GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. 

VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1848. No. 2. 

STOKE CHURCH AND PARK. 

THE SCENE OF GRAY'S ELEGY, AND RESIDENCE OF THE PENNS OF PENNSYLVANIA

BY R. BALMANNO. 

[Illustration: Manor of Stoke]

The Manor of Stoke, with its magnificent mansion and picturesque park, is situate near the village of Stoke Pogeys, in the county ofBuckingham, four miles north-west of Windsor. 

About two miles distant from Stoke lies the village of Slough, rendered famous by the residence of the celebrated astronomer, SirWilliam Herschel, and a short way further, on a gentle slope continuedthe whole way from Stoke, stand the venerable towers of time-honoredEton, on the bank of the Thames, directly opposite, and looking up tothe proud castle of the kings of England, unmatched in its lofty, commanding situation and rich scenery by that of any royal residencein Europe. 

Stoke, anciently written Stoches, belonged, in the time of William theConqueror, A. D. 1086, to William, son of Ansculf, of whom it was heldby Walter de Stoke. Previous thereto, it was in part held by Siret, avassal of Harold, and at the same time, a certain Stokeman, the vassalof Tubi, held another portion. Finally, in the year 1300, during thereign of King Edward the First, it received its present appellation bythe intermarriage of Amicia de Stoke, the heiress, with Robert dePogeys. Under the sovereignty of Edward the Third, 1346, John deMolines, originally of French extraction, and from the town of thatname in Bourbonnais, married Margaret de Pogeys; and, in consequenceof his eminent services, obtained license of the king to make a castleof his manor-house of Stoke Pogeys, fortify with stone wallsembattled, and imparke the woods; also that it should be exempt fromthe authority of the marshal of the king's household, or any of hisofficers; and in further testimony of the king's favor, he had summonsto Parliament among the barons of the realm. 

During the wars of the rival Roses, the place was owned by Sir RobertHungerford, commonly called Lord Moleyns, by reason of his marriagewith Alianore, daughter of William, Lord Moleyns. 

This Lord Robert, siding with the Lancasterians, or the Red Roses, upon the loss of the battle of Towton, fled to York, where King Henrythe Sixth then was, and afterward with him into Scotland. He wasattainted by the Parliament of Edward the Fourth; but the king tookcompassion on Alianore, his wife, and her children, committing her andthem to the care of John, Lord Wenlock, to whom he had granted all herhusband's manors and lands, granting them a fitting support as long asher said husband, Lord Robert, should live. But the Lancasteriansmaking head in the north, he "flew out" again, being the chief ofthose who were in the castle of the Percys, at Alnwick, with five orsix hundred Frenchmen, and being taken prisoner at the battle ofHexham, he was beheaded at Newcastle on Tyne, but buried in the northaisle of the cathedral of Salisbury. 

Lady Alianore, his widow, lies buried in the church of Stoke Pogeys;and her monument may still be seen, with an epitaph commencing thus:

 _Hic, hoc sub lapide sepelitur Corpus venerabilis Dominæ Alianoræ Molins, Baronissiæ, quam prius desponsavit Dominus Robertus Hungerford, miles et Baro. &c. &c. _

Notwithstanding the grant to Lord Wenlock, Thomas, the son and heir ofLord Robert Hungerford, succeeded to the estate. For a time he sidedwith the famous Earl of Warwick, the king-maker, who took part withEdward the Fourth, but afterward "falling off, " and endeavoring forthe restoration of King Henry the Sixth, was seized on, and tried forhis life at Salisbury, before that diabolical tyrant, crook-back Dukeof Gloucester, afterward Richard the Third, where he had judgment ofthe death of a traitor, and suffered accordingly the next day. 

But during the reign of Henry the Seventh, in 1485, when the Red Rosesbecame triumphant at the decisive battle of Bosworth, and theseunnatural and bloody wars which had devastated England for nearlythirty years, being brought to a close, by the union of Henry withElizabeth of York, representative of the White Roses, the attainder ofThomas, as well as that of his father, Lord Robert, being reversed inParliament, his only child and heir, called Mary, succeeded to theestate. 

Lady Mary married Edward, Lord Hastings, from whom the present Earl ofHuntingdon is descended. She used the title of Lady Hungerford, Botreux, Molines, and Peverell. To this marriage Shakspeare alludes inthe tragedy of King Henry the VI. , Part 3, A. 4, Sc. 1, when he makesthe Duke of Clarence say ironically, For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. 

Lord George Hungerford succeeding his father, was advanced to thetitle of Earl of Huntingdon by King Henry the Eighth, in 1529. He diedthe 24th of March, 1543, and lies buried in the chancel of StokePogeys. Edward, his second son, was a warrior with King Henry theEighth, and during the reign of Henry's daughter, Queen Mary, 1555, declared his testament, appointing his body to be buried at StokePogeys, and directing his executors to build a chapel of stone, withan altar therein, adjoining the church or chancel, where the late EarlHuntingdon and his wife (his father and mother) lay buried; and that atomb should be made, with their images carved in stone, appointingthat a plate of copper, double gilt, should be made to represent hisown image, of the size of life, _in harness_, (armor, ) and a memorialin writing, with his arms, to be placed upright on the wall of thechapel, without any other tomb for him. He died without issue. EarlHenry was the last of the illustrious family of Huntingdon whopossessed the manor and manor-house of Stoke; and the embarrassedstate of his affairs compelled him to mortgage the estate to oneBranthwait, a sergeant at law, in 1580, during which period it wasoccupied by Lord Chancellor Sir Christopher Hatton, the fine dancer, one of the celebrated _favorites_ of Elizabeth, the lasciviousdaughter of King Henry the Eighth--a woman as fickle as profligate, ascruel and hard-hearted, so far as regarded her numerous paramours, asher brutal father was in respect to his wives. 

This historical detail, gathered from Domesday Book, Dugdale, andother authorities, is narrated in consequence of its bearing upon somecelebrated poems hereafter to be noticed, and is continued up to thepresent period for a like reason. 

Sir Christopher Hatton died in 1591, and settled his estate on SirWilliam Newport, whose daughter became the second wife of Sir EdwardCoke, Lord Chief Justice of the Court of King's Bench, who purchasedthe estate of Stoke. After the dissolution of the Parliament by KingCharles the First, in March, 1628-9, Sir Edward Coke being thengreatly advanced in years, retired to his house at Stoke, where hespent the remainder of his days in a quiet retirement, universallyrespected and esteemed; and there, says his epitaph, crowned his piouslife with a pious and Christian departure, on Wednesday the 3d day ofSeptember, A. D. , 1634, and of his age 83; his last words, "THYKINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE!"

Upon the death of Sir Edward Coke, the manor and estate of Stokedevolved to his son-in-law, Viscount Purbeck, elder brother ofVilliers, Duke of Buckingham, who perished by the hand of theassassin, Felton. 

Lord Purbeck, upon the death of his wife, daughter of Sir Edward Coke, married Elizabeth, daughter of Sir William Slingsby, by whom he had ason, Robert, which Robert, marrying the daughter and heir of Sir JohnDanvers, one of the judges who sat on the trial of King Charles theFirst, obtained a patent from Cromwell, Protector of the Commonwealth, to change his name to Danvers, alledging as the reasons for his sodoing "the many disservices done to the commonwealth by the name ofthe family of Villiers. "

In 1657, Viscount Purbeck granted a lease of the manor and house ofStoke, to Sir Robert Gayer during his own life; and in the same year, his son, Robert Villiers, or Danvers, sold his reversionary interestin the estate to Sir R. Gayer for the sum of eight thousand fivehundred and sixty-four pounds. The family of Gayers continued inpossession until 1724, when the estate was sold for twelve thousandpounds to Edmund Halsey, Esq. , M. P. , who died in 1729, his daughterAnne married Sir Richard Temple, created Viscount Cobham, who survivedhim; and she resided at Stoke until her death in the year 1760. 

The house and manor of Stoke were sold in the same year, by therepresentatives of Edmund Halsey, to the Honorable Thomas Penn, LordProprietary of the Province of Pennsylvania, the eldest surviving sonof the Honorable William Penn, the celebrated founder and originalproprietary of the province. 

Upon the death of Thomas Penn, in 1775, the manor of Stoke, togetherwith all his other estates, devolved upon his eldest surviving son, John, by the Right Honorable Lady Juliana, his wife, fourth daughterof the Earl of Pomfret. 

In 1789, the ancient mansion of Stoke, appearing to Mr. Penn, aftersome years absence in America, to demand very extensive repairs, (chiefly from the destructive consequences of damp in the principalrooms, ) it was judged advisable to take it down. 

The style of its architecture was not of a kind the most likely todissuade him from this undertaking. Most of the great buildings ofQueen Elizabeth's reign have a style peculiar to themselves, both inform and finishing, where, though much of the old Gothic is retained, and a great part of the new style is adopted, yet neitherpredominates, while both, thus indiscriminately blended, compose afantastic species, hardly reducible to any class or name. One of itscharacteristics is the affectation of _large_ and _lofty_ windows, where, says Lord Bacon, "you shall have sometimes faire houses so fullof glass, that one cannot tell where to become to be out of the sun. "A perfect specimen of this fantastic style, in complete repair, may beseen in Hardwick Hall, county of Derby, one of the many residences ofthat princely and amiable nobleman, the Duke of Devonshire, and aperfect _contrast_ to it, at his other noble residence not many milesdistant, in the same county, Chatsworth, "the Palace of the Peak. "

It is true that high antiquity alone gives, in the eye of taste, acontinually increasing value to specimens of all such kinds ofarchitecture; but beside that, the superiority of the new site chosenby Mr. Penn was manifest, the principal rooms of the old mansion atStoke, where the windows admitted light from _both_ the oppositesides, were instances, peculiarly exemplifying the remark of LordBacon, and countenancing the design to lessen the number of bad, andincrease that of the good examples of architecture. But a wing of theancient plan was preserved, and is still kept in repair, as a relic, harmonizing with the surrounding scenery, and forms with the rusticoffices, and fruit-gardens annexed, the _villa rustica_ and_fructuaria_ of the place. 

The new buildings, or, more properly speaking, Palace of Stoke, wasbegun by Mr. Penn immediately after his return from a long absence inPennsylvania, and was covered-in in December, 1790. It is scarcelypossible to conceive a finer site than that chosen by him for his newmansion, being on a commanding eminence, the windows of the principalfront looking over a rich, variegated landscape toward the loftytowers of Windsor Castle, at a distance of four miles, whichterminates the view in that direction; whilst about and around thesite are abundance of magnificent aged oaks, elms, and beeches. 

 * * * * *

The poems of Thomas Gray, who was educated at Eton, and resided atStoke, are perhaps better known, more read, more easily remembered, and more frequently quoted, than those of any other English poet. Where is the person who does not remember with feelings approaching toenthusiasm, the impressions made on his youthful fancy by theenchanting language of the "Elegy written in a Country Church-yard?"Who can ever forget the impressions with which he first read thenarrative of the "hoary-headed swain, " and the deep emotion felt onperusing the pathetic epitaph, "graved on the stone, beneath yon agedthorn, " beginning--

 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth. A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frowned not on his humble birth. And melancholy marked him for her own. 

That exquisite poem contains passages "grav'd" on the hearts of allwho ever read it in youth, until they themselves becomehoary-headed--and then, perhaps, remembered most. 

But it is not the Elegy alone which makes an indelible impression onthe youthful reader; equally imperishable are the lines on a distantprospect of Eton College. 

 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade, Where grateful science still adores Her Henry's holy shade. [1]

And who can ever forget the Bard--

 Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by conquests crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. 

Or the lovely Ode on the Spring. 

 Lo! where the rosy bosom'd Hours Fair Venus' train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year!

Or those sublime Odes--On The Progress of Poesy. Awake, Æolian lyre, awake; and the Descent of Odin:

 Uprose the king of men with speed, And saddled strait his coal-black steed: Down the yawning steep he rode, That leads to Hela's drear abode. 

[Footnote 1: Eton was founded and endowed by King Henry the Sixth. Amarble bust of the poet Gray was presented by Lord Morpeth, in 1846, and placed, amongst many others, in the upper school. ]

Who can ever forget the pleasure experienced on the first perusal, andon every subsequent reading of these fascinating productions? Theyare such as all, imbued with even a moderate degree of taste andfeeling, must respond to. But there is another poem of Gray's, lessread, perhaps, than these, but which, from its humor and arch playfulstyle, is apt to make a strong and lasting impression on anenthusiastic juvenile mind. It opens so abruptly and oddly, thatattention is bespoke from the first line. It is entitled "A LongStory. "

 In Britain's isle--no matter where-- An ancient pile of building stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employed the power of fairy hands To raise the ceilings fretted height, Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows, that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing. 

This poem, teeming with quaint humor, contains one hundred andforty-four lines, beside, _as it says_, "two thousand which are lost!"

Extreme admiration of the poems of Gray had been excited in thewriter's mind even when a schoolboy. In after years, whilst occupyingchambers in the Temple, he first became aware that the scenery soexquisitely described in the Elegy, and the "ancient pile" ofbuilding, so graphically delineated in the Long Story, were bothwithin a few hours' ride of London, and adjoining each other. 

Until about the year 1815 he had constantly supposed that the CountryChurch-yard was altogether an imaginary conception, and that theancient mansion of the Huntingdons was far away, somewhere in themidland counties; but when fully aware of the true localities, he wasalmost mad with impatience, until, on a Saturday afternoon, _he_ couldget relieved from the turmoil of business, to fly to scenes hallowedby recollections of the halcyon days of youthful aspirations of hope, and love, and innocence--and sweetly and fresh do such reminiscencesstill float in his memory. 

About the period in question, there was a club in London, formed ofabout twenty or thirty of the most aristocratic of the young nobility, possessed of more wealth than wisdom. They gave themselves the name ofthe Whip Club, because each member drove his own team of four horses. The chief tutor of these titled Jehu's in the art and mystery ofdriving, was no less a personage than the celebrated Tom Moody, driverof the Windsor Coach, and by that crack coach it was intended toproceed as far as Slough, on the intended excursion to Stoke, and thenturn off to the left; but as the Whip Club, at the period in question, attracted a large share of public attention in the metropolis, perhapsa short notice of it may be here permitted, as it has been long sincedefunct, and is never again likely to be revived, now that steam andiron horses have taken the road. 

The vehicles, horses, trappings, and gearing, were the most elegantand expensive that money could command; and it was a rare thing to seeupward of twenty such equipages, which, as well as the housings of thehorses, were emblazoned with heraldric devices, and glittering allover with splendid silver and gold ornaments. 

The open carriages were all filled with the loveliest of England'slovely women, who generally congregated together at an earlybreakfast, or what with them was considered an early breakfast, between ten and eleven o'clock! The meet took place at the house ofLord Hawke, in Portman Square. His lordship was high admiral, orpresident, Sir Bellingham Graham, whipper-in--and courteously andcleverly did Sir Bellingham (or Bellinjim, as it is pronounced)perform his delicate duty. When each driver mounted his box, afterhanding in the ladies, it was wonderful to observe with whatdexterity, ease, and order, all wheeled into line, when the leader, with a flourish of his long whip--being the signal for which all werewatching--led off the splendid array. 

It was a gay sight to witness the start, as they swept round thesquare--for the horses were one and all of pure blood, andunparalleled for beauty, symmetry, and speed. 

To one unaccustomed to such a sight, it might appear somewhatdangerous. The fiery impatience of the horses--their pawing andchamping, the tossing of their beautiful heads, and the swan-likecurving of their glittering, sleek necks, until they were fairlyformed into order--at which time they knew just as well as theirowners that _the play_ was going to begin. But it was perfectlydelightful to observe the graceful manner in which each pair laidtheir small heads and ears together when fairly under way, beatingtime with their highly polished hoofs--pat, pat, pat, pat, as true asthe most disciplined regiment marching to a soul-stirring quick step, or a troupe of well-trained ballet girls, bounding across the stage ofthe Italian Opera. 

When fairly off and skimming along the road, it was, perhaps, asanimating a show as London ever witnessed since its palmiest days oftilt and tournament. I say nothing of the ladies, their commingledcharms, or gorgeous attire; I only noticed that during the gayety inthe square, previous to starting, their recognition of each other, andthe beaux of their acquaintance, there were plenty of

 "Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimples sleek. "

This celebrated club congregated every fortnight, during the gayseason of May and June, and spent the day at the residence of one oftheir number, within twenty or thirty miles of London, returning inthe evening, exactly in the order they had set out. 

Master Moody, the driver and proprietor of the fast Windsor Coach, had, as said, been the tutor of these aristocratic charioteers, whoplaced themselves under his guardianship, and had been taught tohandle "the ribbons" until declared perfect in the noble science. Hehad consequently imbibed much and many of the _airs_ and _graces_, andmanners of his pupils. 

Being anxious to have a ride beside this great man, I was atPiccadilly long before he started, and by a pretty handsome douceur tohis cad, had the supreme felicity of obtaining a seat on the box, andcertainly was well repaid for the extra expense of sitting byCorinthian Tom. 

He was a tall fellow, and had a severely serious face; was dressed inthe extreme of driving fashion; wore delicate white kid gloves, andthe tops of his highly-polished boots were white as the lily. Inshort, his whole "toggery" was faultless--a perfect out-and-outer. Hewas truly a great man, or appeared to fancy himself such--for herarely condescended to exchange a word, except with an acquaintance, and even then, it was with a condescending, patronizing air; and hesmiled as seldom as a Connecticut lawyer. Although sitting close byhis side for twenty miles, not one word passed between us during thewhole journey. 

The nags driven by this proud fellow were as splendid as himself;finer cattle never flew over Epsom Downs, the Heath of Ascot, orDoncaster Course--pure bloods, every one of them, and such as mighthave served Guido as models for his famous fresco of the chariot ofApollo; but Guido's steeds, although they are represented tearing awayfuriously, are lubberly _drays_, compared with the slim, graceful, fleet stags of Tom Moody. 

When the cad gave the word--"all right, " Tom started them with hisshort, shrill "t'chit, t'chit, " and a crack of his two-fathom whipright over the ears of the leaders, as loud as the report of a pistol. They sprang forward with a maddening energy, almost terrifying; butthe coach was hung and balanced with such precision, and the Windsorroad kept in the finest order for royalty, there was no jumping orjolting, it glided along as smoothly as if it had been running onrails. A proud man was Master Moody; not so much of himself, perhaps, or of his glossy, broad-brimmed beaver, and broadcloth "upperBenjamin, " or the dashing silk tie around his neck, but of hisbeautiful nags--and he had reason, for there was not an equipage onthe road, from the ducal chariot to the dandy tandem, to which he didnot give the go-by like lightning. 

The rapidity of the movement, and the beauty of the animals, producedan excitement sufficient to enable one to appreciate the rapture ofthe Arab, as he flies over the desert on his beloved barb, enjoying, feeling, exulting in liberty, sweet, intoxicating, unbounded liberty, with the whole wilderness for a home. 

Some such feelings took possession of me, as the well-poised machineshot along. Quick as thought we threaded Kensington High street, skirted the wall of Lord Holland's park, just catching, like thetwinkle of a sunbeam, a glimpse of the antique turrets of that classicfane peeping through the trees, as we passed the centre avenue. 

We speedily reached Hammersmith and Turnham Green, and then passedSion House and park, the princely residence of the Duke ofNorthumberland, then dashed through the straggling old town ofBrentford. The intervening fields and openings into the landscapeaffording enchanting prospects before entering on Hounslow Heath, whenthe horses having got warm, the driver gave them full head, and thevehicle attained a speed truly exhilarating. 

The increased momentum, and the extensive prairie-like expanse ofHounslow Heath, would have realized in any enthusiastic mind, thefeelings of the children of the desert. 

This first excursion to Stoke was made during the month of May, whenall nature is fresh and fair; the guelder-roses and lilacs being infull flower, and the hawthorn hedges were one sheet of milkyfragrance, the air was almost intoxicating, owing to the concentratedperfumes arising from fruit orchards in full blossom, and theinterminable succession of flower gardens opposite every houseskirting that lovely road, the beauty of which few can conceive whohave not been in England; but the fresh, _pure_ air on the Heath, infused a new feeling, a realization of unalloyed happiness; we wererapidly hastening toward scenes for which the soul was yearning, andhope, bright, young hope, lent wings and a charm to every object, animate and inanimate. 

The usual relay of fresh horses were in waiting at Cranburn Bridge, and the reeking bloods were instantly changed for others, not a whitless spirited than their released compeers. Away went Moody, and awaywent Moody's fiery steeds. In a very short time we passed, at a fewmiles on the hither side of Slough, the "ivy-mantled tower" of UptonChurch, which, but for one or two small, square openings in it, may bemistaken for a gigantic bush, or unshapely tree of evergreen ivy. 

Arriving at Slough, I bade adieu to Master Moody; the forty feettelescope of Herschel, with its complicated frame-work and machinery, attracting only a few minutes attention. The road leading up to StokeGreen is one of those beautiful lanes so exquisitely described byGilbert White, in his History of Selborne, or still more graphicallyportrayed by Miss Mitford, in her Tales of our Village. Stoke Greenlies to the right of this lane, and at the distance of one or twofields further on, there is a stile in the corner of one of them, onthe left, where a foot-path crosses diagonally. In going through a gapin the hedge, you catch the first peep of the spire of Stoke Church. After passing the field, you come to a narrow lane, overhung withhawthorns; it leads from Salt-Hill to the village of West-End Stoke. Keeping along the lane a short way, and passing through a small gateon the top of the bank, you at once enter the domain of Stoke Park, and are admitted to a full view of the church, which stands at a shortdistance, but almost immediately within the gate, are particularlystruck by the appearance of a grand sarcophagus, erected by Mr. Pennto the memory of Gray, in the year 1779. It is a lofty structure, inthe purest style of architecture; and a tolerable idea of it, and thesurrounding scenery, may be obtained from the cut at the head of thisarticle, which has been executed from a drawing made on the spot. Theinscription and quotations following are on the several sides of thepedestal. It is needless to say they are from the Elegy, and Ode toEton College--the latter poem being unquestionably written from thisvery spot; and Mr. Penn has exhibited the finest taste in theirselection. 

On the end facing Mr. Penn's house--

 THIS MONUMENT, IN HONOR OF THOMAS GRAY, WAS ERECTED, A. D. MDCCXCIX. , AMONG THE SCENES CELEBRATED BY THAT GREAT LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POET. HE DIED XXX JULY, MDCCLXXI, AND LIES UNNOTICED IN THE CHURCH-YARD ADJOINING, UNDER THE TOMB-STONE ON WHICH HE PIOUSLY AND PATHETICALLY RECORDED THE INTERMENT OF HIS AUNT AND LAMENTED MOTHER. 

On the side looking toward Windsor--

 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

 One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

On the end facing Stoke Palace--

 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade, Ah! happy hills! Ah, pleasing shade! Ah! fields belov'd in vain! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow. 

On the west side, looking toward the church-yard--

 Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

This noble monument is erected on a beautiful green mound, and issurrounded with flowers. It is protected by a deep trench, in thebottom of which is a palisade; but the inclosure may be entered byapplication at one of Mr. Penn's pretty entrance lodges, which isclose by. The prospects from this part of the park are surpassinglybeautiful, particularly looking toward the "distant spires and antiquetowers" of Eton and Windsor. 

It may be worth while here to remark, that the church and church-yardof Stoke is surrounded by Mr. Penn's property, or more properlyspeaking his park. 

Coming upon the beautiful monument quite unexpectedly, was not likelyto diminish the enthusiasm previously entertained; and beforeproceeding to the church-yard, it was impossible to resist the impulseof making a rapid memorandum sketch of it. In after years, it wascarefully and correctly drawn in all its aspects. Proceeding along"the churchway path" into the church-yard, where in reality "rests hishead upon the lap of earth, " the tomb-stone of the admired and belovedpoet was soon found. It is at the east end of the church, nearly undera window. 

Persons of a cold temperament, and not imbued with the love of poetry, may perhaps smile when it is admitted, that the approach to that tombwas made with steps as slow and reverential as those of any devoutCatholic approaching the shrine of his patron saint. 

Long was it gazed upon, and frequently was the inscription read, andthe following cut exhibits the coat of arms and inscriptions on theblue marble tabular stone, as they were carefully drawn and copied, that very evening:

[Illustration: Coat of Arms and inscriptions]

 IN THE VAULT BENEATH ARE DEPOSITED IN HOPE OF A JOYFUL RESURRECTION, THE REMAINS OF MARY ANTROBUS, SHE DIED UNMARRIED, NOVEMBER 5TH, 1749, AGED 66. 

 * * * * *

 IN THE SAME PIOUS CONFIDENCE, BESIDE HER FRIEND AND SISTER, HERE SLEEP THE REMAINS OF DOROTHY GRAY, WIDOW, THE CAREFUL TENDER MOTHER OF MANY CHILDREN, ONE OF WHOM ALONE HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO SURVIVE HER. SHE DIED MARCH 11TH, 1753, AGED 67. 

It was a soft, balmy evening; "every leaf was at rest;" the deer inthe park had betaken themselves to their favorite haunts, under thewide-spreading boughs of ancient oaks and elms, and were reposing inhappy security. 

The long continued twilight of England was gathering in, and I stilllingered in the consecrated inclosure, fascinated with theunmistakable antiquity of the church, which, although small ascompared with many others, is eminently romantic, and I cannot betterdescribe the scene, and the feelings impressed at the moment, than inthe words of one equally near as dear--

 "A holy spell pervades thy gloom, A silent charm breathes all around; And the dread stillness of the tomb Reigns o'er thy hallowed haunted ground. "

It may be proper to mention that the poem from which this isextracted, is descriptive of Haddon Hall, one of the most ancient andperfect specimens of the pure Gothic in England. The poem appeared inone of the English Annuals. 

At peace with all the world, and filled with emotions of true andsincere gratitude to the Giver of all good, for the pure happinessthen enjoyed, I sank down by the tomb-stone, overpowered withveneration, and breathed fervent thanks to HIM who refuses not theoffering of a humble and contrite heart. 

This narrative is meant to be a faithful and honest representation of_facts_ and _circumstances_ that actually occurred, and it is firmlybelieved that none can stray into an ancient secluded countrychurch-yard, during the decline of day, without deeply meditating onthose who for ages have slept below, and where ALL must soon sleep, without feeling true devotion, and forming resolves for future andamended conduct. 

Slowly quitting the church-yard, and approaching the elevatedmonument, now become almost sublime as the shades of evening rendereddim its classic outline, it was impossible to avoid lingering sometime longer beside it, recalling various passages of the Elegyappropriate to the occasion; the landscape was indeed "glimmering onthe sight, " and there was a "solemn stillness in the air, " wellbefitting the occasion; more particularly appropriate was that finestanza, which, although written by Gray, is omitted in all editions ofthe Elegy except the one hereafter noticed, in where it wasre-incorporated by the editor, [the present writer, ] in consequence ofa suggestion kindly offered in a letter from Granville Penn, Esq. , then residing with his brother at Stoke Park. 

 Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground, A grateful earnest of eternal peace. 

The Elegy is undoubtedly the most popular poem in the Englishlanguage; it was translated into that of every country in Europe, besides Latin and Greek. It has been more frequently, elaborately andexpensively illustrated with pictorial embellishments. The autographcopy of it, in the poet's small, neat hand, written on two small halfsheets of paper, was sold last year for no less than _one hundredpounds sterling_; and the spirited purchaser was most appropriatelythe proprietor of Stoke Park, Granville John Penn, Esq. , who at thesame sale gave _forty-five pounds_ for the autograph copy of The LongStory, and _one hundred and five pounds_ for the Odes; whilst anothergentleman gave forty pounds for two short poems and a letter from theillustrious poet on the death of his father. 

The truthfulness of the pictures presented to the imagination in theElegy could not be denied, for there, on the very spot where, beyondall question, it was composed, and after a lapse of nearly one hundredyears, the images which impressed the mind of the inspired poet camefresh at every turn. It is true the curfew did not toll, but the"lowing herd" were as distinctly audible as the beetle wheeling hisdroning flight. The yew tree's shade--that identical tree, to which, to a moral certainty, the poet had reference--is represented in thecut, in the corner of the inclosure, as distinctly as the smallness ofthe scale admitted, underneath its shade the "turf lies in many amouldering heap, " and the "rugged elms" are outside the inclosure, buttheir outstretched arms overspread many a "narrow cell and frailmemorial, " where the "rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep, " andwhere also "their name and years are spelt by th' unlettered muse. " Asingular error in spelling _the name_ of one of those humble persons, was however committed by the poet himself in his "Long Story, " verypardonable in him, however, as the party was then alive; but that theerror should have been perpetuated in ALL EDITIONS save one, down tothat entitled "The Eton, " being printed there, and edited by areverend clergyman resident in the college, is somewhat singular;moreover the _second_ edition of the Eton Gray appeared this veryyear, and the error remains, although the name is correctly given onthe grave-stone. The excepted edition, in which alone it is correctlygiven, was published in 1821, and edited by the present writer for hisfriend Mr. John Sharpe. The circumstance will be noticed presently. 

The Elegy of Gray was evidently written under the influence of strongfeeling, and vivid impressions of the beautiful in the scenery aroundhim, and when his sensitive mind was overspread with melancholy, inconsequence of the death of his young, amiable and accomplished friendWest, to whom, in June, 1742, he addressed his lovely Ode to Spring, which was written at Stoke; but before it reached his friend he wasnumbered with the dead! So true was the friendship subsisting betweenthem, that the poet of Stoke was overpowered with a melancholy which, although subdued, lasted during a great part of his life. 

The scenes amid which the Elegy was composed were well adapted tosoothe and cherish that contemplative sadness which, when the woundsof grief are healing, it is a luxury to indulge, and that the poet didindulge them is self-evident in many a line. 

In returning to Stoke Green to spend the night, some of the rusticpeasantry were wending their way down the lane to the same place, butnone of these simple people, although questioned, could tell aught ofhim whose fame and works had induced the pilgrimage to Stoke; neitherdid better success attend any succeeding inquiry at the village. Souniversally true is that scriptural saying, like ALL the sayings ofHIM who uttered it, that a prophet is not without honor, save in hisown country and in his own house. 

Retiring to rest early, with a full determination to do that which hadoften been resolved but never accomplished, that is, to rise with thedawn; the resolution had nearly defeated the purpose, inasmuch as themind being surcharged with the past and the expected, there was littleinclination to sleep until after midnight. But a full and fixeddetermination of the will overcomes greater difficulties, and thefirst streak of light at break of day found me up and dressed, and ofa truth

 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

The dawn was most lovely, and the perfume from the hawthornsdelicious; every thing indicated a beautiful day. The sarcophagusstands on the most elevated spot, and there, where probably in dayslong past the poet had watched the rising of the sun, did I, a humblepilgrim at his shrine, await the same sublime spectacle. 

As if to gratify a long cherished desire, the sun did rise with asplendor impossible to be exceeded, and the following lines, by ananonymous author, immediately recurred to memory:

 O who can paint the rapture of the soul, As o'er the scene the sun first steals to sight, And all the world of vapors as they roll, And heaven's vast arch unveils in living light. 

To witness the break of day in the country is indeed a luxury to whichthe inhabitants of cities are strangers. As the sun rose from thehorizon, his increasing light brought into view myriads of dew-dropson every bud and blossom, which glittered and shone like diamonds. Thesky-larks began to rise from their grassy beds among the daisies, ascending in circles to the clouds, and caroling a music which isalmost heavenly to hear. The deer also were getting up from theirshadowy lair under the trees, and the young fawns sprung away and tookto flight as I passed a herd, under a clump of beeches, in order toobtain a view of the ancient mansion. In approaching it, a sound, familiar indeed but far from musical, struck the ear, and addedanother proof and a fresh charm to the fidelity of the picture drawnby the poet. The swallows were merrily "twittering" about thegable-ends, and it did the heart good to stand watching the probablesuccessors of those active little visiters, whose predecessors hadpossibly attracted the notice of the bard. It is well known that thesebirds, like the orchard oriole, return year after year to the samehouse, and haunt where they had previously reared their young. [2]

A strong and perhaps natural desire to inspect the interior of allthat remained of the ancient mansion of the Huntingdons and Hattonswas defeated, inasmuch as it was found barricaded. Imagination hadbeen busy for many a year, in respect to its great hall and gallery, its rich windows "and passages that lead to nothing;" but as access tothe interior was denied, the sketch-book was put in requisition, andan accurate view soon secured. 

Observing at some distance, through a vista among the trees, a loftypillar with a statue on its summit, and proceeding thither, it wasfound to be another of those splendid ornaments with which the tasteand liberality of the proprietor had adorned his park, being erectedto the memory of Sir Edward Coke, whose statue it was which surmountedthe capital. Whilst engaged in sketching this truly classic object, agentleman approached, who introduced himself as Mr. Osborne, thesuperintendent of the demesne. He expressed pleasure at seeing thesketches, and politely offered every facility for making such, buthinted that Mr. Penn had scruples, and very proper ones, aboutstrangers approaching too near the house on the Sabbath day, to makesketches of objects in its vicinity. 

[Footnote 2: A pair of Baltimore birds (the orchard oriole) returnedsummer after summer, and built their hanging nest, not only in thesame apple-tree, but on the same bough, which overhung a terrace, in agarden belonging to the writer at Geneva, New York, until one season aterrific storm, not of hail but ice, tore the nest from the tree, andkilled the young, and the parent birds never afterward returned. ]

Mr. Osborne's offer was courteously made, and the consequence was thatmany visits to Stoke afterward took place, and the whole of theinteresting scenery carefully sketched. He kindly pointed out all thatwas most worthy of attention about the estate and neighborhood, andmade tender of his company to visit West-End, and show the house whichGray, and his mother and aunt had for many years occupied. Theproprietor he said was Captain Salter, in whose family it had remainedfor a great many generations. Latterly the house has been purchased, enlarged, and put into complete repair by Mr. Granville John Penn, thepresent proprietor, nephew of John Penn, Esq. , who died in June, 1834. After "a hasty" breakfast at Stoke Green, the church-yard was againvisited, and there was not a grave-stone in it which was not examinedand read. The error formerly alluded to was immediately detected. Thepassages in the Long Story, describing the mock trial at the "GreatHouse, " before Lady Cobham, may be worth transcribing. 

 Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt, [3] (By this time all the parish know it, ) Had told that thereabouts there lurked A wicked imp they call a poet: Who prowled the country far and near, Bewitched the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows and lamed the deer, And sucked the eggs and killed the pheasants. 

 * * * * *

 The court was sat, the culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, The Lady Janes and Joans repair, And from the gallery stand peeping: Such in the silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry, (Styack has often seen the sight, ) Or at the chapel-door stand sentry: In peakèd hoods and mantles tarnished Sour visages enough to scare ye, High dames of honor once who garnished The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary. 

 * * * * *

 The bard with many an artful fib Had in imagination fenced him, Disproved the arguments of Squib And all that Groom could urge against him. 

[Footnote 3: In all editions but that published by Mr. John Sharpe theinitial _only_ of this name has been given--"Mr. P. "--even the Etonedition of this year has it so. It seems folly to continue what mayhave been very proper nearly a hundred years ago, when the individualwas alive; but the Rev. Robert Purt died in April, 1752!]

Finding on the stone alluded to, that it was to the memory of Mrs. AnnTyacke, who died in 1753, it occurred that this was the Styack of thepoem, where a foot-note in a copy then and there consulted, stated herto have been the housekeeper; and on inquiring of Mr. Osborne, heconfirmed the conjecture. Two other foot-notes state Squib to havebeen _groom_ of the chamber, and that Groom was steward; but findinganother head-stone (both are represented in the large wood-cut, although not exactly in the situations they occupy in the church-yard)close to that of Mrs. Tyacke, to the memory of _William_ Groom, whodied 1751, it appears to offer evidence that Gray mistook the _name_of the one for the _office_ of the other. The Eton edition has not asingle foot-note from beginning to end of the volume. It is dedicatedto Mr. Granville John Penn, and his "kind assistance _during theprogress of the work_" acknowledged, both in its illustrations, and inthe biographical sketch, not withstanding which "assistance, " theerror of the house-keeper's name is continued; and amongst thewood-cut illustrations, there is one entitled (both _in_ the list and_on_ the cut) "Stoke Church, east end, with tablet to Gray, " when, infact, it represents the _tomb-stone_ at the end of the church, underwhich Gray and his mother are interred. The _tablet_ to Gray is quiteanother thing, _that_ was lately inserted in the wall of the church;but by some extraordinary blunder it records his death as having takenplace on the 1st of August, while on the sarcophagus it is stated tohave occurred on the 30th of July. Neither the one nor the other iscorrect. The Gentleman's Magazine for 1771, and the Annual Registerfor the same year, as well as Mathias' Life, 2 vols. 4to. , 1814, allconcur in giving it as having taken place on the 31st. The Etonianedition has it the 30th. After a considerable time spent in thechurch-yard, the hour of public worship drew near, the aged sextonappeared, opened the doors, and began to toll the bell--that sameancient bell which, century after century, had "rung in" generationafter generation, and tolled at their funerals. It is difficult torealize the feelings excited on entering a sacred edifice of veryancient date, particularly if it is in the country, secluded amongstaged trees, looking as old as itself; and in walking over the stonefloor, which, although so seldom trodden, is worn away into somethinglike channels; in sitting in the same antique, and curiously carved, black oaken pews, which had been sat on by races of men who hadoccupied the same seats hundreds of years long past; but the effect isgreatly increased on viewing the effigies of the mighty dead, lying ontheir marble beds, in long and low niches in the walls, some with thepalms of their hands pressed together and pointing upward, as if inthe act of supplication; and others grasping their swords, and havingtheir legs _crossed_, indicating that they had fought _for_ the crossin the Holy Land. Such a church, and such objects around, fill themind with true devotion. The sublime words of Milton work out thepicture to perfection. 

 There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness through mine ear Dissolve me into extasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

It was gratifying and affecting to witness the piety, humility, anddevotion of the congregation as they entered and took their seats insilence, long before the venerable clergyman entered the church; therewas something exceedingly touching in the profound silence thatreigned throughout the congregation, and induced one to think highlyof that rule amongst those excellent people, who with great proprietyare termed Friends. Public worship was attended both in the morningand afternoon, and I returned to London, feeling myself a much betterman than when I left it, with a full determination to revisit a placewhere so much pleasure had been received. It was nearly three monthsbefore the resolve was carried into effect; but a second excursion wasmade in August, and Mr. Osborne was kind enough to show the house atWest-End, together with the celebrated Burnham beeches, amongst whichwere several "which wreathed their old fantastic roots so high, "evidently the originals alluded to in the Elegy. They are scarcely amile from West-End, and are approached through another of those sweetgreen lanes with which the neighborhood abounds. They are part of theoriginal forest. The spot was one of Gray's favorite haunts; and itwould be difficult to find one better fitted for a lover of nature, and a contemplative mind. Late in the autumn an invitation wasreceived from Mr. Osborne to spend a day or two with him; but it wasnot until the beginning of November that advantage could be taken ofit. Arriving at his house late in the afternoon, his servant informedme he had been suddenly called away to the Isle of Portland, inDorsetshire, where Mr. Penn was erecting a castle. She also apologizedfor Mrs. Osborne's inability to receive company, in consequence of "aparticular circumstance, " which circumstance she blushinglyacknowledged was the birth of a fine boy the night before. There wasno resource, therefore, but to walk down either to Stoke Green, or toSalt-Hill, where there are two well-known taverns. Before proceeding, however, the church-yard, almost of necessity, must be visited; andalthough in a direct line, it was not far from Mr. Osborne's house, aconsiderable circuit had to be made to get into the inclosure. Theevening was particularly still--you could have heard a leaf fall; thetwilight was just setting in, and a haze, or fog, coming on, but thespot was soon reached; and whilst kneeling, engaged, like OldMortality, in plucking some weeds and long grass, which had sprung upabout _the_ tomb since the last visit, a slight sound--a very gentlerustle--struck the ear. I supposed it to be the ivy on thechurch-wall, but the next instant it was followed by a movement--somethingvery near was certainly approaching. On looking up, it is impossibleto describe with what mixed feelings of astonishment, apprehension, and awe, I beheld coming from a corner of the church-yard, (wherethere was no ingress through the brick wall, ) and directly toward thespot where I knelt, the figure of a tall, majestic lady, dressed in ablack velvet pelisse, black velvet hat, surmounted by a plume of blackostrich feathers. She was stepping slowly toward me, over the graves. It would be useless to deny that fear fixed me to the spot onbeholding the expression of her very serious face, and her eyes firmlyfixed on mine. 

Appalled by her sudden appearance, it seemed as if she had just risenfrom the grave, dressed in a funeral pall; for I was facing towardthat corner of the enclosure from which she was coming, and feelingcertain no human being was there one minute before, I was breathlesswith apprehension, and glad to rest one arm on the tomb-stone untilshe came close up to me. 

[Illustration: In the Grave-yard--P. Balmanno]

With a graceful inclination of the head, she addressed me. 

"Mr. B----, I believe?"

"Yes, madam, that is my name. "

"And you came down to visit Mr. Osborne, who has been called away toPortland. "

I breathed more freely as I admitted it. 

"It happens, " she continued, "to be inconvenient for Mrs. Osborne toreceive you, and as you came by invitation from her husband, if youwill accept a night's lodging from me, I am enabled to offer it. I amMr. Penn's housekeeper, and none of the family are at home. "

Most joyfully was the invitation accepted; my mind was relieved from avery unpleasant load of apprehension--but the end was not yet! Shebegan to lead the way over the graves, exactly toward the spot fromwhence she had so suddenly and mysteriously appeared; after proceedinga few steps, I ventured to say--

"Pray, madam, may I be allowed to inquire where you are leading to? Ican see no egress in that direction, unless it be into an open graveor under a tomb-stone. "

"Oh, you will find that out presently, " replied the lady, transfixingme with a glance of her bright blue eyes, and I thought I could detecta rather equivocal expression about the corners of her beautifulmouth. This was not very encouraging, and not much liked, but she wasa woman, and a lovely one, too much so by half to be a Banshee--I wason my guard, however, and ready, but the fog became so thick it wasimpossible to see three steps before us; in fact, it rolled over thechurch-yard wall in clouds. The lady linked her arm in mine, toprevent herself from stumbling, holding up her dress with the otherhand, as the long dank grass was wetting it. At last we arrived in thevery corner of the church-yard, she still keeping a firm hold of myarm. 

"In Heaven's name, madam, what do you mean by leading me into thiscorner?"

"Oh, you are afraid, I see; but wait a moment. "

On saying which, I observed her to take something bright from hergirdle, which apprehension converted into a stiletto or dirk, and suchis the force of self-preservation, that I was on the point of trippingher up and throwing her on her back. But thrusting the supposed dirkagainst the wall--presto--open sesame--the wall gave way, and she drewme through a doorway. This was done so quickly it absolutely seemedmagic. For an instant I thought of dropping her arm--indeed I shouldhave done so, and retreated back through the door, but she held my armtight, and I almost quaked, for I thought she had dragged me into asecret vault, the manoeuvre was performed so adroitly. The driftingcold fog, however, soon made it plain we were in no vault, but theopen park. In short, it was a door in the wall, flush with the bricks, and painted so exactly like them, it was impossible for a stranger todiscover it. It was Mr. Penn's private entrance, and saved the familya walk of some distance. A narrow green walk, not previously remarked, led from the door to the west end of the church. 

The housekeeper of a nobleman or gentleman of wealth, in England, generally enjoys an enviable situation. Intrusted with much that isvaluable, she is generally a person of the highest consideration andrespect, and seldom fails to acquire the elevated manners and refinedaddress of her superiors. The lady in question was exactly one of thisdescription, well educated, and well read; a magnificent library wasat her command, and having much time, and what is better, fine taste, she had profited by it. Never was an evening passed in greatercomfort, or with a more agreeable companion. After partaking of thatmost exhilarating of all beverages, the pure hyson, we began to chatwith almost the same freedom as though we had been long acquainted. During a pause in the conversation, after looking in my face a moment, she said--

"Will you answer me one question?"

"Most certainly, any thing, you choose to ask. "

"But will you answer it honestly and truly?"

"Do not doubt it. "

"Well, then, tell me, were you not most horribly afraid when you sawme coming toward you in the church-yard?"

"I do frankly confess, madam, I _was horribly_ afraid, and further, Ifirmly believe I should have taken to my heels, had you not been avery beautiful woman!"

Before the sentence was well finished her laughter was irrepressible. 

"I _knew_ it, I _saw_ it, I _intended_ it, " said she, laughing soheartily that the tears sprung out of her beautiful eyes, and she wasobliged to use her handkerchief to wipe them away. 

"And do you feel no compunction for scaring a poor fellow half out ofhis wits?"

"None whatever, " replied she gayly. "What could you expect whenprowling amongst the graves in a church-yard so lone and solitary, like a goule, on a damp November night? I saw you from Mr. Osborne'sgoing toward it, and determined to startle you--and I think Isucceeded pretty effectually. "

"You did, and had very nearly met with your reward, for when in thecorner of that church-yard you pulled the key from your girdle, fullybelieving you to be the Evil One, I was on the point of stranglingyou. "

Much laughter at my expense ensued, for the lady lacked neither witnor humor, and the evening flew faster than desired. On retiring, aman servant conducted me to an apartment on the upper floor of themansion, and sleep soon came and soon went, for an innumerable numberof rats and mice were careering all over the bed! and I felt themsniffing about my nose and mouth; I sprang bolt upright, strikingright and left like a madman. This sent them pattering all about theroom, and dreading that I might find myself minus a nose or an earbefore morning, I groped all around the room for a bell, but couldfind none; proceeding into the corridor and standing on tip-toe, bell-wires were soon found, and soon set a ringing; watching at thetop of the very long staircase, a light was at last seen ascending, borne in the hand of a very fat man, who proved to be the butler; hehad nothing on but his shirt, and a huge pair of red plush, whichenveloped his nether bulk. Puffing with the exertion of ascending somany stairs, he at last saw me, still more lightly clothed thanhimself, and inquired what I wanted?

"Have you got a cat about the house?"

"No, sir, we have no cats, they destroy the young pheasants. "

"A dog, then?"

"No dog, sir, on account of the deer. "

"Then tell the housekeeper there are ten thousand rats and twentythousand mice in the room I occupy!"

As he descended the stair he was heard mumbling, "cats!"--"dogs!"--"rats!"--"mice!" and chuckling ready to burst hisfat sides. 

After long waiting, the reflection of light on his red plush smalls(_greats_ would better describe them) flashed up like a streak oflightning, and puffing harder than before, told me if I would followhim down stairs, he had orders to show me to another room. 

Gathering up the articles of my dress over my arm, we descended, and Iwas shown into a room of almost regal splendor. The lofty bedstead hada canopy, terminating in a gilded coronet, and the ample hangings wereof rich Venetian crimson velvet, trimmed and festooned "about, aroundand underneath. " The ascent to this unusually lofty bed was by aflight of superb steps, covered with rich embossed velvet. Out of theroyal palaces I had never seen such a bed. 

In consequence of having stood so long undressed on the marble floorat the top of the stairs, shivering with cold, the magnificent bed, ongetting into it, was found comfortable beyond expression. It felt asif it would never cease yielding under the pressure; it sunk down, down, down--there appeared no stop to its declension; and then itsdelicious warmth--what a luxury to a shivering man! Hugging myselfunder the idea of a glorious night's rest, and composing myself in theeasiest possible position, it was more desirable to lay awake in suchfull enjoyment, than to sleep--sleep had lost all its charms. I was inthe bed of beds--the celestial!

After thus laying about twenty minutes, enjoying perfect bliss, asensation of some uneasiness began slowly to manifest itself, whichinduced a change of position; but the change did not relieve theuncomfortable feeling. It would be difficult to describe it, but itincreased every moment, until at last it seemed as if the points of ahundred thousand fine needles were puncturing every pore. This wasborne with great resignation and equanimity for some time, expectingit would go off; but the stinging sensation increased, and finallybecame intolerable; the celestial bed became one of infernal torture. I tossed, and dashed, and threw about my limbs in all directions, andalmost bellowed like a mad bull. 

What to do to relieve the torment I knew not. To ask for another bedwas out of the question, and to attempt to sleep on thorns--thorns!they would have been thought a luxury to this of lying enduring thepains of the doomed. After long endurance of the pain, and in rackingmy brains considering what was best to be done, the intolerablesensations began by degrees to subside and grow less and less; but theheat, although nearly insupportable, was more easily endured. Thathorrible night was a long one--and long will it be before it isforgotten. 

Coming down in the morning, expecting to find the lady all smiles andgraces, I was surprised and hurt to find she received me rathercoldly, and with averted head; but when she could no longer avoidturning round, never, in the whole course of my life, was I moreastonished at the change she had undergone. It was a total, a radicalchange--she was hardly to be recognized--and it was scarcely possibleto believe she was the lovely woman of the last night. Not that hersplendid figure was altered--in fact, an elegant morning-dress rathertended to improve and set-off her full and almost voluptuous contour, and her soft, sweet voice was equally musical; but her face--thecharms of her lovely face were vanished and gone!

Every one will admit that the nose is a most important, nay, a veryprominent feature in female beauty. It is indispensible that a belleshould have a beautiful nose; in fact, it is a question whether awoman without an eye would not be preferable to one with--but Ianticipate. 

"I see your surprise, sir, " said she, with evident chagrin, "but it isall owing to you. "

"To _me_, madam! I presume you allude to the altered appearance ofyour face, but I cannot conceive what I can have had to do with thechange. "

In brief, her beautiful nose was all over as red as scarlet, particularly the point of it, which exactly resembled a large redcherry, or ripe Siberian crab-apple. Now just think of it--a very fairwoman with a blood-red nose! Faugh! it is enough to sicken the mostdevoted admirer of the sex. Suppose any gentleman going to be married, and full of love and admiration, should, on going to the house of hisbeloved bride on the appointed morning, to take her to church, hummingto himself that sweet song, "She Wove a Wreath of Roses, " finds herbeautiful nose become a big rosy nosegay--would he not be apt tosuppose she had over night been making pretty free sacrifices, not tothe little god of love, but to jolly Bacchus? I did not do _my_ bellesuch an injustice--and yet what could I think?

"How do you make out that I had any thing to do with such an importantalteration, madam. "

"O, as easy as it is true. Did not your wo-begone terrors in thechurch-yard throw me into immoderate fits of laughter, as you wellknow? And did not your adventures, after you retired, when reported tome, throw me all but into convulsions--the more I thought, the more Ilaughed, until it brought on a nervous headache so intense, it felt asif my head would have split? To relieve so distressing a pain, I tooka bottle of eau de cologne to bed with me, and pulling out thestopper, propped it up by the pillow, right under my nose. I quiteforgot it, and fell asleep with the bottle in that position. "

"Ah!" said I, "I suspected _the bottle_ had something to do with it. "

"Quite true, quite true--but not the bottle you wickedly insinuate. How long I slept I know not, it must have been a long time; when Iawoke, I was surprised to find my shoulder cold and wet--and then Irecollected the bottle of cologne; but what was my horror, on gettingup, to behold my face in this frightful condition, you may easilyimagine. "

Poor, dear lady, if she laughed heartily at the scare she gave me inthe church-yard, I now had my revenge, full and ample--for I could notrefrain from laughing outright every time I looked in her face; andlaughter, when it is hearty and hilarious, is catching, almost as muchas yawning; and I fancy few will dispute how potent, how Mesmeric, ormagnetic the effect of an outstretched arm and wide gaping oscitationis. I declare, I caught myself gaping the other night on seeing mywife's white cat stretch herself on the rug, and yawn. 

"I really should feel obliged if you would be polite enough to keepyour eye off my face, " said the lady. 

Now it need hardly be remarked, that when any thing is the matter witha person's face, be it a wall-eye, a squint, a cancer, very bad teeth, or any such disfigurement or malady, it is impossible to look at anyother spot--it is sure to fix your gaze, you can look at no otherpart; you cannot keep your eye off it, unless you are more generous, or better bred than most men. 

"I really should feel obliged if you would be polite enough to keepyour eye off my nose; it puts me out of countenance, " said the fairone. She said this half earnest, half jest; and I obliged her, bydirecting my looks to her taper fingers and white hands--and theconversation proceeded with the breakfast. 

"May I inquire how you rested, after your escape from the ten thousandrats, and twenty thousand mice, which attacked you before you changedyour room?"

"Do you ask the question seriously?"

"Certainly I do. "

"Why, then, to use a homely but a very expressive phrase, it was outof the frying-pan into the fire. "

"Mercy on us! how can that be; you had what is considered the best bedin the house. "

"O, I dare say--no doubt, the softest I ever lay in; but instead often thousand rats, and twenty thousand mice, I had not been in itfifteen minutes ere a hundred and twenty thousand hornets, wasps, scorpions, and centipedes, two or three thousand hedge-hogs, and asmany porcupines, seemed to be full drive at me; and had I not soonbeen relieved by perspiration, I should assuredly have gone mad, andbeen in bedlam. Nervous headache! Why, madam, it would have beenconsidered paradise, compared with the purgatory you inflicted on me. "

Her eyes sparkled with glee--and she began to laugh joyously; but soonchecking herself, and assuming a sort of mock sympathy, said, "I am very sorry--_very_ sorry, indeed, that you should have foundyour bed so like the love of some men, rather hot to hold. "

On inquiring whether the grand coroneted bed, which had been as a hotgridiron to me, was intended for any particular person, she informedme it was for a Russian nobleman, Baron Nicholay, a much respectedfriend of Mr. Penn's, who sometimes visited Stoke, and who, being usedto a bed of down in the cold climate of his own country, Mr. Penn, with his characteristic kindness and attention, had it prepared forthe baron's especial comfort. She added that the reason why Mr. Pennhad all his life remained a bachelor, was in consequence of an earlyattachment which he had formed for the baron's sister; that they wereto have been married, but in driving the lady in a _drouschky_, orsledge, on the ice of the Neva, at St. Petersburg, by some fatalitythe ice gave way, and notwithstanding the most strenuous exertions ofher lover, and the servant who stood behind the sled, the lady, by theforce of the current, was swept away under the ice, and neverafterward seen. That this shocking accident had such effect on Mr. Penn's mind, as well it might, he never could think of any otherwoman, but remained true and constant to his first love, mourning hertragic end all his life. 

This was exactly the case with that most amiable and gifted man, thelate Sir Thomas Lawrence, who being engaged and about to be married toa daughter of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons, the young lady was suddenlysnatched from him by a rapid consumption; and Sir Thomas remainedfaithful to her beloved memory, wearing mourning during his life, andever after used black wax in sealing his letters, as the writer canprove by many, many received from him during a series of years untilhis lamented death. 

On asking my intelligent companion if she knew any particularsrespecting Gray, she replied she did know a great deal regarding him;that Mr. Penn idolized his memory, and had made collections respectinghim and the personages mentioned in the Long Story. At my pressingsolicitation she was good enough to say she would write out all theparticulars--a promise which she faithfully kept; and they mayhereafter appear in some shape. 

The morning proving foggy and damp, the time (instead of going tochurch) was passed in the library--a magnificent room, nearly twohundred feet long, extending the whole length of the building, andfilled with books from floor to ceiling. 

In one of the principal rooms, mounted upon a pedestal, there is alarge piece of the identical tree under the shade of which Mr. Penn'scelebrated ancestor, William, signed his treaty with the Indians, constituting him Lord Proprietary of what was afterward, and what willever be, Pennsylvania. The piece of wood is part of a large limb, about five feet long. The tree was blown down in 1812, and the portionin question was transmitted by Dr. Rush to Mr. Penn, who had itvarnished in its original state, and a brass plate affixed to it, withan inscription. 

The sun broke through the fog about twelve o'clock, and had ascheering an effect on the landscape, as it almost invariably has onthe mind. In the afternoon, after a most delightful day spent with thefair housekeeper, it became time to think of returning to London, andas the distance would be much lessened by proceeding through Mr. Penn's grounds, and going down to Salt-Hill instead of Slough, thelady offered to accompany me to the extent of the shrubberies, andpoint out the way. These enchanting shrubberies are adorned with bustsof the Roman and English poets, placed on antique terms, along thewell-kept, smooth gravel-walks, which wind about in many a serpentinedirection through the grounds. There are appropriate quotations fromthe works of the different bards, placed on the front of eachterminus. The bust of Gray, is placed under an ancient wide-spreadingoak, with this inscription:

 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Where'er the rude moss-grown beech O'er canopies the glade, With me the muse shall sit and think, At ease reclined in rustic state. 

There is an elegant small building, inscribed "The Temple of Fancy, "in which a bust of the immortal Shakspeare is the only ornament. It ison a small knoll, commanding an extensive prospect through the trees, which are opened like a fan. Windsor Castle terminates this lovelyview. Within the temple there is a long inscription from the MerryWives of Windsor, Act 5, sc. 5, beginning thus, Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out; Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room; That it may stand till the perpetual doom, In state as wholesome, as in state 'tis fit, Worthy the owner, and the owner it. 

The grounds, laid out with so much fine taste, terminate in a lovelylittle dell, sheltered on every side. In the centre there is a circlebordered with box, and growing within it, a collection of all theknown varieties of heath. The plants were then in full flower, andinnumerable honey-bees were feeding and buzzing. To one who, in earlylife, had been accustomed to tread the heath-covered hills ofScotland, the unexpected sight of these blooming plants of themountain was a treat; and the effect was heightened on seeing the bustof Scotia's most admired bard, Thomson, adorning it. The inscriptionwas from that sublime, almost divine hymn, with which the Seasonsconclude, and eminently well applied to the heath, as some one orother of the varieties blossom nearly all the year through. 

 These, as they change, Almighty Father, these, Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. 

In that secluded dell I bade a sorrowful and unwilling adieu to thelady who had shown such extraordinary politeness. It may be worth thewhile to mention that she was soon after married, much against thewish of Mr. Penn, who had a great aversion to any changes in hisestablishment; for a kinder, a better, a more pious, or moreaccomplished gentleman than the late John Penn, of Stoke Park, Englandcould not boast. 

 * * * * *

In consequence of the extraordinary prices lately paid for theautograph copies of Gray's poems, more particularly that of the Elegy, it has been thought it would be acceptable to the readers of theMagazine to be presented with a _fac simile_. The following havetherefore been traced, and engraved with great care and accuracy, fromthe first and last stanzas of the Elegy, and the signature from aletter. These will give an exact idea of the peculiarly neat andelegant handwriting of the Poet of Stoke. 

[Illustration: handwritten poem by Gray

The Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day, The lowing Herd wind slowly o'er the Lea, The Plowman homeward plods his weary Way, And leaves the World to Darkness & to me. 

 No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his Frailties from their dread Abode, (There they alike in trembling Hope repose)The Bosom of his Father, & his God. 

 Your humble Serv^t T. Gray]

 * * * * *

THE SAW-MILL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER. 

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 

 In yonder mill I rested, And sat me down to look Upon the wheel's quick glimmer. And on the flowing brook. 

 As in a dream, before me, The saw, with restless play, Was cleaving through a fir-tree Its long and steady way. 

 The tree through all its fibres With living motion stirred, And, in a dirge-like murmur, These solemn words I heard--

 Oh, thou, who wanderest hither, A timely guest thou art! For thee this cruel engine Is passing through my heart. 

 When soon, in earth's still bosom, Thy hours of rest begin, This wood shall form the chamber Whose walls shall close thee in. 

 Four planks--I saw and shuddered-- Dropped in that busy mill; Then, as I tried to answer, At once the wheel was still. 

EFFIE MORRIS. 

OR LOVE AND PRIDE. 

BY ENNA DUVAL. 

 So changes mortal Life with fleeting years; A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring The timely insight that can temper fears, And from vicissitude remove its sting; While Faith aspires to seats in that domain Where joys are perfect--neither wax nor wane. WORDSWORTH. 

It was a warm, cloudy, sultry summer morning--scarcely a breath of airstirred the clematis and woodbine blossoms that peeped in andclustered around the breakfast-room window, greeting us with freshfragrance; but on this morning no pleasant air breathed sighingly overthem, and they looked drooping and faded. I was visiting my friendEffie Morris, who resided in a pleasant country village, some twentyor thirty miles from my city home. We were both young, and had beenschool-girl friends from early childhood. The preceding winter hadbeen our closing session at school, and we were about entering ourlittle world as women. Effie was an only daughter of a widowed mother. Possessing comfortable means, they lived most pleasantly in theirquiet romantic little village. Effie had stayed with me during thewinters of her school-days, while I had always returned the complimentby spending the summer months at her pleasant home. Her mother waslovely both in mind and disposition, and though she had suffered muchfrom affliction, she still retained youthful and sympathizingfeelings. Effie was gentle and beautiful, and the most innocent, unsophisticated little enthusiast that ever breathed. She had arrivedat the age of seventeen, and to my certain knowledge had never feltthe first heart-throb; never had been in love. In vain had we attendedthe dancing-school balls, and little parties. A host of boy-loverssurrounded the little set to which we belonged, and yet Effie remainedentirely heart-whole. She never flirted, never sentimentalized withgentlemen, and she was called cold and matter-of-fact, by those whojudged her alone by her manner; but one glance in her soft, dove-likeeyes, it seems to me, should have set them a doubting. I have seenthose expressive eyes well up with tears when together we would readsome old story or poem--

 "Two shall be named preeminently dear-- The gentle Lady married to the Moor, And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb"--

or leaning from our bed-room window, at midnight, we would gaze on thesilvery moon in the heavens, listening to the rippling notes of thewater-spirits that to our fancy inhabited the sparkling stream thatran near the house. How beautifully would she improvise at times--forimprovisations in truth were they, while she was quite unconscious ofher gift. She never wrote a line of poetry, but when in such moods, every word she uttered was true, pure poetry. She had a mostremarkable memory, and seemed never to forget a line she read. To meshe would repeat page after page of our favorite authors, when wewould be wandering through the woods, our arms entwined around eachother. 

Effie Morris was an enthusiastic dreamer, and entertained certainlittle romantic exaggerated opinions, out of which it was impossibleto argue her--sometimes her actions ran contrary to these opinions, and we would fancy that surely now she would admit the fallacy of herarguments in favor of them; but when taxed with it, she would in themost earnest, sincere manner defend her original position, proving tous that no matter how her actions appeared to others, they were in herown mind entirely in keeping with these first expressed opinions, which to us seemed entirely at variance. But she was so gentle inargument, and proved so plainly that though her reasoning might befalse, her thoughts were so beautiful and pure, as to make us feelperfectly willing to pardon her obstinacy. 

On the morning I speak of, we lounged languidly over thebreakfast-table, not caring to taste of the tempting crisp rolls, ordrink of the fragrant Mocha juice, the delicious fumes of which roseup from the delicate China cups all unheeded by us. At first we talkedlistlessly of various things, wandering from subject to subject, andat last, to our surprise, we found ourselves engaged in a sprightly, animated argument; each forgetting the close atmosphere that seemed atfirst to weigh down all vivacity. The subject of this argument was thepossibility of pride overcoming love in a woman's heart. Mrs. Morrisand I contended that love weakened or quite died out if the objectproved unworthy or indifferent. Our romantic Effie of course took theopposite side. True love to her mind was unalterable. Falsehood, deceit, change--no matter what sorrow, she said, might afflict thepure loving heart--its love would still remain. "I cannot, " sheexclaimed enthusiastically, "imagine for an instant that true, genuinelove should--could have any affinity with pride. When I see a womangiving evidence of what is called high spirit in love matters, Istraightway lose all sympathy for her heart-troubles. I say tomyself--she has never truly loved. "

We argued, but in vain; at length her mother laughingly criedout--"Nonsense, Effie, no one would sooner resent neglect from alover than yourself. True love, as you call it, would never make sucha spiritless, meek creature out of the material of which you arecomposed. "

"Yes, in truth, " I added, as I saw our pretty enthusiast, half vexed, shake her head obstinately at her mother's prophecy--"I can see thosesoft eyes of yours, Effie, darling, flash most eloquent fire, shouldyour true love meet with unworthiness. "

During our conversation the clouds had broken, the wind changed, and adelicious breeze came sweeping in at the windows as if to cool ourcheeks, flushed with the playful argument. 

"Will you ride or walk this morning, girls?" asked Mrs. Morris, as wearose from the breakfast-table. 

"Oh, let us take our books, guitar and work up the mill-stream to theold oak, dear mamma, " exclaimed Effie, "and spend an hour or twothere. "

"But it will be mid-day when we return, " replied her mother. 

"That's true, " said Effie, laughing, "but Leven can drive up to theold broken bridge for us at mid-day. "

"To be sure he can, " said Mrs. Morris, and accordingly we salliedforth, laden with books and netting, while a servant trudged on ahead, with camp-stools and guitar. Nothing eventful occurred on thatparticular morning, and yet though years have passed since then, Inever recall the undulating scenery of the narrow, dark, windingmill-stream of Stamford, but it presents itself to my mind's eye as itlooked on that morning. In my waking or sleeping dreams, I see the oldoak at the morning hours, and whenever the happy moments I have spentat Effie Morris' country home come to my memory, this morning isalways the brightest, most vivid picture presented before me by myfancy. As Hans Christian Andersen says with such poetic eloquence inhis Improvisatore--"It was one of those moments which occur but oncein a person's life, which, without signalizing itself by any greatlife-adventure, yet stamps itself in its whole coloring upon thePsyche wings. "

We walked slowly along the narrow bank--tall trees towered around us, whose waving branches, together with the floating clouds, weremirrored with exquisite distinctness on the bosom of the dark, deep, narrow stream--near at shore lay the dreaming, luxurious water-lilies, and a thousand beautiful blossoms bent over the bank, and kissedplayfully the passing waters, or coquetted with the inconstant breeze. Our favorite resting-place was about a mile's walk up the beautifulstream, and to reach it we had to cross to the opposite shore, over arude, half-ruined bridge, which added to the picturesque beauty of thescenery. The oak was a century old tree, and stood upon rising grounda short distance from the shore. How calmly and happily passed thatmorning. Effie sang wild ballads for us, and her rich full notes wereechoed from the distance by the spirit voices of the hills. We wovegarlands of water-lilies and wild flowers, and when I said we weremaking Ophelias of ourselves, Effie, with shy earnestness mostbewitching, unloosened her beautiful hair, twining the long locks, andbanding her temples with the water-lily garlands and long grass--thenwrapping an India muslin mantle around her shoulders, she gathered upthe ends on her arms, filling them with sprigs of wild blossoms, andacted poor Ophelia's mad scene most touchingly. Tears gathered in oureyes as she concluded the wild, wailing melody

 "And will he not come again, And will he not come again, No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. 

 "His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll-- He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan-- God a mercy on his soul. "

There was a deep, touching pathos in her voice as she uttered theminor notes of this song, and her soft eyes beamed half vacantly, halfreverently, as looking up to heaven she uttered in low breathingtones--

 "And of all Christian souls! I pray God!"

Then suddenly arousing herself, she looked toward us and murmured, asshe turned away with a sad, tearful smile, "God be wi' you. " Theillusion was perfect, and we both sobbed outright. 

Effie Morris was one of the few true geniuses I have known in my lifetime; and when I have said this to those who only met with her insociety, they have laughed and wondered what genius there could be inmy cold, quiet friend. 

