GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. 

VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1848. No. 3. 

THE CRUISE OF THE GENTILE. 

BY FRANK BYRNE. 

CHAPTER I. 

_In which the reader is introduced to several of the dramatis personæ. _

On the evening of the 25th of March, in the year of our Lord onethousand eight hundred and thirty-nine, the ship Gentile, of Boston, lay at anchor in the harbor of Valetta. 

It is quite proper, gentle reader, that, as it is with this ship andher crew that you will chiefly have to do in the following yarn, theyshould be severally and particularly introduced to your notice. 

To begin, then. Imagine yourself standing on the parapet of St. Elmo, about thirty minutes past five o'clock on the evening above mentioned;the Gentile lies but little more than a cable's length from the shore, so that you can almost look down upon her decks. You perceive that sheis a handsome craft of some six or seven hundred tons burthen, standing high out of water, in ballast trim, with a black hull, brightwaist, and wales painted white. Her bows flare very much, and aresharp and symmetrical; the cut-water stretches, with a graceful curve, far out beyond them toward the long sweeping martingal, and issurmounted by a gilt scroll, or, as the sailors call it, afiddle-head. The black stern is ornamented by a group of white figuresin bas relief, which give a lively air to the otherwise sombre andvacant expression, and beneath the cabin-windows is painted the nameof the ship, and her port of register. The lower masts of this vesselare short and stout, the top-masts are of great height, the extremepoints of the fore and mizzen-royal poles, are adorned with giltballs, and over all, at the truck of the main sky-sail pole, floats ahandsome red burgee, upon which a large G is visible. There are noyards across but the lower and topsail-yards, which are very long andheavy, precisely squared, and to which the sails are furled in anexceeding neat and seaman-like manner. The rigging is universally tautand trim; and it is easy to perceive that the officers of the Gentileunderstand their business. The swinging-boom is rigged out, andfastened thereto, by their painters, a pair of boats, a yawl and gig, float lovingly side by side; and instead of the usual ladder at theside, a handy flight of accommodation steps lead from the water-lineto the gangway. 

Now, dear reader, leaving the battlements of St. Elmo, you alight uponthe deck of our ship, which you find to be white and clean, and, asseamen say, sheer--that is to say, without break, poop, orhurricane-house--forming on each side of the line of masts a smooth, unencumbered plane the entire length of the deck, inclining with agentle curve from the bow and stern toward the waist. The bulwarks arehigh, and are surmounted by a paneled monkey-rail; the belaying-pinsin the plank-shear are of lignum-vitæ and mahogany, and upon them therigging is laid up in accurate and graceful coils. The balustradearound the cabin companion-way and sky-light is made of polishedbrass, the wheel is inlaid with brass, and the capstan-head, thegangway-stanchions, and bucket-hoops are of the same glittering metal. Forward of the main hatchway the long-boat stands in its chocks, covered over with a roof, and a good-natured looking cow, whose stableis thus contrived, protrudes her head from a window, chews her cudwith as much composure as if standing under the lee of a Yankeebarn-yard wall, and watches, apparently, a group of sailors, who, seated in the forward waist around their kids and pans, are enjoyingtheir coarse but plentiful and wholesome evening meal. A hugeNewfoundland dog sits upon his haunches near this circle, his eyeseagerly watching for a morsel to be thrown him, the which, whenhappening, his jaws close with a sudden snap, and are instantly agapefor more. A green and gold parrot also wanders about this knot of men, sometimes nibbling the crumbs offered it, and anon breaking forth intoexpressions which, from their tone, evince no great respect for someof the commandments in the Decalogue. Between the long-boat and thefore-hatch is the galley, where the "Doctor" (as the cook isuniversally called in the merchant service) is busily employed indishing up a steaming supper, prepared for the cabin mess; thesteward, a genteel-looking mulatto, dressed in a white apron, standswaiting at the galley-door, ready to receive the aforementionedsupper, whensoever it may be ready, and to convey it to the cabin. 

Turning aft, you perceive a young man pacing the quarter-deck, andwhistling, as he walks, a lively air from La Bayadere. He is dressedneatly in a blue pilot-cloth pea-jacket, well-shaped trowsers, neat-fitting boots, and a Mahon cap, with gilt buttons. This gentlemanis Mr. Langley. His father is a messenger in the Atlas Bank, ofBoston, and Mr. Langley, jr. Invariably directs his communications tohis parent with the name of that corporation somewhere very legiblyinscribed on the back of the letter. He is an apprentice to the ship, but being a smart, handy fellow, and a tolerable seaman, he was deemedworthy of promotion, and as his owner could find no second mate'sberth vacant in any of his vessels, the Gentile has rejoiced for thelast twelve months in the possession of a third mate in the person ofMr. Langley. He is about twenty years of age, and would be a sensiblefellow, were it not for a great taste for mischief, romance, theatres, cheap jewelry, and tight boots. He quotes poetry on the weatheryard-arm, to the great dissatisfaction of Mr. Brewster, (to whom youwill shortly be introduced, ) who often confidentially assures theskipper that the third mate would have turned out a natural fool ifhis parents had not providentially sent him to sea. 

But while you have been making the acquaintance of Mr. Langley, thesteward has brought aft the dishes containing the cabin supper. Asavory smell issues from the open sky-light, through which alsoascends a ruddy gleam of light, the sound of cheerful voices, and theclatter of dishes. After the lapse of a few minutes the turns of Mr. Langley in pacing the deck grow shorter, and at last, ceasing towhistle and beginning to mutter, he walks up to the sky-light andlooks down into the cabin below. Gentle reader, place yourself by hisside, and now attend as closely as the favored student did toAsmodeus. 

The fine-looking seaman reclining upon the cushioned transom, pickinghis teeth while he scans the columns of a late number of the LiverpoolMercury, is Captain Smith, the skipper, a regular-built, true-blue, Yankee ship-master. Though his short black curls are thickly sprinkledwith gray, he has not yet seen forty years; but the winds and suns ofevery zone have left their indelible traces upon him. He is anintelligent, well-informed man, though self-taught, well versed in thescience of trade, and is a very energetic and efficient officer. 

The tall gentleman, just folding his doily, is the mate of the ship, Mr. Stewart. You would hardly suppose him to be a sailor at the firstglance; and yet he is a perfect specimen of what an officer in themerchant service should be, notwithstanding his fashionably-cutbroadcloth coat, white vest, black gaiter-pants, and jeweled fingers. He is dressed for the theatre. Mr. Stewart is a graduate of Harvard, and at first went to sea to recover the health which had been somewhatimpaired by hard study; but becoming charmed with the profession, hehas followed it ever since, and says that it is the most manlyvocation in the world. He is a great favorite with the owner of theship; and when he is at Boston, always resides with him. He willcommand a ship himself after this voyage. His age is twenty-eight. Mr. Stewart is a handsome man, a polite gentleman, an accomplishedscholar, a thorough seamen, a strict but kind officer, a mostcompanionable shipmate, and, in one word--a fine fellow. 

Next comes Mr. Brewster, the second mate. That is he devouring thosehuge slices of cold beef with so much gusto, while Langley mutters, "Will he never have done!" He with the blue jacket, bedizzened soplentifully with small pearl buttons, the calico shirt, andfancifully-knotted black silk cravat around his brawny neck. 

Mr. Micah Brewster hails from Truro, Cape Cod, and, like all Capemen, is a Yankee sailor, every inch of him. He commenced going to sea whenonly twelve years old, by shipping for a four months' trip in abanker; and in the space of fourteen years, which have since elapsed, he has not been on shore as many months. He is complete in everyparticular of seamanship, and is, besides, a tolerably scientificnavigator. He knows the color and taste of the water all along shorefrom Cape Farewell to the Horn, and can tell the latitude andlongitude of any place on the chart without consulting it. Bowditch'sEpitome, and Blunt's Coast Pilot, seem to him the only books in theworld worth consulting, though I should, perhaps, except Marryatt'snovels and Tom Cringle's Log. But of matters connected with the shoreMr. Brewster is as ignorant as a child unborn. He holds all landsmenbut ship-builders, owners, and riggers, in supreme contempt, and canhardly conceive of the existence of happiness, in places so far inlandthat the sea breeze does not blow. A severe and exacting officer ishe, but yet a favorite with the men--for he is always first in anyemergency or danger, his lion-like voice sounding loud above the roarof the elements, cheering the crew to their duty, and setting theexample with his own hands. He is rather inclined to be irritabletoward those who have gained the quarter-deck by the way of thecabin-windows, but, on the whole, I shall set him down in the list ofgood fellows. 

That swarthy, curl-pated youngster, in full gala dress for thetheatre, drawing on his gloves, and hurrying Mr. Stewart, is, dearreader, your most humble, devoted, and obedient servant, Frank Byrne, _alias_, myself, _alias_, the ship's cousin, _alias_, the son of theship's owner. Supposing, of course, that you believe in Mesmerism andclairvoyance, I shall not stop to explain how I have been able topoint out the Gentile to you, while you were standing on the bastionof St. Elmo, and I all the while in the cabin of the good ship, dressing for the theatre, and eating my supper, but shall immediatelyproceed to inform you how I came there, to welcome you on board, andto wish you a pleasant cruise with us. 

About two years ago, (I am speaking of the 25th of March, A. D. 1839, in the present tense, ) I succeeded in persuading my father to gratifymy predilection for the sea, by putting me on board of the Gentile, under the particular care of Captain Smith, to try one voyage--so Ibecame the ship's cousin. Contrary to the predictions of my friends, I returned determined to go again, and to become a sailor. Now aship's cousin's berth is not always an enviable one, notwithstandingthe consanguinity of its occupant to the planks beneath him, for he, usually feeling the importance of the relationship, is hated byofficers and men, who annoy him in every possible way. But my case wasan exception to the general rule. Although at the first I wasintimately acquainted with each of the officers, I never presumed uponit, but always did my duty cheerfully and respectfully, and tried hardto learn to be a good seaman. As my father allowed me plenty ofspending money, I could well afford to be open-handed and generous tomy shipmates, fore and aft; and this good quality, in a seaman'sestimation, will cover a multitude of faults, and endears itspossessor to his heart. In fine, I became an immense favorite with allhands; and even Mr. Brewster, who at first looked upon my advent onboard with an unfavorable eye, was forced to acknowledge that I nomore resembled a ship's cousin than a Methodist class-leader does amidshipman. 

Mr. Stewart and myself had always been great friends before I went tosea. When I first came on board, Mr. Langley, who had been myschool-mate and crony, was, though one of the cabin mess, only anapprentice, and had not yet received his brevet rank as thirdmate--Mr. Stewart, of course, stood his own watch, and chose Langleyand myself as part of it. The mate generally kept us upon thequarter-deck with him, and many were the cozy confabs we used to hold, many the choice cigars we used to smoke upon that handy loafing-place, the booby-hatch, many the pleasant yarns we used to spin while pacingup and down the deck, or leaning against the rail of the companion. AsI have said, Mr. Stewart was a delightful watch-mate--and Bill Langleyand I used to love him dearly, and none the worse that he made us toethe line of our duty. He always, however, appeared to prefer me toLangley, and to admit me to more of his confidence. Since Bill'spromotion we had not seen so much of the mate, but still, during ourlate tedious voyage from Calcutta, he had often come upon deck in ourwatch, and hundreds of long miles of the Indian Ocean had beenshortened in the old way. 

Gentle reader, you are as much acquainted with the Gentile, and thequint who compose her cabin mess, as you could hope to be at oneinterview. 

CHAPTER II. 

_News from Home. _

Mr. Langley had just commenced his supper with a ravenous appetite, stimulated by the tantalizing view of our previous gastronomicperformances, which he had had through the sky-light, the mate andmyself were on the point of going on deck to go ashore, the captainhad just lighted a second cigar, when Mr. Brewster, who had relievedpoor Langley in the charge of the deck, made his appearance at thecabin door, bearing in his hands a large packet. 

"She's in, sir!" he shouted, "she came to anchor in front of theLazaretto while we were at supper, and Bill here didn't see her. Thequarantine fellows brought this along. Bill, you must be a bloodyfool, to let a ship come right under our stern, and sail across thebay, and not know nothing about it. "

Langley, whose regards for the supper-table had drawn his attentionfrom the arrival of a ship which had been expected by us for more thana week, and by whom we had anticipated the receipt of the packet theskipper now held in his hands, Langley, I say, blushed, but saidnothing, and turned toward the captain, who, with trembling hands, wascutting the twine which bound the precious bundle together. 

Now our last letters from Boston had been written more than a yearbefore, had been read at Calcutta, since then we had sailed fifteenthousand miles from Calcutta to Trieste, and from Trieste to Valetta, and here we had been pulling at our anchor for three weeks, waitingorders from my father by the ship which had just arrived; it is notwonderful, therefore, that the group which surrounded Capt. Smith werevery pale, eager, anxious-looking men. How much we were to learn inten minutes time; what bitter tidings might be in store for us in thatlittle packet. 

At last it is open, and newspapers and letters in rich profusion meetour gaze; with a quick sleight the captain distributes them, sends ahalf dozen to their owners in the forecastle by the steward, and thenensues a silence broken only by the snapping of seals, and therattling of paper. Suddenly Mr. Stewart uttered an exclamation ofsurprise, and looking up from my letter, I noticed the quick exchangeof significant glances between the captain and mate. 

"You've found it out, then, " said the skipper. 

The mate nodded in reply, and gathering up his letters, retiredprecipitately to his state-room. 

At this juncture, Mr. Brewster, who had just finished the perusal of avery square, stiff-looking epistle, gave vent to a prolonged whistle. 

"Beats thunder, I swear!" said he, "if the old woman haint got splicedagain--and she's every month of fifty-six years old. "

"That's nothing, " cried Langley, "only think, father has left theAtlas Bank, and is now Mr. Byrnes' book-keeper; and they talk ofshutting up the Tremont theatre, and Bob here says that Fanny Ellsleris--"

"Avast there!" interrupted the skipper, "clap a stopper over all that, and stand by to hear where we are bound to-morrow, or next day. Haveany of you found out yet?"

"No, sir, " cried Langley and I in a breath, "Home, I hope. "

"Not so soon, " replied Captain Smith, "as soon as maybe we sail forMatanzas de Cuba, to take aboard a sugar freight for theBaltic--either Stockholm or Cronstadt; so that when we makeBoston-light it will be November, certain. How does that suit ye, gentlemen?"

I was forced to muster all my stoicism to refrain from whimpering; Mr. Langley gave utterance to a wish, which, if ever fulfilled, willconsign the cities of Cronstadt, Stockholm, and Matanzas to the samefate which has rendered Sodom, Gomorrah, and Euphemia so celebrated. Mr. Brewster alone seemed indifferent. That worthy gentleman snappedhis fingers, and averred that he didn't care a d--n where he went to. 

"Besides, " said he, "a trip up the Baltic is a beautiful summer'swork, and we shall get home in time for thanksgiving, if the governordon't have it earlier than common. "

"Matanzas!" inquired Langley; "isn't there where Mr. Stowe moved to, captain?"

"Yes, " replied the skipper, "he is Mr. Byrnes' correspondent there--"

"Egad, then, Frank, we shall see the girls, eh, old fellow!" and Mr. Langley began to recover his serenity of mind. 

"Beside all this, " added the skipper, "Frank has a cousin inMatanzas--a nun in the Ursuline Convent. "

"So I have just found out, " said I; "father bids me to be sure and seeher, if possible, and says that I must ask you about it. It is veryodd I never have heard of this before. By the bye, Bill, my boy, lookat this here!" and I displayed a draft on Mr. Stowe for $200. 

At this moment Mr. Stewart's state-room door opened, and he appeared. It was evident that he had heard bad news. His face was very grave, and his manner forced. 

"Frank, " said he, "you must excuse my company to-night. Langley willbe glad to go with you; and as we sail so soon, I have a good deal todo--"

"But, " said I, hesitating, "may I inquire whether you have receivedbad news from home?"

"On the contrary, very good--but don't ask any questions, Frank; beoff, it is very late to go now. "

"Langley, " said I, as we were supping at a _café_, after the closingof the theatre, "isn't it odd about that new cousin of mine?"

"Ay, ", replied my companion, "and it is odd about Stewart's actionsto-night; and it will be odd if I don't kiss Mary Stowe; and it willbe odd if you don't kiss Ellen; and it will be odd if I arn't madesecond mate after we get home from this thundering long voyage; and, finally, it will be most especially odd if we find all our boat's crewsober when we get down to the quay. "

Nothing so odd as that was the case; but after some little difficultywe got on board, and Langley and myself retired to the state-roomwhich we held as tenants in common. 

CHAPTER III. 

_In which four thousand miles are gained. _

We laid almost a week longer wind-bound. At last the skipper waxedimpatient, and one fine morning we got out our boats, and with thehelp of the Pharsalia's boats and crew, we were slowly towed to sea. Here we took a fine southwesterly breeze, and squared away before it. Toward night we had the coast of Sicily close under our lee, and asfar away as the eye could reach, the snow-capped summit of Ætna, ruddy in the light of the setting sun, rose against the clear blue ofthe northern sky. 

 * * * * *

We had as fine a run to Gibralter as any seaman could wish; but afterpassing the pillars of Hercules there was no more good weather beyondfor us until we crossed the tropic, which we did the 10th of May, inlongitude about sixty degrees, having experienced a constantsuccession of strong southerly and westerly gales. But having passedthe tropic, we took a gentle breeze from the eastward, and with thefinest weather in the world, glided slowly along toward our destinedport. 

I shall never forget the evening and night after the 15th of May. Wewere then in the neighborhood of Turks Island, heading for the CaycosPass, and keeping a bright look-out for land. It was a most lovelynight, one, as Willis says, astray from Paradise; the moon was shiningdown as it only does shine between the tropics, the sky clear andcloudless, the mild breeze, just enough to fill our sails, pushing usgently through the water, the sea as glassy as a mountain-lake, andmotionless, save the long, slight swell, scarcely perceptible to thosewho for long weeks have been tossed by the tempestuous waves of thestormy Atlantic. The sails of a distant ship were seen, far away tothe north, making the lovely scene less solitary; the only soundsheard were the rippling at the bows, the low sough of the zephyrthrough the rigging, the cheeping of blocks, as the sleepy helmsmanallowed the ship to vary in her course, the occasional splash of adolphin, and the flutter of a flying-fish in the air, as he winged hisshort and glittering flight. The air was warm, fragrant, anddelicious, and the larboard watch of the tired crew of the Gentile, after a boisterous passage of forty days from Gibralter, yielded toits somnolent influence, and lay stretched about the forecastle andwaists, enjoying the voluptuous languor which overcomes men suddenlyemerging from a cold into a tropical climate. 

Mr. Langley, myself, and the skipper's dog, reclined upon thebooby-hatch. The first having the responsibility of the deck contrivedto maintain a half upright position, and to keep one eye open, but theother two, prostrate by each others' side, slumbered outright. 

"What's the time, Bill?" I asked, at length, rousing myself, andshaking off the embrace of Rover, who was loth to lose his bedfellow. 

"'We take no note of time, '" spouted the third mate, drawing his watchfrom his pocket. "For'ard, there! strike four bells, and relieve thewheel. Keep your eye peeled, look-out; and mind, no caulking. "

"Ay ay, sir, " was the lazy response, and in a moment more the_ting-ting_, _ting-ting_, of the ship's bell rang out on the silentair, and proclaimed that the middle watch was half over, or, inlandsmen's lingo, that it was two o'clock, A. M. 

"Lay along, Rover, " I muttered, preparing for another snooze. 

"Oh! avast that Frank; come, keep awake, and let's talk. "

"Talk!" said I, "about what, pray?"

"Oh! I don't know, " replied Bill. "I tell you what, Frank, if itwasn't for being cock of the roost myself, I should wish that Stewartheaded this watch now. What fine times we used to have, eh?--but hehas altered as well as the times--how odd he has acted by spells eversince we got that packet at Malta. I'm d--d if I don't believe he gotnews of the loss of his sweetheart. "

"He never had any that I know of, " I rejoined, "but he certainly didhear something, for he has changed in his manner, and the skipper andhe have long talks by themselves, and I heard Stewart tell him one daythat after all it would have been better to have left the ship atGibralter, and not gone the voyage. "

"Did he, though!" cried Langley; "in that case I should have beensecond mate--however, I'm glad he didn't quit. "

"Thank you, Bill, " said a voice behind us; and turning in someconfusion we beheld Mr. Stewart standing in the companion. "How is herhead?" he continued, asking the usual question, to allow us to recoverfrom our embarrassment. 

"About west, sir, " replied Langley. 

"Well, as the wind freshens a little and is getting rather to thenor'ard, you'd better give your larboard braces a pull or two, andthen put your course rather north of west to hit the Pass. "

"Ay ay, sir, " said the third mate. "For'ard, there, come aft here, andround in on the larboard braces. Keep her up, Jack, about westnor'west. "

After the crew had complied with the orders of the officer theyretired forward, and we of the quarter-deck seated ourselves on thebooby-hatch. 

"We were talking about you when you came on deck, sir, " said I, aftera short silence. 

"Ah! indeed, " replied the mate smiling. 

"Yes, " said Langley, "we thought it was rather odd you hadn't been ondeck lately, to see whether we boys were not running away with theship in your watch. It has been deuced lonesome these dark blowynights along back. If you had been on deck to spin us a yarn it wouldhave been capital. "

"Boys, " said the mate, taking out his cigar-case, "I've a great mindto spin you a yarn now. "

"Oh! do, by all means, " cried the third mate and the ship's cousintogether. 

We lighted our cigars; the mate took a few puffs to get fairly underway, and then began. 

CHAPTER IV. 

_The Mate's Yarn. _

"I've told you about a great many days' works, boys, but there is oneleaf in my log-book of which you as yet know nothing. It is now aboutsix years since I was in this part of the world, for the first andonly time. I was then twenty-two, and was second mate, Frank, of yourfather's ship, the John Cabot. Old Captain Hopkin's was master, andour present skipper was mate. One fine July afternoon we let go ouranchor alongside of the Castle of San Severino, in Matanzas harbor. Afew days after our arrival I was in a billiard-room ashore, quietlyreading a newspaper, when one of the losing players, a Spaniard of amost peculiarly unpleasant physiognomy, turned suddenly around with anoath, and declared the rustling of the paper disturbed him. As severalgentlemen were reading in different parts of the room I did notappropriate the remark to myself, though I thought he had intended itfor me. I paid no attention to him, however, until, just as I wasturning the sheet inside out, the Spaniard, irritated by anotherstroke of ill luck, advanced to me, and demanded that I should eitherlay the newspaper aside or quit the room. I very promptly declined todo either, when he snatched the paper from my hands, and instantlydrew his sword. I was unarmed, with the exception of a good sizedwhalebone cane, but my anger was so great that I at once sprung at thescamp, who at the instant made a pass at me. I warded the thrust aswell as I could, but did not avoid getting nicely pricked in the leftshoulder; but, before my antagonist could recover himself, I gave himsuch a wipe with my cane on his sword-arm that his wrist snapped, andhis sword dropped to the ground. Enraged at the sight of my own blood, which now covered my clothes in front, I was not satisfied with this, but applying my foot to his counter, two or three vigorous kickssufficed to send him sprawling into the street. Captain Hopkinsarrived just as the fracas was over, and instantly sent for a surgeon, and in the meantime I received the congratulations of all present onmy victory. I learned that my man was a certain Don Carlos Alvarez, abroken down hidalgo, who had formerly been the master of a piraticalschooner, at the time when Matanzas was the head-quarters of pirates, before Commodore Porter in the Enterprise broke up the haunt. When thesurgeon arrived he pronounced my wound very slight, and a slip ofsticking-plaster and my arm in a sling was thought to be all that wasnecessary. After Captain Hopkins and myself got on board that night, he told me a story, the repetition of which may somewhat surprise you, Frank. Do you remember of ever hearing that a sister of your fathermarried a Cubanos merchant, some thirty odd years ago?"

"I remember hearing of it when a child, " I replied, "and father in hislast letter says that I have a cousin now in the nunnery at Matanzas. I suppose she is a daughter of that sister. "

"You are right, " resumed the mate, sighing slightly. "Your grandfatherhad only two children. When your father was but a small boy, the wholefamily spent the winter in Havana, to recruit your grandmother'shealth, while your grandfather collected some debts which were duehim. While there, a young Creole merchant, heavily concerned in theslave-trade, became deeply enamored with your aunt, and solicited herhand. The young lady herself was nothing loth, but the elders dislikedand opposed the match; the consequence was an elopement and privatemarriage, at which your grandfather was so exceedingly incensed thathe disowned his daughter, and never afterward held any communicationwith her. Your aunt had two children, and died some fifteen years ago. Your father shortly after received this intelligence by means of aletter from the son, and the correspondence thus begun was continuedin a very friendly manner. Señor Garcia, your uncle by marriage, became concerned, in a private way, like many other Cubanos merchants, in fitting out piratical craft, and one of his confidential captainswas this same Alvarez whom I so summarily ejected from thebilliard-room. Garcia died in 1830, leaving a large property to hischildren, and consigning the guardianship of the younger, a girl, tohis friend Don Carlos Alvarez. The will provided that in case sheshould marry any person, but an American, without her guardian'sconsent, her fortune should revert to her guardian; and in the choiceof an American husband her brother's wishes were not to becontravened. The reservation in favor of Americans was made at theentreaty of the brother, who urged the memory of his mother as aninducement. Now it so turned out that Don Carlos, though forty yearsold, and as ugly as a sculpin, became enamored with the beauty andfortune of his ward, and, hoping to win her, kept her rigidly secludedfrom the society of every gentleman, but especially that of theAmerican residents. Pedro Garcia, the brother, whom Captain Hopkinsrepresented to be a fine, manly fellow, was, however, much opposed tosuch a plan, and ardently desired that his sister should marry anAmerican, being convinced that this was the only way for her to get ahusband and save her fortune. 'If, ' said Captain Hopkins, inconclusion, 'some smart young Yankee could carry the girl off, itwould be no bad speculation. Ben, you had better try yourself, youcouldn't please Mr. Byrne better. '

"'Much obliged, ' I replied, 'but Yankee girls suit my taste tolerablywell, much better than pirates' daughters, and I hope that I canplease my owner well enough by doing my duty aboard ship. '

"'Pshaw! she is not a pirate's daughter exactly; she's Mr. Byrne'sniece. '

"'For all that, ' I answered, 'I should expect to find my throat cutsome fine morning. '

"'Well, well, ' said the old skipper, 'I only wish that I was a youngman, for the girl is said to be as handsome as a mermaid, and as formoney, I s'pose she's worth devilish nigh upon two hundred thousanddollars. '

"The next day but one was Sunday, so after dressing myself in mygo-ashore toggery, I went with the skipper to take another stroll inthe city. We dined at a _café_, and then hearing the cathedral bellstolling for vespers, I concluded to leave the skipper to smoke andsnooze alone, and go and hear the performances. It was rather a warmwalk up the hill, and, upon arriving at the cathedral, I stoppedawhile in the cool airy porch to rest, brush the dust from my boots, arrange my hair and neckcloth, and adjust my wounded arm in its slingin the most interesting manner. Just as I had finished these nicelittle preliminaries, a volante drove up to the door, which contained, why, to be sure, only a woman, but yet the loveliest woman I haveever seen in any part of the world. Yes, Bill, your little dancer atValetta ought not to be thought of the same day. 

"Well, boys, I fell in love incontinently at first sight, and wastaken all aback, but inspired by a stiff glass of eau-de-vie which Ihad taken with my pineapple after dinner, I forged alongside, beforethe negro postillion, cased to his hips in jack-boots, could dismount, and offered my hand to assist the lady to alight from the carriage. She at first gave me a haughty stare, but finally putting one of thetwo fairest hands in the world into my brown paw, she reached terrafirma safely. 

"'Thank you, señor, ' said she, with a low courtesy, after I had ledher into the church. 

"'Entirely welcome, ma'am, ' I replied, as my mother had taught me todo upon like occasions, 'and the more welcome, as I perceive you speakEnglish so fluently, that you must be either an English woman or myown countrywoman. '

"'I am a Cubanos, señor, ' said the lady, with a smile, 'but my motherwas an American, and I learned the language in the nursery--but, señor, again I thank you for your gallantry, and so _adios_. ' Shedipped her finger in the holy-water vase, crossed herself, and thenlooking at me from under her dark fringed eyelids with a mostbewildering glance, and a smile which displayed two dazzling rows ofpearls between her ruby lips, she glided into the church. 

"'Who is your mistress?' cried I, turning to the negro postillion, butthat sable worthy could not understand my question. The mostexpressive pantomimes were as unavailable as words, and so in despairI turned again into the porch, and stood in a reverie. I was clearly afathom deep in love, and as my extreme height is but five feet elevenand a half, that is equivalent to saying that I was over head and earsin love with the strange lady. I began to talk to myself. 'By Venus!'said I, aloud, 'but she is an angel, regular built, and if I onlycould find out her name and--'

"A smothered laugh behind me reminded me that so public a place washardly appropriate for soliloquizing about angels. I turned in somevexation and encountered the laughing glance of a well dressed youngman, apparently about twenty-five, who had probably been edified by myunconscious enthusiasm. 

"'You are mistaken, señor, ' said he in English, and looking quizzical;'those images in the niches are said to represent saints and notangels, though I must own they are admirably calculated to deceivestrangers. As you said you wished to know their names, I will tellthem to you--that is San Pablo, and that is San Pedro, and that is--'

"'You are kind, sir, ' said I, interrupting him angrily, 'but I'veheard of the twelve apostles before. '

"'I want to know, as your countrymen say, ' retorted the stranger, witha good-natured mocking laugh. 

"I fired up on this. 'Señor, ' said I, 'if my countrymen are not sopolished in their speech as the Castilians and their descendants, theynever insult strangers needlessly. I have been insulted once beforein your city within a few days, and allow me to add for yourconsideration, that the rascal got well kicked--'

"'You are very kind to give me such fair warning, ' replied thestranger, bowing, 'but allow me to ask whether the name of this personyou punished is Alvarez?'

"'I have heard so, and if he is a connection of yours I am--'

"'Stay, señor, don't get into a passion; believe me, that I thank youmost heartily for the good service you performed on the occasion towhich we allude. I only wish that I can be of use to you in return. '

"'Well, then, señor, ' I replied, much mollified, and intent uponfinding out my fair incognito, 'a lady just now passed through intothe church, and if you can only tell me who she is, I will promise toflog you all the bullies in Cuba. '

"'Ah, that would be a long job, dear señor, but if you will accept myarm into the church, and point out the angel who has attracted yournotice, I will tell you her name and the part of heaven in which sheresides. She was very beautiful I suppose?'

"'Oh! exquisitely beautiful. '

"'Come, then, I am dying to find out which of our Matanzas belles hashad the good fortune to fascinate you--this way--do you use the holywater?'

"'In we went and found the organ piping like a northeast snow squall, and the whole assembly on their knees. The stranger and myselfensconced ourselves near a large pillar, and I stood by to keep abright look out for the lady. 

"At last I discovered her among a group of other women, kneeling atthe foot of an opposite pillar. 

"'There she is, ' I whispered to my companion, who had knelt upon hispocket-handkerchief. 

"'Well, in a moment, ' he replied. 'I'm in the middle of a crookedLatin prayer just now, and have to tell you so in a parenthesis. '

"A turn came to the ceremonies, and all hands arose. 

"'_Sæcula sæculorum_, ' muttered my companion, rising, 'Amen! nowwhere's your lady?'

"'Yonder, by the pillar, ' I whispered, in a fit of ecstasy, for mybeautiful unknown in rising had recognized me, and given me anotherthrilling glance from her dark eyes. 

"'But there are a score of pillars all around us, ' urged the stranger, 'point her out, señor. '

"'Well, then, ' said I, extending my arm, 'there she is; you can't seeher face to be sure, but there can be only one such form in the world. Isn't it splendid?'

"'There are so many ladies by the pillar that I cannot tell to acertainty which one you mean, ' whispered my would-be informant. Stooping and glancing along my arm with the precision of a Kentuckyrifleman, I brought my finger to bear directly upon the head of theunknown, who, as the devil would have it, at this critical junctureturned her head and encountered the deadly aim which we were takingat her. 

"'That's she, ' said I, dropping my arm, which had been sticking outlike a pump brake, 'that's she that just now turned about and blushedso like the deuce--do you know her?'

"'Yes, but I can't tell you here, ' was the laconic reply of mycompanion; 'come, let's go. You are sure that is the lady, ' hecontinued, when we had gained the street. 

"'Sure! most certainly; can there be any mistake about that face;besides, didn't you notice how she blushed when she recognized me?'

"'Maybe, ' suggested my new friend, 'she blushed to see me. '

"'Well, ' said I, 'I don't know to be sure, but I think that theemotion was on my account; but don't keep me in suspense any longer, tell me who she is; can I get acquainted with her?'

"'Softly, softly, my friend, one question at a time. Step aboard myvolante, and as we drive down the street I'll give you the informationyou so much desire. Will you get in?'

"I climbed aboard without hesitation, and was followed by my strangefriend; the postillion whipped up and we were soon under weigh. 

"'Now, ' resumed my companion, 'in reply to your first and oft-repeatedinquiry, I have the honor to inform you that the lady is my onlysister. As to your second question--I beg you won't get out--sitstill, my dear sir, I will drive you to the _café_--your secondquestion I cannot so well answer. It would seem that my sister herselfis nothing loth--sit easy, sir, the carriage is perfectly safe--butunfortunately it happens that the gentleman who has the control of heractions, her guardian, dislikes Americans extremely; and I have reasonto believe that he has taken a particularly strong antipathy to you. Indeed, I have heard him swear that he'll cut your throat--pardon me, Mr. Stewart, for the expression, it is not my own. '

"Surprise overcame my confusion. 'Señor, ' cried I, interrupting him, 'it seems you know my name, and--'

"'Certainly I do--Mr. Benjamin Stewart, of the ship John Cabot. '

"'Señor, ' I cried, half angrily, 'since you know my address so well, will you not be so kind as to favor me with yours?'

"'Mine! oh yes, with pleasure, though I now recollect that I haveomitted to state my sister's name--hers first, if you please; it isDonna Clara Garcia. '

"'And yours is Pedro Garcia. '

"'Exactly, with a _Don_ before it, which my poor father left me. Youperceive, Mr. Stewart, by what means I knew you after your warningabout the kicking, eh? I suspected it was yourself, when I saw anAmerican gentleman with his arm in a sling, and so I made bold toaccost you in the midst of your rhapsody about angels--'

"'Ah! Don Pedro, ' I stammered in confusion, when I recalled theludicrous scene, 'how foolish I must appear to you. '

"'For what, señor--for thinking my sister handsome? You do my tasteinjustice. I think so myself. '

"We rode on in silence a few minutes. I recalled all that CaptainHopkins had told me about my new acquaintance, his sister, and herguardian. I took heart of grace, and determined to know more of thebeautiful creature whom I had now identified; but when I turned towardmy companion, his stern expression, so different from the one hisfeatures had hitherto borne, almost disheartened me. 

"'Don Pedro, ' said I, with hesitation, 'may I ask if you are angry atthe trifling manner with which I have spoken of your sister before Iknew her to be such?'

"'Is it necessary for me to assure you to the contrary?' he asked, with a smile again lighting up his face. 

"'But if, ' I continued, 'I should say that the admiration I havemanifested is sincere, that even in the short time I have seen herto-day, I have been deeply interested, and that I ardently desire heracquaintance. '

"'Why, señor, in that case, I should reply, that my sister is veryhighly honored by your favorable notice, and that I should do mypossible to make you know each other better. If, ' he continued, 'thecase you have supposed be the fact, I think I can manage this matter, her old janitor to the contrary notwithstanding. '

"'I do say, then, ' I replied, with enthusiasm, 'that the sight ofDonna Clara has excited emotions in my bosom I have never felt before. I shall be the happiest man in the world to have the privilege ofknowing her. '

"'Attend, then. Don Carlos is absent at Havana, and will probablyremain so for a few days, until his wrist gets well; in the meantime, his sister acts as duenna over Donna Clara. She is quite a nice oldlady, however, and allows my sister far greater liberty in herbrother's absence than ordinarily, as, for instance, to-day. I willget her to permit Clara to spend a few days at my villa down thebay--Alvarez himself would not dare to refuse this request, if--' mycompanion stopped short, and his brow clouded. 'But I forget the bestof the matter, ' he continued a moment after, in a lively tone. 'Señor, you will dine with me to-morrow, and spend a day or two with me. Ikeep bachelor's hall, but I have an excellent cook, and some of theoldest wine in Cuba. Beside, you will see my sister. Will you honorme, Mr. Stewart?'

"I was transported, 'Senior, ' I cried, 'if Capt. Hopkins--'

"'Oh! a fig for Hopkins, ' shouted my volatile friend, 'he shall dinewith me too. He is an ancient of mine--he dare not refuse to let yougo. But there is the fine old sinner himself in the verandah of the_café_; now we can ask him. '

"We rattled up to the door, to the infinite astonishment of my worthyskipper, who was greatly surprised to see Don Pedro and his secondmate on such excellent terms, and all without his intervention. 

"'Hillo!' he shouted, 'how came you two sailing in company?'

"The worthy old seaman was briefly informed of my afternoon'sadventures over a bowl of iced sangaree; and when Pedro made hisproposition about the morrow's dinner, and a little extra liberty forme, the reply was very satisfactory. 

"'Sartainly, sartainly, ' said he, 'and I hope good will come of it. '

"'Well, then, ' said Pedro, 'as this matter is settled, I must take myleave. I shall expect you early, gentlemen. _Adieu_'--and, with agraceful bow, my new friend entered his carriage, and was driven away. 

"'Now, ' said the skipper, after our boat's crew had cleared theircraft from the crowd at the stairs, 'now, Stewart, what do you thinkof the pirate's daughter, my boy? D'ye see, I never happened to sighther, though her brother and I have been fast friends these five years. Is she so handsome, Ben. '

"'Full as good-looking as the figure-head of the Cleopatra, ' repliedI. 

"'Egad! you don't say so!' exclaimed the skipper, who thought that theaforesaid graven image on the cut-water of his old ship, far excelledthe Venus de Medici in beauty of feature and form. 'She must bealmighty beautiful; and then, my son, she is as rich as the Rajah ofRangoon, who owns a diamond as big as our viol-block. Did you fall inlove pretty bad, Ben?'

"'Considerable, ' I replied, grinning at the old gentleman'ssimplicity. 

"'By the laws, then, if you don't cut out that sweet little craft fromunder that old pirate's guns, you're no seaman, that's a fact! Egad! Ishould like to do it, and wouldn't ask only one kiss for salvage, andyou'll be for having the whole concern. '

"The next morning I packed my portmanteau and dressed myself withunusual care. About ten the skipper and myself got aboard the gig, andpushed off for Don Pedro's villa, which lay on the eastern shore ofthe bay, two miles from the city, and nearly opposite the barracks andhospital. 

"We landed at a little pier at the foot of the garden; the house, embowered in a grove of orange and magnolia trees, was close at hand. Don Pedro met us on the verandah. 

"'Welcome! welcome!' he cried; 'how do you like the appearance of mybachelor's hall? But come, let's go in; my sister has arrived, andknows that I expect Captain Hopkins and Mr. Stewart, of the Cabot, and, ' he added, with a significant smile, 'nothing more, though shehas been very curious to find who the gentlemen is with whom I enteredthe church yesterday. '

"We entered the drawing-room, and there, sure enough, was my angel ofthe cathedral-porch. Her eye fell upon me as I passed the doorway, and, by the half start and blush, I saw that I was plainly recognized, and with pleasure. We were formally presented by Don Pedro, and, afterthe old skipper had been flattered into an ecstasy of mingledadmiration and self-complacency, Donna Clara turned again to me. 

"'I do not know that I ought to have bid you welcome, Mr. Stewart, 'she said, with an arch smile, 'you treated my poor guardianshamefully, I am told. '

"'Yes, ' cried Pedro, 'and just to let you know what a truculent personhe is, know that yesterday he more than insinuated that he would serveme in the same way that he did Don Carlos. '"

"Land ho!" sung out the man on the look-out. 

"Where away?" shouted Langley, walking forward. 

"Pretty near ahead, sir; perhaps a point on our starboard bow, sir. "

"Land ho!" bellowed the man at the wheel, "just abeam, sir, toloo-ard. "

"What had I better do, sir?" inquired Langley, of the mate. 

"I was looking at the chart just at night, and I should reckon theland ahead might be Mayaguana, and the Little Caycos under our lee. "

"Head her about west, then; but we shall have the lead going soon. "

We filled away before the wind, which had now veered again to theeastward, and in a few moments were dashing bravely on, sailing rightup the moon's wake toward the Pass, the land lying on each side of uslike blue clouds resting on the horizon. We settled ourselves again onthe hatch, lighted fresh cigars, and the mate resumed his broken yarn. 

"It is getting late, boys, almost six bells, and I must cut my story alittle short. I will pass over the dinner, the invitation to staylonger, Captain Hopkins' consent, the undisguised pleasure and therepressed delight of Clara at this arrangement, and I will pass overthe next two days, only saying that the memory of them haunts me yet;and that though at the time they seemed short enough, yet when I lookback upon them, it is hard to realize they were not months instead ofdays, so much of heart experience did I acquire in the time. I foundClara to be every thing which the most exacting wife-hunter couldwish--beautiful as a dream. Believe me, boys, I do not now speak withthe enthusiasm of a lover, but such beauty is seldom seen on theearth. Added to this, she was intellectual, refined, accomplished, andhighly educated. I went back four years in life, and with all theenthusiasm of a college student I raved of poetry and romance. We readGerman together, and we talked of love in French; and the musicaltongue of Italy, it seemed to me, befitted her mouth better than herown sonorous native language, and when in conversation she would lookme one of those dreamy glances which had at the first set my heart inagitation, it perfectly bewildered me. You needn't smile, Langley, (poor Bill's face was guilty of no such distortion, ) but if yourlittle _danseuse_ should practice for years, she couldn't attain tothe delicious glance which my handsome creole girl can give you. Theheavily-fringed eyelid is just raised, so that you can look as if foran interminable distance into the beautiful orb beneath, and at theend of the vista, see the fiery soul which lies so far from thevoluptuous exterior. 

"But, though I was madly in love, I had not yet dared with my lips tosay so to the lady, whatever my eyes might have revealed; but Pedrowas my confident, and encouraged me to hope. 

"The third day of my sojourn on shore was spent in a visit to DonPedro's plantation in the vale, and it was dark when we arrived home. After the light refreshment which constitutes the evening meal ofCuba, Don Pedro pleaded business, and left the apartment--and for thefirst time that day I was alone with Clara. 

"'Now, ' thought I, 'now or never. '

"If upon the impulse of the moment a man proceeds to make love, hegenerally does it up ship-shape; but if he, with malice aforethought, lays deliberate plans, he finds it the most awkward traverse to workin the world to follow them--but I did not know this. I sat by thetable, and in my embarrassment kept pushing the solitary taper fartherand farther from me, until at last over it went, and was extinguishedupon the floor. 

"'I beg ten thousand pardons!' cried I apologizing. 

"'_N'importe_, ' replied Clara, 'there is a fine moon, which will giveus light enough. '

"She rose and drew the curtain of the large bow-window, so common inthe West Indian houses, and the rich moonlight, now unvexed by thedull glare of the taper, flowed into the apartment, bathing everyobject it touched with silvery radiance. Clara sat in the window, inthe full glow of the light, leaning forward toward the open air, andI, with a beating heart, gazed upon her superb beauty. Shall I everforget it? Her head leaned upon a hand and arm which Venus herselfmight envy; the jetty curls which shaded her face fell in gracefulprofusion, Madonna-like, upon shoulders faultless in shape, and whiteas that crest of foam on yonder sea. Her face was the Spanish oval, with a low, broad feminine forehead, eyebrows exquisitely penciled, and arching over eyes that I shall not attempt to describe. Her lovelybosom, half exposed as she leaned over, reminded me, as it heavedagainst the chemiset, of the bows of a beautiful ship, rising andsinking with the swell of the sea, now high in sight, and anon buriedin a cloud of snowy spray. One hand, buried in curls, I have said, supported her head, the other, by her side, grasped the folds of herrobe, beneath which peeped out a tiny foot in a way that was ratherdangerous to my sane state of mind to observe. 

"We had sat a few moments in silence, when Clara suddenly spoke. 

"'Come hither, señor, ' said she, 'look out upon this beautifullandscape, and tell me whether in your boasted land there can be foundone as lovely. Have you such a sky, such a moon, such waters, andgraceful trees, such blue mountains--and, hark! have you such music?'

"I approached to her side and looked out. The band at the barracks hadjust begun their nightly serenade, and the music traveled across thebay to strike upon our ears so softly, that it sounded like strainsfrom fairy land. 

"'They are playing an ancient march of the days of Ferdinand andIsabel, ' whispered Clara; 'could you not guess its stately measureswere pure old Castilian? Now mark the change--that is a Moorishserenade; is it not like the fitful breathings of an Eolian harp?'

"The music ceased, but it died in cadences so soft that I stood withlips apart, half in doubt whether the spirit-sound I yet heard werethe effect of imagination or not. Reluctantly I was compelled tobelieve myself deceived, and then turned to look upon the landscape. Inever remember of seeing a lovelier night. It was now nine o'clock, and the sounds of business were hushed on the harbor, but boats, filled with gay revelers, glided ever the sparkling surface of thewater, whose laugh and song added interest and life to the scene. Nearly opposite to us, upon the other side of the bay, were theextensive barracks, hospital, and the long line of the Marino, theirwhite stuccoed walls glowing in the moonlight. On our left thebeautiful city rose like an amphitheatre around the head of the bay;the hum of the populace, and the rumbling of wheels sounding faintlyin the distance. Behind the town the blue conical peaks of themountains melted into the sky. On our right was the roadstead and opensea, the moon's wake thereon glittering like a street in heaven, andreaching far away to other lands. All around us grew a wilderness ofpalm, orange, cocoa, and magnolia trees, vocal with the thousandstrange noises of a tropical night. Directly below us, but a cablelength from the overhanging palms which fringed the shore, lay a heavyEnglish corvette in the deep shade of the land; but the arms of thesentry on her forecastle glinted in the moonbeams as he paced hislonely watch, and sung out, as the bell struck twice, his accustomedlong-drawn cry of 'All's well!' Just beyond her, in saucy propinquity, lay a slaver, bound for the coast of Africa--a beautiful, gracefulcraft. Still farther out the crew of a clumsy French brig werechanting the evening hymn to the Virgin. Ships from every civilizedcountry lay anchored, in picturesque groups, in all directions, andfar down, her tall white spars standing in bold and graceful reliefagainst the dark, gray walls of San Severino, I recognized my ownbeautiful craft, sitting like a swan in the water; and still farther, in the deep water of the roadstead, lay an American line-of-battleship, her lofty sides flashing brightly in the moonlight, and herfrowning batteries turned menacingly toward the old castle, telling aplain bold tale of our country's power and glory, and making my heartproud within me that I was an American sailor. 

"'Say, ' again asked Clara, in a low, hushed voice, 'saw you ever aughtso lovely in your own land?'

"To tell the truth, I had forgotten my sweet companion for a moment. 'I am sorry, ' said I, taking her hand, 'very sorry, that you think theUnited States so unenviable a place of residence. I hope, dear lady, to persuade you to make it your home. '

"The small hand I clasped trembled in mine. 

"'Señora, ' said I, taking a long breath, and beginning a littlespeech which I had composed for the occasion, while sitting at thetable pushing the candle-stick, 'Señora, I have your brother'spermission to address you. I am--a--sure, indeed, convinced, that Ilove you--ahem--considerably. I have known you, to be sure, but a fewdays, but, as I said before--at least--at all events--I could be quitehappy if you were my wife--you know. Señora, and if you could--a--'

"I had proceeded thus far swimmingly, except that a few of the words Ihad previously selected seemed, when I came to pronounce them, asextravagant, and so I had substituted others in their place, not soliable to be censured for that fault; beside, a lapse of memory hadonce or twice occasioned temporary delay and embarrassment; but I hadgot along thus far, I say, as I presumed, exceedingly well, when, oh, thunder! Donna Clara disengaged her hand, curtseyed deeply, bade megood-night, and swept haughtily out of the room. Egad! I felt as ifroused out of my berth by a cold sea filling it full in the middle ofmy watch below. 'Lord!' thought I, aloud, 'what can I have done? ThereI was, making love according to the chart, and before I knew it, I'mhigh and dry ashore. One thing is clear as a bell, she is aregular-built coquette, and all her fine looks to me are nothing butman-traps, decoys, and false lights. Yet how beautiful she is, how shehas deceived me, and how much I might have loved her. Shall I tryagain? No, I'm d--d if I do! once is enough for me. Egad! I can take ahint without being kicked. To-morrow I'll go aboard again, and to worklike a second mate as I am; that's decided. But--'

"Absorbed in very disagreeable reflections, I sat by the window, insensible to the charms without, which had before been sofascinating, when I was suddenly aroused by the opening of the door. Ilooked around, and saw Don Pedro. 'Where's Donna Clara?' he asked. 

"'Gone, ' I replied, in an exceeding bad humor. 

"'What! so early? I made sure to find her here as usual. '

"'Well, ' said I, 'you perceive that you were mistaken, I presume'--Iwas _very_ cross. 

"'Why, señor, something has gone wrong; you appear chagrined. '

"'Oh! no, sir; never was so good-natured in my life--ha! ha! beautifulevening, Don Pedro! remarkably fine night! How pleasant the moonshines, don't it?'

"'Mr. Stewart, ' said Don Pedro, gravely, 'I do not wish to press you, but you will greatly oblige me by telling me what has passed betweenyourself and Donna Clara this night?'

"So, rather ashamed of my petulence, I recounted my essay atlove-making. 

"'Carramba!' ejaculated Don Pedro, 'how d--d foolish--in her, I mean. She is a wayward girl, sir, but yet I think she loves you. I tell youfrankly that I ardently desire her to marry you; pardon me, then, whenI say, that if you love her, do not be discouraged, but try again. '

"'I think not, ' said I, decidedly, 'I go on board to-morrow. '

"My usually lively and mercurial friend sighed heavily, and thendrawing a chair, sat down opposite me. 'Listen to me a moment, sir, 'said he. 'Cast aside your mortified pride, and answer me frankly. Doyou really love my sister? Would you wish to see her subjected to thealternative, either to become the wife of Don Carlos Alvarez, or elseto be confined in a convent, perhaps be constrained or influenced totake the hateful veil? You alone can save her from this dreadfuldilemma. '

"My Yankee cautiousness was awakened, but I replied, 'I do love yoursister, sir, and would do any thing but marry a woman who does notlove me to save her from such a fate as you represent; but still, sir, I cannot perceive how that I, till lately unknown to you, can havesuch an influence over you and yours. Is not your own power sufficientto prevent such undesirable results?'

"I saw by the moonlight that my companion's eyes flashed with anger, but he made a strong effort to control himself. 

"'I do not wonder, ' he said, a moment after, 'that you are angry, Mr. Stewart, after the conduct of my madcap sister, or indeed that youdeem it strange to find yourself of so much importance suddenly, ' headded, a little maliciously, 'but I will explain the last matter toyou, relying upon your honor. About two years ago, I accompaniedAlvarez to Havana, upon some business relative to Clara's estate. While returning late one evening to our hotel, we heard in a retiredstreet the cries of a woman in distress. Midnight outrages were thenvery common in the city, and usually the inhabitants, if they were notthemselves interested in the issue, paid very little attention tocalls for assistance, and Alvarez, upon my suggesting to him to gowith me to the aid of the lady making the outcry, advised me toconsult my own safety by keeping clear of the _fracas_, but when alouder cry for help reached my ears, I could restrain myself nolonger, but started for the scene of action. I soon perceived acarriage drawn up before a house which had been broken open. Two ofthe professional bravos were forcing a lady into this carriage, whom, by the light of the lanterns, I recognized to be an actress at the SanCarlos. A gentleman in a mask stood by, apparently the commander ofthe expedition. I called to the ruffians to desist, but was hinderedfrom attacking them by the gentleman, who drew his sword and kept meoff, while the robbers forced the lady into the carriage and droverapidly away. My antagonist seemed also disposed to retreat, but I wasvery angry and kept him engaged, until, growing angry in his turn, heseriously prepared himself to fight. He was a very expert swordsman, nevertheless in a few minutes I ran him through the body, and heinstantly fell and expired. At this juncture Don Carlos stepped up, and when we removed the mask from the face of the corpse, I found tomy consternation that I had killed the Count ----, an aid-de-camp ofthe captain-general, and a son of one of the most powerful noblemenin the mother country. Horror-struck, we fled. The next day the wholecity resounded with the fame of the so-called assassination. Thegovernment offered immense rewards for the discovery of the murderer. Since that time I hold my life, fortune and honor by the feeble tenureof Don Carlo's silence. His power over me is very great. I distrusthim much. Unknown to but very few, I have a yacht lying at a littleestate in a rocky nook at Point Yerikos, in complete order to sail atany moment. On board of her is a large amount of property in money andjewels, but still, alas! I should, in case of flight, be forced toleave behind the greater part of my patrimony, which is in realestate, which I dare not sell for fear of exciting Alvarez' suspicion. I live on red-hot coals. Clara alone detains me. It is true that shemight fly with me, but she would leave her large fortune behind in thehands of her devil of a guardian. Now, with what knowledge you alreadyhave of my father's will, you can easily guess the rest. You are nostranger to me. I know your history, your family, your education, and, under the most felicitous circumstances, would be proud and happy tocall you brother. Now, then, decide to try again. Clara shall notrefuse you; she does not wish to do so; on the contrary, she lovesyou; but some of her oddness was in the ascendant to-night, and so ithappened as it did. At any rate I can no longer trifle with my ownsafety, and have no authority or means to prevent Don Carlos fromexercising unlimited power over my sister's actions. Good-night, señor, you can strike the gong when you wish for a servant and alight. I shall have your answer in the morning. '

"Don Pedro left the room in great agitation, and soon after I retiredto bed. I lay a long time thinking over the events and revelations ofthe evening; love and pride alternately held the mastery of mydeterminations. I loved Clara well and truly, and sympathized with herand her brother in their unfortunate situation, but I had beenvirtually refused once, and my pride revolted from accepting the handthus forced into mine by the misfortunes of its owner. At last, as theclock struck three, I fell asleep, still undecided. The sun had firstrisen in the morning when I started from an uneasy slumber. I dressedmyself, passed through my window to the verandah, and down to thewater, where I bathed, and returning through the garden entered anarbor and stretched myself on a settee, the better to collect mythoughts. 

"I had been here but a very short time when I heard voices approachingme, and upon their drawing nearer, I perceived Don Pedro and hissister engaged in earnest conversation. It was now too late toretreat, for they were approaching me by the only way I could effectit, and I was upon the point of going forth to meet them, when theypaused in front of the arbor, and I heard Clara pronounce my name somusically, that I hope you will not think I did wrong, when told thatI drew back, determined to listen, and thereby to obtain a hintwhereupon to act. Clara leaned upon her brother's arm, who hadevidently been expostulating with her, for his voice was earnest andreproachful, and Clara's eyes looked as if she had been crying. 

"'And yet you say, ' continued Pedro, 'that you can love thisgentleman. '

"'Can love him!' cried Clara passionately, 'oh! Pedro, if you onlyknew how I do love him!'

"'Why, then, in the name of all that is consistent, did you act sostrangely last night? In your situation an offer from any Americangentleman deserved consideration, to say the least; but Mr. Stewart, afriend and _protégé_ of our uncle's, a refined, educated man, a manwhom you say you love. Clara, I wonder at you! What could have beenthe reason?'

"'This, Pedro, ' said Clara, looking at the toe of her slipper, whichwas drawing figures in the gravel-walk. 'You must know that I did itto punish him for making love so awkwardly. Now, instead of going downon his knees, as the saints know I could have done to him, thecold-blooded fellow went on as frigidly as if he had been buying anegro, and that too with a moon shining over him which should havecrazed him, and talking to a girl whose heart was full of fiery lovefor him. Pedro, my heart was chilled, and so, to punish him, I--'

"'Diablo!' swore Pedro, dropping his sister's arm, and striding off ina great rage. 

"'Oh! stay, brother!' sobbed poor Clara; 'indeed, I could not help it. Oh, dear!' she continued, as Pedro vanished from her sight, 'now_he's_ angry. What have I done?' She buried her face in her hands, entered the arbor, threw herself on the settee, and began sobbing withconvulsive grief. Here was a situation for an unsophisticated youthlike myself. Egad! my heart bounced about in my breast like a shotadrift in the cook's biggest copper. I approached the lady softly, and, grown wiser by experience, knelt before I took her hand. Shestarted, screamed faintly, and endeavored to escape. 

"'Stay, stay, dearest Clara!' cried I, detaining her, 'I should notdare to again address you after the repulse of last night, had I notjust now been an inadvertent, but delighted listener to your own sweetconfession that you loved me. Let me say in return that I love you aswildly, tenderly, passionately, as if I, like you, had been born undera southern sun; that I cannot be happy without you. Forgive me forlast night. It was not that my heart was cold, but I was fearful thatunless I constrained myself I should be wild and extravagant. DearestClara, will you say to me that which you just now told Pedro?'

"Her head sunk upon my shoulder. 'Señor, ' she murmured, 'I do loveyou, and with my whole heart. '

"'And will be my wife?' I asked. 

"'Whenever you please. '"

Here the mate paused, and gave several very energetic puffs, andlighted a new cigar. 

"I clasped the dear girl to my heart, " he resumed, "and kissed hercheeks, her lips and eyes, a thousand times, and was just beginning onthe eleventh hundred, when, lo, there stood mine host in the doorway, evidently very much amused, and, considering that it was his sisterwith whom these liberties had been taken, extremely satisfied. 

"I came immediately to the conclusion, in my own mind, to defer anyfarther labial demonstrations, and felt rather foolish; but Claraarranged her dress and looked defiance. 

"'I beg ten thousand pardons, ' said Don Pedro, entering, hat in hand, and bowing low, 'but really the scene was so exquisitely fine, so muchto my taste, that I could not forbear looking on awhile. Clara, dear, has Mr. Stewart discovered the way to make love _à la mode_? Iunderstood you to say he did it oddly and coldly; but, by Venus! Ithink he does it in the most natural manner possible, and with somewarmth and vigor, or else I'm no judge of kissing--and I make somepretensions to being a connoisseur. '

"'And an amateur also, ' retorted Clara. 

"'I won't deny the soft impeachment--but, my friends, breakfast iswaiting for you, if Mr. Stewart can bring his appetite to relishcoffee after sipping nectar from my sweet sister's lips. '

"We made a very happy trio that morning around the well-spread boardof my friend Pedro. Just as we were rising, however, a servant broughtin a note for his master. Don Pedro's brow darkened as he read it. 'Itis from Carlos, ' said he, folding it up, 'and informs me that he willbe at home to-night, and will call for you, Clara--for it seems he hasbeen informed of your visit here, and is determined that it shall beas short as possible. We must work quick then. '

"'But what is to be done?' I inquired. 

"'You need do nothing at present but keep Clara company, while I go totown to see Capt. Hopkins. We will arrange some plan. '

"Clara and I passed the morning as you may imagine; it seemed but afew minutes from Pedro's departure for the city, till his return incompany with my skipper. 

"'Ben, ' shouted the latter, seizing my hand, 'may I be d--d but you'rea jewel--begging your pardon, Donna Clara, for swearing in yourpresence, which I did not notice before. '

"When Clara retired to dress for dinner, Capt. Hopkins divulged to methe plans which had been formed by him and Pedro. 'D'ye see, Ben, mychild, Don Pedro and I have arranged the matter in A No. 1 style; andif we can only work the traverse, it'll be magnificent--and I don'tvery well see why we can't. To day is Thursday, you know. Well, Ishall hoist my last box of sugar aboard to-morrow night, and, afterdark, Don Pedro is going to run a boat alongside with his plunder andvaluables. Your sweetheart must go home, it appears, but before shegoes you must make an arrangement with her to be at a certain windowof Alvarez' house, Pedro will tell her which, at twelve o'clockSaturday night. You and her brother will be under it ready to receiveher; and when you have got the lady, you will bring her aboard theship, which shall be ready to cut and run, I tell you; up killock, sheet home, and I'll defy all the cutters in Havana to overhaul uswith an hour's start! Those chaps in Stockholm are almightyparticular about your health, if your papers show that you left Havanaafter the first of June, and so, to pull the wool over their eyes, andsave myself a long quarantine, I was intending to stop at Boston andget a new clearance, so it'll be no trouble at all to set you allashore, for Don Pedro and his sister will not wish to go to Sweden;and my second mate, I suppose, will want to get married and leave me. Now, Ben, my boy, that's what I call a XX plan; no scratch brand aboutthat; superfine, and no mistake, and entitled to debenture. '

"'Excellent, indeed!' replied I. 

"'Well, after dinner, we'll give you time to tell your girl all aboutit, and to kiss her once or twice; but you must bear a hand about it, now I tell you, because we must be out of that bloody pirate's waywhen he comes, and there's a sight of work to do aboard. '

"After dinner the whole matter was again talked over and approved byall, and then the skipper and myself took our leave and went aboard. 

"As Captain Hopkins had arranged, we finished our freight on Fridayevening, and in the night Pedro came off to us with a boat-load ofbaggage, pictures, heirlooms, and money. The next day we cleared atthe custom-house, and in the afternoon hove short on our anchor, loosed our sails, and made every preparation for putting to sea in ahurry. A lieutenant from the castle came off with our blacks afterdark, and while he was drinking a glass of wine in the cabin, DonPedro, most unfortunately, came on board. I heard his voice andstarted to intercept him; but he met me in the companion, and seizingme by the hand, exclaimed, 'Well, Stewart, you are all ready to cutand run, I see; by this time to-morrow I hope we will be far beyondreach--'

"'Hush! hush! for God's sake!' I whispered, pointing to the companion;'there is an officer from the castle below. '

"We walked to the sky-light and looked down. 

"'Diablo!' muttered Pedro, with a start, 'do you think he heard me?'

"'No, I think not; the skipper and he did not cease conversation. Thesteward is so glad to get back amongst his crockery, that he waskicking up a devil of a row in the pantry; that may have drowned yourvoice. '

"'If he did hear me I'm ruined. He is Don Sebastian Alvarez, a nephewof Carlos', and dependent on him; he has watched me closely for threemonths. What is his errand?'

"'He brought off our cook and steward, who have been confined in thecastle. '

"'Well, I dare say all is right; he is a lieutenant in the castle, andthere is nothing strange in his being here on such business; but I'llkeep out of sight. '

"The officer soon came on deck, shook hands with Captain Hopkins, wished him a pleasant voyage, and then went down into his boat, ordering the men to pull for the castle. 

"'All right, I trust, ' cried Pedro, emerging from the round-house, 'if he had started for the city, it would have been suspicious. '

"The skipper called the crew, who were principally Yankees, upon thequarter-deck, and in a brief speech stated the case in hand to them. 'Now, my men, ' said he, 'which of you will volunteer to go with DonPedro Garcia and Mr. Stewart?'

"Every man offered his services. We chose six lusty fellows, andsupplied them with pistols and cutlasses. Don Pedro gave them adoubloon a-piece, and to each of the rest of the crew a smaller sum. At eleven o'clock we descended into the boat and pushed off for theshore. The night had set in dark and rainy, with a strong breeze, almost a gale, from the south. The men rowed in silence and withvigor, but the wind was ahead for us, and when we landed at the end ofthe mole, behind a row of molasses-hogsheads, it wanted but a fewmoments of twelve. Leaving two men for boat-keepers, Don Pedro andmyself, with the other four, traversed the silent streets until westopped in a dark lane, in the rear of a large house, which appearedto front upon a more frequented street, for even at that late hour acarriage occasionally was heard. 

"'Now, hist!' whispered Pedro, 'listen for footsteps. '

"We strained our ears, but heard nothing but the clang of thedeep-toned cathedral bell, striking the hour of twelve. A moment aftera window above us opened, and a female form stepped out upon thebalcony. 

"'Pedro, whispered the musical voice of Clara, 'is that you?'

"'Yes, yes--hush! Mr. Stewart is here, and some of his men. Are youall ready?'

"'Yes, ' replied Clara; 'but how am I going to descend?'

"'Catch this line, which I will throw to you, ' said I, making a coil. 

"The fair girl caught the line as handily as--as--a monkey, I supposeI must say. 

"'Now, haul away, ' I said; 'there is a ladder bent on to the otherend, which you must make fast to the balustrade. '

"'What!' cried Clara, quite aloud, 'a ladder!--a real, liverope-ladder! how delightfully romantic!'

"'Hush! hush! you lunatic!' said Pedro, in a hoarse whisper. 

"'Oh, Pedro!' continued his sister, 'just think how droll it is to runaway with one's lover, and one's brother standing by aiding andabetting! Oh, fie! I'm ashamed of you! There, now, I've fastened thisdelightful ladder--what next?'

"I ascended, and taking her in my arms, prepared to assist her to theground. 

"'Am I not heavy?' she asked, as she put her arms about my neck. 

"My God! boys, I could have lifted twenty of her as I felt then. 

"'This is the second time, señor, that you have helped me to theground within a week; now get me on the water, and I will thank youfor all at once. '

"'In a few moments more all danger will be behind us, dearest. '

"Clara leaned upon my arm, enveloped in a boat-cloak, while we rapidlyretraced our steps to the boat, which we reached in safety, but, behold, the men whom we had left were missing. Hardly had we madeourselves sure of this unwelcome fact when a file of men, headed bythe same officer who had boarded us in the evening, sprang out frombehind the molasses-hogsheads. In a moment more a fierce fight hadbegun. I seized Clara by the waist with one arm, and drew my cutlasjust in time to save my head from the sabre of Carlos Alvarez, whoaimed a blow at me, crying, 'Now, dog of a Yankee, it is my turn!'

"'In the name of the king! in the name of the king!' shouted theofficer--but it made no difference, we fought like seamen. Clara hadfainted, but I still kept my hold of her, when suddenly a ton weightseemed to have fallen on my head; my eyes seemed filled with red-hotsparks of intense brilliancy and heat; the wild scene around vanishedfrom their sight as I sunk down stunned and insensible. 

"When I came to myself, I was lying in my own berth aboard the ship. Ifelt weak, faint, and dizzy, and strove in vain to collect my thoughtssufficiently to remember what had happened. My state-room door wasopen, and I perceived that the sun's rays were shining brightlythrough the sky-light upon the cabin-table, at which sat Capt. Hopkins, overhauling the medicine-chest, which was open before him. Iknew by the sharp heel of the vessel, her uneasy pitching, and thecool breeze which fanned my fevered cheek, that the ship was closehauled on a wind, and probably far at sea. I looked at my arms; theywere wasted to half their usual size, and my head was bandaged andvery sore and painful. Slowly and with difficulty I recalled theevents of the few hours preceding that in which I had lost mysenses--then I remembered the _mélée_ on the mole. Evidently I hadbeen severely wounded, and while senseless been brought off to theship. Then came the inquiry, what had been the fate of Clara and herbrother. Were they safe on board, or were they captured or killed inthe _fracas_? I hardly dared to ask the skipper who still sat at thetable, with a most dolorous face, arranging the vials and gallipots. At last the suspense became intolerable. 

"'Captain Hopkins, ' said I, but in a voice so weak that it startledme. Faint as it was, however, the worthy skipper started to his feet, and was by my side in an instant. 

"'Glory to God!' he shouted, snapping his fingers. 'I know by youreyes that reason has hold of your helm again. You'll get well now!Hurrah! D--n, though I mus'n't make so much noise. '

"'But, Captain Hopkins--'

"'Can't tell you any thing now, you're too weak to bear it; thatis--you know, Ben, good news is--ahem! dreadful apt to kill sickpeople; and you've been horrid sick, that's a fact. I thought fourdays ago that you had shipped on a voyage to kingdom come, and wasoutward bound; but you'll do well enough now, if you only keep quiet, and if you don't you'll slip your wind yet. Shut up your head, take adrink of this stuff, and go to sleep. '

"Capt. Hopkins left me, and, anxious as I was, I soon fell soundasleep. When I awoke I felt much better and stronger, and teazed theskipper so much, that he at last ventured to tell me that after I hadbeen struck down by a sabre-cut over the head, Don Pedro, also badlywounded, and Donna Clara, had been captured by the soldiers. The twoboat-keepers also were missing, and one of the others left, eitherdead or badly wounded, on the mole. Our other three men, findingthemselves overpowered, succeeded barely in gaining the boat with myinsensible form, and pushed off for the ship. Capt Hopkins, uponhearing their story, had no other alternative but to cut and run, andfavored by the strong southerly gale, he managed to make good hisescape, though fired on by the castle before he had got out of range. In the hurry and confusion my wound was not properly attended to, anda brain fever set in, under which I had been suffering for a week; butthe kind care of Capt. Hopkins and Mr. Smith, and the strength of myconstitution, at last prevailed over the disease. Dismal as was thisstory, and the prospects it unfolded, my spirits, naturally buoyant, supported me, and I determined that when the ship should arrive inBoston I would leave her and return immediately to Cuba, to make aneffort for the release of my friends. Wild as was this resolve, I grewbetter upon the hope of accomplishing it; and when we anchored offLong Wharf, after a tedious passage, I was nearly well. 

"Notwithstanding the advice of my friends I made arrangements for animmediate return to Matanzas, but the day before my intended departurethe Paragon arrived from that port; and I learned from her officersthat Don Pedro was closely confined, awaiting his trial for the murderof Count ----, the result of which would be, without doubt, againsthim. Clara, believing the general report of my death, had entered theUrsuline Convent to begin her novitiate; and I was told that if I wasto be seen in Matanzas, the _garrote_, or chain-gang, was all that Icould expect. Your father then told me that if I would consent toaccompany Captain Hopkins, he would sail in my place to Matanzas, anddo his utmost for his nephew and niece. I could not help but see thewisdom of this arrangement, and acceded to it. We sailed from Bostonto Stockholm, from thence to Rotterdam, and from thence to Batavia. Afreight offering for Canton, we went to that port, and from thencecame home, after an absence of two years and a half. In the meantimeDon Pedro had been tried, and sentenced to death; but by the exertionsof your father, who wrought faithfully in his behalf, his sentence wascommuted, first to twenty, and then to twelve years in the gallies, or, as it is in Cuba, the chain-gang. His efforts to see Clara, inorder to disabuse her mind of the belief of my death, was abortive;and she, after finishing her year as a novice, took the veil--and sheis now a nun in the Ursuline Convent at Matanzas, while her noblebrother is a slave, with felons, laboring with the cursed chain-gangin the same city to which we are bound. Now, boys, do you wonder thatwhen I found myself under orders to go again to the scene of all thismisery I was affected, and that a melancholy has possessed me whichhas increased as the voyage has progressed? I did determine at firstthat I would leave the ship at Gibralter and go home, but I dreaded topart with my shipmates. I shall not go ashore while we lay at Matanzasfor many reasons, though I should incur no risk, I think. Everybodywho knew me in Matanzas believes me dead long since; and six years ofseafaring life in every climate, changes one strangely. But the windhas veered again and freshened considerably since I began my yarn. Itlooks some as if we might catch a norther by way of variety. Brewsterwill have to shorten sail in his watch, I reckon, and maybe keep thelead going if we make much leeway. Come, Bill, it is 4 o'clock, and alittle past. "

"Eight bells, there, for'ard!" shouted the third mate. "Call thewatch! Rouse Brewster, Frank, will you?"

The sleepy, yawning starboard watch were soon on deck, half-dressed, and snuffing the morning air very discontentedly. We of the larboarddivision went below to our berths. 

"Langley, " said I to the third mate, while we were undressing, "I'vegot a plan in my head to get my cousins clear from their bad fix. Willyou help me work it?"

"Marry, that I will, " answered Langley, throwing himself into atheatrical attitude. "Look here, Frank, this is the way I'll run thatbloody Alvarez through the gizzard!"

The last sounds I heard that night were the hurried trampling of feetover my head on deck, and the shouts of the watch shortening sail. Ifell asleep and dreamed that I was in the _fracas_ at the end of themole. 

 [_Conclusion in our next. _

WHITE CREEK. 

BY ALFRED B. STREET. 

[This is a picturesque little stream in Washington county, State ofNew York. It flows through the broad and beautiful meadows of the Hon. John Savage, late Chief Justice of the State. ]

Over the stirless surface of the groundThe hot air trembles. In pale glittering hazeWavers the sky. Along the horizon's rim, Breaking its mist, are peaks of coppery clouds. Keen darts of light are shot from every leaf, And the whole landscape droops in sultriness. With languid tread, I drag myself alongAcross the wilting fields. Around my stepsSpring myriad grasshoppers, their cheerful notesLoud in my ear. The ground bird whirs away, Then drops again, and groups of butterfliesSpotting the path, upflicker as I come. At length I catch the sparkles of the brookIn its deep thickets, whose refreshing greenSoothes my strained eyesight. The cool shadows fallLike balm upon me from the boughs o'erhead. My coming strikes a terror on the scene. All the sweet sylvan sounds are hushed; I catchGlimpses of vanishing wings. An azure shapeQuick darting down the vista of the brook, Proclaims the scared kingfisher, and a plashAnd turbid streak upon the streamlet's face, Betray the water-rat's swift dive and pathAcross the bottom to his burrow deep. The moss is plump and soft, the tawny leavesAre crisp beneath my tread, and scaly twigsStartle my wandering eye like basking snakes. Where this thick brush displays its emerald tent, I stretch my wearied frame, for solitudeTo steal within my heart. How hushed the sceneAt first, and then, to the accustomed ear, How full of sounds, so tuned to harmonyThey seemed but silence; the monotonous purlOf yon small water-break--the transient humSwung past me by the bee--the low meek burstOf bubbles, as the trout leaps up to seizeThe skipping spider--the light lashing soundOf cattle, mid-leg in the shady pool, Whisking the flies away--the ceaseless chirpOf crickets, and the tree-frog's quavering note. 

Now, from the shadow where I lie concealed, I see the birds, late banished by my form, Appearing once more in their usual hauntsAlong the stream; the silver-breasted snipeTwitters and seesaws on the pebbly spotsBare in the channel--the brown swallow dipsIts wings, swift darting round on every side;And from yon nook of clustered water-plants, The wood-duck, slaking its rich purple neck, Skims out, displaying through the liquid glassIts yellow feet, as if upborne in air. 

Musing upon my couch, this lovely streamI liken to the truly good man's life, Amid the heat of passions, and the glareOf wordly objects, flowing pure and bright, Shunning the gaze, yet showing where it glidesBy its green blessings; cheered by happy thoughts, Contentment, and the peace that comes from Heaven. 

THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

GIACOMO, _the Alchemist_, BERNARDO, _his son-in-law_, ROSALIA, _his daughter, and Bernardo's wife, _

LORENZO, _his servant_. 

SCENE I. FERRARA. 

_The interior of Giacomo's house. Giacomo and Lorenzo discoveredtogether. Time, a little before daybreak. _

 _Gia. _ Art sure of this?

 _Lor. _ Ay, signor, very sure. 'Tis but a moment since I saw the thing--Bernardo, who last night was sworn thy son, Hath made a villainous barter of thine honor. Thou may'st rely the duke is where I said. 

 _Gia. _ If so--no matter--give me here the light. 

 [_Exit Giacomo. _

 _Lor. _ (_Alone. _) Oh, what a night! It must be all a dream!For twenty years, since that I wore a beard, I've served my melancholy master here, And never until now saw such a night!A wedding in this silent house, forsooth, --A festival! The very walls in muteAmazement stared through the unnatural light!And poor Rosalia, bless her tender heart, Looked like her mother's sainted ghost! Ah me, Her mother died long years ago, and tookOne half the blessed sunshine from our house--The other half was married off last night. My master, solemn soul, he walked the hallsAs if in search of something which was lost;The groom, I liked not him, nor ever did, Spoke such perpetual sweetness, till I thoughtHe wore some sugared villany within:--But then he is my master's ancient friend, And always known the favorite of the duke, And, as I know, our lady's treacherous lord!Oh, Holy Mother, that to villain hawksOur dove should fall a prey! poor gentle dear!Now if I had their throats within my grasp--No matter--if my master be himself, Nor time nor place shall bind up his revenge. He's not a man to spend his wrath in noise, But when his mind is made, with even paceHe walks up to the deed and does his will. In fancy I can see him to the end--The duke, perchance, already breathes his last, And for Bernardo--he will join him soon;And for Rosalia, she will take the veil, To which she hath been heretofore inclined;And for my master, he will take againTo alchemy--a pastime well enough, For aught I know, and honest Christian work. Still it was strange how my poor mistress died, Found, as she was, within her husband's study. The rumor went she died of suffocation;Some cursed crucible which had been left, By Giacomo, aburning, filled the room, And when the lady entered took her breath. He found her there, and since that day the placeHas been a home for darkness and for dust. I hear him coming; by his hurried stepThere's something done, or will be very soon. 

(_Enter Giacomo. He sets the light upon the table and confrontsLorenzo with a stern look. _)

 _Gia. _ Lorenzo, thou hast served me twenty years, And faithfully; now answer me, how was'tThat thou wert in the street at such an hour?

 _Lor. _ When that the festival was o'er last night, I went to join some comrades in their wineTo pass the time in memory of the event. 

 _Gia. _ And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with drink?

 _Lor. _ Indeed, good signor, though the wine flowed free, I could not touch it, though much urged by all--Too great a sadness sat upon my heart--I could do naught but sit and sigh and thinkOf our Rosalia in her bridal dress. 

 _Gia. _ And sober too! so much the more at fault. But, as I said, thou'st served me long and well, Perchance too long--too long by just a day. Here, take this purse, and find another master. 

 _Lor. _ Oh, signor, do not drive me thus away!If I have made mistake--

 _Gia. _ No, sirrah, no!Thou hast not made mistake, but something worse. 

 _Lor. _ Oh, pray you, what is that then I have made?

 _Gia. _ A lie!

 _Lor. _ Indeed, good master, on my kneesI swear that what I said is sainted truth. 

 _Gia. _ Pshaw, pshaw, no more of this. Did I not goUpon the instant to my daughter's roomAnd find Bernardo sleeping at her side?Some villain's gold hath bribed thee unto this. Go, go. 

 _Lor. _ Well, if it must be, then it must. But I would swear that what I said is truth, Though all the devils from the deepest pitShould rise to contradict me!

 _Gia. _ Prating still?

 _Lor. _ No, signor--I am going--stay--see here--

 (_He draws a paper from his bosom. _)

Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof in this!This paper as they changed their mantles droptBetween them to the ground, and when they passedI picked it up and placed it safely here. 

 _Gia. _ (_Examining it. _)Who forged the lie could fabricate this too:--But hold, it is ingeniously done. Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well, Let no word pass thy lips about the matter-- [_Exit Lorenzo. _Bernardo's very hand indeed is here!Oh, compact villainous and black! conditions, The means, the hour, the signal--every thingTo rob my honor of its holiest pearl!Lorenzo, shallow fool--he does not guessThe mischief was all done, and that it wasThe duke he saw departing--oh, brain--brain!How shall I hold this river of my wrath!It must not burst--no, rather it shall sweepA noiseless maelstrom, whirling to its centerAll thoughts and plans to further my revengeAnd rid me of this most accursed blot!

(_He rests his forehead on his hand a few minutes, and exclaims, _)

The past returns to me again--the loreI gladly had forgot comes like a ghost, And points with shadowy finger to the meansWhich best shall consummate my just design. The laboratory hath been closed too long;The door smiles welcome to me once again, The dusky latch invites my hand--I come!

(_He unlocks the door and stands upon the threshold. _)

Oh, thou whose life was stolen from me here, Stand not to thwart me in this great revenge;But rather come with large propitious eyesSmiling encouragement with ancient looks!Ye sages whose pale, melancholy orbsGaze through the darkness of a thousand years, Oh, pierce the solid blackness of to-day, And fire anew this crucible of thoughtUntil my soul flames up to the result! (_He enters and the door closes. _)

SCENE II. _Another apartment in the alchemist's house. Enter Rosaliaand Bernardo. _

 _Ros. _ You tell me he has not been seen to-day?

 _Ber. _ Save by your trusty servant here, who saysHe saw his master, from without, uncloseThe shutters of his laboratory whileThe sun was yet unrisen. It is well;This turning to the past pursuits of youthArgues how much the aspect of to-dayHath driven the ancient darkness from his brain. And now, my dear Rosalia, let thy faceAnd thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles, And naught shall make a winter in our house. 

 _Ros. _ Ah, sir, I think that I am happy. 

 _Ber. _ Happy?Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art!But thou dost sigh and contemplate the floorSo deeply, that thy happiness seems ratherThe constant sense of duty than true joy. 

 _Ros. _ Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to meA riddle is at best--my heart has hadNo tutor. From my childhood until nowMy thoughts have been on simple honest things. 

 _Ber. _ On honest things? Then let them dwell henceforthOn love, for nothing is more honest thanTrue love. 

 _Ros. _ I hope so, sir--it must be so!And if to wear thy happiness at heartWith constant watchfulness, and if to breatheThy welfare in my orisons, be love, Thou never shalt have cause to question mine. To-day I feel, and yet I know not why, A sadness which I never knew before;A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain, Of something which has been or is to be. My mother coming to me in my dream, My father taking to that room againHave somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe. 

 _Ber. _ Nay, let not that o'ercast thy gentle mind, For dreams are but as floating gossamer, And should not blind or bar the steady reason. And alchemy is innocent enough, Save when it feeds too steadily on gold, A crime the world not easily forgives. But if Rosalia likes not the pursuitHer sire engages in, my plan shall beTo lead him quietly to other things. But see, the door uncloses and he comes. 

(_Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair. _)

 _Gia. _ (_Not perceiving them. _)Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last!

 _Both. _ Good-morrow, father. 

 _Gia. _ Ah, my pretty doves!

 _Ber. _ Come, father, we are jealous of the artWhich hath deprived us all the day of thee. 

 _Gia. _ Are ye indeed? (_Aside. _) How smoothly to the airSlides that word _father_ from his slippery tongue. Come hither, daughter, let me gaze on thee, For I have dreamed that thou wert beautiful, So beautiful our very duke did stopTo smile upon thy brightness! What say'st thou, Bernardo, didst thou ever dream such things?

 _Ber. _ That she is beautiful I had no cause to dream, Mine eyes have known the fact for many a day. What villains didst thou speak of even now?

 _Gia. _ Two precious villains--Carbon and Azote--They have perplexed me heretofore; but nowThe thing is plain enough. This morning, ereI left my chamber, all the mystery stoodAsudden in an awful revelation!

 _Ber. _ I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day, But do not overtoil thy brain. These themesAre dangerous things, and they who mastered mostHave fallen at last but victims to their slaves. 

 _Gia. _ It is a glorious thing to fall and dieThe victim of a noble cause. 

 _Ber. _ Ay, true--The man who battles for his country's rightHath compensation in the world's applause. The victor when returning from the fieldIs crowned with laurel, and his shining wayIs full of shouts and roses. If he fall, His nation builds his monument of glory. But mark the alchemist who walks the streets, His look is down, his step infirm, his hairAnd cheeks are burned to ashes by his thought;The volumes he consumes, consume in turn;They are but fuel to his fiery brain, Which being fed requires the more to feed on. The people gaze on him with curious looks, And step aside to let him pass untouched, Believing Satan hath him arm in arm. 

 _Gia. _ Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels?No heroes but among the martial throng?Nay, there are patriot souls who never graspedA sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names, Who lived and labored, died and were forgot, And after whom the world came out and reaptThe field, and never questioned who had sown. 

 _Ber. _ I did not think of that. 

 _Gia. _ Now mark ye well, I am not one to follow phantom themes, To waste my time in seeking for the stone, Or chrystalizing carbon to o'erfloodThe world with riches which would keep it poor;Nor do I seek the elixir that would makeNot life alone, but misery immortal;But something far more glorious than these. 

 _Ber. _ Pray what is that?

_Gia. _ A cure, sir, for the heart-ache. Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane--Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrusted upward, like a bloody shield!On such an hour the experiment must begin. Come, thou shalt be the first to witness thisMost marvelous discovery. And thou, My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower, And I will dream thou'rt lovelier than ever. Come, follow me. (_To Bernardo. _)

 _Ros. _ Nay, father, stay; I'm sureThou art not well--thine eyes are strangely lit, The task, I fear, has over-worked thy brain. 

 _Gia. _ Dearest Rosalia, what were eyes or brainCompared with banishment of sorrow? Come. 

 _Ber. _ (_Aside to Rosalia. _)I will indulge awhile this curious humor;Adieu; I shall be with thee soon again. 

 _Gia. _ (_Overhearing him. _)When Satan shall regain his wings, and sitApproved in heaven, perchance, but not till then. 

 _Ber. _ What, not till then?

 _Gia. _ Shall he be worthy deemedTo walk, as thou hast said the people thought, Arm in arm with the high-souled philosopher:--And yet the people sometimes are quite right, The devil's at our elbow oftener thanWe know. 

(_He gives Bernardo his arm, and they enter the laboratory. _)

 _Ros. _ (_Alone. _) He never looked so strange before;His cheeks, asudden, are grown pale and thin;His very hair seems whiter than it did. Oh, surely, 'tis a fearful trade that crowdsThe work of years into a single day. It may be that the sadness which I wearHath clothed him in its own peculiar hue. The very sunshine of this cloudless daySeemed but a world of broad, white desolation--While in my ears small melancholy bellsKnolled their long, solemn and prophetic chime;--But hark! a louder and a holier toll, Shedding its benediction on the air, Proclaims the vesper hour--Ave Maria!

 [_Exit Rosalia. _

SCENE III. _Giacomo and Bernardo discovered in the laboratory. _

 _Gia. _ What say'st thou now, Bernardo?

 _Ber. _ Let me liveOr die in drawing this delicious breath, I ask no more. 

 _Gia. _ (_Aside. _) Mark, how with wondering eyesHe gazes on the burning crucibles, As if to drink the rising vapor withHis every sense. 

 _Ber. _ Is this the balm thou spak'st of?

 _Gia. _ Ay, sir, the same. 

 _Ber. _ Oh, would that now my heartWere torn with every grief the earth has known, Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold!Where didst thou learn the secret, and from whom?

 _Gia. _ From Gebber down to Paracelsus, noneHave mentioned the discovery of this--The need of it was parent of the thought. 

 _Ber. _ How long will these small crucibles hold out?

 _Gia. _ A little while, but there are two beside, That when thy sense is toned up to the pointMay then be fired; and when thou breathest their fumes, Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than thatWhich Helen gave the guests of Menelaus. But come, thou'lt weary of this thickening air, Let us depart. 

 _Ber. _ Not for the wealth of worlds!

 _Gia. _ Nay, but thy bride awaits thee--

 _Ber. _ Go to herAnd say I shall be there anon. 

 _Gia. _ I will. (_Aside. _) Now while he stands enchained within the spellI'll to Rosalia's room and don his cloakAnd cap, and sally forth to meet the duke. 'Tis now the hour, and if he come--so be it. 

 [_Exit Giacomo. _

 _Ber. _ (_Alone. _)These delicate airs seem wafted from the fieldsOf some celestial world. I am alone--Then wherefore not inhale that deeper draught, That sweet nepenthe which these other two, When burning, shall dispense? 'Twere quickly done, And I will do it!

 (_He places the two crucibles on the furnace. _)

Now, sir alchemist, Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure--'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by San John, I'll turn philosopher myself, and doSome good at last in this benighted world!Now how like demons on the ascending smoke, Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame, Filling the room with a mysterious haze, Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air, Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms;And every form is lit with burning eyes, Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows!The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seemTo stand upon a reeling deck! Hold, hold!A hundred crags are toppling overhead. I faint, I sink--now, let me clutch that limb--Oh, devil! It breaks to ashes in my grasp!What ghost is that which beckons through the mist?The duke! the duke! and bleeding at the breast!Whose dagger struck the blow?

 (_Enter Giacomo. _)

 _Gia. _ Mine, villain, mine!What! thou'st set the other two aburning?Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last!I should have done the deed--and yet 'tis well. Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood!

 _Ber. _ Ha! is it so? Then follow thou!

 _Gia. _ My timeIs not quite yet, this antidote shall placeA bar between us for a little while. 

 (_He raises a vial to his lips, drinks, and flings it aside. _)

 _Ber. _ (_Rallying. _) Come, give it me--

 _Gia. _ Ha, ha! I drained it all!There is the broken vial. 

 _Ber. _ Is there no armTo save me from the abyss?

 _Gia. _ No, villain, sink!And take this cursed record of thy plot, (_He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand, _)

And it shall gain thee speedy entrance atTh' infernal gate!

 (_Bernardo reads, reels and falls. _)

 _Gia. _ (_Looking on the body. _) Poor miserable dust!This body now is honest as the best, The very best of earth, lie where it may. This mantle must conceal the thing from sight, For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shallBe here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the powerTo do this last stern act of justice. ThouWho called the child of Jairus from the dead, Assist a stricken father now to raiseHis sinless daughter from the bier of shame. And may her soul, unconscious of the deed, Forever walk the azure fields of heaven. 

 (_Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a small golden crucifix in her hand. _)

 _Ros. _ Dear father, in obedience, I have come--But where's Bernardo?

 _Gia. _ Gone to watch the stars;To see old solitary Saturn whirlLike poor Ixion on his burning wheel--He is our patron orb to-night, my child. 

 _Ros. _ I do not know what strange experimentThou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feelThat He, in whose remembrance this was made

 (_looking at the cross_)

Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts. Since vesper time--I know not how it was--I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers. 

 _Gia. _ Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven. Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine, And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest. 

 (_He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it to his lips. _)

 _Ros. _ Pray tell me, father, what is in the air?

 _Gia. _ See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark, I'll drop a simple essence into each. 

 _Ros. _ My sense is flooded with perfume!

 _Gia. _ Again. 

 _Ros. _ My soul, asudden, thrills with such delightIt seems as it had won a birth of wings!

 _Gia. _ Behold, now when I throw these jewels in, The glories of our art!

 _Ros. _ A cloud of huesAs beautiful as morning fills the air;And every breath I draw comes freighted withElysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist, In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room. The very walls are melting from my sight, And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead!And on that gentle breeze did we not hearThe song of birds and silvery waterfalls?And walk we not on green and flowery ground?Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this, The ducal gardens are not half so fair!Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams, Let us forever make our dwelling here. Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemedThe paradise of our first parents, filledWith countless angels whose celestial lightThrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song. Look how the long and level landscape gleams, And with a gradual pace goes mellowing upInto the blue. The very ground we treadSeems flooded with the tender hue of heaven;An azure lawn is all about our feet, And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers, Like lovely lilies on a tranquil lake. 

 _Gia. _ Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel kenFar down the shining pathway we have trod, And see behind us those enormous gatesTo which the world has given the name of Death;And note the least among yon knot of lights, And recognize your native orb, the earth!For we are spirits threading fields of space, Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars!But now, dear love, adieu--a flash from heaven--A sudden glory in the silent air--A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approachOf holier guides to take thee into keep. Behold them gliding down the azure hillMaking the blue ambrosial with their light. Our paths are here divided. I must goThrough other ways, by other forms attended. 

LINES TO AN IDEAL. 

BY ELIZABETH LYON LINSLEY. 

 I wandered on the lonely strand, A setting sun shone brightly there, And bathed in glory sea and land, And streamed in beauty through the air!

 A playful breeze the waters curled, Touched their light waves and passed them by, Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurledWere waving on the sunset sky!

 The bird had gone. The sun had set. His beams still tipped the hills and trees, And flung a rainbow radiance yetOn clouds reflected in the seas!

 A distant boatman plied the oar, All sparkling with its golden spray, His voice came softened to the shore, Then melted with the dying day!

 And when the last bright lines on highDeparted as the twilight came, A large star showed its lone, sweet eyeAll margined with a cloud of flame!

 The winds were hushed. Their latest breathIn soft, low murmurs died afar-- The rippling of the wave beneathShowed dancing there that one bright star!

 So fair a scene, so sweet an hour, Were felt and passed. In stilly calm They shed around me beauty's power, Yet gave no peace, and brought no balm. 

 I was alone! I saw no eyesWith mine gaze on the twilight sea-- No heart returned my lonely sighs--No lips breathed sympathy with me. 

 I was alone! I looked above. That star seemed happy thus to lave Its fairy light and glance of loveDeep in the bosom of the wave. 

 I gazed no more! The blinding tearRose from my heart, and dimmed my sight. Had one dear voice then whispered near, That scene how changed!--That heart how light!

 My soul was swelling like the sea!Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own, That soul a mirror true to theeOn ev'ry wave thyself had shown!

MRS. PELBY SMITH'S SELECT PARTY. 

BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN. 

"Mrs. Goldsborough's party is to-night, is it not?" said Mr. PelbySmith to his wife; "are we going my dear?"

"_Apropos_ of parties, " returned she, waiving the question; "I don'tsee how we are to get on any longer without giving one ourselves. "

"Why so, my dear? We cannot afford to give a party, and that will bean apology all-sufficient to a woman of Cousin Sabina's sense. "

"Cousin Sabina!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith; "as if I, or any one else, everthought of going to the trouble of a party for a plain old maid, likecousin Sabina Incledon!"

"My dear, I wish you would not speak in that way of Cousin Sabina; sheis an excellent woman, of superior mind, and manners to commandrespect in any society. "

"That may be _your_ opinion, Mr. Smith, " answered the lady tartly;"mine is that a quiet old maid, from somewhere far off in the country, and with an income of two or three hundred dollars a year, would notmake much of a figure in _our_ society. At all events, I shan't make atrial of it. "

"I thought you alluded to her visit as making it incumbent on us togive a party, " said Mr. Smith meekly; "there is no other reason, Ibelieve. "

"You will allow me to have some judgment in such matters, Mr. Smith. Ithink it is absolutely necessary that we should, that is, if we wishto go to parties for the future. We have been going to them all ourlives without giving any, and people will grow tired of inviting us. "

"Then, my dear, why not make up our minds to stay at home. I wouldrather. "

"But _I_ would not, Mr. Smith. I shall go to parties as long aspossible. My duty to my children requires it. "

Mr. Smith opened his eyes as wide as his timidity would let him. 

"My duty to my children, I repeat, " pursued she with energy; "theywill have to be introduced to society. "

"Not for seven or eight years yet, any of them, " interposed Mr. Smith. 

"Sooner or later, " continued the lady; "and how is that to be doneunless I keep the footing which I have attained--with trouble enough, as I only know, and without any thanks to you, Mr. Smith. If I give upparties, I may fall at once into the obscurity for which you have sucha taste. People of fortune and distinction can voluntarily withdrawfor a while, and then reappear with as much success as ever, but thatis not the case with persons of our position. "

"It is only the expense that I object to, my dear; my business is solimited that it is impossible for us to live in any other than aplain, quiet way. The cost of a party would be a serious inconvenienceto me. "

"The advantages will be of greater consequence than the sacrifices, "returned the lady, softening as she saw her husband yielding; "theloss will soon be made up to you through an increase of friends. Party-giving people are always popular. "

Mr. Smith saw that his wife was determined to carry her point, whichwas nothing new. He had learned to submit, and to submit in silence, so, after sitting moodily for a few minutes, he took up his hat to goto his place of business. 

"I knew, my dear, " said Mrs. Smith smoothly, "that you would soon seethe matter in a proper light; and now about Mrs. Goldsborough's party. I shall lay out your things for you. I can go with some satisfactionnow that I have a prospect of soon being on equal terms with myentertainers. "

Mrs. Smith walked round her two small and by no means elegant rooms, reassuring herself as to the capabilities of her lamps, girandoles andcandlesticks, for she had mentally gone through all her arrangementslong before; the act of consulting her husband being, generally, herlast step toward the undertaking of any important project. She wasjoined by the object of some of her recent remarks, Miss SabinaIncledon, a cousin of Mr. Smith's, who, until within a few days, hadbeen a stranger to her. She was a plainly dressed person of middleage, with an agreeable though not striking countenance, andunobtrusive, lady-like manners. 

"I am sorry you are not going to Mrs. Goldsborough's to-night, CousinSabina, " said Mrs. Smith; "I have no doubt she would have sent aninvitation had she known I had a friend visiting me. "

"Not improbable. I do not, however, feel much inclination just now togo to a party. Had it not been for that, I should have sent my card toMrs. Goldsborough after my arrival. I met her at the springs lastsummer, and received much politeness from her. "

"Mrs. Goldsborough is a very polite woman--very much disposed to becivil to every one, " said Mrs. Smith; "by the bye, " she added, "Pelbyand I have it in contemplation to give a large party ourselves. "

"Indeed? I thought you were not party-giving people; Cousin Pelbyassured me so. "

"And never would be if Pelby Smith had his own way. To be sure, we arenot in circumstances to entertain much, conveniently, but for the sakeof a firmer place in society, I am always willing to strain a point. As to Pelby, he has so little spirit that he would as soon be at thebottom of the social ladder as at the top. I can speak of it withoutimpropriety to you, as you are his relation, not mine. He has been aperpetual drag and drawback upon me, but, notwithstanding, I haveaccomplished a great deal. Five or six years ago we were merely onspeaking terms with the Goldsboroughs, and the Pendletons, and theLongacres, and the Van Pelts and that set, and now I visit most ofthem, and receive invitations to all their general parties. I havealways felt ashamed of not having entertained them in return, and nowI am resolved to do so, as a favorable opportunity offers of doing itadvantageously. I mean the coming out of Julia Goldsborough, Mrs. Goldsborough's only daughter. It will be something to say that I havegiven her a party. "

"Do the family expect the compliment of you?" asked Miss Incledon, looking at her in surprise; "I did not know that you were on suchintimate terms. "

Mrs. Smith smiled in conscious superiority. "Ah, Cousin Sabina!" saidshe, "you are very unsophisticated. Don't you know that a party goesoff with much more _eclât_ for being associated with some name ofimportance. Now Julia Goldsborough, from her beauty and vivacity, andthe fashion and fortune of her family, is to be the belle of theseason, and a party got up for her must necessarily make a sensation. All her friends, and they are at the head of society, will attend onher account, if for nothing else, and everybody else will be glad togo where they do. Then the Pendletons and the Longacres and the VanPelts, several of them, will give her parties--so it isunderstood--and it will be worth an effort to make mine one of theseries. "

A faint expression of sarcastic humor passed over the placidcountenance of Miss Incledon, but she made no comment. 

Mrs. Pelby Smith entered the brilliant rooms of Mrs. Goldsborough thatnight with an elated spirit, seeing in herself the future hostess ofthe fashionable throng there assembled. Instead of standing in acorner, listening with unctuous deference or sympathy to any whochanced to come against her, as was her wont, proffering her fan, orher essence-bottle, or in some quiet way ministering to their egotism, she now stepped freely forth upon the field of action, nodding andsmiling at the young men to whom she might have been at some timeintroduced; whispering and jesting with some marked young lady, whileshe made an occasion to arrange her _berthe_ or her ringlets, andadding herself, as if by accident, to any trio or quartette ofpre-eminent distinction. She had at length the anxiously desiredopportunity to put out her feelers at Mrs. Goldsborough. 

"What a lovely creature Julia has become, Mrs. Goldsborough!" sheexclaimed; "it seems but a few months since she was a little fairyonly _so_ high, and now she is so well grown and so commanding in herfigure! and her manners, they are as pronounced and _distingué_ as ifshe were twenty-five; they appear the more remarkable for her sweet, youthful face. I have been watching her the whole evening, and seeingevery one offering her their tribute, I have gotten quite into thespirit of it myself. I'm sure you will smile at me, for you well knowthat I am not at all in the habit of such things, but I really mustgive her a party. I have known her so long, almost since she couldfirst run about, and I always loved the little creature so much! Ifeel as if I have almost a right to be proud of her myself. Have youany engagements for the beginning of next week? If not, unless youpositively forbid it, I shall send out invitations at once. "

"You are very kind, indeed, Mrs. Smith, " said Mrs. Goldsborough, smiling cordially, for she was a fond mother, and also was full ofcourtesy and amiability; "it will be an unexpected compliment toJulia. She will be flattered that your partiality for her is as warmas ever. We have no engagements for the first of next week. Theparties with which my friends will try to spoil Julia do not come onso soon. "

Her scheme having been not unfavorably received, Mrs. Smith whisperedit to one and another, until it was known to half the company beforethey dispersed that Miss Goldsborough was to be _fêted_ next by Mrs. Pelby Smith. 

Our heroine ought to have overheard the conversation which took placeat the late breakfast of Mrs. Goldsborough the following morning. 

"You could hardly guess whom you have charmed into party intentionstoward you, Julia, " said Mrs. Goldsborough; "I suppose you have notheard? Mrs. Pelby Smith. "

"Defend me from Mrs. Pelby Smith!" laughed Julia; "but are you inearnest, mamma?"

"Certainly, my dear; she told me last night that she intended to giveyou a party in the beginning of next week. "

"That intolerable, toadying Mrs. Pelby Smith!" exclaimed young FrankGoldsborough; "I would not allow her to cover the iniquities of herambition with my name, Julia, if I were you. Depend upon it, she hassome sinister design in this thing. "

"I agree with Frank, " rejoined Miss Pendleton, Mrs. Goldsborough'ssister; "such as elevating herself in society on your shoulders, Julia, or rather those of your family. "

"Charity, charity! you know I don't like such remarks, " interposedMrs. Goldsborough, but with little show of severity; "we have noreason to decide that Mrs. Smith does not really mean a kindness. Shealways seemed very fond of Julia when a child. "

"And so she would have appeared, mamma, of any other that might havehappened to be a grandchild of General Pendleton and JudgeGoldsborough. I had sense enough to understand her even then. She usedto call me in on my way to school, to warm my hands, when they did notneed it, and inquire after the health of my mother and grandmothersand grandfathers and aunts and uncles, and admire my clothes, and wishher little Jane was old enough to run to school with me, and flatterme on the beauty of my hair and eyes and complexion, in such a waythat very few children would have been so stupid as not to have seenthrough it. Could you not have said something to discourage the newidea, ma'ma?"

"Not without rudeness, Julia, though, I confess, I would rather itcould have been done. Even presuming that she is sincere in herprofessions of regard, I do not like the thought of a person in hercircumstances going to what to her must be serious trouble and expenseon our account. The easiest way to reconcile myself to it would be bybelieving with you all, that she has some personal motive in it. "

At that same hour Mrs. Smith was immersed in her preliminaryarrangements. 

"I shall have to ask you to write some of the invitations, CousinSabina, " said she to Miss Incledon; "I am not much in the habit ofwriting, even notes; and Pelby, who has not time to attend to it, saysthat you write a very pretty hand. Here are pen and paper to make outthe list--I will give you the names. In the first place, there are allthe Goldsboroughs and Pendletons, and Longacres, and Van Pelts--"

"You forget, " interrupted Miss Incledon, "that it is necessary to namethem individually. "

"True, I had forgotten--I have so many things to think about. Beginning with the Goldsboroughs--Mrs. , Miss, and Mr. ; then Generaland Mrs. Pendleton, Miss Pendleton, Mr. And Mrs. John, Mr. And Mrs. Henry, and Mr. And Mrs. James Pendleton;" and so Mrs. Smith kept on incontinuous nomenclature for a considerable time. It was only as shecame down into the lower ranks of fashion, after a regular gradation, that she hesitated for a moment--and then her pauses grew longer andlonger. 

"Perhaps I can assist your memory, Cousin Sarah, " said Miss Incledon;"I have seen several of your acquaintances, and have heard of a goodmany more; there is Mrs. Wills, with whom you were taking tea theevening of my arrival. "

"I have reflected upon that, and conclude that I shall not ask Mrs. Wills, " replied Mrs. Smith; "she is a plain person, and seldom goes toparties, which I can make a sufficient excuse for leaving her out, though, to be sure, she would come to mine, if I invited her; and toprevent her from being offended, I shall send for her a few days afterto come socially to tea, with a few others of the same set. Therewill, of course, be plenty of refreshments left, and it will, therefore, be no additional expense. "

"Then Mrs. Salisbury and her two daughters, who called yesterday. "

"I believe not; they are not decidedly and exclusively of the firstcircle, though, as you seemed to consider them, quite superiorwomen--very accomplished and agreeable. They have not much fortune, however, and have no connections here. On the whole, I do not see thatany thing could be gained by inviting the Salisburys. "

"I have not your neighbor, Mrs. Streeter down, " observed CousinSabina. 

"No; I don't see the necessity for having Mrs. Streeter; she is a goodcreature--very obliging when one needs a neighbor, in cases ofsickness, or the like, but would be far from ornamental. I can have anexcuse for omitting her in never having received an invitation fromher--she does not give parties. She will be very well satisfied, Idare say, if I send her a basket of fragments afterward. You mustunderstand, Cousin Sabina, that as this is my first party, I mean itto be very select. "

"Then you will also, I presume, leave out Mrs. Brownell. "

"By no means; I calculate a great deal on Mrs. Brownell. She has thegreatest quantity of elegant china and cut-glass, which it will benecessary for me to borrow. My own supply is rather limited, and Imust depend chiefly on my acquaintances. It was on that account that Iset down the Greelys. They have the largest lot of silver forks andspoons of any family I know--owing, it is whispered, to their having, where they came from, kept a fashionable boarding-house. Also, you mayput down Mrs. Crabbe. "

"Mrs. Crabbe?--did I not hear you describe her as a very low person?"

"Peculiarly so in her manners--but what am I to do? I must havepersons to assist me; and Mrs. Crabbe makes the most beautiful jelliesand the most delicious Charlotte-Russe I ever tasted. She has anatural talent for all sorts of nice cookery, and with my littleexperience in it, she will be of the greatest service to me. It savesa great deal to make every thing except the confectionary at home; andI shall go at once and ask Mrs. Crabbe if she will prepare thematerials for my fruit-cake, and mix it up. "

"You have said nothing about your Aunt Tomkins, of whom Cousin Pelbyhas talked to me, and of the different members of her family--they areto have invitations, of course?" suggested Miss Incledon. 

"No--that is--I shall attend to it myself--I mean you need not mind;"and Mrs. Smith hurried to the door, beginning to perceive somethingshe would rather escape in the countenance and interrogatories ofCousin Sabina. "Bless me!" she exclaimed, turning back, "I almostforgot--and what a mistake it would have been! put down Miss DebbyCoggins; I should never have been forgiven if I had neglected her. Shehas a great many oddities, but she is related to all the firstfamilies, and one must keep on her right side. Have you thename?--Miss Deborah Coggins. "

We shall not follow Mrs. Smith into the turmoil of her preparations, which would have been much more wearisome and bewildering, from herinexperience in getting up a large entertainment, had it not been forthe good judgment and quiet activity of Miss Incledon, and which thenight of fruition at last terminated. 

All was ready, even the lighting of the rooms, when Mrs. Smith, beforecommencing her own toilette, entered the apartment of her guest. MissIncledon, who considered herself past the time of life for other thanmatronly decorations of the person, was laying out a handsomepelerine, and a tasteful cap, to wear with a rich, dark silk dress. 

"My dear Cousin Sabina, " said Mrs. Smith, "do help me out of adifficulty; I have no one to remain on duty in the supper-room, andthere certainly ought to be some one to sit there and see that nothingis disturbed--for there is a great quantity of silver there, mostlyborrowed, and with so many strange servants about, I feel uneasy toleave it a moment. "

"Are you not able to get some one for that service?" asked MissIncledon. 

"No, indeed; I thought of Aunt Tomkins, but the truth is, I could notrequest her to do it without sending invitations to the whole family, which I concluded would not be advisable: there are so many of them, and as they would not be acquainted with the rest of the company, itseemed best not to have any of them. I thought, too, of old Mrs. Joyce, who sometimes does quilting and knitting for me, but she has alarge family of grandchildren, some of whom she always drags with herwhen she goes to where there is any thing good to eat; and it wouldnever do to have them poking their fingers into the refreshments. Soit struck me that perhaps you might oblige me. You don't appear tocare for parties, and as you would be a stranger in the room, it isnot likely you would have much enjoyment. Of course, if I believed youwould prefer the trouble of dressing, and taking your chance among thecompany, I would not ask it of you. "

Nothing daunted by the glow of indignation which followed a look ofastonishment on the face of Cousin Sabina, she paused for a reply. After a moment's reflection, Miss Incledon answered calmly, "I am yourguest, Sarah--dispose of me as you please;" and returning her cap andwhite gloves to their boxes, she refastened her wrapper to enter uponthe office assigned to her. 

The party passed off with the crowding, crushing, talking and eatingcommon to parties. The supper was a handsome one--for Mr. Smith wiselydecided that if the thing must be done at all, it should be donewell--and therefore he had hinted no restrictions to his wife as tothe expense. Many "regrets" had been sent in, but still Mrs. Smith wasat the post she had coveted for years--that of receiving a fashionableassemblage in her own house; and if her choicest guests courted hernotice as little as they would have done any where else, she was toomuch elated and flustered, and overheated to think about it. One ofher principal concerns was to keep her eye on her husband, who, beinga shy, timid man, with very little tact, was not much calculated forplaying the host on such an occasion. He had, however, been doingbetter than she expected, when, a little before supper, he wanderedthrough the crowd to where she was standing, for the moment, alone, and asked, "Where is Cousin Sabina?"

"In the supper-room. It is necessary at such times to have some onebehind the scenes, and I had to get her to remain in the supper-room, to watch that things went on properly; and, in particular, to see thatnone of the silver was carried off, nor the refreshments wasted aftersupper. "

Mr. Smith looked disturbed, and exclaimed, rather too loudly, "Is itpossible that you could ask a woman like Sabina Incledon to do such athing! one of my most respectable relations, and a visiter in myhouse?"

"Don't speak so loudly. I left out all my own relations, and I daresay they would, any of them, have looked as creditably as SabinaIncledon. When we have established our own standing, Mr. Smith, itwill be time enough for us to bring out such people as your CousinSabina. To be sure, if I had had any one to trust in her place, Ishould not have objected at all to her coming in. "

Mrs. Smith was turning away, when she saw, at her elbow, Mrs. Goldsborough and Miss Pendleton, who must have overheard theconversation. To her it was the mortification of the evening. 

The next morning at the breakfast-table Mrs. Smith was too muchoccupied in descanting upon the events of the night, describing thedresses, and detailing the commendations on different viands of thesupper, to notice that Miss Incledon spoke but little, and when shedid, with more dignity and gravity than usual. On rising from thetable, she unlocked the sideboard, and taking from it a basket ofsilver, she said, "I would thank you, Cousin Sabina, to assort theseforks and spoons for me. It will be something of a task, as they haveto go to half a dozen different places. When you have got through Iwill look over them to see that all is right;" and she was hurryingoff to commence some of the multifarious duties of the day. 

"Excuse me, Sarah, " said Miss Incledon; "I'll expect that a carriagewill be here in a few minutes to take me into the country. "

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, looking disappointed and somewhatdispleased; "I thought I should have your assistance in putting awaythings--I had no idea of your leaving us to-day. "

"You may remember my telling you, Cousin Pelby, " said Miss Incledon, addressing Mr. Smith, "that I would be but a few days with you. I tookadvantage of traveling in this direction to renew our old familyintercourse; but the principal object of my journey was to visit avery particular friend, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. "

"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee!" said Mrs. Smith--"are you not mistaken, CousinSabina? I presume you mean Mrs. Edward Silsbee. Mrs. Morgan Silsbeelives ten or twelve miles out; their place is said to be magnificent, and I know that she and her husband drives a coach-and-four on stateoccasions. Mrs. Goldsborough made a splendid dinner for them a shorttime ago. Mrs. Edward Silsbee I have met often; I didn't know that youwere acquainted with her. "

"I am _not_ acquainted with Mrs. Edward Silsbee, " said Miss Incledon, with dignity; "I mean her sister-in-law, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. She isan old friend of mine, and I have been under engagement to her since Imet her last summer, at the Springs, to make this visit. I had a notefrom her last night, written from one of the hotels, saying that shewould stop for me this morning at nine or ten o'clock--your partypreventing her from calling in person. "

Had a halo suddenly appeared around the head of Cousin Sabina, Mrs. Smith could hardly have changed her countenance and manner moremarkedly. "If I had only known it, " she exclaimed, "how gratified Ishould have been to have had an invitation, with my card, sent to her, and to have had her at my party. But, surely, Cousin Sabina, you willsoon return to us?"

"I shall certainly pass through town on my way homeward, but will stopat a boarding-house, " said Miss Incledon. 

The conscious Mrs. Smith reddened violently, but was relieved by theinterruption of a handsome carriage, though not the coach-and-four, stopping before her house. Miss Incledon stepped to the parlor-door, to answer the footman, who inquired for her. 

"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee's compliments, ma'am, " said the man, "and thecarriage is at your service whenever you are ready. We are to take herup at Mrs. Goldsborough's, where she got out to wait for you. "

It took but a moment for Cousin Sabina to reappear bonneted andshawled, and to have her baggage put on the carriage. Then kindlybidding Mr. Smith farewell, she gave her hand to his wife, escapingthe embrace in preparation for her, and was rapidly driven away. 

"You see there are some persons who can appreciate Cousin Sabina, "said Mr. Smith; and afraid to wait for a reply, he hastened to hisplace of business. 

"And so Cousin Sabina is the friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the friendof Mrs. Goldsborough!" said Mrs. Smith to herself, while a series ofnot very satisfactory reflections ran through her mind. But herattention was claimed by other things. What with putting away anddistributing the fragments of the feast, washing and sending hometable-furniture, gathering up candle ends, and other onerous duties, the day wore on. At last, late in the afternoon, with aching head andwearied limbs, she sat down in her rocking-chair in the dining-room torest. A ring at the door-bell soon disturbed her. "Say I'm engaged, unless it is some person very particular, " said she to the servant. 

"It is Miss Debby Coggins, ma'am, " said the colored girl, returning, with a grin; "I let her in, because she's very partic'lar. "

Miss Deborah Coggins, from being connected in some way or other witheach of the great families of the town, and having money enough not tobe dependent on any of them, was what is called a privilegedcharacter--a class of individuals hard to be endured, unless theypossess the specific virtue of good-nature, to which Miss Debby had noclaim. She talked without ceasing, and her motto was to speak "thetruth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. " She was of a thinfigure, always dressed in rusty black silk, which must sometimes havebeen renewed or changed, though no one could ever tell when, and avelvet bonnet, of the same hue, with a peculiar lateral flare, which, however, was really made to look something like new once every threeor four years. She wore a demi-wreath of frizzly, flaxen curls closeabove her shaggy eyebrows, which were of the same color; and her verylong, distended nose was always filled with snuff, which assisted ingiving a trombone sound to as harsh a voice as ever passed through thelips of a woman. 

She had drawn up the blinds, and opened the sash of the windows whenMrs. Smith entered the front parlor. "How're you this evening, Mrs. Smith?" said she, in answer to the bland welcome she received; "I wasjust telling your black girl that if you ever should happen to have aparty again, she should open the rooms and have the air changed betterthe next day; and as you are not used to such things yourself, Ithought I might as well let you know it, too. I raised the windowsmyself. Now, " she added, "the room is too cold to sit in, and I wouldprefer going to your dining-room, or wherever you were when I camein. "

"Certainly, certainly, Miss Debby, " said Mrs. Smith, marshaling theway. 

"Stop!" said Miss Debby, "I want to take a look at your wall paper--Inever noticed it before. I can't say I like your taste; though, nodoubt, you took it for the sake of economy--ugly papers sometimes govery cheap. "

"You are quite mistaken, I assure you, Miss Debby, " began Mrs. Smith, eagerly. 

"Well, it's of no consequence, " interrupted Miss Debby, "only I heardMatilda Shipley say yesterday, that there would be no use in dressingmuch for Mrs. Pelby Smith's party, as her low rooms, with their dingy, dirt-colored paper, could never be lighted up to make any one lookwell. "

Mrs. Smith cleared her throat, but said nothing, recollecting by thistime that all retort or explanation was lost upon Miss DeborahCoggins. To change the subject she remarked, "How disappointed I wasat your not coming last night, my dear Miss Debby--one of the friendsI most wished to see. "

"I have been rather sorry myself that I did not come, since I heardthat the party turned out better than could have been expected. Isupposed that there would have been a great many here that I did notknow, and that my own set, mostly, would have stayed away, likemyself, not caring much to meet them. "

"What an idea, Miss Debby! there was scarcely one in the room that youdid not know. My company was very select. "

"So I was told to-day. Mrs. William Van Pelt said that you had invitedevery body that would not thank you, and, as she had been told, hadleft out those that had the best right to expect invitations. I shouldlike to have had a share of the supper, " continued Miss Debby. "Iheard that you had worried yourself nearly to death preparing it, andthat it was really good, considering that you were not used to suchthings. Young John Pendleton said that it made him some little amendsfor being forced to go to a place where he made a mistake every timehe addressed his entertainers and called them Joneses. "

Sorely wincing as Mrs. Smith was, she did not forget Miss Debby'snotoriety for following close upon the heels of a party for a share ofthe good things left. Accordingly, she opened her sideboard, andproduced a choice variety of her store. 

"I suppose it is too late to get some of the ice cream?" said MissDebby, losing no time in attacking what was set before her; "you haveused it, or let the ice run out, I dare say?--though, now that I thinkof it, I made up my mind that I would not care to have any of it, forold Mrs. Longacre told me that what she got was bitter, from beingmade partly of milk, she supposed, that had been burnt in boiling. "

This was more than Mrs. Smith could stand. "It is totally erroneous!"she exclaimed; "I used none but the purest cream, and that withoutboiling; I don't know how the old lady could have made such a mistake, unless it was that she got some of the almond, which, perhaps, had toomuch of the bitter-almond flavor for her taste. "

"Perhaps so; and she said that she did not venture to taste theCharlotte-Russe, fearing it might turn out to be nothing butsponge-cake and custard, without jelly or whipped cream. But if it wasall like this, nobody could complain of it;" and, absorbed in thegratification of her palate, Miss Debby gave her auditor a few minutesrespite. 

"Your party, on the whole, made something of a talk, Mrs. Smith, " sheresumed. 

Mrs. Smith bowed and smiled, taking the observation for a compliment. 

"I was out making calls the day the invitations went round. You knowmaking calls is a business with me, when I undertake it. I commencedirectly after breakfast, and keep on till night, eating my dinnerwherever I suppose dinner chances to be ready. Well, the first I heardof your intentions was from Mrs. Harvey, who said she wondered youcould think yourself under obligations to give a party to JuliaGoldsborough, though, to be sure, like some other of your devices, shesupposed that was only a _ruse_; and she was surprised that theGoldsboroughs were willing to be cat's paws to help you along in'society. '"

Mrs. Smith's face grew as red as the _bon bon_ paper she was nervouslytwisting. 

"That was to Mrs. Nicolas and me, " pursued Miss Debby; "and Mrs. Nicolas wondered how upon earth the Pelby Smiths could afford to givea party at all. She concluded that you would have to live on bacon andpotatoes for the remainder of the season, to retrieve the cost, andwould have to turn that changeable silk of yours the third time. "

"Oh, I don't mind what people say, " observed Mrs. Smith, with adistorted smile. 

"I know you don't, or, at least, that you don't resent any thingtoward persons of such standing as those two, or I would not haverepeated the conversation. But, is it true, that you had some troubleto get the party out of your husband?"

"Mr. Smith and I always act in concert, " said Mrs. Smith, lookingdutiful. 

"Do you? well, that's a happy thing. I understood quite the contrary, though, that you always carried the day, from what Mrs. Joe Culpeppersaid. I was at her house when your invitation came in, and after shehad opened it, she exclaimed, with her sly laugh, 'Only think, MissDebby, that manoeuvring, pushing Mrs. Pelby Smith has at last worriedher poor husband into giving a party!' and from the way she pitied Mr. Smith, I inferred she must have some reason to believe that if you didnot wield a pretty high hand, he would not be quite such a man of waxas he seems. "

Had Miss Debby been any thing less than a relation in common to the"Goldsboroughs, the Pendletons, the Longacres, and the Van Pelts, "Mrs. Smith would have been tempted to request her to leave the house;but as it was, her policy taught her to endure whatever Miss Debbymight choose to inflict. So she leaned back hopelessly in her chair, while the old lady snapped and cracked a plate of candied fruits witha vigor of which her teeth looked incapable. 

"Had you any of your borrowed things broken?--for I heard that you hadto borrow nearly every thing, " resumed her torturer. 

"Not any thing at all but two or three plates, which can easily bereplaced, " replied Mrs. Smith, not knowing what next to expect on thatpoint. But Miss Debby tacked about. 

"I believe, " said she, "you had a visiter staying with you for a fewdays?"

"Yes--a cousin of Mr. Smith's--Miss Sabina Incledon--"

"That's the name, " interrupted Miss Debby, nodding; "the person thatwent out home with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, this morning, I presume?"

"The same, " replied Mrs. Smith, feeling her consequence looking up;"Cousin Sabina is a very particular friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, whofor a long time had been soliciting the visit. "

"Then, surely, she could not have been the person you set to watchingthe kitchen and supper-room! Susan Goldsborough and Lydia Pendletonwere talking about it, and repeating to each other what they overheardof a conversation between yourself and your husband, who seemedgreatly shocked that you had done it. Susan Goldsborough remarked thatif she had known that you had so little sense as to undervalue such awoman in that way, or so little feeling and good-breeding as toviolate the laws of common hospitality and politeness so grossly, shewould assuredly have declined the party for Julia when you proposed itto her. "

Mrs. Smith had grown quite pale, and could only answer tremulously, "What a misconstruction!--dear me--it was Cousin Sabina's wish--howstrange a mistake. "

"It certainly is strange if they were so mistaken, and stranger stillthat a woman of so much dignity, and so accustomed to society as MissIncledon, should have preferred watching your servants to taking herproper place among your guests. I thought to myself whilst they weretalking, that it seemed hardly consistent with your usual way of doingthings, to put upon such duty a person who in all probability wouldsoon be Mrs. Colonel Raynor, and the aunt of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. Ishouldn't wonder if the match came off in a month. "

"Cousin Sabina likely to be married in a month!--and to ColonelRaynor!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, startled out of her usual tact, and herlips growing yet bluer. 

"Bless me! didn't you know the story?" said Miss Debby, in her turnlooking surprised; "they met last summer at the Springs, and thecolonel was so pleased with her unpretending good sense, excellentprinciples, and superior mental cultivation, that he proposed to herbefore she went away. She deferred her answer until she and hischildren should have become acquainted. You know he is a widower withthree daughters--two of them married. She has been in correspondenceever since with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the colonel's niece, who has beentrying to make the match, and who, that her cousins may meet her, hasinsisted upon the present visit. They are lovely young women, thedaughters, whom she cannot fail to like, and as they know how toappreciate such a woman as Miss Incledon, there is no doubt of themarriage taking place. It will be a great thing for you, Mrs. Smith;the connection will do more for you than a dozen parties. And such acharming place as you will have to visit! The colonel lives like aprince, and at only a few hours' drive from here. You can go there inthe summer with your children, and meet a constant run of company morechoice than at a watering-place, and all without any expense. Whenyour cousin comes back to town, be sure to let me know, that I maycall upon her. Susan Goldsborough is fretted enough that she was notapprised of her being here, and so are some of the Longacres; theyblame you with it all. "

Mrs. Smith did not attempt to reply, and Miss Debby rose to go. 

"It is getting late, " said she, "and I must walk. If you have noobjection I will take those slices of fruit and almond cake, and apaper of candied fruit and _bon bons_ with me--and perhaps you canspare some more Malaga grapes--or could you send them home for me byone of your servants? I should like to stop at Susan Goldsborough's totell her that you knew nothing about the good fortune in prospect foryour cousin, and it is probable she will wish me to stay for tea. "

Mrs. Smith restrained herself until she had escorted her visiter tothe door, and then returning to her rocking-chair, she indulged in afit of weeping that looked very much like hysterics. Her mostprominent thought was, "If I had only given the party to CousinSabina!"

This she had ample opportunity to reiterate--for time proved to herthat the prime object of her grand effort had failed--those whocomprised her select party never including her in any of theirs. Moreparticularly did it recur to her, when, some months afterward, Mrs. Colonel Raynor, though she sometimes stopped to exchange a few kindlywords with Mr. Smith at his place of business, evaded every invitationto his dwelling, while she went the rounds of sumptuous fêting amongthe Goldsboroughs, Pendletons, Longacres & Co. 

SPIRIT-VOICES. 

BY CHARLES W. BAIRD. 

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice, As in morning's hour it stoleSpeaking to thee from the home of its choice, Deep in the unfathomed soul:Telling of things that the ear hath not heard, Neither the mind conceived;Bringing a balm in each gentle word Unto the heart bereaved?"

O, I have heard it in days of the spring, When gladness and joy were rife. 'Twas a voice of hope, that came whispering Its story of strength and life. It told me that seasons of vigor and mirth Follow the night of pain;And the heaven-born soul, like the flowers of earth, Withers, to live again!

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice, At the sunny hour of noon;Bidding the soul in its light rejoice, For the darkness cometh soon;Telling of blossoms that early bloom And as early pine and fade;And the bright hopes that must find a tomb In the dark, approaching shade?"

Yes, I have heard it in summer's hour, When the year was in its strength:'T was a voice of faith, and it spoke with power Of joys that shall come at length. It told how the holy and beautiful gain Fruition of peace and love;And the blest ones, freed from this world of pain, Flourish and ripen above. 

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice, At the solemn noon of night, When the fair visions of memory rise Robed in their fancied light. When the loved forms that are cold and dead Pass in their train sad and slow;And the waking soul, from its pleasures fled, Turns to its present wo?"

Oft have I heard it when day was o'er; And the welcome tones I knew:Like the voices of those who have gone before, The Beautiful and the True. And it turned my thoughts to that blissful time When ceaseth cold winter's breath;When the free spirit shall seek that clime Where there is no more death. 

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, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of theUnited States, for the Northern District of New York. ]

(_Concluded from page 98_. )

PART XVII. 

 The trusting heart's repose, the paradise Of home, with all its loves, doth fate allow The crown of glory unto woman's brow. MRS. HEMANS. 

It has again become necessary to advance the time; and we shall takethe occasion thus offered to make a few explanations touching certainevents which have been passed over without notice. 

The reason why Capt. Mull did not chase the yawl of the brig in thePoughkeepsie herself, was the necessity of waiting for his own boatsthat were endeavoring to regain the sloop-of-war. It would not havedone to abandon them, inasmuch as the men were so much exhausted bythe pull to windward, that when they reached the vessel all wererelieved from duty for the rest of the day. As soon, however, as theother boats were hoisted in, or run up, the ship filled away, stoodout of the passage and ran down to join the cutter of Wallace, whichwas endeavoring to keep its position, as much as possible, by makingshort tacks under close-reefed luggs. 

Spike had been received on board the sloop-of-war, sent into her sickbay, and put under the care of the surgeon and his assistants. Fromthe first, these gentlemen pronounced the hurt mortal. The wounded manwas insensible most of the time, until the ship had beat up and goneinto Key West, where he was transferred to the regular hospital, ashas already been mentioned. 

The wreckers went out the moment the news of the calamity of the Swashreached their ears. Some went in quest of the doubloons of theschooner, and others to pick up any thing valuable that might bediscovered in the neighborhood of the stranded brig. It may bementioned here, that not much was ever obtained from the brigantine, with the exception of a few spars, the sails, and a little rigging;but, in the end, the schooner was raised, by means of the chain Spikehad placed around her, the cabin was ransacked, and the doubloons wererecovered. As there was no one to claim the money, it was quietlydivided among the conscientious citizens present at its revisiting"the glimpses of the moon, " making gold plenty. 

The doubloons in the yawl would have been lost but for the sagacity ofMulford. He too well knew the character of Spike to believe he wouldquit the brig without taking the doubloons with him. Acquainted withthe boat, he examined the little locker in the stern-sheets, and foundthe two bags, one of which was probably the lawful property of Capt. Spike, while the other, in truth, belonged to the Mexican government. The last contained the most gold, but the first amounted to a sum thatour young mate knew to be very considerable. Rose had made himacquainted with the sex of Jack Tier since their own marriage; and heat once saw that the claims to the gold in question, of this uncouthwife, who was so soon to be a widow, might prove to be as good in law, as they unquestionably were in morals. On representing the facts ofthe case to Capt. Mull and the legal functionaries at Key West, it wasdetermined to relinquish this money to the heirs of Spike, as, indeed, they must have done under process, there being no other claimant. These doubloons, however, did not amount to the full price of theflour and powder that composed the cargo of the Swash. The cargo hadbeen purchased with Mexican funds; and all that Spike or his heirscould claim, was the high freight for which he had undertaken thedelicate office of transporting those forbidden articles, contrabandof war, to the Dry Tortugas. 

Mulford by this time was high in the confidence and esteem of all onboard the Poughkeepsie. He had frankly explained his whole connectionwith Spike, not even attempting to conceal the reluctance he had feltto betray the brig after he had fully ascertained the fact of hiscommander's treason. The manly gentlemen with whom he was now broughtin contact entered into his feelings, and admitted that it was anoffice no one could desire, to turn against the craft in which hesailed. It is true, they could not and would not be traitors, butMulford had stopped far short of this; and the distinction betweensuch a character and that of an informer was wide enough to satisfyall their scruples. 

Then Rose had the greatest success with the gentlemen of thePoughkeepsie. Her youth, beauty, and modesty, told largely in herfavor; and the simple, womanly affection she unconsciously betrayedin behalf of Harry, touched the heart of every observer. When theintelligence of her aunt's fate reached her, the sorrow she manifestedwas so profound and natural, that every one sympathized with hergrief. Nor would she be satisfied unless Mulford would consent to goin search of the bodies. The latter knew the hopelessness of such anexcursion, but he could not refuse to comply. He was absent on thatmelancholy duty, therefore, at the moment of the scene related in ourlast chapter, and did not return until after that which we are nowabout to lay before the reader. Mrs. Budd, Biddy, and all of those whoperished after the yawl got clear of the reef, were drowned in deepwater, and no more was ever seen of any of them; or, if wreckers didpass them, they did not stop to bury the dead. It was different, however, with those who were first sacrificed to Spike's selfishness. They were drowned on the reef, and Harry did actually recover thebodies of the Señor Montefalderon, and of Josh, the steward. They hadwashed upon a rock that is bare at low water. He took them both to theDry Tortugas, and had them interred along with the other dead at thatplace. Don Juan was placed side by side with his unfortunatecountry-man, the master of his equally unfortunate schooner. 

While Harry was absent and thus employed, Rose wept much and prayedmore. She would have felt herself almost alone in the world, but forthe youth to whom she had so recently, less than a week before, plighted her faith in wedlock. That new tie, it is true, was ofsufficient importance to counteract many of the ordinary feelings ofher situation; and she now turned to it as the one which absorbed mostof the future duties of her life. Still she missed the kindness, thesolicitude, even the weaknesses of her aunt; and the terrible mannerin which Mrs. Budd had perished, made her shudder with horror whenevershe thought of it. Poor Biddy, too, came in for her share of theregrets. This faithful creature, who had been in the relict's serviceever since Rose's infancy, had become endeared to her, in spite of heruncouth manners and confused ideas, by the warmth of her heart, andthe singular truth of her feelings. Biddy, of all her family, had comealone to America, leaving behind her not only brothers and sisters, but parents living. Each year did she remit to the last a moiety ofher earnings, and many a half-dollar that had come from Rose's prettylittle hand, had been converted into gold, and forwarded on the samepious errand to the green island of her nativity. Ireland, unhappycountry! at this moment what are not the dire necessities of thy poor!Here, from the midst of abundance, in a land that God has blessed inits productions far beyond the limits of human wants, a land in whichfamine was never known, do we at this moment hear thy groans, andlisten to tales of suffering that to us seem almost incredible. In themidst of these chilling narratives, our eyes fall on an appeal to theEnglish nation, that appears in what it is the fashion of some to termthe first journal of Europe(!) in behalf of thy suffering people. Aworthy appeal to the charity of England seldom fails; but it seems tous that one sentiment of this might have been altered, if not spared. The English are asked to be "_forgetful_ of the past, " and to comeforward to the relief of their suffering fellow-subjects. We shouldhave written "_mindful_ of the past, " in its stead. We say this incharity, as well as in truth. We come of English blood, and if weclaim to share in all the ancient renown of that warlike andenlightened people, we are equally bound to share in the reproachesthat original misgovernment has inflicted on thee. In this lattersense, then, thou hast a right to our sympathies, and they are notwithheld. 

As has been already said, we now advance the time eight-and-fortyhours, and again transfer the scene to that room in the hospital whichwas occupied by Spike. The approaches of death, during the intervaljust named, had been slow but certain. The surgeons had announced thatthe wounded man could not possibly survive the coming night; and hehimself had been made sensible that his end was near. It is scarcelynecessary to add that Stephen Spike, conscious of his vigor andstrength, in command of his brig, and bent on the pursuits of worldlygains, or of personal gratification, was a very different person fromhim who now lay stretched on his pallet in the hospital of Key West, adying man. By the side of his bed still sat his strange nurse, lesspeculiar in appearance, however, than when last seen by the reader. 

Rose Budd had been ministering to the ungainly externals of Jack Tier. She now wore a cap, thus concealing the short, gray bristles of hair, and lending to her countenance a little of that softness which is arequisite of female character. Some attention had also been paid tothe rest of her attire; and Jack was, altogether, less repulsive inher exterior than when, unaided, she had attempted to resume theproper garb of her sex. Use and association, too, had contributed alittle to revive her woman's nature, if we may so express it, and shehad begun, in particular, to feel the sort of interest in her patientwhich we all come in time to entertain toward any object of ourespecial care. We do not mean that Jack had absolutely ever ceased tolove her husband; strange as it may seem, such had not literally beenthe case; on the contrary, her interest in him and in his welfare hadnever ceased, even while she saw his vices and detested his crimes;but all we wish to say here is, that she was getting, in addition tothe long-enduring feelings of a wife, some of the interest of a nurse. 

During the whole time which had elapsed between Jack's revealing hertrue character, and the moment of which we are now writing, Spike hadnot once spoken to his wife. Often had she caught his eyes intentlyriveted on her, when he would turn them away, as she feared, indistaste; and once or twice he groaned deeply, more like a man whosuffered mental than bodily pain. Still the patient did not speak oncein all the time mentioned. We should be representing poor Jack aspossessing more philosophy, or less feeling, than the truth wouldwarrant, were we to say she was not hurt at this conduct in herhusband. On the contrary, she felt it deeply; and more than once ithad so far subdued her pride, as to cause her bitterly to weep. Thisshedding of tears, however, was of service to Jack in one sense, forit had the effect of renewing old impressions, and in a certain way, of reviving the nature of her sex within her--a nature which had beensadly weakened by her past life. 

But the hour had at length come when this long and painful silence wasto be broken. Jack and Rose were alone with the patient, when the lastagain spoke to his wife. 

"Molly--poor Molly!" said the dying man, his voice continuing full anddeep to the last, "what a sad time you must have had of it after I didyou that wrong!"

"It is hard upon a woman, Stephen, to turn her out, helpless, on acold and selfish world, " answered Jack, simply, much too honest toaffect reserve she did not feel. 

"It was hard, indeed; may God forgive me for it, as I hope _you_ do, Molly. "

No answer was made to this appeal; and the invalid looked anxiously athis wife. The last sat at her work, which had now got to be lessawkward to her, with her eyes bent on her needle, and her countenancerigid, and, so far as the eye could discern, her feelings unmoved. 

"Your husband speaks to you, Jack Tier, " said Rose, pointedly. 

"May _yours_ never have occasion to speak to you, Rose Budd, in thesame way, " was the solemn answer. "I do not flatter myself that I everwas as comely as you, or that yonder poor dying wretch was a HarryMulford in his youth; but we were young and happy, and respected once, and loved each other; yet you see what its all come to!"

Rose was silenced, though she had too much tenderness in behalf of herown youthful and manly bridegroom to dread a fate similar to thatwhich had overtaken poor Jack. Spike now seemed disposed to saysomething, and she went to the side of his bed, followed by hercompanion, who kept a little in the back-ground, as if unwilling tolet the emotion she really felt be seen, and, perhaps, conscious thather ungainly appearance did not aid her in recovering the lostaffections of her husband. 

"I have been a very wicked man, I fear, " said Spike, earnestly. 

"There are none without sin, " answered Rose. "Place your reliance onthe mediation of the Son of God, and sins even far deeper than yoursmay be pardoned. "

The captain stared at the beautiful speaker, but self-indulgence, theincessant pursuit of worldly and selfish objects for forty years, andthe habits of a life into which the thought of God and the dreadhereafter never entered, had encased his spiritual being in a sort ofbrazen armor, through which no ordinary blow of conscience couldpenetrate. Still he had fearful glimpses of recent events, and hissoul, hanging as it was over the abyss of eternity, was troubled. 

"What has become of your aunt?" half whispered Spike--"my oldcaptain's widow. She ought to be here; and Don Wan Montezuma--where ishe?"

Rose turned aside to conceal her tears--but no one answered thequestions of the dying man. Then a gleaming of childhood shot into therecollection of Spike, and, clasping his hands, he tried to pray. But, like others who have lived without any communication with theirCreator through long lives of apathy to his existence and laws, thinking only of the present time, and daily, hourly sacrificingprinciples and duty to the narrow interests of the moment, he nowfound how hard it is to renew communications with a being who has beenso long neglected. The fault lay in himself, however, for a graciousear was open, even over the death-bed of Stephen Spike, could thatrude spirit only bring itself to ask for mercy in earnestness andtruth. As his companions saw his struggles, they left him for a fewminutes to his own thoughts. 

"Molly, " Spike at length uttered, in a faint tone, the voice of oneconscious of being very near his end, "I hope you will forgive me, Molly. I know you must have had a hard, hard time of it. "

"It is hard for a woman to unsex herself, Stephen; to throw off hervery natur', as it might be, and to turn man. "

"It has changed you sadly--even your speech is altered. Once yourvoice was soft and womanish--more like that of Rose Budd's than it isnow. "

"I speak as them speak among whom I've been forced to live. Theforecastle and steward's pantry, Stephen Spike, are poor schools tosend women to l'arn language in. "

"Try and forget it all, poor Molly! Say to me, so that I can hear you, 'I forget and forgive, Stephen. ' I am afraid God will not pardon mysins, which begin to seem dreadful to me, if my own wife refuse toforget and forgive, on my dying bed. "

Jack was much mollified by this appeal. Her interest in her offendinghusband had never been entirely extinguished. She had remembered him, and often with woman's kindness, in all her wanderings and sufferings, as the preceding parts of our narrative must show; and thoughresentment had been mingled with the grief and mortification she feltat finding how much he still submitted to Rose's superior charms, in abreast as really generous and humane as that of Jack Tier's, such afeeling was not likely to endure in the midst of a scene like that shewas now called to witness. The muscles of her countenance twitched, the hard-looking, tanned face began to lose its sternness, and everyway she appeared like one profoundly disturbed. 

"Turn to Him whose goodness and marcy may sarve you, Stephen, " shesaid, in a milder and more feminine tone than she had used now foryears, making her more like herself than either her husband or Rosehad seen her since the commencement of the late voyage; "my sayin'that I forget and forgive cannot help a man on his death-bed. "

"It will settle my mind, Molly, and leave me freer to turn my thoughtsto God. "

Jack was much affected; more by the countenance and manner of thesufferer, perhaps, than by his words. She drew nearer to the side ofher husband's pallet, knelt, took his hands, and said solemnly, "Stephen Spike, from the bottom of my heart, I _do_ forgive you; and Ishall pray to God that he will pardon your sins as freely and moremarcifully than I now pardon all, and try to forget all that you havedone to me. "

Spike clasped his hands, and again he tried to pray; but the habits ofa whole life are not to be thrown off at will; and he who endeavors toregain, in his extremity, the moments that have been lost, will find, in bitter reality, that he has been heaping mountains on his own soul, by the mere practice of sin, which were never laid there by theoriginal fall of his race. Jack, however, had disburthened her spiritof a load that had long oppressed it, and, burying her face in therug, she wept. 

"I wish, Molly, " said the dying man, several minutes later, "I wish Ihad never seen the brig. Until I got that craft, no thought ofwronging human being ever crossed my mind. "

"It was the Father of Lies that tempts all to do evil, Stephen, andnot the brig which caused the sins. "

"I wish I could live a year longer--_only_ one year; that is not muchto ask for a man who is not yet sixty. "

"It is hopeless, poor Stephen. The surgeons say you cannot live oneday. "

Spike groaned; for the past, blended fearfully with the future, gleamed on his conscience with a brightness that appalled him. