, whose last resting place they marked, that life's autumn had come too quickly for them. Seating myself on the base of one of the many beautiful railings, which adorned the cemetery, I drew forth my sketch-book and pencil, while my eyes drank in the magnificent scenery with which I was surrounded ; scenery that no artist's hand, much less my own, could ever hope to paint. The deep, dark ravine, at the bot tom of which a little rill of water trickled,