The following winter Effie entered society. Her mother had many gayand fashionable friends in the principal northern cities, and duringthe winter season her letters to me were dated at one time fromWashington, then again from some other gay city; and in this free fromcare pleasant manner did her days pass. Household duties kept me, though a young girl, close at home. Possibly if Effie had been throwninto the active domestic sphere which was my mission, her historymight have been different. She certainly would have been less of adreamer. Exquisite waking dreams, woven of the shining fairy threadsof fancy, meet with but poor encouragement in every-day life, and takeflight sometimes never to return, when one is rudely awakened fromthem in order to attend to "the baked and the broiled. " I remember, when a girl, feeling at times a little restive under the dutiesunavoidably imposed upon me, and often would indulge in a morbidsentimental humor, dreaming over some "rare old poet" or blessedromance, to the exceeding great detriment of my household affairs, making my poor father sigh over a tough, badly cooked stake, andcheerless, dusty house; but these moods, to my credit be it told, wereof rare occurrence; and I say now the best school for a dreaming, enthusiastic girl, who sighs for the realization of her fancy visions, is to place her in charge of some active duty--to make her feel it isexacted from her--that she must see it performed. I mean not that adelicate intellectual spirit should be borne to the earth disheartenedwith care and hard labor--but a share of domestic cares, domesticduties, is both wholesome and necessary for a woman. Cultivate ifpossible in a girl a taste for reading and study first, then she willsoon find time for intellectual pursuits, which, from being in ameasure denied to her, will become dearer. In her attempts to securemoments for the indulgence of her mental desires she willunconsciously learn order, management and economy of time and labor, thus will her mind be strengthened. But I am digressing, dear reader. I am sadly talkative on this subject, and sometimes fancy I couldeducate a girl most famously; and when "thinking aloud" of the perfectwoman my theory would certainly complete, I am often pitched rudelyfrom my self-satisfied position, by some married friend saying, in ahalf vexed, impatient tone--"Ah, yes, this is all very fine intheory--no doubt you would be successful--we all know the homelyadage--'old bachelors' wives and old maids' children, ' &c. "

Effie was not what is called a belle in society. She was too cold andspiritual. Her beauty was too delicate to make an impression in thegay ball-room; and she cared little for what both men and women in theworld pine after--popularity. She danced and talked only with thosewho pleased her, and sometimes not at all if it did not suit herfancy. There was a great contrast between her mother and herself. Mrs. Morris, though "forty rising, " was still a fine-looking, _distingué_woman; and on her re-entrance into society with her daughter, sheproduced a greater impression than did Effie. She had a merry, joyousdisposition, and without possessing half the mental superiority herdaughter was gifted with, she had a light, easy conversationalability, playful repartee, an elegant style and manner, and asufficient knowledge of accomplishments to produce an effect in thegay world, and make her the centre of attraction of every circle sheentered; and the world wondered so brilliant a mother should have soindifferent a daughter. She doted on Effie; and, I am sure, loved herall the more for her calm, quiet way. She often said to me, "Effie isvery superior to the women one meets with--she has a pure, elevatedspirit. So delicate a nature as hers is not properly appreciated inthis world. "

One summer there came a wooing of Effie a most excellent gentleman. Hehad met with her the preceding winter in some gay circle, and haddiscernment enough to discover the merits of our jewel. How anxiouslyMrs. Morris and I watched the wooing--for we were both anxious for Mr. Grayson's success. He was in every way worthy of her--high-minded, honorable, and well to do in the world--some years her senior, buthandsome and elegant in appearance. He must have had doubts of hissuccess, for he let the live-long summer pass ere he ventured on hislove speech. We were a pleasant party--Mrs. Morris, Effie, myself, Mr. Grayson, and Lucien Decker, a cousin of Mrs. Morris--a college youth, who only recently had become one of the family. Lucien Decker's familylived in a distant state, and only until he came to a northern collegeto finish his studies had he known his pleasant relatives. He was abright, interesting, graceful youth, and wondrous clever, we thought. We would spend morning after morning wandering up the mill-stream, resting under the old oak, where Mr. Grayson would discourse mostpleasantly, or read aloud to us; and sometimes, after Effie and I hadchanted simple melodies, we would prevail on Lucien to recite some ofhis own poetry, at which he was, indeed, most clever--he recited well, and wrote very delicately and beautifully. At last Mr. Graysonventured on a proposal; but, to our sorrow, he met with a calm, gentlerefusal; and to relieve his disappointment, he sailed in the fall forEurope. 

Not long after his departure, to our surprise, Effie and Lucienannounced themselves as lovers. No objection, surely, could be made;but such a thing had never entered our minds. Though of the same agewith Effie and myself, he had always seemed as a boy in comparison tous, and I had always treated him with the playful familiarity of ayouth. He was more intelligent and interesting than young men of hisage generally are; indeed he gave promise of talent--and he waslikewise good-looking; but, in truth, when we compared him with theelegant and finished Mr. Grayson, we felt a wee bit out of patience;and if we did not give utterance aloud to our thoughts, I shrewdlysuspect if those thoughts had formed themselves into words, thosewords would have sounded very much like, "Nonsensical sentimentality!""strange infatuation!" but nothing could be said with propriety, andthe engagement was fully entered into. Some time had necessarily toelapse before its fulfillment, however, for the lover was but twenty;but it was well understood, that when he had finished his studies, andwas settled in his profession, he was to wed our darling Effie. Afterthe acceptance of his suit, Lucien seemed perfectly happy, and, I mustconfess, made himself particularly interesting. He walked and readwith us, and wrote such beautiful poetry in honor of Effie's charms, that we were at last quite propitiated. He was, indeed, an ardentlover; and his enthusiastic, earnest wooing, was very different fromMr. Grayson's calm, dignified manner. He caused our quiet Effie a dealof entertainment, however; for when he was an acknowledged lover, likeall such ardent dispositions, he showed himself to be an exacting one. Her calm, cold manner would set him frantic at times; and he would vowshe could not love him; but these lovers' quarrels instead of wearyingEffie, seemed to produce a contrary effect. 

They had been engaged a year or so, when one summer a belle of thefirst water made her appearance in the village-circle of Stamford. Kate Barclay was her name. She was a Southerner, and a reputedheiress. She had come rusticating, she said; and shrugging her prettyshoulders, she would declare in a bewitching, languid tone, "truly aface and figure needed rest after a brilliant winter campaign. " OldMrs. Barclay, a dear, nice old lady in the village, was her aunt; andas we were the only young ladies of a companionable age, Kate was, ofcourse, a great deal with us. She was, indeed, a delicious lookingcreature. She had large, melting dark eyes, and rich curling masses ofhair, that fell in clusters over her neck and shoulders, giving her amost romantic appearance. She understood fully all the little arts andwiles of a belle; and she succeeded in securing admiration. Superficial she was, but showy; and could put on at will all moods, from the proud and dignified, to the bewitching and childlike. We hadno gentlemen visiters with us when she first came, not even Lucien;for some engagement had taken him from Effie for a week or two, andour pretty southern damsel almost expired with _ennui_. When we firstmet with her, she talked so beautifully of the delights of a quietcountry life, seemed so enchanted with every thing and every body, andso eloquent in praise of rambles in the forest, sunsets, moonlights, rushing streamlets, &c. , &c. , that we decided she was an angelforthwith. But one or two ramblings quite finished her--for shecomplained terribly of dust, sun, and fatigue; moreover, we quiteneglected to notice or admire her picturesque rambling dress, whichinadvertency provoked her into telling us that the gentlemen atBallston, or some other fashionable watering-place, had declared shelooked in it quite like Robin Hood's maid Marian. The gorgeous summersunsets and clear moonlight nights, soon wearied her--for we were toomuch occupied with the beauties of nature to notice her fineattitudes, or beautiful eyes cast up imploringly to heaven, while sherecited, in a half theatrical manner, passages of poetry descriptiveof her imaginary feelings. I suspected she was meditating a flitting, when one day Lucien, and two of his student friends, made theirappearance amongst us. How quickly her mood changed; the listless, yawning, dissatisfied manner disappeared, and we heard her the firstnight of their arrival delighting them, as she had us, with herfascinating ecstasies over rural enjoyments. She sentimentalized, flirted, romped, laughed, dressed in a picturesque manner, and "wasevery thing by turns, but nothing long, " evidently bent upon bringingto her feet the three gentlemen. Lucien's friends soon struck theirflags, and were her humble cavaliers--but a right tyrannical mistressshe proved to them, making them scowl, and say sharp things to eachother in a most ferocious manner, very amusing to us; but Lucien wasimpregnable. She played off all her arts in vain, he seemedunconscious, and devoted himself entirely to Effie. At first she wasso occupied with securing the two other prizes she overlooked hisdelinquency, but when certain of them, she was piqued intoaccomplishing a conquest of him likewise. I did not think she would besuccessful, and amused myself by quietly watching her manoeuvres. 

One bright moonlight evening the gentlemen rowed us up themill-stream, and as we returned we landed at our favorite oak. Thewaters, swelled by recent rains, came dashing and tumbling along inmimic billows; the moon beamed down a heavenly radiance, and as thelittle wavelets broke against the shore, they glittered like moltensilver, covering the wild blossoms with dazzling fairy gems. Kate'stwo lovers were talking and walking with Mrs. Morris and Effie alongthe shore. Lucien, Kate, and I, remained on a little bank that roseabruptly from the water. She did, indeed, look most bewitchinglybeautiful; her soft, white dress, bound at the waist by a flowingribbon, floated in graceful folds around her; her lovely neck, shoulders and arms, were quite uncovered, and her rich, dark hair fellin loose, long curls, making picturesque shadows in the moonlight. Shecould act the inspired enthusiast to perfection; and what our Effiereally was, she could affect most admirably. She seemed unconscious ofour presence; indeed, I do not think she thought I was near her, and, as if involuntarily, she burst out into one of her affectedrhapsodies, her eyes beamed brightly, and she expressed her feelingsmost rapturously, concluding with repeating, in low, earnest, halftrembling tones, some lines of Lucien's she had taken from my ScrapBook, descriptive of the very scene before her, written the precedingsummer for Effie, after a moonlight ramble together. The poetry wasquite impassioned; and I heard Kate murmur with a sigh, as she turnedaway after concluding her quotation, as if sick at heart, "Ah! I wouldgive years of brilliant success for one hour of devotion from such alover. "

No one heard her but Lucien and myself--and I was one listener morethan she would have desired; for Lucien's ear alone was theejaculation intended, the good for nothing little flirt. It producedthe intended effect, for I saw Lucien watching her with admiringinterest. She noted the impression, and cunningly kept it up. Therewas such a contrast between Effie and Kate, rather to Effie'sdisadvantage, I had to confess, and Kate's affected expressions ofintense feeling, rather served to heighten Effie's natural coldness ofmanner. Why waste words--the conclusion is already divined. Thecoquette succeeded--and ere a week had passed Lucien was herinfatuated, devoted admirer; Effie was quite forgotten. Lucien's twofriends, wretched, and completely maddened by the cool, contemptuousrejections they received from Kate, left Stamford, vowing eternalhatred for womankind, and uttering deep, dire denunciations againstall coquettes, leaving the field open to Lucien, who seemed to haveperfectly lost all sense of propriety in his infatuation. Effie lookedon as calmly and quietly as though she were not particularlyinterested. I fancied, for the credit of romance and sentiment, thather cheek was paler; and I thought I could detect at times a tremblingof her delicate lips--but she said not a word. Mrs. Morris and Idisplayed much more feeling; but what could we do--and half amused, half vexed, we watched the conduct of the naughty little flirt. Suddenly Kate received a summons home--and right glad I was to hear ofit. She announced it to us one evening, saying she expected her fatherthe next day. The following afternoon she came over to our cottage, accompanied with two middle-aged gentlemen. The elder of the two wasMr. Barclay, her father, who had known Mrs. Morris in early life; theother she introduced as Col. Paulding, a friend. Col. Paulding'smanner struck us with surprise. He called her "Kate;" and thoughdignified, was affectionate. She seemed painfully embarrassed, andanxious to terminate the visit. She answered our questions hurriedly, and appeared ill at ease. Lucien was not present, fortunately for her;and I fancied she watched the door, as if anxiously fearing hisentrance; certain it was she started nervously at every distant sound. 

"Will you revisit Stamford next summer, Miss Barclay?" I asked. 

Kate replied that she was uncertain at present. 

"I suppose Kate has not told you, " said her father, laughingly, "thatlong before another summer she will cease to be mistress of her ownmovements. She expects to be in Germany next summer, I believe, withher husband, " and he looked significantly at Col. Paulding, who wasstanding out on the lawn with Mrs. Morris, admiring the beautifulview, quite out of hearing distance. Effie was just stepping from theFrench window of the drawing-room into the conservatory to gather someof her pretty flowers for her visiters, as she heard Mr. Barclay saythis. She turned with a stern, cold look, and regarded Kate Barclayquietly. Kate colored crimson, then grew deadly white, and trembledfrom head to foot; but her father did not notice it, as he hadfollowed Col. Paulding and Mrs. Morris out on the lawn. There we threestood, Effie, cold and pale as a statue, and Kate looking quite like acriminal. She looked up, attempting to make some laughing remark, butthe words died in her throat as she met Effie's stern, cold glance;she gasped, trembled, then rallied, and at last, with a proud look ofdefiance, she swept out on the lawn, and taking Col. Paulding's arm, proposed departure. She bade us good-bye most gracefully; but I sawthat she avoided offering her hand to Effie. As the gate closed, shelooked over her shoulder indifferently, and said, in a saucy, laughingtone, "Oh, pray make my adieux to Mr. Decker. I regret that I shall not seehim to bid him good-bye. I depend upon the charity of you ladies tokeep me fresh in his remembrance;" and, as far as we could see herdown the road, we heard her forced laugh and unnaturally loud voice. 

Lucien came in a few minutes after they left, and Mrs. Morrisdelivered Kate's message. He looked agitated, and after swallowing hiscup of tea hastily and quietly, he took up his hat and went out. Hewent to see Kate, but she, anticipating his visit, had retired with aviolent headache immediately after her walk; but Lucien staid longenough to discover, as we had, Col. Paulding's relation to thefascinating coquette. This we learned long afterward. The next dayLucien left Stamford without saying more than cold words of good-bye. He did not go with Kate's party, we felt certain; and many weekspassed without hearing from him. Effie never made a remark; and ourdays passed quietly as they had before the appearance of Kate Barclayin our quiet little village. It was not long, however, before we sawin the newspapers, and read without comment, the marriage of KateBarclay with Col. Paulding. 

"See this, " said Mrs. Morris to me one morning as I entered thedrawing-room, and she handed me a letter. We were alone, Effie wasattending to her plants in the conservatory. I took the letter andread it. It was a wild, impassioned one from Lucien. Two months hadelapsed since his silent departure, and this first letter was writtento Mrs. Morris. It was filled with self-reproaches, and earnestentreaties for her intercession and mine with Effie. He cursed hisinfatuation, and the cause of it, and closed with the declaration thathe would be reckless of life if Effie remained unforgiving. As Ifinished reading the letter I heard Effie's voice warbling in wild andplaintive notes in the conservatory, "How should I your true love know, From another one, By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon?"

And the scene at the opening of this story rose before myremembrance--the playful argument--the declaration made by her thattrue, pure love could not have any affinity with pride--and I was lostin reverie. 

"What would you do, Enna?" inquired Mrs. Morris. 

"Give the letter to Effie without remark, " I replied. "We cannotintercede for him--he does not deserve to be forgiven. "

The letter was given to Effie, who read it quietly; and if she evincedemotion, it was not before us. She said she was sorry for Lucien, forshe had discovered a change in her own feelings. She did not love himas she fancied she had, and she could not in justice to herselffulfill their engagement--it was impossible. She wrote this to him, and all his wild letters were laid calmly and quietly aside. Can thisbe pride? I said to myself. But she seemed as though she suspected mythoughts, for the night before I returned to my city home, as we wereleaning against the window-frame of our bed-room, listening the lasttime for that season to the tumbling, dashing water-music, she said, "Enna, dear, it was not spirit and pride that made me act so unkindlyto Lucien--indeed, it was not. But I mistook my feelings for him fromthe first. I fancied I loved him dearly, when I only loved him as asister. Believe me, if that love had existed once for him, his foolishinfatuation for Kate Barclay would not have been regarded by me onemoment. "

Two or three years passed, and Effie still remained unwedded, when, toour delight, Mr. Grayson, who had returned from Europe, againaddressed her. She accepted him; and I was, indeed, happy when Iofficiated as bridesmaid for her. One year after that joyous weddingwe stood over her bier, weeping bitter, bitter tears. We laid her inthe grave--and the heart-broken mother soon rested beside her. Amongher papers was a letter directed to me; it was written in expectationof death, although we did not any of us anticipate such a calamity. 

"I am not long for this world, dear Enna, " she wrote, "I feel I amdying daily; and yet, young as I am, it grieves me not, except when Ithink of the sorrow my death will occasion to others. When you readthis I shall be enveloped in the heavy grave-clothes; but then I shallbe at rest. Oh! how my aching, weary spirit pines for rest. Do notfancy that sorrow or disappointment has brought me to this. I fanciedI loved Lucien Decker fondly, devotedly; and how happy was I whenunder the influence of that fancy. That fatal summer, at the time ofhis infatuation for that heartless girl, insensibly a chillinghardness crept over my feelings. I struggled against my awakening; andif Lucien had displayed any emotion before his departure, I mightstill have kept up the happy delusion. But in vain, it disappeared, and with it all the beauty of life, which increased in weariness fromthat moment. I sought for some object of interest--I married; but, though my husband has been devoted and kind, I weary of existence. Life has no interest for me. I hail the approach of death. Farewell. "

I read these sad lines with eyes blinded with tears; and I could nothelp thinking how Effie had deceived herself; unconsciously she hadbecome a victim of the very pride she had condemned. 

EARLY ENGLISH POETS. 

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 

 I. --CHAUCER. 

 Yea! lovely are the hues still floating o'er Thy rural visions, bard of olden time, The form of purest Poesy flits before My mental gaze, while bending o'er thy rhyme. No lofty flight, bold, brilliant and sublime-- But tender beauty, and endearing grace, And touching pathos in these lines I trace, Oh! gentle poet of the northern clime. And oft when dazzled by the gorgeous glow And gilded luxury of modern rhymes, Grateful I turn to the clear, quiet flow Of thy sweet thoughts, which fall like pleasant chimes From the "pure wells of English undefiled. " Thou wert inspired, thou, Poetry's true child. 

 II. --SPENCER. 

 What forms of grace and glory glided through The royal palace of thy lofty mind! Rare shapes of beauty thy sweet fancy drew, In the brave knights, and peerless dames enshrined Within thy magic book, The Faerie Queene, Bright Gloriana robed in dazzling sheen-- Hapless Irene--angelic Una--and The noble Arthur all before me pass, As summoned by the enchanter rod and glass. And glorious still thy pure creations stand, Leaving their golden footprints on the sand Of Time indelible! All thanks to thee, Oh! beauty-breathing bard of Poesy, That thou hast charmed a weary hour for me. 

 III. --SHAKSPEARE. 

 Oh! minstrel monarch! the most glorious throne Of Intellect thy Genius doth inherit. Compeer, or perfect rival thou hast none-- O Soul of Song!--O mind of royal merit. Is not this high, imperishable fame The tribute of a grateful world to thee? A recognizing glory in thy name From a great nation to thy memory. Lord of Dramatic Art--the splendid scenes Of thy rich fancy are around us still; All shapes of Thought to make the bosom thrill Are thine supreme! Many long years have sped, And dimmed in dust the crowned and laureled head, But thou--_thou_ speakest still, though numbered with the dead. 

THE PORTRAIT. 

[WITH AN ENGRAVING. ]

BY ROBT. T. CONRAD. 

 And he hath spoken! Knew I not he would? Though flitting fears, like clouds o'er lakes, would cast Shadows o'er true love's trust. The tear-drop stood In his dark eye; he trembled. But 't is past, And I am his, he mine. Why trembled he? This fond heart knew he not; and that his eye Governed its tides, as doth the moon the sea; And that with him, for him, 't were bliss to die? Yet said I naught. Shame on me, that my cheek And eye my hoarded secret should betray! Why wept I? And why was I sudden weak, So weak his manly arm was stretched to stay? How like a suppliant God he looked! His sweet, Low voice, heart-shaken, spoke--and all was known; Yet, from the first, I felt our souls must meet, Like stars that rush together and shine on. 

[Illustration: The Bridal Morning

J. Hayter A. B. Ross

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine]

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD. 

 Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT. 

BY THE AUTHOR Of "PILOT, " "RED ROVER, " "TWO ADMIRALS, ""WING-AND-WING, " "MILES WALLINGFORD, " ETC. 

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, byJ. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk's Office of the District Courtof the United States, for the Northern District of New York. ]

 _(Continued from page 48. )_

PART XV. 

 Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends; On every stage, from youth to age, Still discontent attends; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. SOUTHEY. 

It has now become necessary to advance the time three entire days, andto change the scene to Key West. As this latter place may not be knownto the world at large, it may be well to explain that it is a smallseaport, situate on one of the largest of the many low islands thatdot the Florida Reef, that has risen into notice, or indeed intoexistence as a town, since the acquisition of the Floridas by theAmerican Republic. For many years it was the resort of few besideswreckers, and those who live by the business dependent on the rescuingand repairing of stranded vessels, not forgetting the salvages. Whenit is remembered that the greater portion of the vessels that enterthe Gulf of Mexico stand close along this reef, before the trades, fora distance varying from one to two hundred miles, and that nearlyevery thing which quits it, is obliged to beat down its rocky coast inthe Gulf Stream for the same distance, one is not to be surprised thatthe wrecks, which so constantly occur, can supply the wants of aconsiderable population. To live at Key West is the next thing tobeing at sea. The place has sea air, no other water than such as ispreserved in cisterns, and no soil, or so little as to render even ahead of lettuce a rarity. Turtle is abundant, and the business of"turtling" forms an occupation additional to that of wrecking. Asmight be expected in such circumstances, a potato is a far moreprecious thing than a turtle's egg, and a sack of the tubers wouldprobably be deemed a sufficient remuneration for enough of thematerials of callipash and callipee to feed all the aldermen extant. 

Of late years, the government of the United States has turned itsattention to the capabilities of the Florida Reef, as an advancednaval station; a sort of Downs, or St. Helen's Roads, for the WestIndian seas. As yet little has been done beyond making the preliminarysurveys, but the day is not probably very distant when fleets willlie at anchor among the islets described in our earlier chapters, orgarnish the fine waters of Key West. For a long time it was thoughtthat even frigates would have a difficulty in entering and quittingthe port of the latter, but it is said that recent explorations havediscovered channels capable of admitting any thing that floats. StillKey West is a town yet in its chrysalis state, possessing the promiserather than the fruition of the prosperous days which are in reserve. It may be well to add, that it lies a very little north of the 24thdegree of latitude, and in a longitude quite five degrees west fromWashington. Until the recent conquests in Mexico it was the mostsouthern possession of the American government, on the eastern side ofthe continent; Cape St. Lucas, at the extremity of Lower California, however, being two degrees farther south. 

It will give the foreign reader a more accurate notion of thecharacter of Key West, if we mention a fact of quite recentoccurrence. A very few weeks after the closing scenes of this tale, the town in question was, in a great measure, washed away! A hurricanebrought in the sea upon all these islands and reefs, water running inswift currents over places that within the memory of man were neverbefore submerged. The lower part of Key West was converted into araging sea, and every thing in that quarter of the place disappeared. The foundation being of rock, however, when the ocean retired theisland came into view again, and industry and enterprise set to workto repair the injuries. 

The government has established a small hospital for seamen at KeyWest. Into one of the rooms of the building thus appropriated ournarrative must now conduct the reader. It contained but a singlepatient, and that was Spike. He was on his narrow bed, which was to bebut the precursor of a still narrower tenement, the grave. In the roomwith the dying man were two females, in one of whom our readers willat once recognize the person of Rose Budd, dressed in deep mourningfor her aunt. At first sight, it is probable that a casual spectatorwould mistake the second female for one of the ordinary nurses of theplace. Her attire was well enough, though worn awkwardly, and as ifits owner were not exactly at ease in it. She had the air of one inher best attire, who was unaccustomed to be dressed above the mostcommon mode. What added to the singularity of her appearance, was thefact, that while she wore no cap, her hair had been cut into short, gray bristles, instead of being long, and turned up, as is usual withfemales. To give a sort of climax to this uncouth appearance, thisstrange-looking creature chewed tobacco. 

The woman in question, equivocal as might be her exterior, wasemployed in one of the commonest avocations of her sex--that ofsewing. She held in her hand a coarse garment, one of Spike's, infact, which she seemed to be intently busy in mending; although thework was of a quality that invited the use of the palm andsail-needle, rather than that of the thimble and the smaller implementknown to seamstresses, the woman appeared awkward in her business, asif her coarse-looking and dark hands refused to lend themselves to anoccupation so feminine. Nevertheless, there were touches of a purelywomanly character about this extraordinary person, and touches thatparticularly attracted the attention, and awakened the sympathy of thegentle Rose, her companion. Tears occasionally struggled out frombeneath her eyelids, crossed her dark, sun-burnt cheek, and fell onthe coarse canvas garment that lay in her lap. It was after one ofthese sudden and strong exhibitions of feeling that Rose approachedher, laid her own little, fair hand, in a friendly way, thoughunheeded, on the other's shoulder, and spoke to her in her kindest andsoftest tones. 

"I do really think he is reviving, Jack, " said Rose, "and that you mayyet hope to have an intelligent conversation with him. "

"They all agree he _must_ die, " answered Jack Tier--for it was _he_, appearing in the garb of his proper sex, after a disguise that had nowlasted fully twenty years--"and he will never know who I am, and thatI forgive him. He must think of me in another world, though he isn'table to do it in this; but it would be a great relief to his soul toknow that I forgive him. "

"To be sure, a man must like to take a kind leave of his own wifebefore he closes his eyes forever; and I dare say it would be a greatrelief to you to tell him that you have forgotten his desertion ofyou, and all the hardships it has brought upon you in searching forhim, and in earning your own livelihood as a common sailor. "

"I shall not tell him I've _forgotten_ it, Miss Rose; that would beuntrue--and there shall be no more deception between us; but I shalltell him that I _forgive_ him, as I hope God will one day forgive meall _my_ sins. "

"It is, certainly, not a light offence to desert a wife in a foreignland, and then to seek to deceive another woman, " quietly observedRose. 

"He's a willian!" muttered the wife--"but--but--"

"You forgive him, Jack--yes, I'm sure you do. You are too good aChristian to refuse to forgive him. "

"I'm a woman a'ter all, Miss Rose; and that, I believe, is the truthof it. I suppose I ought to do as you say, for the reason youmention; but I'm his wife--and once he loved me, though that has longbeen over. When I first knew Stephen, I'd the sort of feelin's youspeak of, and was a very different creatur' from what you see meto-day. Change comes over us all with years and sufferin'. "

Rose did not answer, but she stood looking intently at the speakermore than a minute. Change had, indeed, come over her, if she had everpossessed the power to please the fancy of any living man. Herfeatures had always seemed diminitive and mean for her assumed sex, asher voice was small and cracked; but, making every allowance for theprobabilities, Rose found it difficult to imagine that Jack Tier hadever possessed, even under the high advantages of youth and innocence, the attractions so common to her sex. Her skin had acquired thetanning of the sea; the expression of her face had become hard andworldly; and her habits contributed to render those naturalconsequences of exposure and toil even more than usually marked anddecided. By saying "habits, " however, we do not mean that Jack hadever drank to excess, as happens with so many seamen, for this wouldhave been doing her injustice, but she smoked and chewed--practicesthat intoxicate in another form, and lead nearly as many to the graveas excess in drinking. Thus all the accessories about this singularbeing, partook of the character of her recent life and duties. Herwalk was between a waddle and a seaman's roll; her hands werediscolored with tar, and had got to be full of knuckles, and even herfeet had degenerated into that flat, broad-toed form that, perhaps, sooner distinguishes caste, in connection with outward appearances, than any one other physical peculiarity. Yet this being _had_ oncebeen young--had once been even _fair_; and had once possessed thatfeminine air and lightness of form, that as often belongs to theyouthful American of her sex, perhaps, as to the girl of any othernation on earth. Rose continued to gaze at her companion for sometime, when she walked musingly to a window that looked out upon theport. 

"I am not certain whether it would do him good or not to see thissight, " she said, addressing the wife kindly, doubtful of the effectof her words even on the latter. "But here are the sloop-of-war, andseveral other vessels. "

"Ay, she is _there_; but never will his foot be put on board the Swashag'in. When he bought that brig I was still young, and agreeable tohim; and he gave her my maiden name, which was Mary, or Molly Swash. But that is all changed; I wonder he did not change the name with hischange of feelin's. "

"Then you did really sail in the brig in former times, and knew theseaman whose name you assumed?"

"Many years. Tier, with whose name I made free, on account of hissize, and some resemblance to me in form, died under my care; and hisprotection fell into my hands, which first put the notion into my headof hailing as his representative. Yes, I knew Tier in the brig, and wewere left ashore at the same time--I, intentionally, I make noquestion; he, because Stephen Spike was in a hurry, and did not chooseto wait for a man. The poor fellow caught the yellow fever the verynext day, and did not live eight-and-forty hours. So the world goes;them that wish to live, die; and them that wants to die, live!"

"You have had a hard time for one of your sex, poor Jack--quite twentyyears a sailor, did you not tell me?"

"Every day of it, Miss Rose--and bitter years have they been; for thewhole of that time have I been in chase of my husband, keeping my ownsecret, and slaving like a horse for a livelihood. "

"You could not have been old when he left--that is--when you parted. "

"Call it by its true name, and say at once, when he desarted me. I wasunder thirty by two or three years, and was still like my own sex tolook at. All _that_ is changed since; but I _was_ comely _then_. "

"_Why_ did Capt. Spike abandon you, Jack; you have never told me_that_. "

"Because he fancied another. And ever since that time he has beenfancying others, instead of remembering me. Had he got _you_, MissRose, I think he would have been content for the rest of his days. "

"Be certain, Jack, I should never have consented to marry Capt. Spike. "

"You're well out of his hands, " answered Jack, sighing heavily, whichwas much the most feminine thing she had done during the wholeconversation, "well out of his hands--and God be praised it is so. Heshould have died, before I would let him carry you off theisland--husband or no husband. "

"It might have exceeded your power to prevent it under othercircumstances, Jack. "

Rose now continued looking out of the window in silence. Her thoughtsreverted to her aunt and Biddy, and tears rolled down her cheeks asshe remembered the love of one, and the fidelity of the other. Theirhorrible fate had given her a shock that, at first, menaced her with asevere fit of illness; but her strong, good sense, and excellentconstitution, both sustained by her piety and Harry's manlytenderness, had brought her through the danger, and left her, as thereader now sees her, struggling with her own griefs, in order to be ofuse to the still more unhappy woman who had so singularly become herfriend and companion. 

The reader will readily have anticipated that Jack Tier had early madethe females on board the Swash her confidents. Rose had known theoutlines of her history from the first few days they were at seatogether, which is the explanation of the visible intimacy that hadcaused Mulford so much surprise. Jack's motive in making hisrevelations might possibly have been tinctured with jealousy, but adesire to save one as young and innocent as Rose was at its bottom. Few persons but a wife would have supposed our heroine could have beenin any danger from a lover like Spike; but Jack saw him with the eyesof her own youth, and of past recollections, rather than with those oftruth. A movement of the wounded man first drew Rose from the window. Drying her eyes hastily, she turned toward him, fancying that shemight prove the better nurse of the two, notwithstanding Jack'sgreater interest in the patient. 

"What place is this--and why am I here?" demanded Spike, with morestrength of voice than could have been expected, after all that hadpassed. "This is not a cabin--not the Swash--it looks like ahospital. "

"It is a hospital, Capt. Spike, " said Rose, gently drawing near thebed; "you have been hurt, and have been brought to Key West, andplaced in the hospital. I hope you feel better, and that you suffer nopain. "

"My head isn't right--I don't know--every thing seems turned roundwith me--perhaps it will all come out as it should. I begin toremember--where is my brig?"

"She is lost on the rocks. The seas have broken her into fragments. "

"That's melancholy news, at any rate. Ah! Miss Rose! God blessyou--I've had terrible dreams. Well, it's pleasant to be amongfriends--what creature is that--where does _she_ come from?"

"That is Jack Tier, " answered Rose, steadily. "She turns out to be awoman, and has put on her proper dress, in order to attend on youduring your illness. Jack has never left your bed-side since we havebeen here. "

A long silence succeeded this revelation. Jack's eyes twinkled, andshe hitched her body half aside, as if to conceal her features, whereemotions that were unusual were at work with the muscles. Rose thoughtit might be well to leave the man and wife alone--and she managed toget out of the room unobserved. 

Spike continued to gaze at the strange-looking female, who was now hissole companion. Gradually his recollection returned, and with it thefull consciousness of his situation. He might not have been fullyaware of the absolute certainty of his approaching death, but he musthave known that his wound was of a very grave character, and that theresult might early prove fatal. Still that strange and unknown figurehaunted him; a figure that was so different from any he had ever seenbefore, and which, in spite of its present dress, seemed to belongquite as much to one sex as to the other. As for Jack--we call Molly, or Mary Swash by her masculine appellation, not only because it ismore familiar, but because the other name seems really out of place, as applied to such a person--as for Jack, then, she sat with her facehalf averted, thumbing the canvas, and endeavoring to ply the needle, but perfectly mute. She was conscious that Spike's eyes were on her;and a lingering feeling of her sex told her how much time, exposure, and circumstances, had changed her person--and she would gladly havehidden the defects in her appearance. 

Mary Swash was the daughter as well as the wife of a ship-master. Inher youth, as has been said before, she had even been pretty, and downto the day when her husband deserted her, she would have been thoughta female of a comely appearance rather than the reverse. Her hair inparticular, though slightly coarse, perhaps, had been rich andabundant; and the change from the long, dark, shining, flowing lockswhich she still possessed in her thirtieth year, to the short, graybristles that now stood exposed without a cap, or covering of anysort, was one very likely to destroy all identity of appearance. ThenJack had passed from what might be called youth to the verge of oldage, in the interval that she had been separated from her husband. Hershape had changed entirely; her complexion was utterly gone; and herfeatures, always unmeaning, though feminine, and suitable to her sex, had become hard and slightly coarse. Still there was something of herformer self about Jack that bewildered Spike; and his eyes continuedfastened on her for quite a quarter of an hour in profound silence. 

"Give me some water, " said the wounded man, "I wish some water todrink. "

Jack arose, filled a tumbler and brought it to the side of the bed. Spike took the glass and drank, but the whole time his eyes wereriveted on his strange nurse. When his thirst was appeased, he asked--

"Who are you? How came you here?"

"I am your nurse. It is common to place nurses at the bedsides of thesick. "

"Are you man or woman?"

"That is a question I hardly know how to answer. Sometimes I thinkmyself each; sometimes neither. "

"Did I ever see you before?"

"Often, and quite lately. I sailed with you in your last voyage. "

"You! That cannot be. If so, what is your name?"

"Jack Tier. "

A long pause succeeded this announcement, which induced Spike to museas intently as his condition would allow, though the truth did not yetflash on his understanding. At length the bewildered man again spoke. 

"Are _you_ Jack Tier?" he said slowly, like one who doubted. "Yes--Inow see the resemblance, and it was _that_ which puzzled me. Are theyso rigid in this hospital that you have been obliged to put on woman'sclothes in order to lend me a helping hand?"

"I am dressed as you see, and for good reasons. "

"But Jack Tier run, like that rascal Mulford--ay, I remember now; youwere in the boat when I over-hauled you all on the reef. "

"Very true; I was in the boat. But I never run, Stephen Spike. It was_you_ who abandoned _me_, on the islet in the gulf, and that makes thesecond time in your life that you have left me ashore, when it wasyour duty to carry me to sea. "

"The first time I was in a hurry, and could not wait for you; thislast time you took sides with the women. But for your interference, Ishould have got Rose, and married her, and all would now have beenwell with me. "

This was an awkward announcement for a man to make to his legal wife. But after all Jack had endured, and all Jack had seen during the latevoyage, she was not to be overcome by this avowal. Her self-commandextended so far as to prevent any open manifestation of emotion, however much her feelings were excited. 

"I took sides with the women, because I am a woman myself, " sheanswered, speaking at length with decision, as if determined to bringmatters to a head at once. "It is natural for us all to take sideswith our kind. "

"You a woman, Jack! That is very remarkable. Since when have youhailed for a woman? You have shipped with me twice, and each time as aman--though I've never thought you able to do seaman's duty. "

"Nevertheless, I am what you see; a woman born and edicated; one thatnever had on man's dress until I knew you. _You_ supposed me to be aman, when I came off to you in the skiff to the eastward of Riker'sIsland, but I was then what you now see. "

"I begin to understand matters, " rejoined the invalid, musingly. "Ay, ay, it opens on me; and I now see how it was you made such fairweather with Madam Budd and pretty, pretty Rose. Rose _is_ pretty, Jack; you _must_ admit _that_, though you be a woman. "

"Rose _is_ pretty--I do admit it; and what is better, Rose is _good_. "It required a heavy draft on Jack's justice and magnanimity, however, to make this concession. 

"And you told Rose and Madam Budd about your sex; and that was thereason they took to you so on the v'y'ge?"

"I told them who I was, and why I went abroad as a man. They know mywhole story. "

"Did Rose approve of your sailing under false colors, Jack?"

"You must ask that of Rose herself. My story made her my friend; butshe never said any thing for or against my disguise. "

"It was no great disguise a'ter all, Jack. Now you're fitted out inyour own clothes, you've a sort of half-rigged look; one would be aslikely to set you down for a man under jury-canvas, as for a woman. "

Jack made no answer to this, but she sighed very heavily. As for Spikehimself, he was silent for some little time, not only from exhaustion, but because he suffered pain from his wound. The needle was diligentlybut awkwardly plied in this pause. 

Spike's ideas were still a little confused; but a silence and rest ofa quarter of an hour cleared them materially. At the end of that timehe again asked for water. When he had drank, and Jack was once moreseated, with his side-face toward him, at work with the needle, thecaptain gazed long and intently at this strange woman. It happenedthat the profile of Jack preserved more of the resemblance to herformer self, than the full face; and it was this resemblance that nowattracted Spike's attention, though not the smallest suspicion of thetruth yet gleamed upon him. He saw something that was familiar, thoughhe could not even tell what that something was, much less to what orwhom it bore any resemblance. At length he spoke. 

"I was told that Jack Tier was dead, " he said; "that he took thefever, and was in his grave within eight-and-forty hours after wesailed. That was what they told me of _him_. "

"And what did they tell you of your own wife, Stephen Spike. She thatyou left ashore at the time Jack was left?"

"They said she did not die for three years later. I heard of her deathat New Or_leens_, three years later. "

"And how could you leave her ashore--she, your true and lawful wife?"

"It was a bad thing, " answered Spike, who, like all other mortals, regarded his own past career, now that he stood on the edge of thegrave, very differently from what he had regarded it in the hour ofhis health and strength. "Yes, it _was_ a very bad thing; and I wishit was ondone. But it is too late now. She died of the fever, too--that's some comfort; had she died of a broken-heart, I could nothave forgiven myself. Molly was not without her faults--great faults, I considered them; but, on the whole, Molly was a good creatur'. "

"You liked her, then, Stephen Spike?"

"I can truly say that when I married Molly, and old Capt. Swash puthis da'ghter's hand into mine, that the woman wasn't living who wasbetter in my judgment, or handsomer in my eyes. "

"Ay, ay--when you _married_ her; but how was it a'terwards. When youwas tired of her, and saw another that was fairer in your eyes?"

"I desarted her; and God has punished me for the sin! Do you know, Jack, that luck has never been with me since that day. Often and oftenhave I bethought me of it; and sartain as you sit there, no great luckhas ever been with me, or my craft, since I went off, leaving my wifeashore. What was made in one v'y'ge, was lost in the next. Up anddown, up and down the whole time, for so many, many long years, thatgray hairs set in, and old age was beginning to get close aboard--andI as poor as ever. It has been rub and go with me ever since; and Ihave had as much as I could do to keep the brig in motion, as the onlymeans that was left to make the two ends meet. "

"And did not all this make you think of your poor wife--she whom youhad so wronged?"

"I thought of little else, until I heard of her death at NewOr_leens_--and then I gave it up as useless. Could I have fallen inwith Molly at any time a'ter the first six months of my desartion, sheand I would have come together again, and every thing would have beenforgotten. I knowed her very nature, which was all forgiveness to meat the bottom, though seemingly so spiteful and hard. "

"Yet you wanted to have this Rose Budd, who is only too young, andhandsome, and good for you. "

"I was tired of being a widower, Jack; and Rose _is_ wonderful pretty. She has money, too, and might make the evening of my days comfortable. The brig was old, as you must know, and has long been off of all theInsurance Offices' books; and she couldn't hold together much longer. But for this sloop-of-war, I should have put her off on the Mexicans;and they would have lost her to our people in a month. "

"And was it an honest thing to sell an old and worn-out craft to anyone, Stephen Spike?"

Spike had a conscience that had become hard as iron by means of trade. He who traffics much, most especially if his dealings be on so small ascale as to render constant investigations of the minor qualities ofthings necessary, must be a very fortunate man, if he preserve hisconscience in any better condition. When Jack made this allusion, therefore, the dying man--for death was much nearer to Spike than evenhe supposed, though he no longer hoped for his own recovery--when Jackmade this allusion, then, the dying man was a good deal at a loss tocomprehend it. He saw no particular harm in making the best bargain hecould; nor was it easy for him to understand why he might not disposeof any thing he possessed for the highest price that was to be had. Still he answered in an apologetic sort of way. 

"The brig was old, I acknowledge, " he said, "but she was strong, and_might_ have run a long time. I only spoke of her capture as a thinglikely to take place soon, if the Mexicans got her; so that herqualities were of no great account, unless it might be her speed--andthat you know was excellent, Jack. "

"And you regret that brig, Stephen Spike, lying as you do on yourdeath-bed, more than any thing else. "

"Not as much as I do pretty Rose Budd, Jack; Rosy is so delightful tolook at!"

The muscles of Jack's face twitched a little, and she looked deeplymortified; for, to own the truth, she hoped that the conversation hadso far turned her delinquent husband's thoughts to the past, as tohave revived in him some of his former interest in herself. It istrue, he still believed her dead; but this was a circumstance Jackoverlooked--so hard is it to hear the praises of a rival, and be just. She felt the necessity of being more explicit, and determined at onceto come to the point. 

"Stephen Spike, " she said, steadily, drawing near to the bed-side, "you should be told the truth, when you are heard thus extolling thegood looks of Rose Budd, with less than eight-and-forty hours of liferemaining. Mary Swash did not die, as you have supposed, three yearsa'ter you desarted her, but is living at this moment. Had you read theletter I gave you in the boat, just before you made me jump into thesea, _that_ would have told you where she is to be found. "

Spike stared at the speaker intently; and when her cracked voiceceased, his look was that of a man who was terrified as well asbewildered. This did not arise still from any gleamings of the realstate of the case, but from the soreness with which his consciencepricked him, when he heard that his much-wronged wife was alive. Hefancied, with a vivid and rapid glance at the probabilities, all thata woman abandoned would be likely to endure in the course of so manylong and suffering years. 

"Are you sure of what you say, Jack? You wouldn't take advantage of mysituation to tell me an untruth?"

"As certain of it as of my own existence. I have seen her quitelately--talked with her of _you_--in short, she is now at Key West, knows your state, and has a wife's feelin's to come to your bed-side. "

Notwithstanding all this, and the many gleamings he had had of thefacts during their late intercourse on board the brig, Spike did notguess at the truth. He appeared astounded, and his terror seemed toincrease. 

"I have another thing to tell you, " continued Jack, pausing but amoment to collect her own thoughts. "Jack Tier--the real Jack Tier--hewho sailed with you of old, and whom you left ashore at the same timeyou desarted your wife, _did_ die of the fever, as you was told, ineight-and-forty hours a'ter the brig went to sea. "

"Then who, in the name of Heaven, are you? How came you to hail byanother's name as well as by another sex?"

"What could a woman do, whose husband had desarted her in a strangeland?"

"That is remarkable! So _you_'ve been married? I should not havethought _that_ possible; and your husband desarted you, too. Well, such things _do_ happen. " Jack now felt a severe pang. She could notbut see that her ungainly--we had almost said her unearthlyappearance--prevented the captain from even yet suspecting the truth;and the meaning of his language was not easily to be mistaken. Thatany one should have married _her_, seemed to her husband as improbableas it was probable he would run away from her as soon as it was in hispower after the ceremony. 

"Stephen Spike, " resumed Jack, solemnly, "_I_ am Mary Swash--_I_ amyour wife!"

Spike started in his bed; then he buried his face in the coverlet--andhe actually groaned. In bitterness of spirit the woman turned away andwept. Her feelings had been blunted by misfortune and the collisionsof a selfish world; but enough of former self remained to make thisthe hardest of all the blows she had ever received. Her husband, dyingas he was, as he must and did know himself to be, shrunk from one ofher appearance, unsexed as she had become by habits, and changed byyears and suffering. 

 [_To be continued_. 

AN HOUR. 

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. 

 I've left the keen, cold winds to blow Around the summits bare; My sunny pathway to the sea Winds downward, green and fair, And bright-leaved branches toss and glow Upon the buoyant air!

 The fern its fragrant plumage droops O'er mosses, crisp and gray, Where on the shaded crags I sit, Beside the cataract's spray, And watch the far-off, shining sails Go down the sunny bay!

 I've left the wintry winds of life On barren hearts to blow-- The anguish and the gnawing care, The silent, shuddering wo! Across the balmy sea of dreams My spirit-barque shall go. 

 Learned not the breeze its fairy lore Where sweetest measures throng? A maiden sings, beside the stream, Some chorus, wild and long, Mingling and blending with its roar, Like rainbows turned to song!

 I hear it, like a strain that sweeps The confines of a dream; Now fading into silent space, Now with a flashing gleam Of triumph, ringing through the deeps Of forest, dell and stream!

 Away! away! I hear the horn Among the hills of Spain: The old, chivalric glory fires Her warrior-hearts again! Ho! how their banners light the morn, Along Grenada's plain!

 I hear the hymns of holy faith The red Crusaders sang, And the silver horn of Ronçeval, That o'er the tecbir rang When prince and kaiser through the fray To the paladin's rescue sprang!

 A beam of burning light I hold!-- My good Damascus brand, And the jet-black charger that I ride Was foaled in the Arab land, And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel, Follow my bold command!

 Through royal cities speeds our march-- The minster-bells are rung; The loud, rejoicing trumpets peal, The battle-flags are swung, And sweet, sweet lips of ladies praise The chieftain, brave and young. 

 And now, in bright Provençal bowers, A minstrel-knight am I: A gentle bosom on my own Throbs back its ecstasy; A cheek, as fair as the almond flowers, Thrills to my lips' reply!

 I tread the fanes of wondrous Rome, Crowned with immortal bay, And myriads throng the Capitol To hear my lofty lay, While, sounding o'er the Tiber's foam, Their shoutings peal away!

 Oh, triumph such as this were worth The poet's doom of pain, Whose hours are brazen on the earth, But golden in the brain: I close the starry gate of dreams, And walk the dust again!

POWER OF BEAUTY, AND A PLAIN MAN'S LOVE. 

BY N. P. WILLIS. 

That the truths arrived at by the unaccredited short road of"magnetism" had better be stripped of their technical phraseology, andset down as the gradual discoveries of science and experience, is apolicy upon which acts many a sagacious believer in "clairvoyance. "Doubtless, too, there is, here and there, a wise man, who is gladenough to pierce, with the eyes of an incredible agent, the secretsabout him, and let the world give him credit, by whatever name theyplease, for the superior knowledge of which he silently takesadvantage. I should be behind the time, if I had not sounded to theutmost of my ability and opportunity the depth of this new medium. Ihave tried it on grave things and trifles. If the unveiling which I amabout to record were of more use to myself than to others, perhaps Ishould adopt the policy of which I have just spoken, and give theresult, simply as my own shrewd lesson learned in reading the femaleheart. But the truths I unfold will instruct the few who need and canappreciate them, while the whole subject is not of general importanceenough to bring down cavilers upon the credibility of their source. Ithus get rid of a very detestable though sometimes necessary evil, ("_qui nescit dissimulare nescit vivere_, " says the Latin sage, ) thatof shining by any light that is not absolutely my own. 

I am a very plain man in my personal appearance--_so_ plain that acommon observer, if informed that there was a woman who had a fancyfor my peculiar type, would wonder that I was not thankfully put torest for life as a seeker after love--a second miracle of the kindbeing a very slender probability. It is not in beauty that the tastefor beauty alone resides, however. In early youth my soul, like themirror of Cydippe, retained, with enamored fidelity, the image offemale loveliness copied in the clear truth of its appreciation, andthe passion for it had become, insensibly, the thirst of my life, before I thought of it as more than an intoxicating study. To beloved--myself beloved--by a creature made in one of the diviner mouldsof woman, was, however, a dream that shaped itself into wakingdistinctness at last, and from that hour I took up the clogging weightof personal disadvantages, to which I had hitherto unconsciously beenchained, and bore it heavily in the race which the well-favored ran aseagerly as I. 

I am not to recount, here, the varied experiences of my search, theworld over, after beauty and its smile. It is a search on which alltravelers are more than half bent, let them name as they please theirprofessed errand in far countries. The coldest scholar in art willbetter remember a living face of a new cast of expression, met in thegallery of Florence, than the best work of Michael Angelo, whosegenius he has crossed an ocean to study; and a fair shoulder crowdedagainst the musical pilgrim, in the Capella Sistiera, will be takensurer into his soul's inner memory than the best outdoing of "thesky-lark taken up into heaven, " by the ravishing reach of the_Miserere_. Is it not true?

There can hardly be now, I think, a style of female beauty of which Ihave not appreciated the meaning and comparative enchantment, nor adegree of that sometimes more effective thing than beauty itself--itsexpression breathing through features otherwise unlovely--that I havenot approached near enough to weigh and store truthfully inremembrance. The taste forever refines in the study of woman. Wereturn to what, with immature eye, we at first rejected; we intensify, immeasurably, our worship of the few who wear on their foreheads thestar of supreme loveliness, confessed pure and perfect by allbeholders alike; we detect it under surfaces which become transparentonly with tenderness or enthusiasm; we separate the work of Nature'smaterial chisel from the resistless and warm expansion of the soulswelling its proportions to fill out the shape it is to tenanthereafter. Led by the purest study of true beauty, the eager mindpasses on from the shrine where it lingered to the next of whosegreater brightness it becomes aware; and this is the secret of onekind of "inconstancy in love, " which should be named apart from thevariableness of those seekers of novelty, who, from unconsciousself-contempt, value nothing they have had the power to win. 

An unsuspected student of beauty, I passed years of loiterings in theliving galleries of Europe and Asia, and, like self-punishing misersin all kinds of amassings, stored up boundlessly more than, with thebest trained senses, I could have found the life to enjoy. Of course Ihad a first advantage, of dangerous facility, in my unhappy plainnessof person--the alarm-guard that surrounds every beautiful woman inevery country of the world--letting sleep at _my_ approach thecautionary reserve which presents bayonet so promptly to thegood-looking. Even with my worship avowed, and the manifestation ofgrateful regard which a woman of fine quality always returns forelevated and unexacting admiration I was still left with suchprivilege of access as is granted to the family-gossip, or to aninnocuous uncle, and it is of such a passion, rashly nurtured underthis protection of an improbability, that I propose to tell the_inner_ story. 

PART II. 

I was at the Baths of Lucca during a season made gay by the presenceof a large proportion of the agreeable and accessible court ofTuscany. The material for my untiring study was in abundance, yet itwas all of the worldly character which the attractions of the placewould naturally draw together, and my homage had but a choice betweendifferences of display, in the one pursuit of admiration. In my walksthrough the romantic mountain-paths of the neighborhood, and along thebanks of the deep-down river that threads the ravine above thevillage, I had often met, meantime, a lady accompanied by a well-bredand scholar-like looking man; and though she invariably dropped herveil at my approach, her admirable movement, as she walked, or stoopedto pick a flower, betrayed that conscious possession of beauty andhabitual confidence in her own grace and elegance, which assured me ofattractions worth taking trouble to know. By one of those "unavoidableaccidents" which any respectable guardian angel will contrive, tooblige one, I was a visiter to the gentleman and lady--father anddaughter--soon after my curiosity had framed the desire; and in her Ifound a marvel of beauty, from which I looked in vain for my usualescape--that of placing the ladder of my heart against a loftier andfairer. 

Mr. Wangrave was one of those English gentlemen who would not exchangethe name of an ancient and immemorially wealthy family for any titlethat their country could give them, and he used this shield of modesthonor simply to protect himself in the enjoyment of habits, freed, asfar as refinement and culture could do it, from the burthens andintrusions of life above and below him. He was ceaselessly educatinghimself--like a man whose whole life was only too brief anapprenticeship to a higher existence--and, with an invalid butintellectual and lovely wife, and a daughter who seemed unconsciousthat she could love, and who kept gay pace with her youthful-heartedfather in his lighter branches of knowledge, his family sufficed toitself, and had determined so to continue while abroad. The society ofno Continental watering-place has a very good name, and they werethere for climate and seclusion. With two ladies, who seemed to occupythe places and estimation of friends, (but who were probably the paidnurse and companion to the invalid, ) and a kind-hearted old secretaryto Mr. Wangrave, whose duties consisted in being as happy as he couldpossibly be, their circle was large enough, and it contained elementsenough--except only, perhaps, the _réveille_ that was wanting for theapparently slumbering heart of Stephania. 

A month after my first call upon the Wangraves, I joined them on theirjourney to Vallambrosa, where they proposed to take refuge from thesultry coming of the Italian autumn. My happiness would not have beenarranged after the manner of this world's happiness, if I had been theonly addition to their party up the mountain. They had received withopen arms, a few days before leaving Lucca, a young man from theneighborhood of their own home, and who, I saw with half a glance, wasthe very Eidolon and type of what Mr. Wangrave would desire as afitting match for his daughter. From the allusions to him that hadpreceded his coming, I had learned that he was the heir to a brilliantfortune, and was coming to his old friends to be congratulated on hisappointment to a captaincy in the Queen's Guards--as pretty a case ofan "irresistible" as could well have been compounded for expectation. And when he came--the absolute model of a youth of noble beauty--allfrankness, good manners, joyousness, and confidence, I summonedcourage to look alternately at Stephania and him, and the hope, thedaring hope that I had never yet named to myself, but which wasalready master of my heart, and its every pulse and capability, dropped prostrate and lifeless in my bosom. If he did but offer herthe life-minute of love, of which I would give her, it seemed to me, for the same price, an eternity of countless existences--if he shouldbut give her a careless word, where I could wring a passionateutterance out of the aching blood of my very heart--she must needs behis. She would be a star else that would resign an orbit in the fairsky, to illumine a dim cave; a flower that would rather bloom on ableak moor, than in the garden of a king--for, with such crushingcomparisons, did I irresistibly see myself as I remembered my ownshape and features, and my far humbler fortunes than his, standing inher presence beside him. 

Oh! how every thing contributed to enhance the beauty of that youngman. How the mellow and harmonizing tenderness of the light of theItalian sky gave sentiment to his oval cheek, depth to his gray-blueeye, meaning to their overfolding and thick-fringed lashes. Whateverhe said with his finely-cut lips, was _looked_ into twenty times itsmeaning by the beauty of their motion in that languid atmosphere--anatmosphere that seemed only breathed for his embellishment andStephania's. Every posture he took seemed a happy and rare accident, which a painter should have been there to see. The sunsets, themoonlight, the chance back-ground and fore-ground, of vines androcks--every thing seemed in conspiracy to heighten his effect, andmake of him a faultless picture of a lover. 

"Every thing, " did I say? Yes, _even myself_--for my uncomely face andform were such a foil to his beauty as a skillful artist would haveintroduced to heighten it when all other art was exhausted, and everyone saw it except Stephania; and little they knew how, withperceptions far quicker than theirs, I _felt_ their recognition ofthis, in the degree of softer kindness in which they unconsciouslyspoke to me. They pitied me, and without recognizing their ownthought--for it was a striking instance of the difference in thegifts of nature--one man looking scarce possible to love, and besidehim, another, of the same age, to whose mere first-seen beauty, without a word from his lips, any heart would seem unnatural not toleap in passionate surrender. 

We were the best of sudden friends, Palgray and I. He, like the rest, walked only the outer vestibule of the sympathies, viewlesslydeepening and extending, hour by hour, in that frank and joyouscircle. The interlinkings of soul, which need no language, and whichgo on, whether we will or no, while we talk with friends, are sostrangely unthought of by the careless and happy. He saw in me nocounter-worker to his influence. I was to him but a well-bred andextremely plain man, who tranquilly submitted to forego all the firstprizes of life, content if I could contribute to society in itsunexcited voids, and receive in return only the freedom of its outerintercourse, and its friendly esteem. But, oh! it was not in the sameworld that he and I knew Stephania. He approached her from the worldin whose most valued excellences, beauty and wealth, he waspre-eminently gifted--I, from the viewless world, in which I had atleast more skill and knowledge. In the month that I had known herbefore he came, I had sedulously addressed myself to a characterwithin her, of which Palgray had not even a conjecture; and there wasbut one danger of his encroachment on the ground I had gained--herimagination might supply in him the nobler temple of soul-worship, which was still unbuilt, and which would never be builded except bypangs such as he was little likely to feel in the undeepening channelof happiness. He did not notice that _I_ never spoke to her in thesame key of voice to which the conversation of others was attuned. Hesaw not that, while she turned to _him_ with a smile as a preparationto listen, she heard _my_ voice as if her attention had been arrestedby distant music--with no change in her features except a look moreearnest. She would have called _him_ to look with her at a glowingsunset, or to point out a new comer in the road from the village; butif the moon had gone suddenly into a cloud and saddened the face ofthe landscape, or if the wind had sounded mournfully through thetrees, as she looked out upon the night, she would have spoken of thatfirst to _me_. 

PART III. 

I am flying over the track, of what was to me a torrent--outlining itscourse by alighting upon, here and there, a point where it turned orlingered. 

The reader has been to Vallambrosa--if not once as a pilgrim, at leastoften with writers of travels in Italy. The usages of the convent arefamiliar to all memories--their lodging of the gentlemen of a party incells of their own monastic privilege, and giving to the ladies lesssacred hospitalities, in a secular building of meaner andunconsecrated architecture. (So, oh, mortifying brotherhood, you shutoff your only chance of entertaining angels unaware!)

Not permitted to eat with the ladies while on the holy mountain, Mr. Wangrave and his secretary, and Palgray and I, fed at the table withthe aristocratic monks--(for they are the aristocrats of Europeanholiness, these monks of Vallambrosa. ) It was somewhat a relief to me, to be separated with my rival from the party in the femininerefectory, even for the short space of a meal-time; for the all-daysuffering of presence with an unconscious trampler on myheart-strings; and in circumstances where all the triumphs were hisown, were more than my intangible hold upon hope could well enable meto bear. I was happiest, therefore, when I was out of the presence ofher to be near whom was all for which my life was worth having; andwhen we sat down at the long and bare table, with the thoughtful andashen-cowled company, sad as I was, it was an opiate sadness--asuspension from self-mastery, under torture which others took to bepleasure. 

The temperature of the mountain-air was just such as to invite us tonever enter doors except to eat and sleep; and breakfasting atconvent-hours, we passed the long day in rambling up the ravines andthrough the sombre forests, drawing, botanizing, and conversing ingroup around some spot of exquisite natural beauty; and all of theparty, myself excepted, supposing it to be the un-dissenting, commondesire to contrive opportunity for the love-making of Palgray andStephania. And, bitter though it was, in each particular instance, toaccept a hint from one and another, and stroll off, leaving theconfessed lovers alone by some musical water-fall, or in the secludedand twilight dimness of some curve in an overhanging ravine--placeswhere only to breathe is to love--I still felt an instinctiveprompting to rather anticipate than wait for these reminders, shealone knowing what it cost me to be without her in that deliciouswilderness; and Palgray, as well as I could judge, having a mind outof harmony with both the wilderness and her. 

He loved her--loved her as well as most women need to be, or know thatthey can be loved. But he was too happy, too prosperous, toouniversally beloved, to love well. He was a man, with all his beauty, more likely to be fascinating to his own sex than to hers, for thewomen who love best, do not love in the character they live in; andhis out-of-doors heart, whose joyfulness was so contagious, and whosebold impulses were so manly and open, contented itself with gayhomage, and left unplummeted the sweetest as well as deepest wells ofthe thoughtful tenderness of woman. 

To most observers, Stephania Wangrave would have seemed only born tobe gay--the mere habit of being happy having made its life-longimprint upon her expression of countenance, and all of her nature, that would be legible to a superficial reader, being brought out bythe warm translucence of her smiles. But while I had seen this, in thefirst hour of my study of her, I was too advanced in my knowledge (ofsuch works of nature as encroach on the models of Heaven) not to knowthis to be a light veil over a picture of melancholy meaning. Sadnesswas the tone of her mind's inner coloring. Tears were thesubterranean river upon which her soul's bark floated with the mostloved freight of her thought's accumulation--the sunny waters of joy, where alone she was thought to voyage, being the tide on which herheart embarked no venture, and which seemed to her triflingly garishand even profaning to the hallowed delicacy of the inner nature. 

It was so strange to me that Palgray did not see this through everylineament of her marvelous beauty. There was a glow under her skin, but no color--an effect of paleness--fair as the lotus-leaf, butwarmer and brighter, and which came through the alabaster fineness ofthe grain, like something the eye cannot define, but which we know bysome spirit-perception to be the effluence of purer existence, thebreathing through, as it were, of the luminous tenanting of an angel. To this glowing paleness, with golden hair, I never had seen unitedany but a disposition of predominant melancholy; and it seemed to medull indeed otherwise to read it. But there were other betrayals ofthe same inner nature of Stephania. Her lips, cut with the finetracery of the penciling upon a tulip-cup, were of a slender anddelicate fullness, expressive of a mind which took--(of thesenses)--only so much life as would hold down the spirit during itsprobation; and when this spiritual mouth was at rest, no painter hasever drawn lips on which lay more of the unutterable pensiveness ofbeauty which we dream to have been Mary's, in the childhood of Jesus. A tear in the heart was the instinctive answer to Stephania's everylook when she did not smile; and her large, soft, slowly-lifting eyes, were to any elevated perception, it seemed to me, most eloquent oftenderness as tearful as it was unfathomable and angelic. 

I shall have failed, however, in portraying truly the being of whom Iam thus privileged to hold the likeness in my memory, if the readerfancies her to have nurtured her pensive disposition at the expense ofa just value for real life, or a full development of womanly feelings. It was a peculiarity of her beauty, to my eye, that, with all herearnest leaning toward a thoughtful existence, there did not seem tobe one vein beneath her pearly skin, not one wavy line in herfaultless person, that did not lend its proportionate consciousness toher breathing sense of life. Her bust was of the slightest fullnesswhich the sculptor would choose for the embodying of his ideal of thebest blending of modesty with complete beauty; and her throat andarms--oh, with what an inexpressible pathos of loveliness, so tospeak, was moulded, under an infantine dewiness of surface, theirdelicate undulations. No one could be in her presence withoutacknowledging the perfection of her form as a woman, and rendering thepassionate yet subdued homage which the purest beauty fulfills itshuman errand by inspiring; but, while Palgray made the halo whichsurrounded her outward beauty the whole orbit of his appreciation, andmade of it, too, the measure of the circle of topics he chose to talkupon, there was still another and far wider ring of light about her, which he lived in too dazzling a gayety of his own to see--a halo ofa mind more beautiful than the body which shut it in; and in thisintellectual orbit of guidance to interchange of mind, with manifolddeeper and higher reach than Palgray's, upon whatever topic chanced tooccur, revolved I, around her who was the loveliest and most gifted ofall the human beings I had been privileged to meet. 

PART IV. 

The month was expiring at Vallambrosa, but I had not mingled, for thatlength of time, with a fraternity of thoughtful men, withoutrecognition of some of that working of spontaneous and electivemagnetism to which I have alluded in a previous part of this story. Opposite me, at the table of the convent refectory, had sat a taciturnmonk, whose influence I felt from the first day--a strongerconsciousness of his presence, that is to say, than of any one of theother monks--though he did not seem particularly to observe me, andtill recently had scarce spoken to me at all. He was a man of perhapsfifty years of age, with the countenance of one who had suffered andgained a victory of contemplation--a look as if no suffering could benew to him, and before whom no riddle of human vicissitudes could stayunread; but over all this penetration and sagacity was diffused a castof genial philanthropy and good-fellowship which told of hisforgiveness of the world for what he had suffered in it. With acuriosity more at leisure, I should have sought him out, and joinedhim in his walks to know more of him; but spiritually acquaintedthough I felt we had become, I was far too busy with head and heartfor any intercourse, except it had a bearing on the struggle for lovethat I was, to all appearance, so hopelessly making. 

Preparations were beginning for departure, and with the morrow, or theday after, I was to take my way to Venice--my friends bound toSwitzerland and England, and propriety not permitting me to seekanother move in their company. The evening on which this was madeclear to me, was one of those continuations of day into night made bythe brightness of a full Italian moon; and Palgray, whose face, troubled, for the first time, betrayed to me that he was at a crisisof his fate with Stephania, evidently looked forward to this glowingnight as the favorable atmosphere in which he might urge his suit, with nature pleading in his behalf. The reluctance and evidentirresolution of his daughter puzzled Mr. Wangrave--for he had no doubtthat she loved Palgray, and his education of her head and heart gavehim no clue to any principle of coquettishness, or willingness to givepain, for the pleasure of an exercise of power. Her mother, and allthe members of the party, were aware of the mystery that hung over thesuit of the young guardsman, but they were all alike discreet, whiledistressed, and confined their interference to the removal ofobstacles in the way of the lovers being together, and the avoidanceof any topics gay enough to change the key of her spirits from thenatural softness of the evening. 

Vespers were over, and the sad-colored figures of the monks weregliding indolently here and there, and Stephania, with Palgray besideher, stood a little apart from the group at the door of the secularrefectory, looking off at the fading purple of the sunset. I could notjoin her without crossing rudely the obvious wishes of every personpresent; yet for the last two days, I had scarce found the opportunityto exchange a word with her, and my emotion now was scarcecontrollable. The happier lover beside her, with his featuresheightened in expression (as I thought they never could be) by hisembarrassment in wooing, was evidently and irresistibly the object ofher momentary admiration. He offered her his arm, and made a movementtoward the path off into the forest. There was an imploring deferenceinfinitely becoming in his manner, and see it she must, with pride andpleasure. She hesitated--gave a look to where I stood, which explainedto me better than a world of language, that she had wished at least tospeak to me on this last evening--and, before the dimness over my eyeshad passed away, they were gone. Oh! pitying Heaven! give me neveragain, while wrapt in mortal weakness, so harsh a pang to suffer. 

PART V. 

The convent-bell struck midnight, and there was a foot-fall in thecloister. I was startled by it out of an entire forgetfulness of allaround me, for I was lying on my bed in the monastery cell, with myhands clasped over my eyes, as I had thrown myself down on coming in;and, with a strange contrariety, my mind, broken rudely from its hope, had flown to my far away home, oblivious of the benumbed links thatlay between. A knock at my door completed the return to my despair, for with a look at the walls of my little chamber, in the bright beamof moonlight that streamed in at the narrow window, I was, byrecognition, again at Vallambrosa, and Stephania, with an acceptedlover's voice in her ear, was again near me, her moistened eyessteeped with Palgray's in the same beam of the all-visiting andunbetraying moon. 

Father Ludovic entered. The gentle tone of his _benedicite_, told methat he had come on an errand of sympathy. There was little need ofpreliminary between two who read the inner countenance as habituallyas did both of us; and as briefly as the knowledge and present feelingof each could be re-expressed in words, we confirmed thespirit-mingling that had brought him there, and were presently as one. He had read truly the drama of love, enacting in the party of visitersto his convent, but his judgment of the possible termination of it wasdifferent from mine. 

 * * * * *

Palgray's dormitory was at the extremity of the cloister, and wepresently heard him pass. 

"She is alone, now, " said Father Ludovic, "I will send you to her. "

My mind had strained to Stephania's presence with the first footstepsthat told me of their separation; and it needed but a wave of his handto unlink the spirit-wings from my weary frame. I was present withher. 

I struggled for a moment, but in vain, to see her face. Its expressionwas as visible as my hand in the sun, but no feature. The mind I hadread was close to me, in a presence of consciousness; and, in points, here and there, brighter, bolder, and further-reaching than I hadaltogether believed. She was unutterably pure--a spirit without aspot--and I remained near her with a feeling as if my forehead werepressed down to the palms of my hands, in homage mixed with sorrow, for I should have more recognized this in my waking study of hernature. 

A moment more--a trembling effort, as if to read what were written torecord my companionship for eternity--and a vague image of myself cameout in shadow--clearer now, and still clearer, enlarging to thefullness of her mind. She thought wholly and only of that image I thensaw, yet with a faint coloring playing to and from it, as influencescame in from the outer world. Her eyes were turned in upon it in lostcontemplation. But suddenly a new thought broke upon me. I saw myimage, but it was not I, as I looked to myself. The type of mycountenance was there; but, oh, transformed to an ideal, such as Inow, for the first time, saw possible--ennobled in every defectiveline--purified of its taint from worldliness--inspired with highaspirations--cleared of what it had become cankered with, in itstransmission through countless generations since first sent into theworld, and restored to a likeness of the angel of whose illuminatedlineaments it was first a copy. So thought Stephania of me. Thus didshe believe I truly was. Oh! blessed, and yet humiliating, trust ofwoman! Oh! comparison of true and ideal, at which spirits must lookout of heaven, and of which they must long, with aching pity, to makeus thus rebukingly aware!

 * * * * *

I felt myself withdrawing from Stephania's presence. There were tearsbetween us, which I could not see. I strove to remain, but a strongerpower than my will was at work within me. I felt my heart swell with agasp, as if death were bearing out of it the principle of life; and myhead dropped on the pillow of my bed. 

"Good night, my son, " said the low voice of Father Ludovic, "I havewilled that you should remember what you have seen. Be worthy of herlove, for there are few like her. "

He closed the door, and as the glide of his sandals died away in theechoing cloisters, I leaned forth to spread my expanding heart in theupward and boundless light of the moon--for I seemed to wish neveragain to lose in the wasteful forgetfulness of sleep, theconsciousness that I was loved by Stephania. 

 * * * * *

I was journeying the next day, alone, toward Venice. I had leftwritten adieux for the party at Vallambrosa, pleading to my friends anunwillingness to bear the pain of a formal separation. Betwixtmidnight and morning, however, I had written a parting letter forStephania, which I had committed to the kind envoying of FatherLudovic, and thus it ran:--

 "When you read this, Stephania, I shall be alone with the thought of you, traveling a reluctant road, but still with a burthen in my heart which will bring me to you again, and which even now envelopes my pang of separation in a veil of happiness. I have been blessed by Heaven's mercy with the power to know that you love me. Were you not what you are, I could not venture to startle you thus with a truth which, perhaps, you have hardly confessed in waking reality to yourself; but you are one of those who are coy of no truth that could be found to have lain without alarm in your own bosom, and, with those beloved hands pressed together with the earnestness of the clasp of prayer, you will say, 'yes! I love him!'

 "I leave you, now, not to put our love to trial, and still less in the ordinary meaning of the phrase, to prepare to wed you. The first is little needed, angels in heaven well know. The second is a thought which will be in time, when I have done the work on which I am newly bent by the inspiration of love--_the making myself what you think me to be_. Oh, Stephania! to feel encouraged, as God has given me strength to feel, that I may yet be this--that I may yet bring you a soul brought up to the standard you have raised, and achieve it by effort in self-denial, and by the works of honor and goodness that are as possible to a man in obscurity and poverty as to his brother in wealth and distinction--this is to me new life, boundless enlargement of sphere, food for a love of which, alas! I was not before worthy. 

 "I have told you unreservedly what my station in life is--what my hopes are, and what career I had marked out for struggle. I shall go on with the career, though the prizes I then mentally saw have since faded in value almost as much as my purpose is strengthened. Fame and wealth, my pure, Stephania, are to you as they now can only be to me, larger trusts of service and duty; and if I hope they will come while other aims are sought, it is because they will confer happiness on parents and friends who mistakenly suppose them necessary to the winner of your heart. I hope to bring them to you. I know that I shall come as welcome without them. 

 "While I write--while my courage and hope throb loud in the pulses of my bosom--I can think even happily of separation. To leave you, the better to return, is bearable--even pleasurable--to the heart's noonday mood. But I have been steeped for a summer, now, in a presence of visible and breathing loveliness, (that you cannot forbid me to speak of, since language is too poor to out-color truth, ) and there will come moments of depression--twilights of deepening and undivided loneliness--hours of illness, perhaps--and times of discouragement and adverse cloudings over of Providence--when I shall need to be remembered with sympathy, and to know that I am so remembered. I do not ask you to write to me. It would entail difficulties upon you, and put between us an interchange of uncertainties and possible misunderstandings. But I can communicate with you by a surer medium, if you will grant a request. The habits of your family are such that you can, for the first hour after midnight, be always alone. Waking or sleeping, there will then be a thought of me occupying your heart, and--call it a fancy if you will--I can come and read it on the viewless wings of the soul. 

 "I commend your inexpressible earthly beauty, dear Stephania, and your still brighter loveliness of soul, to God's angel, who has never left you. Farewell! You will see me when I am worthy of you--if it be necessary that it should be first in heaven, made so by forgiveness there. 

 * * * * *

_Cell of St. Eusebius, Vallambrosa--day-breaking_. "

A BUTTERFLY IN THE CITY. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

 Dear transient spirit of the fields, Thou com'st, without distrust, To fan the sunshine of our streets Among the noise and dust. 

 Thou leadest in thy wavering flight My footsteps unaware, Until I seem to walk the vales And breathe thy native air. 

 And thou hast fed upon the flowers, And drained their honied springs, Till every tender hue they wore Is blooming on thy wings. 

 I bless the fresh and flowery light Thou bringest to the town, But tremble lest the hot turmoil Have power to weigh thee down;

 For thou art like the poet's song, Arrayed in holiest dyes, Though it hath drained the honied wells Of flowers of Paradise;

 Though it hath brought celestial hues To light the ways of life, The dust shall weigh its pinions down Amid the noisy strife. 

 And yet, perchance, some kindred soul Shall see its glory shine, And feel its wings within his heart As bright as I do thine. 

THE RIVAL SISTERS. 

AN ENGLISH TRAGEDY OF REAL LIFE. 

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR, ""MARMADUKE WYVIL, " ETC. 

(_Concluded from page 22_. )

PART II. 

A lovely summer's evening in the year 168-, was drawing toward itsclose, when many a gay and brilliant cavalcade of both sexes, many ofthe huge gilded coaches of that day, and many a train of liveriedattendants, winding through the green lane, as they arrived, some inthis direction from Eton, some in that, across Datchet-mead, fromWindsor, and its royal castle, came thronging toward Ditton-in-the-Dale. 

Lights were beginning to twinkle, as the shadows fell thick among thearcades of the trim gardens, and the wilder forest-walks whichextended their circuitous course for many a mile along the statelyhall of the Fitz-Henries; loud bursts of festive or of martial musiccame pealing down the wind, mixed with the hum of a gay and happyconcourse, causing the nightingales to hold their peace, not indespair of rivaling the melody, but that the mirth jarred unpleasantlyon the souls of the melancholy birds. 

The gates of Ditton-in-the-Dale were flung wide open, for it was galanight, and never had the old hall put on a gayer or more sumptuousshow than it had donned that evening. 

From far and near the gentry and the nobles of Buckingham andBerkshire had gathered to the birth-day ball--for such was the occasionof the festive meeting. 

Yes! it was Blanche Fitz-Henry's birth-day; and on this gay and gladanniversary was the fair heiress of that noble house to be introducedto the great world as the future owner of those beautiful demesnes. 

From the roof to the foundation the old manor-house--it was a statelyred brick mansion of the latter period of Elizabethan architecture, with mullioned windows, and stacks of curiously wreathed chimneys--wasone blaze of light; and as group after group of gay and high-bornriders came caracoling up to the hospitable porch, and coach aftercoach, with its running footmen, or mounted outriders lumbered slowlyin their train, the saloons and corridors began to fill up rapidly, with a joyous and splendid company. 

The entrance-hall, a vast square apartment, wainscoted with oldEnglish oak, brighter and richer in its dark hues than mahogany, received the entering guests; and what with the profusion ofwax-lights, pendant in gorgeous chandeliers from the carved roof, orfixed in silver sconces to the walls, the gay festoons of greenwreaths and fresh summer flowers, mixed quaintly with old armor, blazoned shields, and rustling banners, some of which had waved overthe thirsty plains of Syria, and been fanned by the shouts of triumphthat pealed so high at Cressy and Poitiers, it presented a not unaptpicture of that midway period--that halting-place, as it were, betweenthe old world and the new--when chivalry and feudalism had ceasedalready to exist among the nations, but before the rudeness of reformhad banished the last remnants of courtesy, and the reverence for allthings that were high and noble--for all things that were fair andgraceful--for all things, in one word, except the golden calf, themob-worshiped mammon. 

Within this stately hall was drawn up in glittering array, thesplendid band of the Life Guards, for royally himself was present, andall the officers of that superb regiment, quartered at Windsor, hadfollowed in his train; and as an ordinary courtesy to theirwell-proved and loyal host, the services of those chosen musicians hadbeen tendered and accepted. 

Through many a dazzling corridor, glittering with lights, and redolentof choicest perfumes, through many a fair saloon the guests weremarshaled to the great drawing-room, where, beneath a canopy of state, the ill-advised and imbecile monarch, soon to be deserted by the veryprinces and princesses who now clustered round his throne, sat, withhis host and his lovely daughters at his right hand, accepting thehomage of the fickle crowd, who were within a little year to bowobsequiously to the cold-blooded Hollander. 

That was a day of singular, and what would now be termed hideouscostumes--a day of hair-powder and patches, of hoops and trains, ofstiff brocades and tight-laced stomachers, and high-heeled shoes amongthe ladies--of flowing periwigs, and coats with huge cuffs and nocollars, and voluminous skirts, of diamond-hilted rapiers, and diamondbuckles, ruffles of Valenciennes and Mecklin lace, among the rudersex. And though the individual might be metamorphosed strangely fromthe fair form which nature gave him, it cannot be denied that theconcourse of highly-bred and graceful persons, when viewed as a whole, was infinitely more picturesque, infinitely more like what the fancypaints a meeting of the great and noble, than any assemblagenow-a-days, however courtly or refined, in which the stiff dress coatsand white neckcloths of the men are not to be redeemed by the Parisianfinery--how much more natural, let critics tell, than the hoop andtrain--of the fair portion of the company. 

The rich materials, the gay colors, the glittering jewelry, and wavingplumes, all contributed their part to the splendor of the show; and inthose days a gentleman possessed at least this advantage, lost to himin these practical utilitarian times, that he could not by anypossibility be mistaken for his own _valet de chambre_--a misfortunewhich has befallen many a one, the most aristocratic not excepted, ofmodern nobility. 

A truly graceful person will be graceful, and look well in every garb, however strange or _outré_; and there is, moreover, undoubtedlysomething, apart from any paltry love of finery, or mere vanity ofperson, which elevates the thoughts, and stamps a statelier demeanoron the man who is clad highly for some high occasion. The custom, too, of wearing arms, peculiar to the gentleman of that day, had itseffect, and that not a slight one, as well on the character as on thebearing of the individual so distinguished. 

As for the ladies, loveliness will still be loveliness, disguise it asyou may; and if the beauties of King James's court lost much by thetravesty of their natural ringlets, they gained, perhaps, yet morefrom the increased lustre of their complexions and brilliancy of theireyes. 

So that it is far from being the case, as is commonly supposed, thatit was owing to fashion alone, and the influence of all powerfulcustom, that the costume of that day was not tolerated only, butadmired by its wearers. 

At this time, however, the use of hair-powder, though general, was byno means universal; and many beauties, who fancied that it did notsuit their complexions, dispensed with it altogether, or wore it insome modified shape, and tinged with some coloring matter, whichassimilated it more closely to the natural tints of the hair. 

At all events, it must have been a dull eye, and a cold heart, thatcould have looked undelighted on the assemblage that night gathered inthe ball-room of Ditton-in-the-Dale. 

But now the reception was finished; the royal party moved into theball-room, from which they shortly afterward retired, leaving thecompany at liberty from the restraint which their presence had imposedupon them. The concourse broke up into little groups; the statelyminuet was performed, and livelier dances followed it; and gentlemensighed tender sighs, and looked unutterable things; and ladieslistened to soft nonsense, and smiled gentle approbation; and meltingglances were exchanged, and warm hands were pressed warmly; and fanswere flirted angrily, and flippant jokes were interchanged--for humannature, whether in the seventeeth or the nineteenth century, whetherarrayed in brocade, or simply dressed in broadcloth, is human naturestill; and, perhaps, not one feeling, or one passion, that actuatedman's or woman's heart five hundred years ago, but dwells within itnow, and shall dwell unchanged forever. 

It needs not to say that, on such an occasion, in their own father'smansion, and at the celebration of one sister's birth-day, Blanche andAgnes, had their attractions been much smaller, their pretensions muchmore lowly than they really were, would have received boundlessattention. But being as they were infinitely the finest girls in theroom, and being, moreover, new _debutantes_ on the stage of fashion, there was no limit to the admiration, to the _furor_ which theyexcited among the wits and lady-killers of the day. 

Many an antiquated Miss, proud of past conquests, and unable yet tobelieve that her career of triumph was, indeed, ended, would turn upan envious nose, and utter a sharp sneer at the forwardness and hoydenmirth of that pert Mistress Agnes, or at the coldness and inanimatesmile of the fair heiress; but the sneer, even were it the sneer of aduke's or a minister's daughter, fell harmless, or yet worse, drewforth a prompt defence of the unjustly assailed beauty. 

No greater proof could be adduced, indeed, of the amazing success ofthe sister beauties, than the unanimous decision of every lady in theroom numbering less than forty years, that they were by no meansuncommon; were pretty country hoppets, who, as soon as the novelty oftheir first appearance should have worn out, would cease to beadmired, and sink back into their proper sphere of insignificance. 

So thought not the gentle cavaliers; and there were many presentthere, well qualified to judge of ladies' minds as of ladies' persons;and not a few were heard to swear aloud, that the Fitz-Henries were asfar above the rest of their sex in wit, and graceful accomplishment, as in beauty of form and face, and elegance of motion. 

See! they are dancing now some gay, newly invented, Spanish dance, each whirling through the voluptuous mazes of the courtly measure withher own characteristic air and manner, each evidently pleased with herpartner, each evidently charming him in turn; and the two togetherenchaining all eyes, and interesting all spectators, so that a gentlehum of approbation is heard running through the crowd, as they pause, blushing and panting from the exertion and excitement of the dance. 

"Fore Gad! she is exquisite, George! I have seen nothing like her inmy time, " lisped a superb coxcomb, attired in a splendid civilian'ssuit of Pompadour and silver, to a young cornet of the Life Guard whostood beside him. 

"Which _she_, my lord?" inquired the standard-bearer, in reply. "Methinks they both deserve your encomiums; but I would fain knowwhich of the two your lordship means, for fame speaks you a dangerousrival against whom to enter the lists. "

"What, George!" cried the other, gayly, "are you about to have a throwfor the heiress? Pshaw! it wont do, man--never think of it! Why, though you are an earl's second son, and date your creation from thedays of Hump-backed Dickon, old Allan would vote you a _novus homo_, as we used to say at Christ Church. Pshaw! George, go hang yourself!No one has a chance of winning that fair loveliness, much less ofwearing her, unless he can quarter Sir Japhet's bearings on his coatarmorial. "

"It _is_ the heiress, then, my lord, " answered George Delawarr, merrily. "I thought as much from the first. Well, I'll relieve yourlordship, as you have relieved me, from all fear of rivalry. I amdevoted to the dark beauty. Egad! there's life, there's fire for you!Why, I should have thought the flash of that eye-glance would havereduced Jack Greville to cinders in a moment, yet there he stands, ascalm and impassive a puppy as ever dangled a plumed hat, or playedwith a sword-knot. Your fair beauty's cold, my lord. Give me thatItalian complexion, and that coal-black hair! Gad zooks! I honor thegirl's spirit for not disguising it with starch and pomatum. There'smore passion in her little finger, than in the whole soul of theother. "

"You're out there, George Delawarr, " returned the peer. "Trust me, itis not always the quickest flame that burns the strongest; nor theliveliest girl that feels the most deeply. There's an old saying, anda true one, that still water aye runs deep. And, trust me, if I knowany thing of the dear, delicious, devilish sex, as methinks I am notaltogether a novice at the trade, if ever Blanche Fitz-Henry love atall, she will love with her whole soul and heart and spirit. That gay, laughing brunette will love you with her tongue, her eyes, her head, and perhaps her fancy--the other, if, as I say, she ever love at all, will love with her whole being. "

"The broad acres! my lord! all the broad acres!" replied the cornet, laughing more merrily than before. "Fore Gad! I think it the verything for you. For the first Lord St. George was, I believe, in theark with Noah, so that you will pass current with the first gentlemanof England. I prithee, my lord, push your suit, and help me on alittle with my dark Dulcinea. "

"Faith! George, I've no objection; and see, this dance is over. Let usgo up and ask their fair hands. You'll have no trouble in ousting thatshallow-pated puppy Jack, and I think I can put the pass on Mr. Privy-counsellor there, although he is simpering so prettily. But, hold a moment, have you been duly and in form presented to yourblack-eyed beauty?"

"Upon my soul! I hope so, my lord. It were very wrong else; for I havedanced with her three times to-night already. "

"The devil! Well, come along, quick. I see that they are going toannounce supper, so soon as this next dance shall be ended; and if wecan engage them now, we shall have their fair company for an hour atleast. "

"I am with you, my lord!"

And away they sauntered through the crowd, and ere long were coupledfor a little space each to the lady of his choice. 

The dance was soon over, and then, as Lord St. George had surmised, supper was announced, and the cavaliers led their ladies to thesumptuous board, and there attended them with all that courtly andrespectful service, which, like many another good thing, has passedaway and been forgotten with the diamond-hilted sword, and the fullbottomed periwig. 

George Delawarr was full as ever of gay quips and merry repartees; hiswit was as sparkling as the champagne which in some degree inspiredit, and as innocent. There was no touch of bitterness or satire in hispolished and gentle humor; no envy or dislike pointed his quick, epigrammatic speech; but all was clear, light, and transparent, as thesunny air at noonday. Nor was his conversation altogether light andmirthful. There were at times bursts of high enthusiasm, at which hewould himself laugh heartily a moment afterward--there were touches ofpassing romance and poetry blending in an under-current with hisfluent mirth; and, above all, there was an evident strain of rightfeeling, of appreciation of all that was great and generous and good, predominant above romance and wit, perceptible in every word heuttered. 

And Agnes listened, and laughed, and flung back skillfully andcleverly the ball of conversation, as he tossed it to her. She waspleased, it was evident, and amused. But she was pleased only as witha clever actor, a brilliant performer on some new instrument now heardfor the first time. The gay, wild humor of the young man hit herfancy; his mad wit struck a kindred chord in her mind; but the latentpoetry and romance passed unheeded, and the noblest point of all, thegood and gracious feelings, made no impression on the polished buthard surface of the bright maiden's heart. 

Meantime, how fared the peer with the calmer and gentler sister? Lessbrilliant than George Delawarr, he had traveled much, had seen more ofmen and things, had a more cultivated mind, was more of a scholar, andno less of a gentleman, scarce less perhaps of a soldier; for he hadserved a campaign or two in his early youth in the Low Countries. 

He was a noble and honorable man, clever, and eloquent, and wellesteemed--a little, perhaps, spoiled by that good esteem, a little tooconfident of himself, too conscious of his own good mien and goodparts, and a little hardened, if very much polished, by continualcontact with the world. 

He was, however, an easy and agreeable talker, accustomed to thesociety of ladies, in which he was held to shine, and fond of shining. He exerted himself also that night, partly because he was reallystruck with Blanche's grace and beauty, partly because Delawarr'sliveliness and wit excited him to a sort of playful rivalry. 

Still, he was not successful; for though Blanche listened graciously, and smiled in the right places, and spoke in answer pleasantly andwell, when she did speak, and evidently wished to appear and to beamused; her mind was at times absent and distracted, and it could notlong escape the observation of so thorough a man of the world as LordSt. George, that he had not made that impression on the young countrydamsel which he was wont to make, with one half the effort, on whatmight be supposed more difficult ladies. 

But though he saw this plainly, he was too much of a gentleman to beeither piqued or annoyed; and if any thing he exerted himself the moreto please, when he believed exertion useless; and by degrees hisgentle partner laid aside her abstraction, and entered into the spiritof the hour with something of her sister's mirth, though with aquieter and more chastened tone. 

It was a pleasant party, and a merry evening; but like all otherthings, merry or sad, it had its end, and passed away, and by many wasforgotten; but there were two persons present there who never whilethey lived forgot that evening--for there were other two, to whom itwas indeed the commencement of the end. 

But the hour for parting had arrived, and with the ceremoniousgreetings of those days, deep bows and stately courtesies, and kissingof fair hands, and humble requests to be permitted to pay their dutyon the following day, the cavaliers and ladies parted. 

When the two gallants stood together in the great hall, GeorgeDelawarr turned suddenly to the peer--

"Where the deuce are you going to sleep to-night, St. George? You camedown hither all the way from London, did you not? You surely do notmean to return to-night. "

"I surely do not _wish_ it, you mean, George. No, truly. But I do meanit. For my fellows tell me that there is not a bed to be had for love, which does not at all surprise me, or for money, which I confess doessomewhat, in Eton, Slough, or Windsor. And if I must go back toBrentford or to Hounslow, as well at once to London. "

"Come with me! Come with me, St. George. I can give you quarters inthe barracks, and a good breakfast, and a game of tennis if you will;and afterward, if you like, we'll ride over and see how thesebright-eyed beauties look by daylight, after all this night-work. "

"A good offer, George, and I'll take it as it is offered. "

"How are you here? In a great lumbering coach I suppose. Well, lookyou, I have got two horses here; you shall take mine, and I'll ride onmy fellow's, who shall go with your people and pilot them on the road, else they'll be getting that great gilded Noah's ark intoDatchet-ditch. Have you got any tools? Ay! ay! I see you travel wellequipped, if you do ride in your coach. Now your riding-cloak, thenights are damp here, by the river-side, even in summer; oh! nevermind your pistols, you'll find a brace in my holsters, genuineKuchenreuters. I can hit a crown piece with them, for a hundredguineas, at fifty paces. "

"Heaven send that you never shoot at me with them, if that's the case, George. "

"Heaven send that I never shoot at any one, my lord, unless it be anenemy of my king and country, and in open warfare; for so certainly asI do shoot I shall kill. "

"I do not doubt you, George. But let's be off. The lights are burninglow in the sockets, and these good fellows are evidently tired outwith their share of our festivity. Fore Gad! I believe we are thelast of the guests. "

And with the word, the young men mounted joyously, and galloped awayat the top of their horses' speed to the quarters of the life-guard inWindsor. 

Half an hour after their departure, the two sisters sat above stairsin a pleasant chamber, disrobing themselves, with the assistance oftheir maidens, of the cumbrous and stiff costumes of the ball-room, and jesting merrily over the events of the evening. 

"Well, Blanche, " said Agnes archly, "confess, siss, who is the lordparamount, the beau _par excellence_, of the ball? I know, you demurepuss! After all, it is ever the quiet cat that licks the cream. But tothink that on your very first night you should have made such aconquest. So difficult, too, to please, they say, and all the greatcourt ladies dying for him. "

"Hush! madcap. I don't know who you mean. At all events, I have notdanced four dances in one evening with one cavalier. Ah! have I caughtyou, pretty mistress?"

"Oh! that was only _poor_ George Delawarr. A paltry cornet in theguards. He will do well enough to have dangling after one, to playwith, while he amuses one--but fancy, being proud of conquering poorGeorge! His namesake with the Saint before it were worth a score ofsuch. "

"Fie, sister!" said Blanche, gravely. "I do not love to hear you talkso. I am sure he's a very pretty gentleman, and has twice as much headas my lord, if I'm not mistaken; and three times as much heart. "

"Heart, indeed, siss! Much you know about hearts, I fancy. But, nowthat you speak of it, I _will_ try if he has got a heart. If he has, he will do well to pique some more eligible--"

"Oh! Agnes, Agnes! I cannot hear you--"

"Pshaw!" interrupted the younger sister, very bitterly, "thisaffectation of sentiment and disinterestedness sits very prettily onthe heiress of Ditton-in-the-Dale, Long Netherby, and Waltham Ferrers, three manors, and ten thousand pounds a year to buy a bridegroom! PoorI, with my face for my fortune, must needs make my wit eke out my wantof dowry. And I'm not one, I promise you, siss, to choose love in acottage. No, no! Give me your Lord St. George, and I'll make over allmy right and title to poor George Delawarr this minute. Heigho! Ibelieve the fellow is smitten with me after all. Well, well! I'll havesome fun with him before I have done yet. "

"Agnes, " said Blanche, gravely, but reproachfully, "I have long seenthat you are light, and careless whom you wound with your wild words, but I never thought before that you were bad-hearted. "

"Bad-hearted, sister!"

"Yes! bad-hearted! To speak to me of manors, or of money, as if forfifty wills, or five hundred fathers, I would ever profit by aparent's whim to rob my sister of her portion. As if I would notrather lie in the cold grave, than that my sister should have a wishungratified, which I had power to gratify, much less that she shouldnarrow down the standard of her choice--the holiest and most sacredthing on earth--to the miserable scale of wealth and title. Out uponit! out upon it! Never, while you live, speak so to me again!"

"Sister, I never will. I did not mean it, sister, dear, " cried Agnes, now much affected, as she saw how vehemently Blanche was moved. "Youshould not heed me. You know my wild, rash way, and how I speakwhatever words come first. "

"Those were very meaning words, Agnes--and very bitter, too. They cutme to the heart, " cried the fair girl, bursting into a flood ofpassionate tears. 

"Oh! do not--do not, Blanche. Forgive me, dearest! Indeed, indeed, Imeant nothing!"

"Forgive you, Agnes! I have nothing to forgive. I was not even angry, but pained, but sorry for you, sister; for sure I am, that if you giveway to this bitter, jealous spirit, you will work much anguish toyourself, and to all those who love you. "

"Jealous, Blanche!"

"Yes, Agnes, jealous! But let us say no more. Let this pass, and beforgotten; but never, dear girl, if you love me, as I think you do, never _so_ speak to me again. "

"I never, never will. " And she fell upon her neck, and kissed herfondly, as her heart relented, and she felt something of sincererepentance for the harsh words which she had spoken, and the hard, bitter feelings which suggested them. 

Another hour, and, clasped in each others' arms, they were sleeping assweetly as though no breath of this world's bitterness had ever blownupon their hearts, or stirred them into momentary strife. 

Peace to their slumbers, and sweet dreams!

It was, perhaps, an hour or two after noon, and the early dinner ofthe time was already over, when the two sisters strolled out into thegardens, unaccompanied, except by a tall old greyhound, Blanche'speculiar friend and guardian, and some two or three beautifulsilky-haired King Charles spaniels. 

After loitering for a little while among the trim parterres, andbox-edged terraces, and gathering a few sweet summer flowers, theyturned to avoid the heat, which was excessive, into the dark elmavenue, and wandered along between the tall black yew hedges, linkedarm-in-arm, indeed, but both silent and abstracted, and neither ofthem conscious of the rich melancholy music of the nightingales, whichwas ringing all around them in that pleasant solitude. 

Both, indeed, were buried in deep thought; and each, perhaps, for thefirst time in her life, felt that her thought was such that she couldnot, dared not, communicate it to her sister. 

For Blanche Fitz-Henry had, on the previous night, began, for thefirst time in her life, to suspect that she was the owner, for thetime being, of a commodity called a heart, although it may be that thevery suspicion proved in some degree that the possession was about topass, if it were not already passing, from her. 

In sober seriousness, it must be confessed that the young cornet ofthe Life Guards, although he had made so little impression on her towhom he had devoted his attentions, had produced an effect differentfrom any thing which she had ever fell before on the mind of the eldersister. It was not his good mien, nor his noble air that had struckher; for though he was a well-made, fine-looking man, of gracefulmanners, and high-born carriage, there were twenty men in the roomwith whom he could not for five minutes have sustained a comparison inpoint of personal appearance. 

His friend, the Viscount St. George, to whom she had lent but a coldear, was a far handsomer man. Nor was it his wit and gay humor, andeasy flow of conversation, that had captivated her fancy; although shecertainly did think him the most agreeable man she had ever listenedto. No, it was the under-current of delicate and poetical thought, theglimpses of a high and noble spirit, which flashed out at timesthrough the light veil of reckless merriment, which, partly incompliance with the spirit of the day, and partly because his was agay and mirthful nature, he had superinduced over the deeper andgrander points of his character. No; it was a certain originality ofmind, which assured her that, though he might talk lightly, he was oneto feel fervently and deeply--it was the impress of truth, and candor, and high independence, which was stamped on his every word and action, that first riveted her attention, and, in spite of her resistance, half fascinated her imagination. 

This it was that had held her abstracted and apparently indifferent, while Lord St. George was exerting all his powers of entertainment inher behalf; this it was that had roused her indignation at hearing hersister speak so slightingly, and, as it seemed to her, so ungenerouslyof one whom she felt intuitively to be good and noble. 

This it was which now held her mute and thoughtful, and almost sad;for she felt conscious that she was on the verge of loving--loving onewho, for aught that he had shown as yet, cared naught for her, perhapseven preferred another--and that other her own sister. 

Thereupon her maiden modesty rallied tumultuous to the rescue, andsuggested the shame of giving love unasked, giving it, perchance, tobe scorned--and almost she resolved to stifle the infant feeling inits birth, and rise superior to the weakness. But when was ever lovevanquished by cold argument, or bound at the chariot-wheels of reason. 

The thought would still rise up prominent, turn her mind to whateversubject she would, coupled with something of pity at the treatmentwhich he was like to meet from Agnes, something of vague, unconfessedpleasure that it was so, and something of secret hope that his eyeswould erelong be opened, and that she might prove, in the end, herselfhis consoler. 

And what, meanwhile, were the dreams of Agnes? Bitter--bitter, andblack, and hateful. Oh! it is a terrible consideration, how swiftlyevil thoughts, once admitted to the heart, take root and flourish, andgrow up into a rank and poisonous crop, choking the good grainutterly, and corrupting the very soil of which they have taken hold. There is but one hope--but one! To tear them from the root forcibly, though the heart-strings crack, and the soul trembles, as with aspiritual earthquake. To nerve the mind firmly and resolutely, yethumbly withal, and contritely, and with prayer against temptation, prayer for support from on high--to resist the Evil One with the wholeforce of the intellect, the whole truth of the heart, and to stop theears steadfastly against the voice of the charmer, charm he never sowisely. 

But so did not Agnes Fitz-Henry. It is true that on the precedingnight her better feelings had been touched, her heart had relented, and she had banished, as she thought, the evil counsellors, ambition, envy, jealousy, and distrust, from her spirit. 

But with the night the better influence passed away, and ere themorning had well come, the evil spirit had returned to his dwellingplace, and brought with him other spirits, worse and more wicked thanhimself. 

The festive scene of the previous evening had, for the first timeopened her eyes fairly to her own position; she read it in thedemeanor of all present; she heard it in the whispers whichunintentionally reached her ears; she felt it intuitively in theshade--it was not a shade, yet she observed it--of differenceperceptible in the degree of deference and courtesy paid to herselfand to her sister. 

She felt, for the first time, that Blanche was every thing, herself amere cipher--that Blanche was the lady of the manor, the cynosure ofall eyes, the queen of all hearts, herself but the lady's poorrelation, the dependent on her bounty, and at the best a creature tobe played with, and petted for her beauty and her wit, without regardto her feelings, or sympathy for her heart. 

And prepared as she was at all times to resist even just authoritywith insolent rebellion; ready as she was always to assume thedefensive, and from that the offensive against all whom she fanciedoffenders, how angrily did her heart now boil up, how almost fiercelydid she muster her faculties to resist, to attack, to conquer, toannihilate all whom she deemed her enemies--and that, for the moment, was the world. 

Conscious of her own beauty, of her own wit, of her own high andpowerful intellect, perhaps over-confident in her resources, shedetermined on that instant that she would devote them all, all to onepurpose, to which she would bend every energy, direct every thought ofher mind--to her own aggrandizement, by means of some great andsplendid marriage, which should set her as far above the heiress ofDitton-in-the-Dale, as the rich heiress now stood in the world's eyeabove the portionless and dependent sister. 

Nor was this all--there was a sterner, harder, and more wicked feelingyet, springing up in her heart, and whispering the sweetness ofrevenge--revenge on that amiable and gentle sister, who, so far fromwronging her, had loved her ever with the tenderest and mostaffectionate love, who would have sacrificed her dearest wishes to herwelfare--but whom, in the hardness of her embittered spirit, she couldnow see only as an intruder upon her own just rights, a rival on thestage of fashion, perhaps in the interests of the heart--whom shealready envied, suspected, almost hated. 

And Blanche, at that self-same moment, had resolved to keep watch onher own heart narrowly, and to observe her sister's bearing towardGeorge Delawarr, that in case she should perceive her favoring hissuit, she might at once crush down the germ of rising passion, andsacrifice her own to her dear sister's happiness. 

Alas! Blanche! Alas! Agnes!

Thus they strolled onward, silently and slowly, until they reached thelittle green before the summer-house, which was then the gayest andmost lightsome place that can be imagined, with its rare paintingsglowing in their undimmed hues, its gilding bright and burnished, itsfurniture all sumptuous and new, and instead of the dark funereal ivy, covered with woodbine and rich clustered roses. The windows were allthrown wide open to the perfumed summer air, and the warm light pouredin through the gaps in the tree-tops, and above the summits of thethen carefully trimmed hedgerows, blithe and golden. 

They entered and sat down, still pensive and abstracted; but erelongthe pleasant and happy influences of the time and place appeared tooperate in some degree on the feelings of both, but especially on thetranquil and well-ordered mind of the elder sister. She raised herhead suddenly, and was about to speak, when the rapid sound of horses'feet, unheard on the soft sand until they were hard by, turned herattention to the window, and the next moment the two young cavaliers, who were even then uppermost in her mind, came into view, canteringalong slowly on their well-managed chargers. 

Her eye was not quicker than those of the gallant riders, who, seeingthe ladies, whom they had ridden over to visit, sitting by the windowsof the summer-house, checked their horses on the instant, and doffedtheir plumed hats. 

"Good faith, fair ladies, we are in fortune's graces to-day, " said theyoung peer, gracefully, "since having ridden thus far on our way topay you our humble devoirs, we meet you thus short of our journey'send. "

"But how are we to win our way to you, " cried Delawarr, "as you sitthere bright _chatelaines_ of your enchanted bower--for I see neitherfairy skiff, piloted by grim-visaged dwarfs, to waft us over, nor evena stray dragon, by aid of whose broad wings to fly across this mimicmoat, which seems to be something of the deepest?"

"Oh! gallop on, gay knights, " said Agnes, smiling on Lord St. George, but averting her face somewhat from the cornet, "gallop on to thelodges, and leaving there your coursers, take the first path on theleft hand, and that will lead you to our presence; and should youperadventure get entangled in the hornbeam maze, why, one of us twowill bring you the clue, like a second Ariadne. Ride on and we willmeet you. Come, sister, let us walk. "

Blanche had as yet scarcely found words to reply to the greeting ofthe gallants, for the coincidence of their arrival with her ownthoughts had embarrassed her a little, and she had blushed crimson asshe caught the eye of George Delawarr fixed on her with a markedexpression, beneath which her own dropped timidly. But now she arose, and bowing with an easy smile, and a few pleasant words, expressed herwillingness to abide by her sister's plan. 

In a few minutes the ladies met their gallants in the green labyrinthof which Agnes had spoken, and falling into pairs, for the walk wastoo narrow to allow them all four to walk abreast, they strolled incompany toward the Hall. 

What words they said, I am not about to relate--for suchconversations, though infinitely pleasant to the parties, are for themost part infinitely dull to third persons--but it so fell out, notwithout something of forwardness and marked management, which did notescape the young soldier's rapid eye, on the part of Agnes, that theorder of things which had been on the previous evening was reversed;the gay, rattling girl attaching herself perforce to the viscount, notwithout a sharp and half-sarcastic jest at the expense of her formerpartner, and the mild heiress falling to his charge. 

George Delawarr had been smitten, it is true, the night before by thegayety and rapid intellect of Agnes, as well as by the wild andpeculiar style of her beauty; and it might well have been that thetemporary fascination might have ripened into love. But he was hurt, and disgusted even more than hurt, by her manner, and observing herwith a watchful eye as she coquetted with his friend, he speedily cameto the conclusion that St. George was right in his estimate of _her_character at least, although he now seemed to be flattered and amusedby her evident prepossession in his favor. 

He had not, it is true, been deeply enough touched to feel eitherpique or melancholy at this discovery, but was so far heart-whole asto be rather inclined to laugh at the fickleness of the merry jilt, than either to repine or to be angry. 

He was by no means the man, however, to cast away the occasion ofpleasure; and walking with so beautiful and soft a creature asBlanche, he naturally abandoned himself to the tide of the hour, andin a little while found himself engaged in a conversation, which, ifless sparkling and brilliant, was a thousand times more charming thanthat which he had yesterday held with her sister. 

In a short time he had made the discovery that with regard to theelder sister, too, his friend's penetration had exceeded his own; andthat beneath that calm and tranquil exterior there lay a deep andpowerful mind, stored with a treasury of the richest gems of thoughtand feeling. He learned in that long woodland walk that she was, indeed, a creature both to adore and to be adored; and he, too, likeSt. George, was certain, that the happy man whom she should love, would be loved for himself alone, with the whole fervor, the wholetruth, the whole concentrated passion of a heart, the flow of whichonce unloosed, would be but the stronger for the restraint which hadhitherto confined it. 

Erelong, as they reached the wider avenue, the two parties united, andthen, more than ever, he perceived the immense superiority in alllovable, all feminine points, of the elder to the younger sister; forAgnes, though brilliant and seemingly thoughtless and spirit-free asever, let fall full many a bitter word, many a covert taunt and hiddensneer, which, with his eyes now opened as they were, he readilydetected, and which Blanche, as he could discover, even through hergraceful quietude, felt, and felt painfully. 

They reached the Hall at length, and were duly welcomed by its master;refreshments were offered and accepted--and the young men were invitedto return often, and a day was fixed on which they should partake thehospitalities of Ditton, at least as temporary residents. 

The night was already closing in when they mounted their horses andwithdrew, both well pleased with their visit--for the young lord wasin pursuit of amusement only, and seeing at a glance the coyness ofthe heiress, and the somewhat forward coquetry of her sister, he hadaccommodated himself to circumstances, and determined that a passingflirtation with so pretty a girl, and a short _sejour_ at a house sowell-appointed as Ditton, would be no unpleasant substitute for Londonin the dog-days; and George Delawarr, like Romeo, had discarded theimaginary love the moment he found the true Juliet. If not in love, hecertainly was fascinated, charmed; he certainly thought Blanche thesweetest, and most lovely girl he had ever met, and was well inclinedto believe that she was the best and most admirable. He trembled onthe verge of his fate. 

And she--her destiny was fixed already, and forever! And when she sawher sister delighted with the attentions of the youthful nobleman, shesmiled to herself, and dreamed a pleasant dream, and gave herself upto the sweet delusion. She had already asked her own heart "does helove me?" and though it fluttered sorely, and hesitated for a while, it did not answer, "No!"

But as the gentlemen rode homeward, St. George turned shortly on hiscompanion, and said, gravely, "You have changed your mind, Delawarr, and found out that I am right. Nevertheless, beware! do not, for God's sake, fall in love with her, or make her love you!"

The blood flushed fiery-red to the ingenuous brow of George Delawarr, and he was embarrassed for a moment. Then he tried to turn off hisconfusion with a jest. 

"What, jealous, my lord! jealous of a poor cornet, with no otherfortune than an honorable name, and a bright sword! I thought you, too, had changed your mind, when I saw you flirting so merrily withthat merry brunette. "

"You did see me _flirting_, George--nothing more; and I _have_ changedmy mind, since the beginning, if not since the end of lastevening--for I thought at first that fair Blanche Fitz-Henry wouldmake me a charming wife; and now I am sure that she would _not_--"

"Why so, my lord? For God's sake! why say you so?"

"Because she never would love _me_, George; and _I_ would never marryany woman, unless I were sure that she both could and did. So you seethat I am not the least jealous; but still I say, don't fall in lovewith her--"

"Faith! St. George, but your admonition comes somewhat late--for Ibelieve I am half in love with her already. "

"Then stop where you are, and go no deeper--for if I err not, she ismore than half in love with you, too. "

"A strange reason, St. George, wherefore to bid me stop!"

"A most excellent good one!" replied the other, gravely, and almostsadly, "for mutual love between you two can only lead to mutualmisery. Her father never would consent to her marrying you more thanhe would to her marrying a peasant--the man is perfectly insane on thesubject of title-deeds and heraldry, and will accept no one for hisson-in-law who cannot show as many quarterings as a Spanish grandee, or a German noble. But, of course, it is of no use talking about it. Love never yet listened to reason; and, moreover, I suppose what is tobe is to be--come what may. "

"And what will you do, St. George, about Agnes? I think you aretouched there a little!"

"Not a whit I--honor bright! And for what I will do--amuse myself, George--amuse myself, and that pretty coquette, too; and if I find herless of a coquette, with more of a heart than I fancy she has--" hestopped short, and laughed. 

"Well, what then--what then?" cried George Delawarr. 

"It will be time enough to decide _then_. "

"And so say I, St. George. Meanwhile, I too will amuse myself. "

"Ay! but observe this special difference--what is fun to _you_ may bedeath to _her_, for she _has_ a heart, and a fine, and true, and deepone; may be death to yourself--for you, too, are honorable, and true, and noble; and that is why I love you, George, and why I speak to youthus, at the risk of being held meddlesome or impertinent. "

"Oh, never, never!" exclaimed Delawarr, moving his horse closer up tohim, and grasping his hand warmly, "never! You meddlesome orimpertinent! Let me hear no man call you so. But I will think of this. On my honor, I will think of this that you have said!"

And he did think of it. Thought of it often, deeply--and the more hethought, the more he loved Blanche Fitz-Henry. 

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and still those two young cavalierswere constant visiters, sometimes alone, sometimes with other gallantsin their company, at Ditton-in-the-Dale. And ever still, despite hiscompanion's warning, Delawarr lingered by the fair heiress' side, until both were as deeply enamored as it is possible for two personsto be, both single-hearted, both endowed with powerful intellect, andpowerful imagination; both of that strong and energetic temperamentwhich renders all impressions permanent, all strong passions immortal. It was strange that there should have been two persons, and there werebut two, who discovered nothing of what was passing--suspected nothingof the deep feelings which possessed the hearts of the young lovers;while all else marked the growth of liking into love, of love intothat absolute and over-whelming idolatry, which but few souls cancomprehend, and which to those few is the mightiest of blessings orthe blackest of curses. 

And those two, as is oftentimes the case, were the very two whom itmost concerned to perceive, and who imagined themselves the quickestand the clearest sighted--Allan Fitz-Henry, and the envious Agnes. 

But so true is it that the hope is oft parent to the thought, and thethought again to security and conviction, that, having in the firstinstance made up his mind that Lord St. George would be a mostsuitable successor to the name of the family, and secondly, that hewas engaged in prosecuting his suit to the elder daughter, her fathergave himself no further trouble in the matter, but suffered things totake their own course without interference. 

He saw, indeed, that in public the viscount was more frequently thecompanion of Agnes than of Blanche; that there seemed to be a betterand more rapid intelligence between them; and that Blanche appearedbetter pleased with George Delawarr's than with the viscount'scompany. 

But, to a man blinded by his own wishes and prejudices, such evidenceswent as nothing. He set it down at once to the score of timidity onBlanche's part, and to the desire of avoiding unnecessary notoriety onSt. George's; and saw nothing but what was perfectly natural andcomprehensible, in the fact that the younger sister and the familiarfriend should be the mutual confidents, perhaps the go-betweens, ofthe two acknowledged lovers. 

He was in high good-humor, therefore; and as he fancied himself on thehigh-road to the full fruition of his schemes, nothing could exceedhis courtesy and kindness to the young cornet, whom he almostoverpowered with those tokens of affection and regard which he didnot choose to lavish on the peer, lest he should be thought to becourting his alliance. 

Agnes, in the meantime, was so busy in the prosecution of her assaulton Lord St. George's heart, on which she began to believe that she hadmade some permanent impression, that she was perfectly contented withher own position, and was well-disposed to let other people enjoythemselves, provided they did not interfere with her proceedings. Itis true that, at times, in the very spirit of coquetry, she wouldresume her flirtation with George Delawarr, for the double purpose ofpiquing the viscount, and playing with the cornet's affections, which, blinded by self-love, she still believed to be devoted to her prettyself. 

But Delawarr was so happy in himself, that, without any intention ofplaying with Agnes, or deceiving her, he joked and rattled with heras he would with a sister, and believing that she must understandtheir mutual situation, at times treated her with a sort of quietfondness, as a man naturally does the sister of his betrothed or hisbride, which effectually completed her hallucination. 

The consequence of all this was, that, while they were unintentionallydeceiving others, they were fatally deceiving themselves likewise; andof this, it is probable that no one was aware, with the exception ofSt. George, who, seeing that his warnings were neglected, did notchoose to meddle further in the matter, although keeping himself readyto aid the lovers to the utmost of his ability by any means thatshould offer. 

In the innocence of their hearts, and the purity of their young love, they fancied that what was so clear to themselves, must be apparent tothe eyes of others; and they flattered themselves that the lady'sfather not only saw, but approved their affection, and that, when thefitting time should arrive, there would be no obstacle to theaccomplishment of their happiness. 

It is true that Blanche spoke not of her love to her sister, for, apart from the aversion which a refined and delicate girl must everfeel to touching on that subject, unless the secret be teased orcoaxed out of her by some near and affectionate friend, there hadgrown up a sort of distance, not coldness, nor dislike, nor distrust, but simply distance, and lack of communication between the sisterssince the night of the birth-day ball. Still Blanche doubted not thather sister saw and knew all that was passing in her mind, in the samemanner as she read her heart; and it was to her evident liking forLord St. George, and the engrossing claim of her own affections on allher thoughts, and all her time, that she attributed her carelessnessof herself. 

Deeply, however, did she err, and cruelly was she destined to beundeceived. 

The early days of autumn had arrived, and the woods had donned theirmany-colored garments, when on a calm, sweet evening--one of thosequiet and delicious evenings peculiar to that season--Blanche andGeorge Delawarr had wandered away from the gay concourse which filledthe gardens, and unseen, as they believed, and unsuspected, had turnedinto the old labyrinth where first they had begun to love, and werewrapped in soft dreams of the near approach of more perfect happiness. 

But a quick, hard eye was upon them--the eye of Agnes; for, by chance, Lord St. George was absent, having been summoned to attend the king atWindsor; and being left to herself, her busy mind, too busy to restfor a moment idle, plunged into mischief and malevolence. 

No sooner did she see them turn aside from the broad walk than thecloud was withdrawn, as if by magic, from her eyes; and she saw almostintuitively all that had previously escaped her. 

Not a second did she lose, but stealing after the unsuspecting pairwith a noiseless and treacherous step, she followed them, foot byfoot, through the mazes of the clipped hornbeam labyrinth, dividedfrom them only by the verdant screen, listening to everyhalf-breathed word of love, and drinking in with greedy ears everypassionate sigh. 

Delawarr's left arm was around Blanche's slender waist, and her righthand rested on his shoulder; the fingers of their other hands wereentwined lovingly together, as they wandered onward, wrapped each inthe other, unconscious of wrong on their own part, and unsuspicious ofinjury from any other. 

Meanwhile, with rage in her eyes, with hell in her heart, Agnesfollowed and listened. 

So deadly was her hatred, at that moment, of her sister, so fierce andovermastering her rage, that it was only by the utmost exertion ofself-control that she could refrain from rushing forward and loadingthem with reproaches, with contumely, and with scorn. 

But biting her lips till the blood sprang beneath her pearly teeth, and clinching her hands so hard that the nails wounded their tenderpalms, she did refrain, did subdue the swelling fury of her rebelliousheart, and awaited the hour of more deadly vengeance. 

Vengeance for what? She had not loved George Delawarr--nay, she hadscorned him! Blanche had not robbed her of her lover--nay, in her ownthoughts, she had carried off the admirer, perhaps the future lover, from the heiress. 

She was the wronger, not the wronged! Then wherefore vengeance?

Even, _therefore_, reader, because she had wronged her, and knew it;because her own conscience smote her, and she would fain avenge on theinnocent cause, the pangs which at times rent her own bosom. 

Envious and bitter, she could not endure that Blanche should be loved, as she felt she was not loved herself, purely, devotedly, forever, andfor herself alone. 

Ambitious, and insatiate of admiration, she could not endure thatGeorge Delawarr, once her captive, whom she still thought her slave, should shake off his allegiance to herself, much less that he shoulddare to love her sister. 

Even while she listened, she suddenly heard Blanche reply to somewords of her lover, which had escaped her watchful ears. 

"Never fear, dearest George; I am sure that he has seen and knowsall--he is the kindest and the best of fathers. I will tell him allto-morrow, and will have good news for you when you come to see me inthe evening. "

"Never!" exclaimed the fury, stamping upon the ground violently--"byall my hopes of heaven, never!"

And with the words she darted away in the direction of the hall asfast as her feet could carry her over the level greensward; rageseeming literally to lend her wings, so rapidly did her fiery passionsspur her on the road to impotent revenge. 

Ten minutes afterward, with his face inflamed with fury, his periwigawry, his dress disordered by the haste with which he had come up, Allan Fitz-Henry broke upon the unsuspecting lovers. 

Snatching his daughter rudely from the young man's half embrace, hebroke out into a torrent of terrible and furious invective, far moredisgraceful to him who used it, than to those on whom it was vented. 

There was no check to his violence, no moderation on his tongue. Traitor, and knave, and low-born beggar, were the mildest epithetswhich he applied to the high-bred and gallant soldier; while on hissweet and shrinking child he heaped terms the most opprobrious, themost unworthy of himself, whether as a father or as a man. 

The blood rushed crimson to the brow of George Delawarr, and his handfell, as if by instinct, upon the hilt of his rapier; but the nextmoment he withdrew it, and was cool by a mighty effort. 

"From you, sir, any thing! You will be sorry for this to-morrow!"

"Never, sir! never! Get you gone! base domestic traitor! Get you gone, lest I call my servants, and bid them spurn you from my premises!"

"I go, sir--" he began calmly; but at this moment St. George came uponthe scene, having just returned from Windsor, eager, but, alas! toolate, to anticipate the shameful scene--and to him did George Delawarrturn with unutterable anguish in his eyes. "Bid my men bring my horsesafter me, St. George, " said he, firmly, but mournfully; "for me, thisis no place any longer. Farewell, sir! you will repent of this. Adieu, Blanche, we shall meet again, sweet one. "

"Never! dog, never! or with my own hands--"

"Hush! hush! for shame. Peace, Mister Fitz-Henry, these words are notsuch as may pass between gentlemen. Go, George, for God's sake! Go, and prevent worse scandal, " cried the viscount. 

And miserable beyond all comprehension, his dream of bliss thuscruelly cut short, the young man went his way, leaving his mistresshanging in a deep swoon, happy to be for a while unconscious of hermisery, upon her father's arm. 

Three days had passed--three dark, dismal, hopeless days. Delawarr didhis duty with his regiment, nay, did it well--but he was utterlyunconscious, his mind was afar off, as of a man walking in a dream. Late on the third night a small note was put into his hands, blisteredand soiled with tears. A wan smile crossed his face, he ordered hishorses at daybreak, drained a deep draught of wine, sauntered away tohis own chamber, stopping at every two or three paces in deepmeditation; threw himself on his bed, for the first time in his lifewithout praying, and slept, or seemed to sleep, till daybreak. 

Three days had passed--three dark, dismal, hopeless days! Blanche washalf dead--for she now despaired. All methods had been tried with thefierce and prejudiced old man, secretly prompted by thatdemon-girl--and all tried in vain. Poor Blanche had implored him tosuffer her to resign her birthright in favor of her sister, who wouldwed to suit his wishes, but in vain. The generous St. George hadoffered to purchase for his friend, as speedily as possible, everystep to the very highest in the service; nay, he had obtained from theeasy monarch a promise to raise him to the peerage, but in vain. 

And Blanche despaired; and St. George left the Hall in sorrow anddisgust that he could effect nothing. 

That evening Blanche's maid, a true and honest girl, delivered to hermistress a small note, brought by a peasant lad; and within an hourthe boy went thence, the bearer of a billet, blistered and wet withtears. 

And Blanche crept away unheeded to her chamber, and threw herself uponher knees, and prayed fervently and long; and casting herself upon herpainful bed, at last wept herself to sleep. 

The morning dawned, merry and clear, and lightsome; and all the faceof nature smiled gladly in the merry sunbeams. 

At the first peep of dawn Blanche started from her restless slumbers, dressed herself hastily, and creeping down the stairs with a cautiousstep, unbarred a postern door, darted out into the free air, withoutcasting a glance behind her, and fled, with all the speed of mingledlove and terror, down the green avenue toward the gay pavilion--sceneof so many happy hours. 

But again she was watched by an envious eye, and followed by a jealousfoot. 

For scarce ten minutes had elapsed from the time when she issued fromthe postern, before Agnes appeared on the threshold, with her darkface livid and convulsed with passion; and after pausing a moment, asif in hesitation, followed rapidly in the footsteps of her sister. 

When Blanche reached the summer-house, it was closed and untenanted;but scarcely had she entered and cast open the blinds of one windowtoward the road, before a hard horse-tramp was heard coming up at fullgallop, and in an instant George Delawarr pulled up his pantingcharger in the lane, leaped to the ground, swung himself up into thebranches of the great oak-tree, and climbing rapidly along its gnarledlimbs, sprang down on the other side, rushed into the building, andcast himself at his mistress' feet. 

Agnes was entering the far end of the elm-tree walk as he sprang downinto the little coplanade, but he was too dreadfully preoccupied withhope and anguish, and almost despair, to observe any thing around him. 

But she saw him, and fearful that she should be too late to arrestwhat she supposed to be the lovers' flight, she ran like the wind. 

She neared the doorway--loud voices reached her ears, but whether inanger, or in supplication, or in sorrow, she could not distinguish. 

Then came a sound that rooted her to the ground on which her flyingfoot was planted, in mute terror. 

The round ringing report of a pistol-shot! and ere its echo had begunto die away, another!

No shriek, no wail, no word succeeded--all was as silent as the grave. 

Then terror gave her courage, and she rushed madly forward a fewsteps, then stood on the threshold horror-stricken. 

Both those young souls, but a few days before so happy, so beloved, and so loving, had taken their flight--whither?

Both lay there dead, as they had fallen, but unconvulsed, and gracefuleven in death. Neither had groaned or struggled, but as they hadfallen, so they lay, a few feet asunder--her heart and his brainpierced by the deadly bullets, sped with the accuracy of hisnever-erring aim. 

While she stood gazing, in the very stupor of dread, scarce consciousyet of what had fallen out, a deep voice smote her ear. 

"Base, base girl, this is all your doing!" Then, as if wakening from atrance, she uttered a long, piercing shriek, darted into the pavilionbetween the gory corpses, and flung herself headlong out of the openwindow into the pool beneath. 

But she was not fated so to die. A strong hand dragged her out--thehand of St. George, who, learning that his friend had ridden forthtoward Ditton, had followed him, and arrived too late by scarce aminute. 

From that day forth Agnes Fitz-Henry was a dull, melancholy maniac. Never one gleam of momentary light dispersed the shadows of her insanehorror--never one smile crossed her lip, one pleasant thought relievedher life-long sorrow. Thus lived she; and when death at length came torestore her spirit's light, she died, and made no sign. 

Allan Fitz-Henry _lived_--a moody misanthropic man, shunning all men, and shunned of all. In truth, the saddest and most wretched of thesons of men. 

How that catastrophe fell out none ever knew, and it were useless toconjecture. 

They were beautiful, they were young, they were happy. The evil daysarrived--and they were wretched, and lacked strength to bear theirwretchedness. They are gone where ONE alone must judge them--may HEhave pity on their weakness. REQUIESCANT!

THE LOST PLEIAD. 

BY HENRY B. HIRST. 

 Beautiful sisters! tell me, do you ever Dream of the loved and lost one, she who fell And faded, in love's turbid, crimson river-- The sacred secret tell? Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her, And, chanting harmonies, she danced along; Ere Eros in his silken meshes bound her, Her being passed in song. 

 Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber; Beside her slept her golden-tonguèd lyre; And radiant visions--fancies without number-- Filled breast and brain with fire. She dreamed; and, in her dreams, saw, bending o'er her, A form her fervid fancy deified; And, waking, viewed the noble one before her, Who wooed her as his bride. 

 What words--what passionate words he breathed, beseeching, Have long been lost in the descending years: Nevertheless she listened to his teaching, Smiling between her tears. And ever since that hour the happy maiden Wanders unknown of any one but Jove; Regretting not the lost Olympian Aidenn In the Elysium--Love!

SUNSET AFTER RAIN. 

BY ALFRED B. STREET. 

 All day, with humming and continuous sound, Streaking the landscape, has the slant rain fall'n; But now the mist is vanishing; in the west The dull gray sheet, that shrouded from the sight The sky, is rent in fragments, and rich streaks Of tenderest blue are smiling through the clefts. A dart of sunshine strikes upon the hills, Then melts. The great clouds whiten, and roll off, Until a steady blaze of golden light Kindles the dripping scene. Within the east, The delicate rainbow suddenly breaks out; Soft air-breaths flutter round; each tree shakes down A shower of glittering drops; the woodlands burst Into a chorus of glad harmony; And the rich landscape, full of loveliness, Fades slowly, calmly, sweetly, into night. Thus, sometimes, is the end of Human life. In youth and manhood, sorrows may frown round; But when the sun of Being lowly stoops, The darkness breaks away--the tears are dried; The Christian's hope--a rainbow--brightly glows, And life glides sweet and tranquil to the tomb. 

MONTEZUMA MOGGS. 

THAT WAS TO BE. 

BY THE LATE JOSEPH C. NEAL. 

"Now, Moggs--you Moggs--good Moggs--dear Moggs, " said his wife, running through the chromatic scale of matrimonial address, andmodulating her words and her tones from irritation intotenderness--"yes, Moggs--that's a good soul--I do wish for once youwould try to be a little useful to your family. Stay at home to-day, Moggs, can't you, while I do the washing? It would be so pleasant, Moggs--so like old times, to hear you whistling at your work, while Iam busy at mine. "

And a smile of affection stole across the countenance of Mrs. Moggs, like a stray sunbeam on a cloudy day, breaking up the sharp and fixedlines of care into which her features had settled as a habitualexpression, and causing her also to look as she did in the "oldtimes, " to which she now so kindly referred. 

"Wont you, Moggs?" added she, laying her hand upon his shoulder, "itwould be so pleasant, dear--wouldn't it? I should not mind hard work, Moggs, if you were at work near me. "

There was a tear, perhaps, twinkling in the eye of the wife, givinggentleness to the hard, stony look which she in general wore, causedby those unceasing troubles of her existence that leave no time forweeping. Perpetual struggle hardens the heart and dries up the sourceof tears. 

"Wont you, Moggs?"

The idea of combined effort was a pleasant family picture to Mrs. Moggs, though it did involve not a little of toil. Still, to herloneliness it was a pleasant picture, accustomed as she had been tostrive alone, and continually, to support existence. But it seems thatperceptions of the pleasant and of the picturesque in such matters, differ essentially; and Moggs, glancing through the sentimental, andbeyond it, felt determined, as he always did, to avoid the troublewhich it threatened. 

"Can't be, " responded Moggs, slightly shrugging his shoulder, as ahint to his wife that the weight of her hand was oppressive. "Can'tbe, " continued he, as he set himself industriously--for in this Moggswas industrious--to the consumption of the best part of the breakfastthat was before him--a breakfast that had been, as usual, provided byhis wife, and prepared by her, while Montezuma Moggs was fastasleep--an amusement to which, next to eating, Montezuma Moggs wasgreatly addicted when at home, as demanding the least possible effortand exertion on his part. Montezuma Moggs, you see, was in somerespects not a little of an economist; and, as a rule, never made hisappearance in the morning until firmly assured that breakfast wasquite ready--"'most ready, " was too indefinite and vague for MontezumaMoggs--he had been too often tricked from comfort in that waybefore--people will so impose on one in this respect--envious people, who covet your slumbers--such as those who drag the covering off, orsprinkle water on the unguarded physiognomy. But Moggs took care, inthe excess of his caution, that no time should be lost by him in atedious interval of hungry expectation. 

"Say ready--quite ready--and I'll come, " muttered he, in that sleepydebate between bed and breakfast which often consumes so much of time;and his eyes remained shut and his mouth open until perfectly assuredthat all the preliminary arrangements had been completed. "Because, "as Moggs wisely observed, "that half hour before breakfast, reflectingon sausages and speculating on coffee, if there is sausages andcoffee, frets a man dreadful, and does him more harm than all the restof the day put together. "--Sagacious Moggs!

Besides, Moggs has a great respect for himself--much more, probably, than he has for other people, being the respecter of a person, ratherthan of persons, and that person being himself. Moggs, therefore, disdains the kindling of fires, splitting wood, and all that, especially of frosty mornings--and eschews the putting on ofkettles--well knowing that if an individual is in the way when the aidof an individual is required, there is likely to be a requisition onthe individual's services. Montezuma Moggs understood how to "skulk;"and we all comprehend the fact that to "skulk" judiciously is a finepolitical feature, saving much of wear and tear to the body corporate. 

"Mend boots--mind shop--tend baby!--can't be, " repeated Moggs, draining the last drop from his cup--"boots, shops and babies mustmend, mind and tend themselves--I'm going to do something better thanthat;" and so Moggs rose leisurely, took his hat, and departed, tostroll the streets, to talk at the corners, and to read thebulletin-boards at the newspaper offices, which, as Moggs oftenremarks, not only encourages literature, but is also one of thecheapest of all amusements--vastly more agreeable than if you paid forit. 

It was a little shop, in one of the poorer sections of the city, whereMontezuma Moggs resided with his family--Mrs. Moggs and five juvenilesof that name and race--a shop of the miscellaneous order, in which wasoffered for sale a little, but a very little, of any thing, and everything--one of those distressed looking shops which bring a sensationof dreariness over the mind, and which cause a sinking of the heartbefore you have time to ask why you are saddened--a frail and feeblebarrier it seems against penury and famine, to yield at the firstapproach of the gaunt enemy--a shop that has no aspect of businessabout it, but compels you to think of distraining for rent, of brokenhearts, of sickness, suffering and death. 

It was a shop, moreover--we have all seen the like--with a bell to it, which rings out an announcement as we open the door, that, few and farbetween, there has been an arrival in the way of a customer, though itmay be, as sometimes happens, that the bell, with all its untunedsharpness, fails to triumph over the din of domestic affairs in thelittle back-room, which serves for parlor, and kitchen, and hall, andproves unavailing to spread the news against the turbulent clamor ofnoisy children and a vociferous wife. 

But be patient to the last--even if the bell does prove insufficientto attract due attention to your majestic presence, whether you cometo make purchases or to avail yourself of the additional proffer madeby the sign appertaining to Moggs exclusively, relative to "Boots andshoes mended, " collateral to which you observe a work-bench in thecorner; still, be patient, and cause the energies of your heel to hold"wooden discourse" with the sanded floor, as emphatically you cry--

"Shop!" and beat with pennies on the counter. 

Be patient; for, look ye, Mrs. Moggs will soon appear, with a flushedcountenance and a soiled garb--her youngest hope, if a young Moggs isto be called a hope, sobbing loudly on its mother's shoulder, whilethe unawed pratlers within, carry on the war with increasing violence. 

"Shop!"

"Comin'!--what's wanten?" is the sharp and somewhat discourteousreply, as Mrs. Moggs gives a shake of admonition to her peevish littlecharge, and turns half back to the riotous assemblage in the rear. 

Now, we ask it of you as a special favor, that you do not suffer anyshadow of offence to arise at the dash of acerbity that may manifestitself in the tones of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs. According to our notionof the world, as it goes, she, and such as she, deserve rather to behonored than to provoke wrath by the defects of an unpolished andunguarded manner. She has her troubles, poor woman--gnawing cares, towhich, in all likelihood, yours are but as the gossamer upon the wind, or as the thistle-down floating upon the summer breeze; and if therebe cash in your pocket, do not, after having caused such a turmoil, content yourself with simply asking where Jones resides, or Jenkinslives. It would be cruel--indeed it would. True, Mrs. Moggs expectslittle else from one of your dashing style and elegant appearance. Such a call rarely comes to her but with some profitless query; yetlook around at the sparse candies, the withering apples, and theforlorn groceries--specimens of which are affixed to the window-panesin triangular patches of paste and paper--speak they not of poverty?Purchase, then, if it be but a trifle. 

Mrs. Moggs, unluckily for herself, is possessed of a husband. Husbands, they say, are often regarded as desirable; and some of themare spoken of as if they were a blessing. But if the opinion of Mrs. Moggs were obtained on that score, it would probably be somewhatdifferent; for be it known that the husband of Mrs. Moggs is of thekind that is neither useful nor ornamental. He belongs to thatdivision which addicts itself mainly to laziness--a species of thebiped called husband, which unfortunately is not so rare that we seekfor the specimen only in museums. We know not whether Montezuma Moggswas or was not born lazy; nor shall we undertake to decide thatlaziness is an inherent quality; but as Mrs. Moggs was herself athrifty, painstaking woman, as women, to their credit be it spoken, are apt to be, her lazy husband, as lazy husbands will, in all suchcases, continued to grow and to increase in laziness, shifting everycare from his own broad shoulders to any other shoulders, whetherbroad or narrow, strong or wreak, that had no craven shrinkings fromthe load, Moggs contenting himself in an indolence which must be seento be appreciated by those--husbands or wives--who perform their tasksin this great work-shop of human effort with becoming zeal and withconscientious assiduity, regarding laziness as a sin against the greatpurposes of their being. If this assumption be true, as we suspect itis, Montezuma Moggs has much to answer for; though it is a commonoccurrence, this falling back into imbecility, if there be any one athand willing to ply the oar, as too often shown in the fact that thechildren of the industrious are willing to let their parents work, while the energetic wife has a drag upon her in the shape of alounging husband. 

Yes, Mrs. Moggs belongs to the numerous class of women who have whatis well called "a trying time of it. " You may recognize them in thestreet, by their look of premature age--anxious, hollow-eyed, and wornto shadows. There is a whole history in every line of their faces, which tells of unceasing trouble, and their hard, quick movement asthey press onward regardless of all that begirts the way, indicatesthose who have no thought to spare from their own immediatenecessities, for comment upon the gay and flaunting world. Little doesostentation know, as it flashes by in satined arrogance and jeweledpride, of the sorrow it may jostle from its path; and perhaps it ishappy for us as we move along in smiles and pleasantness, not tocomprehend that the glance which meets our own comes from thebleakness of a withered heart--withered by penury's unceasingpresence. 

Moggs is in fault--ay, Montezuma Moggs--what, he "mend boots, mindshop, tend baby, " bringing down his lofty aspirations for the futureto be cabined within the miserable confines of the present!

"Hard work?" sneers Moggs--"yes, if a man sets himself down to hardwork, there he may set--nothing else but hard work will ever come tohim--but if he wont do hard work, then something easier will be sure tocome toddlin' along sooner or later. What can ever find you but hardwork if you are forever in the shop, a thumpin' and a hammerin'? Goodluck never ventures near lap-stones and straps. I never saw any of itthere in the whole course of my life; and I'm waitin' for good luck, so as to be ready to catch it when it comes by. "

Montezuma Moggs had a turn for politics; and for many a year heexhibited great activity in that respect, believing confidently thatgood luck to himself might grow from town-meetings and elections; andyou may have observed him on the platform when oratory addressed the"masses, " or on the election ground with a placard to his button, anda whole handfull of tickets. But his luck did not seem to wear thatshape; and politically, Montezuma Moggs at last took his place in the"innumerable caravan" of the disappointed. And thus, in turn, has hecourted fortune in all her phases, without a smile of recognition fromthe blinded goddess. The world never knows its noblest sons; andMontezuma Moggs was left to sorrow and despair. 

Could he have been honored with a lofty commission, Montezuma Moggsmight have set forth to a revel in the halls of his namesake; but asone of the rank and file, he could not think of it. And in privateconversation with his sneering friend Quiggens, to whose captiousnessand criticism Moggs submitted, on the score of the cigars occasionallyderivable from that source, he ventured the subjoined remarks relativeto his military dispositions:

"What I want, " said Moggs, "is a large amount of glory, and a biggershare of pay--a man like me ought to have plenty of both--glory, toswagger about with, while the people run into the street to stare atMoggs, all whiskers and glory--and plenty of pay, to make the gloryshine, and to set it off. I wouldn't mind, besides, if I did have anice little wound or two, if they've got any that don't hurt much, sothat I might have my arm in a sling, or a black patch on mycountenance. But if I was only one of the rank and file, I'm very muchafraid I might have considerable more of knocks that would hurt agreat deal, than I should of either the pay or the glory--that's whattroubles me in the milentary way. But make me a gineral, and then, I'll talk to you about the matter--make me a gineral ossifer, with thecommission, and the feathers, and the cocked-hat--plenty of pay, and alarge slice of rations--there's nothing like rations--and then I'lltalk to you like a book. Then I'll pledge you my lives, and myfortunes, and my sacred honors--all of 'em--that I will furnish thegenus whenever it is wanted--genus in great big gloves, monstrous longboots, and astride of a hoss that scatters the little boys likeBoston, whenever I touch the critter with my long spurs, to astonishthe ladies. Oh, get out!--do you think I couldn't play gineral andlook black as thunder, for such pay as ginerals get? I'd do it forhalf the money, and I'd not only do it cheaper, but considerablebetter than you ever see it done the best Fourth of July you ever metwith. At present, I know I've not much rations, and no money atall--money's skurse--but as for genus--look at my eye--isn't genusthere?--observation my nose--isn't it a Boneyparte?--aint I sevagerousabout the mouth?--I tell you, Quiggens, there's whole lots of a heroin this little gentleman. I've so much genus that I can't work. When aman's genus is a workin' in his upper story, and mine always is, thenhis hands has to be idle, so's not to interrupt his genus. "

"Yes, " responded Quiggens, who is rather of the satirical turn, as oneis likely to be who has driven the "Black Maria, " and has thus foundout that the world is all a fleeting show; "yes, you've got so muchgenus in your upper story that it has made a hole in the crown of yourhat, so it can see what sort of weather is going on out of doors--andit's your genus, I reckon, that's peeping out of your elbows. Whydon't you ask your genus to patch your knees, and to mend the holes inyour boots?"

"Quiggens, go 'way, Quiggens--you're of the common natur', Quiggens--avulgar fraction, Quiggens; and you can't understand an indiwidooal whohas a mind inside of his hat, and a whole soul packed away under hisjacket. You'll never rise, a flutterin' and a ringin' like abald-headed eagle--men like you have got no wings, and can only goabout nibblin' the grass, while we fly up and peck cherries from thetrees. I'm always thinkin' on what I'm going to be, and a preparin'myself for what natur' intended, though I don't know exactly what itis yet. But I don't believe that sich a man as Montezuma Moggs wasbrought into the world only to put patches on shoes and to heel-tappeople's boots. No, Quiggens--no--it can't be, Quiggens. But you don'tunderstand, and I'll have to talk to my genus. It's the only friend Ihave. "

"Why don't you ask your genus to lend you a fip then, or see whetherit's got any cigars to give away, " replied Quiggs contemptuously, ashe walked up the street, while Moggs, in offended majesty, stalkedsulkily off in another direction. 

"I would go somewheres, if I only knew where to go to, " soliloquizedMoggs, as he strolled slowly along the deserted streets; "but whenthere's nowheres to go to, then I suppose a person must gohome--specially of cold nights like this, when the thermometer is downas far as Nero, and acts cruel on the countenance. It's always colder, too, when there's nobody about but yourself--you get your own shareand every body else's besides; and it's lucky if you're not friz. Whydon't they have gloves for people's noses? I ought to have acarriage--yes, and horses--ay, and a colored gemman to drive 'em, tosay nothing of a big house warmed all over, with curtains to thewindows. And why haven't I? Isn't Montezuma Moggs as good asanybody--isn't he as big--as full of genus? It's cold now, a footin'it round. But I'll wait--perhaps there's a good time comin', boys--there must be a good time, for there isn't any sort of times inthe place where they keep time, which can be worse times than thesetimes. But here's home--here's where you must go when you don't knowwhat to do with yourself. Whenever a man tells you he has nowheres togo to, or says he's goin' nowheres, that man's a crawlin' home, because he can't help it. Well, well--there's nothin' else to be did, and so somebody must turn out and let me in home. "

It appeared, however, that Montezuma Moggs erred in part in thiscalculation. It is true enough that he knocked and knocked foradmission at the door of his domicile; but the muscular effort thusemployed seemed to serve no other purpose than that of exercise. Tiredwith the employment of his hands in this regard, Moggs resorted to hisfeet--then tried his knee, and anon his back, after the usualdesperate variety of such appeal resorted to by the "great lockedout, " when they become a little savage or so at the delay to whichthey are subjected. Sometimes, also, he would rap fiercely, and thenapply his eye to the key-hole, as if to watch for the effect of hisrapping. "I don't see 'em, " groaned he. And then again, his ear wouldbe placed against the lock--"I don't hear 'em either. " There weremoments when he would frantically kick the door, and then rush asfrantically to the middle of the street, to look at the windows; butno sign of animation from within peered forth to cheer him. After fullan hour of toil and of hope deferred, Montezuma Moggs tossed his armsaloft in despair--let them fall listlessly at his side, and then satdown upon the curb-stone to weep, while the neighbors looked upon himfrom their respective windows; a benevolent few, not afraid ofcatching cold, coming down to him with their condolements. None, however, offered a resting place to the homeless, unsheltered anddespairing Moggs. 

In the course of his musings and mournings, as he sat chattering withcold, a loosened paving-stone arrested his attention; and, with theinstinct of genius, which catches comfort and assistance from meansapparently the most trivial, and unpromising in their aspect, thepaving-stone seemed to impart an idea to Montezuma Moggs, in this "hislast and fearfulest extremity. " Grappling this new weapon in both hishands, he raised it and poised it aloft. 

"I shall make a ten-strike now, " exclaimed he, as he launched themissile at the door with herculean force, and himself remained inclassic attitude watching the effect of the shot, as the door groaned, and creaked, and splintered under the unwonted infliction. Still, however, it did not give way before this application of force, thoughthe prospect was encouraging. The observers laughed--Moggschuckled--the dogs barked louder than before; and indeed it seemed allround as if a new light had been cast upon the subject. 

"Hongcore!" cried somebody. 

"I will, " said Moggs, preparing to demonstrate accordingly. 

"Stop there, " said the voice of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs, as she raisedthe window, "if you hongcore the door of this 'ere house again, I'llcall the watch, to see what he thinks of such doings, I will. And now, once for all, you can't come in here to-night. "

"Can't, indeed!--why can't I?--not come into my own house! Do youcall this a free country, on the gineral average, if such rebellionsare to be tolerated?"

"Your house, Mr. Moggs--yours?--who pays the rent, Moggs--who feedsyou and the children, Moggs--who finds the fire and every thing else?Tell us that?"

This was somewhat of the nature of a home-thrust, and Moggs, ratherconscience-stricken, was dumb-founded and appalled. Moggs was verycold, and therefore, for the time being, deficient in his usual prideand self-esteem, leaving himself more pervious to the assault ofreproach from without and within, than he would have been in a moregenial state of the atmosphere. No man is courageous when he isthoroughly chilled; and it had become painfully evident that this wasnot a momentary riot, but an enduring revolution, through theintermedium of a civil war. 

"Ho, ho!" faintly responded Moggs, though once more preparing to carrythe citadel by storm, "I'll settle this business in a twinkling. "

Splash!

Any thing but cold water in quantity at a crisis like this. Who couldendure a shower-bath under such ungenial circumstances? Not Priessnitzhimself. It is not, then, to be wondered at that Montezuma Moggs nowquailed, having nothing in him of the amphibious nature. 

"Water is cheap, Mr. Moggs; and you'd better take keer. There'sseveral buckets yet up here of unkommon cold water, all of which is atyour service without charge--wont ask you nothin', Moggs, for yourwashin'; and if you're feverish, may be it will do you good. "

Everybody laughed, as you know everybody will, at any other body'smisfortune or disaster. Everybody laughed but Moggs, and he shivered. 

"I'll sattinly ketch my death, " moaned he; "I'll be friz, standingstraight up, like a big icicle; or if I fall over when I'm friz, theboys will slide on me as they go to school, and call it fun as they gowhizzing over my countenance with nails in their shoes, scratching myphysimohogany all to pieces. They tell me that being friz is an easydeath--that you go to sleep and don't know nothing about it. I wishthey'd get their wives to slouse 'em all over with a bucket of water, on sich a night as this, and then try whether it is easy. Call beingfriz hard an easy thing! I'd rather be biled any time. What shill Ido--what shill I do?"

"Perhaps they'll put you in an ice-house, and kiver you up with tantill summer comes--you'd be good for something then, which is more noryou are now, " observed Mrs. Moggs from the window. 

"Quit twitting a man with his misfortunes, " whined Montezuma, of thenow broken-heart. 

"Why, my duck!"

"Y-e-e-s--y-e-e-s! that's it--I am a duck, indeed! but by morning I'llbe only a snow-ball--the boys will take my head for a snow-ball. Whatshill I do--I guvs up, and I guvs in. "

"Well, I'll tell you, Montezuma Moggs, what you must do to be thawed. Promise me faithfully only to work half as hard as I do, and you maycome to the fire--the ten-plate stove is almost red-hot. Promise tomend boots, mind shop, and tend baby; them's the terms--that's theprice of admission. "

Hard terms, certainly--the severest of terms--but then hard terms, andsevere terms, are good terms, if no other terms are to be had. Onemust do the best he can in this world, if it be imperative upon him todo something, as it evidently was in Moggs' case. 

"I promise, " shivered Moggs. 

"Promise what?"

"T-t-to tend baby, m-m-mind shop, and m-m-mend boots;" and thevanquished Moggs sank down exhausted, proving, beyond the possibilityof doubt, that cold water, when skillfully applied of a cold night, isthe sovereignest thing on earth for the cure of "genus" in its lazierbranches. 

It is but justice, however, to state, that Moggs kept his wordfaithfully, in which he contradicted the general expectation, which, with reason enough in the main, places but little reliance onpromises; and he became, for him, quite an industrious person. Hiswife's buckets served as a continual remembrancer. But Mrs. Moggsnever exulted over his defeat; and, though once compelled toharshness, continued to be to Montezuma a most excellent wife. Theshop looks lively now--and the bell to the door is removed; for Moggs, with his rat-tat-tat, is ever at his post, doing admired execution onthe dilapidated boots and shoes. The Moggses prosper, and all throughthe efficacy of a bucket of cold water. We should not wonder if, inthe end, the Moggs family were to become rich, through the force ofindustry, and without recourse to "genus. "

"Politics and me has shuck hands forever, " said the repentant Moggs. "I've been looking out and expecting loaves and fishes long enough. Loaves, indeed! Why I never got even a cracker, unless it was aside ofthe ear, when there was a row on the election ground; and as forfishes, why, if I'd stopped any longer for them to come swimming up tomy mouth, all ready fried, with pepper on 'em, I wouldn't even havebeen decent food for fishes myself. I never got a nibble, let alone abite; but somebody else always cotch'd the fish, and asked me to carry'em home for them. Fact is, if people wont wote for me, I wont wotefor people. And as for the milentary line, I give up in a gineral way, all idea of being a gineral ossifer. Bonyparte is dead, and if mymilentary genus was so great that I couldn't sleep for it, who'd huntme up and put me at the head of affairs? No, if I'm wanted for anything, they'll have to call me. I've dodged about winkin' and noddin'as long as the country had any right to expect, and now--rat-tat-tat--I'mgoing to work for myself. "

It was a wise conclusion on the part of Moggs, who may, perchance, inthis way, be a "gineral" yet. 

THE BRIDE'S CONFESSION. 

BY ALICE G. LEE. 

 A sudden thrill passed through my heart, Wild and intense--yet not of pain-- I strove to quell quick, bounding throbs, And scanned the sentence o'er again. It might have been full idly penned By one whose thoughts from love were free, And yet as if entranced I read "Thou art most beautiful to me. "

 Thou didst not whisper I was loved-- There were no gleams of tenderness, Save those my trembling heart _would_ hope That careless sentence might express. But while the blinding tears fell fast, Until the words I scarce could see, There shone, as through a wreathing mist, "Thou art most beautiful to me. "

 To thee! I cared not for all eyes So I was beautiful in thine! A timid star, my faint, sad beams Upon _thy_ path alone should shine. Oh what was praise, save from thy lips-- And love should all unheeded be So I could hear thy blessed voice Say--"Thou art beautiful to me. "

 And I _have heard_ those very words-- Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze-- Though thou, perchance, hadst quite forgot They had been said in by-gone days. While claspèd hand, and circling arm, Drew me nearer still to thee-- Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear "Thou, love, art beautiful to me. "

 And, dearest, though thine eyes alone May see in me a single grace-- I care not so thou e'er canst find A hidden sweetness in my face. And if, as years and cares steal on, Even that lingering light must flee, What matter! if from thee I hear "Thou art _still_ beautiful to me!"

SONNET TO NIGHT. 

 Oh! look, my love, as over seas and lands Comes shadowy Night, with dew, and peace, and rest; How every flower clasps its folded hands And fondly leans apon her faithful breast. How still, how calm, is all around us now, From the high stars to these pale buds beneath-- Calm, as the quiet on an infant's brow Rocked to deep slumber in the lap of death. Oh! hush--move not--it is a holy hour And this soft nurse of nature, bending low, Lists, like the sinless pair in Eden's bower, For angels' pinions waving to and fro-- Oh, sacred Night! what mysteries are thine Graven in stars upon thy page divine. GRETTA. 

PAULINE DUMESNIL. 

OR A MARRIAGE DE CONVENANCE. 

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL. 

 The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill A perfect woman, nobly planned. WORDSWORTH. 

In a large but somewhat scantily furnished apartment sat two younggirls, in such earnest and apparently serious conversation that, butfor their youthful and blooming countenances, one might have fanciedthem bending beneath the cares and sorrows of age. On the dark oldtable between them rested a magnificent work-box, whose richimplements they had been busily and skillfully using; but now thescissors and thread lay at their feet, their needles were dropped, andthe younger of the two sat with clasped hands, while her companion'slow tones appeared to awaken every emotion of her heart. 

On the old-fashioned French bedstead were thrown dresses of varioushues and expensive stuffs, while one only, a robe of the most delicatematerial, its graceful folds looped with orange flowers, seemed toattract the attention of the fair, fragile being, whose attitude wasone of intense suffering. Her bright hopes had faded at sight of thatcolorless garb, and the bridal wreath was to wither on her brow! Whatto her sad soul were the costly things before her? The jewels thatsparkled on their snow-white satin case, the long fairy veil ofbeautiful lace that lay side by side with the bridal dress?

Her companion continued speaking, and she bowed her face upon thoseclasped hands, while her slight frame shook with its contendingemotions. A few moments more and she raised her head. She was pale, and her large, dark eyes dilated into fearful size. At length the bigdrops came slowly down her cheek, and she was able to speak. 

"No more, Angela, no more! You love me, I know; but what you have doneto day was no act of friendship. You have troubled the dark waters ofmy soul until they have become a torrent over which I have nocontrol. "

"And it is because I love you, Pauline, that I have made your futurelife manifest to you. Do not seek to make a merit of obedience to yourproud mother's will. It is because you have been taught to fear her, that you have consented to perjure yourself, and marry a man youcannot love. "

"For the love of heaven, spare me!" cried the girl, shrinking from herfriend's words, "Is it to triumph over me that you thus seek to moveme?"

Her friend gazed mournfully upon her, and rising from her seat, gentlyput her arm around her. 

"My poor Pauline! my dear Pauline!" murmured she, "I have beencruel--forgive me. "

Her answer was a fervent embrace--and throwing their arms round oneanother, they wept in silence. 

At this moment the door opened, and a lady entered. She was tall andmajestic, but there was an expression of pride and extreme hauteur onher countenance. She wore a handsome but faded dress, and the somewhathigh-crowned cap bespoke a love of former fashions. She had a foreignair, and when she addressed her daughter, it was in French. 

"How is this!" cried she, angrily. "What scenes are these, Pauline? Asoften as I enter your room I find you in tears. Is it to your advice, Mademoiselle Percy, that my daughter owes her red eyes?"

Angela was about to reply, but Pauline waved her back. 

"Is it, then, a crime to weep, mamma? If there were no tears, theheart would break. "

"It is a crime, Pauline, to resist the will of your mother, when shehas provided for your happiness in a manner suitable to your rank andbirth. It is a crime to break the fifth commandment, which tells youto honor and obey your mother. "

"And have I not done both, " cried Pauline, indignantly. "Have you notsold my happiness? Have you not bartered perhaps my eternal welfare, that I might lay my aching head upon the downy pillows of the rich, that you might see me a wretched slave, writhing under chains not theless heavy because they are of gold?"

"Have you been reading Racine this morning? Or have you been studyingfor the stage?" said Madame Dumesnil, in a cold, scornful tone. "Youare a good actress, certainly. "

Pauline sank upon a chair, and her friend stood beside her, pressingher trembling hand. Her mother advanced and stood before her. 

"We will have no more of this, Pauline. If I feel satisfied that myduty is done, you should rejoice in obeying me. I alone am the judgein this matter--children should ever be contented with allowing theirparents to act for them; and allow me to say, that any interference ofstrangers upon an occasion like this, is exceedingly misplaced. "

This was aimed at Angela Percy; but she only replied by a wonderingand mournful gaze to the stern, cold woman before her. The old ladyproceeded. 

"Bathe your eyes, Pauline, and arrange your hair. Monsieur deVaissiere is below. Perhaps, " added she, with a sneer, "perhaps thatMiss Percy will assist you in entertaining your lover. "

Pauline started and shuddered, but by this time she had again yieldedto her mother's influence. Going to the glass, she smoothed her darkhair, and endeavored to abate the swelling of her eyes. Biddingfarewell to her friend, she descended to the parlor, where heraffianced husband awaited her. 

He was tall, and his appearance _distingué_; but he, too, looked sternand cold as he rose to meet that young creature, whose nineteensummers were more than doubled by his years. He was handsome also; butwhere was the youthful ardor that should have been roused at the ideaof winning that fair girl's love? Where were the sunny hopes to meethers, the dreams of the future that _he_ wanted? His willingness toaccept the sacrifice was no proof of his gentleness; and the cheek ofhis betrothed grew pale, and her hand was cold, as he led her to aseat. 

Pauline had been bred to the hard forcing-school of the _ancienrégime_. Her mother had left France on the terrible death of herbeloved queen, Marie Antoinette, and had passed from the high post of_dame d'honneur_, to poverty and exile in America. The sale of hermagnificent jewels and massive silver, had enabled her to lease an oldroomy mansion, deserted by its owners, and to live in peace andretirement. Here, with the recollection of the horrors of therevolution fresh within her memory, while her heart was still bleedingwith the wounds it had received; while she still had before her themangled remains of her sovereigns--the bleeding head of her husband, torn from her in the days of their early love; in the midst of theseagonizing thoughts, she gave birth to a posthumous child--the heroineof our story. Clasping her babe to her breast, Madame Dumesnilbitterly recalled the many plans of happiness her murdered husband hadmade in anticipation of its coming--his affection for _her_--hisanxiety for her safety--their parting, and the subsequent news of hisexecution. Those lips were mute whose words of tenderness were tosoothe her in her hour of suffering; that hand was cold that wouldhave rested on her brow; that heart was still that would have boundedwith a father's love at sight of the tiny, helpless creature that layupon her arm. 

Madame Dumesnil, the young, the lovely, and the gentle, became silent, reserved, and harsh. Nothing could swerve her from a determinationmade, and with feelings of the deepest parental affection for herdaughter, she had crushed and broken her spirit in the sweetspring-time of her childhood. 

From the time Pauline was old enough to form a desire, she learned tohear it opposed. "_Une petite fille attend qu'on lui donne se qui luifaut_, " was the invariable reply to all her childish longings. According to the old French system, every slight offence was followedby her mother's "_Allez vous coucher, mademoiselle_;" so that half herlife was spent in bed, while she lay awake with the bright, broaddaylight around her, the hour when other children are strengtheningtheir little limbs in the active enjoyment of God's free, fresh air. 

As she grew older, she was taught that "_une demoiselle bien elevéen'a pas d'opinions_, " that her parents judged and decided for her;and while she sat erect upon a high stool, accomplishing her dailytasks in silence, her heart nearly burst with the pent-up feelings ofher young imagination. Wherever she went her mother's oldwaiting-woman was behind her. "Miss Pauline, hold yourself straight;Miss Pauline, turn out your feet--your head, mademoiselle--your arms!"Poor girl! she was well-nigh distracted with these incessantadmonitions. 

In her walks she met Angela Percy and her father. They had latelysettled in the neighborhood, and having no acquaintances, gladly madeadvances to the timid Pauline. Nothing daunted by her shyness andreserve, Angela, some years her senior, persevered, and overcame it. She was an enthusiastic, high-minded girl, and soon pointed out to hercompanion new views and new ideas of the world from which she had beenexcluded. The intimacy was formed ere Madame Dumesnil could preventit, and at the instances of old Jeannette, who begged thatMademoiselle Pauline might have a friend of her own age--some one totalk to, besides two old women, she consented to allow the friendshipto continue, provided Jeannette were present at every interview. Thiswas easily promised, but the nurse's stiff limbs were no match for theagile supple ones of her young charges. Day by day she loiteredbehind, while Pauline and Angela, with their arms entwined, continuedin eager and undisturbed enjoyment of one another's society. Jeannetteremarked a glow upon her young lady's cheek, and a light in hereye--new charms in her hitherto pale, resigned countenance; and, wiserthan her mistress, concluded that the acquisition of a youthful friendwas fast pouring happiness into her lonely heart. 

Three years passed in this pleasant intercourse, when the monotony oftheir lives was broken by the arrival of an old friend of MadameDumesnil--a Monsieur de Vaissiere. When they had last met, she was inthe morning of her beauty and bliss, he a handsome youth, for whommany a fair one had sighed, and in vain--as he was still unmarried. What a change! He could not recognize the lovely young countess, whosemarriage had been attended with so much éclat--so many rejoicings; norcould she see one vestige of the blooming countenance, the delicateprofile, and the jet-black wavy locks that once shaded his fair, openbrow. But these works of time were soon forgotten, and the desire ofthe proud, harsh mother was accomplished when, after a few weeks, M. De Vaissiere proposed for the hapless Pauline. Unconsciously, but withthe thoughtlessness of selfishness, Madame Dumesnil sacrificed herchild to her prejudices. M. De Vaissiere's opinions and _hers_ werethe same; their admiration of _le vieux systeme_--their fondrecollection of the unfortunate monarch, whose weakness they had neverreproached him with, even in their secret souls--their abhorrence ofBonaparte--their contempt for _la noblesse Napoleonne_--their upturnednoses at their adopted countrymen, _les Americains_--their want offaith in hearts and love--the sinecure-ism of young people--theirpresumption--their misfortune being that they _were_ young and notborn old--and finally, the coincidence of opinions wherein both lookedupon the white-headed suitor as a most eligible husband for the young, the blooming, the beautiful Pauline. 

M. De Vaissiere settled a _dot_ upon his _fiancée_, and ordered a_trousseau_ and a _corbeille_, not forgetting the _cachemire_. Thepreliminaries were arranged, the day hinted at, and Pauline wasinformed with a flourish of trumpets that her destiny was fixed. 

She listened to her mother's rhapsodies over the admirable _parti_Providence had enabled her to provide for her child in the wildernessof America; she heard her enlarge upon her own excellence as a parent, of the favor she had conferred upon her in bringing her into theworld; of her consequent obligations, and the gratitude she owed hermother when she recollected that not content with giving her life, shehad clothed, fed, and supported her until now. All this Paulinereceived in a silence that resembled stupor; but when M. De Vaissierewas again mentioned, she fell, with a scream of terror, at hermother's feet. 

In vain she wept and entreated; in vain she protested against thedisparity of age, the utter want of congeniality, the absence of allaffection, Madame Dumesnil was too much incensed to reply. With agesture that Pauline well understood, (for it was used to expressmaledictions of every description, ) she left the room, and locking thedoor, kept her daughter prisoner for the rest of the day. 

She treated this resistance to her will as one of the unhappyconsequences of living in a republican country. She suspected Angelaof communicating American ideas of independence to her daughter, andwould have added to her wretchedness by forbidding further intercoursebetween the two friends. But Jeannette again interfered; she knew thatPauline's doom was sealed, and that it would be more than cruel todeprive her of the companion she loved. She herself carried the notethat conveyed the intelligence of Pauline's coming fate to theindignant Angela, and extended her walks that her poor young ladymight derive what consolation she could from her friend's willingsympathy. Many were the tears she shed, many the sighs that burst fromher oppressed heart, as the poor old creature followed behind them. Once she had summoned courage sufficient to expostulate with hermistress upon the cruelty of her conduct to her daughter; but she washaughtily dismissed. 

Every effort had been made, and at length Angela appealed to Pauline. She entreated her to be more firm, and to declare her resolution neverto marry where she could not love. 

"Rouse yourself, Pauline--the misery of a lifetime is before you, andit is not yet too late. "

"I have done every thing, Angela, " said Pauline, despairingly. "Mydoom is sealed, and I must bend to my bitter fate. I would fly, butthat I could not survive my mother's curse. "

"The curse of the unrighteous availeth naught, " replied her friend, solemnly. "Were you wrongfully opposing your mother's will, minewould be the last voice to uphold you; but now your very soul is atstake. "

Pauline cast up her eyes in mute appeal to heaven. Her companionbecame excited as she proceeded, depicting the horrors of an unequalmarriage. Pale and exhausted, her listener at length entreated her toforbear. She had been too long the slave of her mother's wishes tooppose them now; she had been drilled into fear until it was aweakness. This her bold-hearted, energetic friend could notunderstand; and it was on her reproaching Pauline with moral cowardicethat she, for the first time, resented what had in fact been patientlyborne. 

We have seen how kindly Angela forgave the accusation, and how shewept over the effect of her words. The sudden entrance of MadameDumesnil put an end to the conversation, and the friends separated. 

The next morning Angela was at Pauline's side again. Silently sheassisted in decorating the victim for the sacrifice. The bright jewelsclasped her arm and neck; the long veil hung around her slender form;the orange wreath rested on the dark, dark tresses--and the dress wasbeautiful. But the bride! she was pale and ghastly, and her lips blueand quivering. Her eyes were void of all expression--those liquid, lustrous eyes; and ever and anon the large drops rolled over her face, oozing from the depths of her heart. 

Poor Jeannette turned away, sobbing convulsively as the finishingtouches were given to this sad bridal toilette. Angela remained firmand collected, but she, too, was pale; her cherished companion wasgone from her forever--gone in such misery, too, that she almostprayed to see her the corpse she at that moment resembled. 

Madame Dumesnil had remained below with the bridegroom and Mr. Percy, the sole witness to this ill-omened marriage. At length the hour came, Pauline was nearly carried down by Angela and Jeannette, and in a fewmoments bound forever to a man she loathed. The ceremony was ended, and the bride, with a convulsive sigh, fell back into the arms of hermother. Restoratives were procured, and at last she opened her eyes. They rested on the face of her friend, who hung over her in muteagony. Forcing a smile, which was taken by M. De Vaissiere forhimself, Pauline arose, and hurried through her farewell. Her husbandhanded her into his carriage--and thus Pauline Dumesnil left herfriends and her home. 

 * * * * *

Years had passed, and Pauline sat alone in her magnificent boudoir, the presiding deity of one of the finest hotels in Paris. Fortune hadfavored M. De Vaissiere. He had lived to rejoice over the downfall ofthe mighty Napoleon, and his mournful exile. He had returned to hisbeloved France, recovered his vast estates, and presented his youngwife at court. His vanity was flattered at her gracious reception, andthe admiration that followed her; his pride was roused, and, muchagainst her will, Pauline found herself the centre of a gay circlethat crowded her vast saloons as often as they were thrown open forthe reception of her now numerous acquaintances. 

It was on one of these evenings that Pauline sought the silence of herprivate apartment ere she gave herself up to her femme de chambre. Herloose _peignoir_ of white satin was gathered round her, with a crimsoncord tied negligently at the waist, and hanging, with its rich tasselsof silver mixed, to the ground. Her hair had fallen over hershoulders, giving her a look of sadness that increased her beauty. Hereyes wandered around the room, and her lips parted into a melancholysmile, as she contemplated its delicate silk hangings, its heavy, costly furniture, her magnificent toilette, crowded with perfumes ofevery description, beautiful flacons, silver combs, and jewels thatsparkled in and out of their cases. Her thoughts went back to hermother, whose pride had made her a childless, lonely widow; to Angela, whom she had so loved; to the misery of the day upon which theyparted, perhaps forever--and her eyes were filled with tears that, rolling at length over her cheek, startled her as they fell upon herhand. 

"And it was for this that I was sacrificed, " murmured she, bending herhead. "My poor mother! could you see me here, _you_ would feel that myhappiness is secure; but, alas! how little you know of the humanheart. This splendor lends weight to my chains, and makes me feel moredesolate than ever! Night after night mingling in gay crowds, listening to honied words that fall unheeded on my ear; wearing smilesthat come not from the heart, but help to break it; exposed totemptation, that makes me fear to mix with those of my own age; boundforever to a man whose only sentiment for me is one of pride--whatpart of happiness is mine?"

A sudden step aroused her, and her husband entered unannounced. Helooked but little older. Time had dealt lightly with _him_, and withthe aid of cosmetics and a perfect toilette, M. De Vaissiere stood aremarkable looking man--for his age. 

"How is this, madame--not dressed yet! Have you no anxiety to seeMademoiselle Mars to night?"

"I have, indeed, " said Pauline, starting up and forcing a smile. "Isit so late, that I see you ready?"

"You must hasten Marie, or we shall be too late. How provoking! Whatcan you do with that dishevelled hair? You have a bad habit ofthinking--that is actually sinful. Why do you not take my example; Inever reflect--it makes one grow old!"

She might have told him how her young life was embittered by thememory of days that were gone never to return; how she had grown oldwith thinking, and wore but the semblance of youth over a witheredheart. But she had schooled herself to serenity with an effort almostsuperhuman--and seizing a silver bell at her side, she rang for herwaiting woman. 

"You must hasten, Marie--Monsieur de Vaissiere is already dressed. Bind up this hair beneath some net-work, my good girl; I have no timefor embellishing this evening. "

"Madame is more beautiful without her usual coiffure, " said the girl, as she gathered up the dark tresses of her mistress. "I shall placeher diamond _aigrette_ in her hair, and she will turn all heads. "

"I have no such ambition, my good Marie, " said Pauline, laughing. "Give me my fan and gloves, and fasten this bracelet for me. "

"_Tenez, madame_, " said Marie, handing them; and Pauline ran downstairs, where her husband awaited her. He had just been frettedsufficiently to find fault with her dress. 

"You never wear jewels enough. Do you think I bought them to ornamentyour boudoir?"

"I did not like to keep you waiting, _mon ami_. Shall I return andtell Marie to give me my necklace?"

"Yes, and your bracelet to match. Your white arm, madame, was made toornament, " added M. De Vaissiere, assuming an air of gallantry. 

Pauline smiled, and ran back to her boudoir. In a few moments shereturned blazing with jewels, inwardly lamenting the display, but everready to grant her husband's wish. He, too, smiled as she cameforward, and taking her hand, led her to her carriage. 

Shortly after they were seated, the door opened, and the young Vicomtede H---- entered the box. He placed himself behind Pauline, andremained there for the rest of the evening, in eager, animatedconversation. He was not only one of the most agreeable men of theday, but added to wit and versatility of genius, a handsome face, graceful bearing, and a noble heart; and while Pauline yielded to thecharms of so delightful a companion, full of the dreams and hopes ofyouth, uttering sentiments that years ago had been hers, her husbandsat silent and moody beside her. A pang went through his heart as hegazed upon her bright countenance, and remembered her youth, whosesunshine was extinguished by her marriage with him. He looked at thesmooth, full cheek of her companion, the purple gloss of his ravenlocks, the fire of his eye, and listening to his gay tones, hisbrilliant repartees, and enthusiastic expressions, pictured him with ashudder the husband of Pauline. What would have been her life comparedto the one she led with him. How different would have been the bridal!He thought of her gentleness, her cheerful compliance with his wishes, her calm, subdued look, her lonely hours, the void that must be in herheart; and as all these things passed, for the first time, through hismind, he clasped his hands in despair. 

He turned once more to look upon the wife he was but now beginning toappreciate. She, too, had fallen in a revery. Her beautiful head wasbent, her long, dark lashes sweeping her cheek; and around her lipsplayed a smile so sweet, that though he know her thoughts were faraway in some pleasant wandering, he was sure he had no part in them. 

For the first time since their wedded life, M. De Vaissiere wasbeginning to love his wife. He turned suddenly to look at the Vicomtede H----. He, too, was gazing upon Pauline with a look of intenseadmiration, but so full of pity and respect, that it made the jealouspang that thrilled through the husband's frame less bitter--and with adeep sigh he turned to the stage. The play was one that gave him alesson for the rest of his days. It represented a young girl like hisPauline, forced to wed one, like him, old enough to be her father. Fora while all went smoothly; the giddy wife was dazzled by her jewelsand her importance. But time passed, and she was roughly treated, herevery wish thwarted, and her very servants taught to disobey her. Herangelic behaviour had no effect upon her brutal husband; her patienceexasperated him. Wickedly he exposed her to temptation; and as hewatched her mingle with those of her own age, and share their plansand pleasures, suspicion entered his mind. He removed her far from herfriends, and intercepted her letters, making himself master of theircontents, until by a series of persecutions he drove her to fly fromhim, and perish in the attempt. 

Well for him was it that Monsieur de Vaissiere witnessed this play. How different might have been the effect of his newly awakenedemotions, had they risen in the solitude of his apartment. The curtainfell, and Pauline looked up. Tears were standing in her eyes--for thefate of the heroine of the piece had affected her deeply, and herhusband's sympathy was with her when he remarked them. He waited untilhe saw her give her arm to the vicomte, and walked behind them, another creature. He had determined to win his wife's love or die; towatch her, that he might warn her; to minister forever to hercomforts. 

The vicomte returned with them, and soon the splendid salon wascrowded with guests. Pauline passed from one to the other withgraceful, winning smiles; and her husband's heart filled with prideand pleasure as he watched her, the object of admiration, glitteringwith diamonds, radiant with beauty, and remembered that she was his. Without a pang he saw the noble youth, whose coming had been to himsalvation, lead her to supper, and seat himself at her side. He knewthat she was pleased; he felt that she might have loved; but he knew, too, that she was as pure as an angel. How was it that suddenly hermany virtues rose in array before him, and spoke to his heart?

One evening Pauline stood at the window overlooking the garden thatwas behind the Hotel de Vaissiere. The moonlight was glancing over thetops of the orange trees, and the perfume of their white blossoms camefloating up like an incense of thanks to the Great Author of all, while fountains played beneath their shade, falling musically on theheart of the lonely watcher. 

A shade was upon her brow--a shade of discontent; and busy were thethoughts that came creeping into her soul. She was judging her ownheart--and bitterly did she reproach it as the image of another filledits space. Alas! she had feared this; and again she was roused intoindignation as her mother's stern will was recalled to her--and shewas carried back to the day whereon she had reproached her withhazarding the eternal welfare of her child. Throwing herself upon herknees, she prayed for strength--and her prayer was heard. Suddenly, asif struck with some impulse, she hurried from the window, through thehall, passed the long suite of apartments, and reached her husband's. Entering, she closed the door behind her, and rushed forward to M. DeVaissiere's chair with such passionate rapidity, that one might havethought she feared to fail in her resolution. 

Her sobs and tears had nearly deprived her of utterance, but fallingat her husband's feet, she confessed the momentary infidelity of herhitherto love-less heart, and besought him to take her from thosescenes of gayety and temptation to some distant, quiet region, thatshe might expiate her fault in solitude. 

Trembling she raised her eyes to his face. Instead of the fury, thereproaches she had expected, what was her surprise at seeing the tearscoursing down his cheeks, to feel herself raised and clasped to hisbreast. 

"My poor child!" said he, tenderly--and it was the first time he hadever so addressed her--"my poor child! I should have foreseen this; Ishould have warned you ere now. It was your mother's fault to marryyou to me, and mine to have placed temptation in your way. But howcould I tear you from those whose years were suited to yours, to shutyou up with an old greybeard! Thus, while I watched over you, my pridein your success made me forgetful of your safety. It is not yet toolate, my Pauline--all will be for the best. In time you will learn tolove your husband, and to know how devotedly he has loved you sincehis stupid eyes were opened to your virtues. "

With a smothered cry of joy Pauline threw herself upon his bosom. Thepoor stricken dove had at last found a shelter. 

The next day, while the whole world was lamenting and wondering overthe determination of the beautiful, brilliant, and courted Pauline deVaissiere, to leave the gay metropolis in the midst of its pleasure, she sat once more in her boudoir. A holy calm had settled on her brow, peace had entered her heart; and though a deep blush overspread herfeatures as she heard her husband's step approaching, she rose to meethim with a grateful look. Putting his arm around her, he drew hercloser to him, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead. 

"How many days of packing will you require, Pauline?" said he, smiling. "Poor Marie! she has nearly worn her arms out. "

"She will complete her task to-night; and if you like, we can be offin the morning. But have you the carriages ready, _mon ami_? Are wenot before-hand with you?" asked Pauline, in the same cheerful strain. 

"We must summon François, " said M. De Vaissiere, "and see if my ordershave been executed. "

François had been as prompt as usual; and three days after, we found Pauline gazing out at the windows, mournful andconscience-stricken--she was leaving Paris behind her as fast as fourhorses and cracking whips could carry her. As they drove on, losingsight of its towers and steeples, a sensation of freedom came overher, and she placed her hand in her husband's, as if to thank him forher safety. The wound upon her heart was not yet closed; but her firmprinciple, her love of right, and gratitude for her deliverance, andthe indulgence of M. De Vaissiere were fast healing what she did notfor a moment allow to rest within her mind. 

Every thing delighted her; the ploughed fields, divided by greenhedges; the farm-houses scattered far and near; the picturesqueappearance of the peasantry and their groupings, as they gatheredtogether to watch the travelers' suite; and when they stopped at afamily estate of M. De Vassiere, her enthusiasm knew no bounds. 

Here they remained until the spring was past and summer came, embellishing still more the beautiful woods around the little domain. But they lingered yet in this pleasant place, loving it for the peaceit had given them, and the happiness they had learned to feel in beingtogether. 

Leaning on her husband's arm, Pauline wandered amid the bright sceneswith a light step, now stopping to admire some variety of foliage, andnow pausing by the crystal stream that ran at the foot of the talltrees, murmuring like a hidden sprite, and mirroring the wavingboughs, and the blue sky of _la belle France_. She had forgotten themisery of her bridal-day, or remembered it but to contrast her presentquiet enjoyment of life with her then wretchedness. She had forgottenher youth of terror, her husband's years and his coldness, and now, when she looked upon the silver hair that glittered beside her braidsof jet, a feeling of gratitude filled her heart, as she recalled thehour when he might have cast her off with some show of justice, andsent her forth upon the wide world to die. 

She had learned to love him, not with the heart-stirring love of youthfor youth, but with the deep, holy affection of a prodigal child. Notall the temptations of the gay world could ever make her swerve fromher allegiance to him. Like a good and pious daughter did she cling tohim, providing for his comfort, and forseeing his every want. 

One day he called her to him as she returned from her visit of charityto the surrounding peasantry. She had wept over their troubles andrelieved them, and rejoiced with the happy. Her heart wasover-flowing, and passing the little church, she entered, and offeredup a prayer of thankfulness for her own blessings, and those she wasable to confer on others. 

Her husband watched her graceful form as she came at his call, andsmilingly placed a letter in her hand. It was from her mother, andpart of it ran thus:

 "I am now very old, monsieur, and very infirm. I have often thought, in my lonely hours, of the unhappiness of my child on her marriage with you, and have doubted the wisdom of that authority which I exercised so severely over her. The vision of that pale, agonized countenance, comes upon me like a reproach; and although she has never hinted in one of her letters of unkindness from you, I have often thought that there was a mournful spirit pervading them. Pray God she may not be unhappy through my fault! I rely upon you, monsieur; be kind to my poor Pauline. MARIE THERESE CLEMENCE DUMESNIL. (_Née de Villeneuve_. )"

Pauline's tears fell fast over this letter; and as she finishedreading it, she cast herself upon her husband's bosom. 

"She does not deserve a reply, does she, Pauline?" asked he, with asmile, and pressing her closer to him. "Think you there would be nomore marriages _de convenance_ if we were to give the benefit of ourexperience to the world? Would your mother even be sensible of hererror, could she know how your suffering has ended--could she see howhappy you make an old man. "

"Let her think that we have been always so, " cried the noble Pauline. "Why disturb her last years with a narrative of what may embitterthem? Shall it not be so, my dear, kind husband?"

"It shall, my child, " said he, touched by the generosity of herrequest. "And you, Pauline, shall write the answer--you, my patient, enduring, and admirable wife! Why is it that I alone know what youhave suffered, forced thus to appreciate in silence your nobleforbearance. "

But there was another letter to be read--one from Angela. It containedan account of Madame Dumesnil's failing strength, and her earnestdesire to embrace her child once more. Jeannette was long sincenumbered with the dead; and Angela, whose devotion to her father hadmade her refuse every offer of marriage, removed with him to the abodeof her friend's mother, passing her life in dividing her cares. 

But a short time elapsed and Pauline, with her husband, was sailingonce more upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic. It was a long andtedious voyage; but she arrived in time to receive her mother'sblessing, and close her eyes--the reward her filial piety had merited. 

Mr. Percy soon followed his aged companion, and Angela returned withPauline to France. Here she witnessed, with wonder and delight, thehappiness that, through Pauline's virtue, was not incompatible with sogreat a disparity of age, and rejoiced when a few months after theirarrival in Paris, Pauline gave birth to a son and heir. Nothing nowwas wanting to complete the domestic enjoyment of the circle gatheredat the Hotel de Vaissiere; and while the same gay crowds graced itswalls, and courted its fair mistress, Pauline never forgot to turn toher husband as the one whose smile was to her the brightest, whosepraise the most valued, and whose approbation alone she loved andlived for. 

THE HERMIT OF NIAGARA. 

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

 It was the leafy month of June, And joyous Nature, all in tune, With wreathing buds was drest, As toward the mighty cataract's side A youthful stranger prest; His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe, And scarce he seemed his breath to draw, While bending o'er its brim, He marked its strong, unfathomed tide, And heard its thunder-hymn. 

 His measured week too quickly fled, Another, and another sped, And soon the summer-rose decayed, The moon of autumn sank in shade, And winter hurled its dart, Years filled their circle, brief and fair, Yet still the enthusiast lingered there, While deeper round his soul was wove A mystic chain of fearful love, That would not let him part. 

 When darkest midnight veiled the sky, You'd hear his hasting step go by, To gain the bridge beside the deep, That where its wildest torrents leap Hangs thread-like o'er the surge, Just there, upon its awful verge, His vigil-hour to keep. 

 And when the moon, descending low, Hung on the flood that gleaming bow, Which it would seem some angel's hand, With Heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned, Pure symbol of a better land, He, kneeling, poured in utterance free The eloquence of ecstasy; Though to his words no answer came, Save that One, Everlasting Name, Which since Creation's morning broke Niagara's lip alone hath spoke. 

 When wintry tempests shook the sky, And the rent pine-tree hurtled by, Unblenching, 'mid the storm he stood, And marked sublime the wrathful flood, While wrought the frost-king, fierce and drear, His palace 'mid those cliffs to rear, And strike the massy buttress strong, And pile his sleet the rocks among, And wasteful deck the branches bare With icy diamonds, rich and rare. 

 Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed Such comforts as our natures ask To fit them for life's daily task. The cheering fire, the peaceful bed, The simple meal in season spread, While by the lone lamp's trembling light, As blazed the hearth-stone, clear and bright, O'er Homer's page he hung, Or Maro's martial numbers scanned--

 For classic lore of many a land Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue. Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound, He woke the entrancing viol's sound, Or touched the sweet guitar. For heavenly music deigned to dwell An inmate in his cloistered cell, As beams the solem star, All night, with meditative eyes Where some lone, rock-bound fountain lies. 

 As through the groves, with quiet tread, On his accustomed haunts he sped, The mother-thrush, unstartled, sung Her descant to her callow young, And fearless o'er his threshold prest The wanderer from the sparrow's nest, The squirrel raised a sparkling eye Nor from his kernel cared to fly As passed that gentle hermit by. No timid creature shrank to meet His pensive glance, serenely sweet; From his own kind, alone, he sought The screen of solitary thought. Whether the world too harshly prest Its iron o'er a yielding breast, Or forced his morbid youth to prove The pang of unrequited love, We know not, for he never said Aught of the life he erst had led. 

 On Iris isle, a summer-bower He twined with branch and vine and flower, And there he mused on rustic seat, Unconscious of the noonday heat, Or 'neath the crystal waters lay, Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play. 

 Yet once the whelming flood grew strong. And bore him like a weed along, Though with convulsive grasp of pain And heaving breast, he strove in vain, Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide, Lone, as he lived, the hermit died. 

 On, by the rushing current swept, The lifeless corse its voyage kept, To where, in narrow gorge comprest, The whirlpool-eddies never rest, But boil with wild tumultuous sway, The Maelstrom of Niagara. And there, within that rocky bound, In swift gyrations round and round, Mysterious course it held, Now springing from the torrent hoarse, Now battling, as with maniac force, To mortal strife compelled. 

 Right fearful, 'neath the moonbeam bright, It was to see that brow so white, And mark the ghastly dead Leap upward from his torture-bed, As if in passion-gust, And tossing wild with agony Resist the omnipotent decree Of dust to dust. 

 At length, where smoother waters flow, Emerging from the abyss below, The hapless youth they gained, and bore Sad to his own forsaken door. There watched his dog, with straining eye, And scarce would let the train pass by, Save that with instinct's rushing spell, Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, And stiff and stony form, he knew The master he had loved so well. The kitten fair, whose graceful wile So oft had won his musing smile, As round his slippered foot she played, Stretched on his vacant pillow laid. While strewed around, on board and chair, The last-plucked flower, the book last read, The ready pen, the page outspread, The water cruse, the unbroken bread-- Revealed how sudden was the snare That swept him to the dead. 

 And so, he rests in foreign earth, Who drew 'mid Albion's vales his birth: Yet let no cynic phrase unkind Condemn that youth of gentle mind-- Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart, And lettered lore, and tuneful art, Who here his humble worship paid In that most glorious temple-shrine, Where to the Majesty Divine Nature her noblest altar made. 

 No, blame him not, but praise the Power Who, in the dear domestic bower, Hath given you firmer strength to rear The plants of love--with toil and fear-- The beam to meet, the blast to dare, And like a faithful soldier bear; Still with sad heart his requiem pour, Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar, And bid one tear of pitying gloom Bedew that meek enthusiast's tomb. 

BURIAL OF A VOLUNTEER. 

BY PARK BENJAMIN. 

 'Tis eve! one brightly-beaming star Shines from the eastern heavens afar, To light the footsteps of the brave, Slow marching to a comrade's grave. 

 The Northern wind has sunk to sleep; The sweet South breathes; as low and deep The martial clang is heard, the tread Of those who bear the silent dead. 

 And whose the form, all stark and cold, Thus ready for the loosened mould; Thus stretched upon so rude a bier? Thine, soldier, thine--the volunteer!

 Poor volunteer! the shot, the blow, Or fell disease hath laid him low-- And few his early loss deplore-- His battle done, his journey o'er. 

 Alas! no fond wife's arms caressed, His cheeks no tender mother pressed, No pitying soul was by his side, As, lonely in his tent, he died. 

 He died--the volunteer--at noon; At evening came the small platoon; And soon they'll leave him to his rest, With sods upon his manly breast. 

 Hark to their fire! his only knell, More solemn than the passing bell; For, ah! it tells a spirit flown Without a prayer or sigh, alone!

 His name and fate shall fade away, Forgotten since his dying day, And never on the roll of fame Shall be inscribed his humble name. 

 Alas! like him how many more Lie cold on Rio Grande's shore; How many green, unnoted graves Are bordered by those turbid waves!

 Sleep, soldier, sleep! from sorrow free And sin and strife: 'tis well with thee! 'Tis well, though not a single tear Laments the buried volunteer. 

THE BRIDAL MORNING. 

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

 Morn of hopes that, quivering, glow With a light ne'er known before; Morn of fears, which cannot throw Shadows its sweet glory o'er!

 Gentle thoughts of all the past; Happy thoughts of all to come; Loving thoughts, like rose-leaves, cast Over all around her home. 

 Oh, the light upon that brow; Oh, the love within that eye! Oh, the pleasant dreams that flow Like fairy music sweetly by!

 Morn of Hope! Oh may its light Melt but into brighter day! Lady, all that's blest and bright Be about thy path alway!

HOME. 

BY MRS. H. MARION WARD. 

"_Home, sweet home!"_ How many holy and beautiful memories are crowdedinto those three little words. How does the absent one, when wearywith the cold world's strife, return, like the dove of the deluge, tothat bright spot amid the troubled waters of life. "_Home, sweethome!_" The one household plant that blooms on and on, amid thewithering heart-flowers, that brightens up amidst tempests and storms, and gives its sweetest fragrance when all else is gloom anddesolation. We never know how deeply its roots are entwined with ourheart-strings, till bitter lessons of wasted affection have taught usto appreciate that love which remains the same through years ofestrangement. What exile from the spot of his birth but remembers, perhaps with bitterness, the time when falsehood and deceit firstbroke up the beautiful dreams of his soul, when he learned to _see_the world in its true colors. How his heart ached for his father'slook of kindness--his mother's voice of sympathy--a sister's orbrother's hand to clasp in the warm embrace of kindred affection. Poor, home-sick wanderer! I can feel for your loneliness; for my heartoften weeps tears of bitterness over the memories of a far-off home, and in sympathy with a gray-haired father, who, when he calls hislittle band around the hearth-stone, misses full many a link in thechain of social affection. I can feel for your loneliness, for perhapsyou have a father, too, whose eyes have grown dim by long looking intothe tomb of love. Perhaps you, too, have a mother, sleeping in somedistant grave-yard, beneath the flowers your hands have planted; andas life's path grows still more rugged before you, you wonder, as Ihave done, when your time will come to lie down and sleep quietly with_her_. An incident occurred on board of one of the western steamers, some years since, which strongly impressed me with its truthfulness inproving how wildly the heart clings to home reminiscences when absentfrom that spot. A party of emigrants had taken passage, amongst whomwas a young Swiss girl, accompanied by a small brother. Not even the_outré_ admixture of Swiss, German, and English costume, whichcomposed her dress, could conceal the fact that she was supremelybeautiful; and as the emigrants were separated from what is termed thefirst-class passengers only by a slight railing, I had an opportunityof inspecting her appearance without giving offence by markedobservation. Amongst the crowd there happened to be a set of Germanmusicians, who, by amusing the _ennuied_ passengers, reaped quite aharvest of silver for their exertions. I have always heard that theGermans were extremely fond of music, and was surprised that none ofthe party, not even the beautiful Swiss girl, gave the slightestindication of pleasure, or once removed from the position they hadoccupied the whole way. Indeed, I was becoming quite indignant, thatthe soul-stirring Marseilles Hymn of France, the God Save the Queen ofEngland, and last, not _least_ in its impressive melody, the HailColumbia of our own nation, should have pealed its music out upon thegreat waters, almost hushing their mighty swell with its enchantment, and yet not waken an echo in the hearts of those homeless wanderers. The musicians paused to rest for a moment, and then suddenly, as if bymagic, the glorious _Rans des Vache_ of Switzerland stole over thewater, with its touching pathos swelling into grand sublimity, itshome-music melting away in love, and then bursting forth in the free, glad strains of revelry, till every breath was hushed as by thepresence of visible beauty. Having never before heard this beautifulmelody, in my surprise and admiration I had quite forgotten myemigrant friends, when a low sob attracted my attention, and turninground, I saw the Swiss girl, with her head buried in the lap of an oldwoman, trying to stifle the tears that _would_ force their way orbreak the heart that held them. I had but a slight knowledge of theSwiss dialect, and "my home, my beautiful home!" was the only wordsintelligible to me. She wept long and bitterly after the cadence ofthe song was lost amongst the waves, while the old woman, blessings onher for the act, sought by every endearment within her power to sootheand encourage the home-sick girl. There was little enow of refinementin her rough sympathy, but it was a heart-tribute--and I could almostlove her for the unselfishness with which she drew the shrinking formcloser to her bosom. I would have given the world to have learned thatgirl's previous history. I am sure _accident_ must have thrown heramongst her present associates, as I have seen a lily broken from itsstem by a sudden gust of wind, and flung to wither and die amid rudeand hardy weeds. In a few hours the party left the boat, and I neversaw either her or them again; but, till this day, whenever anyincident of a domestic nature wakens old-time dreams, pleasantmemories of that beautiful exile, weeping over the music of her lostEden, and of the kind old woman caressing her, and kissing off thefalling tears, creep together, and form a lovely picture of _home andheaven-born love_. 

MARGINALIA. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

That punctuation is important all agree; but how few comprehend theextent of its importance! The writer who neglects punctuation, ormis-punctuates, is liable to be misunderstood--this, according to thepopular idea, is the sum of the evils arising from heedlessness orignorance. It does not seem to be known that, even where the sense isperfectly clear, a sentence may be deprived of half its force--itsspirit--its point--by improper punctuation. For the want of merely acomma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that asarcasm is converted into a sermonoid. 

There is _no_ treatise on the topic--and there is no topic on which atreatise is more needed. There seems to exist a vulgar notion that thesubject is one of pure conventionality, and cannot be brought withinthe limits of intelligibly and consistent _rule_. And yet, if fairlylooked in the face, the whole matter is so plain that its _rationale_may be read as we run. If not anticipated, I shall, hereafter, make anattempt at a magazine paper on "The Philosophy of Point. "

In the meantime let me say a word or two of _the dash_. Every writerfor the press, who has any sense of the accurate, must have beenfrequently mortified and vexed at the distortion of his sentences bythe printer's now general substitution of a semicolon, or comma, forthe dash of the MS. The total or nearly total disuse of the latterpoint, has been brought about by the revulsion consequent upon itsexcessive employment about twenty years ago. The Byronic poets were_all_ dash. John Neal, in his earlier novels, exaggerated its use intothe grossest abuse--although his very error arose from thephilosophical and self-dependent spirit which has always distinguishedhim, and which will even yet lead him, if I am not greatly mistaken inthe man, to do something for the literature of the country which thecountry "will not willingly, " and cannot possibly, "let die. "

Without entering now into the _why_, let me observe that the printermay always ascertain when the dash of the MS. Is properly and whenimproperly employed, by bearing in mind that this point represents _asecond thought--an emendation_. In using it just above I haveexemplified its use. The words "an emendation" are, speaking withreference to grammatical construction, put in _ap_position with thewords "a second thought. " Having written these latter words, Ireflected whether it would not be possible to render their meaningmore distinct by certain other words. Now, instead of erasing thephrase "a second thought, " which is of _some_ use--which _partially_conveys the idea intended--which advances me _a step toward_ my fullpurpose--I suffer it to remain, and merely put a dash between it andthe phrase "an emendation. " The dash gives the reader a choice betweentwo, or among three or more expressions, one of which may be moreforcible than another, but all of which help out the idea. It stands, in general, for these words--"_or, to make my meaning more distinct_. "This force _it has_--and this force no other point can have; since allother points have well-understood uses quite different from this. Therefore, the dash _cannot_ be dispensed with. 

It has its phases--its variation of the force described; but the oneprinciple--that of second thought or emendation--will be found at thebottom of all. 

 * * * * *

In a reply to a letter signed "Outis, " and defending Mr. Longfellowfrom certain charges supposed to have been made against him by myself, I took occasion to assert that "of the class of willful plagiaristsnine out of ten are authors of established reputation who plunderrecondite, neglected, or forgotten books. " I came to this conclusion_à priori_; but experience has confirmed me in it. Here is aplagiarism from Channing; and as it is perpetrated by an anonymouswriter in a Monthly Magazine, the theft seems at war with myassertion--until it is seen that the Magazine in question isCampbell's New Monthly for _August_, 1828. Channing, at that time, wascomparatively unknown; and, besides, the plagiarism appeared in aforeign country, where there was little probability of detection. 

Channing, in his essay on Bonaparte, says:

 "We would observe that military talent, even of the highest order, is far from holding the first place among intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it is not conversant with the highest and richest objects of thought.... Still the chief work of a general is to apply physical force--to remove physical obstructions--to avail himself of physical aids and advantages--to act on matter--to overcome rivers, ramparts, mountains, and human muscles; and these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the highest order:--and accordingly nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in this department, who are almost wholly wanting in the noblest energies of the soul--in imagination and taste--in the capacity of enjoying works of genius--in large views of human nature--in the moral sciences--in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind and to society, and in original conceptions on the great subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings. "

The thief in "The New Monthly, " says:

 "Military talent, even of the highest _grade_, is _very_ far from holding the first place among intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it is _never made_ conversant with the _more delicate and abstruse of mental operations_. 

 It is used to apply physical force; to remove physical force; to remove physical obstructions; to avail itself of physical aids and advantages; and all these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the highest _and rarest_ order. Nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in the science and practice of war, _wholly_ wanting in the nobler energies of the soul; in imagination, in taste, in _enlarged_ views of human nature, in the moral sciences, in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind and to society; or in original conceptions on the great subjects which have _occupied and_ absorbed the most glorious _of human_ understandings. "

The article in "The New Monthly" is on "The State of Parties. " Theitalics are mine. 

Apparent plagiarisms frequently arise from an author'sself-repetition. He finds that something he has already published hasfallen dead--been overlooked--or that it is peculiarly _à propos_ toanother subject now under discussion. He therefore introduces thepassage; often without allusion to his having printed it before; andsometimes he introduces it into an anonymous article. An anonymouswriter is thus, now and then, unjustly accused of plagiarism--when thesin is merely that of self-repetition. 

In the present case, however, there has been a deliberate plagiarismof the silliest as well as meanest species. Trusting to the obscurityof his original, the plagiarist has fallen upon the idea of killingtwo birds with one stone--of dispensing with all disguise but that of_decoration_. 

Channing says "order"--the writer in the New Monthly says "grade. " Theformer says that this order is "far from holding, " etc. --the lattersays it is "_very_ far from holding. " The one says that militarytalent is "_not_ conversant, " and so on--the other says "it is _nevermade_ conversant. " The one speaks of "the highest and richestobjects"--the other of "the more delicate and abstruse. " Channingspeaks of "thought"--the thief of "mental operations. " Chamingmentions "intelligence of the _highest_ order"--the thief will have itof "the highest _and rarest_. " Channing observes that military talentis often "_almost_ wholly wanting, " etc. --the thief maintains it to be"_wholly_ wanting. " Channing alludes to "_large_ views of humannature"--the thief can be content with nothing less than "enlarged"ones. Finally, the American having been satisfied with a reference to"subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings, " theCockney puts him to shame at once by discoursing about "subjects whichhave _occupied and_ absorbed the most glorious _of human_understandings"--as if one could be absorbed, without being occupied, by a subject--as if "_of_" were here any thing more than twosuperfluous letters--and as if there were any chance of the reader'ssupposing that the understandings in question were the understandingsof frogs, or jackasses, or Johnny Bulls. 

By the way, in a case of this kind, whenever there is a question as towho is the original and who the plagiarist, the point may bedetermined, almost invariably, by observing which passage isamplified, or exaggerated, in tone. To disguise his stolen horse, theuneducated thief cuts off the tail; but the educated thief preferstying on a new tail at the end of the old one, and painting them bothsky blue. 

 * * * * *

After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all thatcan be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has aright to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to facewith the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thoughtis that which can be the least easily distinguished from the mostsuperficial sentiment. 

LOVE. 

BY R. H. STODDARD. 

 Oh Love! thou art a fallen child of light, A ruined seraph in a world of care-- Tortured and wrung by sorrow and despair, And longings for the beautiful and bright: Thy brow is deeply scarred, and bleeds beneath A spiked coronet, a thorny wreath; Thy rainbow wings are rent and torn with chains, Sullied and drooping in extremest wo; Thy dower, to those who love thee best below, Is tears and torture, agony and pains, Coldness and scorn and doubt which often parts;-- "The course of true love never does run smooth, " Old histories show it, and a thousand hearts, Breaking from day to day, attest the solemn truth. 

[Illustration: Beauty's Bath

Painted by E. Landseer Engraved by J. Sartain

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine]

BEAUTY'S BATH. 

[ILLUSTRATING AN ENGRAVING. ]

 The fair one stands beside the plashing brim, Her pet, her Beauty, gathered to her breast; A doubt hath crossed her: "can he surely swim?" And in her sweet face is that fear exprest. 

 Alas! how often, for thyself, in years Fast coming, wilt thou pause and doubt and shrink O'er some fair project! Then, be all thy fears False as this first one by the water's brink!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. 

_Poems of Early and After Years. By N. P. Willis. Illustrated by E. Leutze. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8vo. _

This is a complete edition of one of America's most popular poets, with the old poems carefully revised, and many new pieces added. It isgot up in a similar style with the editions of Longfellow and Bryant, by the same publishers, and is one of the most splendid volumes of theseason. The portrait of the author, engraved by Cheney, is the mostaccurate we have seen. The illustrations, from designs by Leutze, andengraved by Humphrys, Tucker, and Pease, are sixteen in number, and intheir character and execution are honorable to American art. They aretruly embellishments. Fertile as has been the house of Carey & Hart inbeautiful books, they have published nothing more elegant and tastefulthan the present edition of Willis. 

We have written, in various critiques, at such length on the meritsand characteristics of Willis, that it would be but repetition todilate upon his genius now. In looking over the present volume, wecannot see that the sparkle and fire of his poetry becomes dim, evenas read by eyes which have often performed that pleasant task before. The old witchery still abides in them, and the old sweetness, raciness, melody and power. That versatile mind, gliding with suchgraceful ease over the whole ground of "occasional" pieces, seriousand mirthful, impassioned and tender, sacred and satirical, looks outupon us with the same freshness from his present "pictured" page, aswhen we hunted it, in the old time, through newspapers, magazines, andincomplete collections. We cordially wish the author the same successin his present rich dress, which he has always met in whatever styleof typography he has invaded the public heart. When the stereotypeplates of the present edition are worn out, it does not require thegift of prophecy to predict that the poet's reputation will be asunworn and us bright as ever. 

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_A Plea for Amusements. By Frederic W. Sawyer, New York: D. Appleton &Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

This little volume, viewed in respect to the prejudices it so clearlyexposes and opposes, is quite an important publication, and we trustit will find readers among those who need it most. That clumsy habitof the public mind, by which the perversions are confounded with theuse of a thing, finds in Mr. Sawyer an acute analyst as well assensible opponent. He has done his work with much learning, abilityand taste, and has contrived to make his exposure of popular bigotriesas interesting as it is useful. 

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_Campaign Sketches of the War with Mexico. By Capt. W. S. Henry, U. S. Army. With Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo. _

Here is a work by a brave and intelligent soldier, relating to thebattles of General Taylor in Mexico, of which he was an eye-witness. It has the freshness which might be expected from a writer who mingledin the scenes he describes; and the plates of the differentbattle-grounds enable the reader intelligently to follow thedescriptions of the author. Spite of the numerous books relating tothe subject already before the public, Captain Henry's volume will befound to contain much not generally known, and to describe what isgenerally known better than most of his precursors in the task. 

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_The Consuelo. By George Sand. In Three Volumes. New York: W. H. Graham, Tribune Buildings. _

_The Countess of Rudolstadt. By George Sand. [Sequel to Consuelo. ] 2vols. Same Publisher. _

_The Journeyman Joiner, or the Companion of the Tour of France. ByGeorge Sand. Same Publisher. _

_The Devil's Pool. By George Sand. Same Publisher. _

The above editions of the somewhat too celebrated George Sand are gotup, by our enterprising friend the publisher, in a style superior tothat generally used on this species of literature. The translation byF. G. Shaw, Esq. Has been generally, and we think justly, commended. The works themselves, and their tendencies and results, have been madethe subject of various opinions both here and abroad. We are not amongthose who are prepared to enter the lists as their champion. Thetranslator himself remarks in relation to Consuelo: "That it has notfound fit translation before, was doubtless owing to prevailingimpressions of something erratic and _bizarre_ in the author's way ofliving, and to a certain undeniable tone of wild, defying freedom inher earlier writings. " The censure of the moral portion of thecommunity is thus softly and mercifully expressed: We will not atpresent add to it. 

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_The Last Incarnation. Gospel Legends of the Nineteenth Century. By A. Constant. Translated by F. G. Shaw, Esq. New York: Wm. H. Graham. _

A well printed and cheap volume. 

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_The Scouting Expeditions of M'Culloch's Texas Rangers. By Samuel C. Ried, jr. Zieber & Co. Philadelphia. _

This work contains a spirited and vivid sketch of the Mexican war asprosecuted under Taylor. It is full of incident and interest, iswritten with spirit, and illustrated by a number of engravings. 

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DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE. 

TOILETTE DE VILLE. --Dress of gray satin, with a plain skirt; corsageplain, with a rounded point; sleeves above of violet-colored velvet, closed on the top, and trimmed with very rich lace; small pelerine tothe waists, and terminated at the seam of the shoulder, trimmed withlace. Hat of yellow satin, long at the cheeks, and rounded, ornamentedwith a bouquet of white flowers resting on the side, arid a puff oftulle on the inside. 

RICHE TOILETTE D'INTERIEUR. --Dress of blue cashmere, ornamented with arow of silver buttons down the front of the skirts; corsage plain, with buttons, and terminating in two small points; sleeves rathershort, and under ones of three rows of lace: neck-dress of lace. Capalso of lace, resting flat upon the front of the head, and formingfolds behind, trimmed with bows of ribbon, of rose-colored taffeta, below the lace to the depth of the strings. 

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ERRATUM. --In the article on Stoke Church and Church-yard, page 77, 12th line from bottom of 2d column, "1779" should read 1799. 

Transcriber's Note:

Some likely incorrect spellings and probable dialect have been left asprinted, but the following corrections have been made:

1. Page 83--'for the lady lacked neither wit not humor, and the .... ' changed to 'for the lady lacked neither wit nor humor... '

2. Page 83--superfluous word 'his' removed from sentence '... He had nothing on but his his shirt, and... '

3. Page 85--typo 'centipeds' corrected to 'centipedes'

4. Page 85--superfluous word 'his' removed from sentence '... Constant to his his first love, mourning... '

5. A number of contracted forms, such as 't is, shortened to 'tis, in order to preserve the scansion of poetry

6. Page 106--typo in sentence '... Up the mill-stream, und as we returned... ' replaced by 'and'

7. Page 106--typo 'outrè' in sentence '... However strange or outrè; and there is... ' changed to 'outré'

8. Page 106--typo 'evious' in sentence '... Would turn up an evious nose, and... ' corrected to 'envious'

9. Page 110--typo 'widows' in sentence '... Sitting by the widows of the summer-house, ' changed to 'windows'

10. Page 113--typo 'then' in sentence '... Was upon then--the eye of Agnes;... ' changed to 'them'

11. Page 121--typo 'claspéd' corrected to 'claspèd'

12. Page 125--typo 'giver' in sentence '... Until he saw her giver her arm... ' corrected to 'give'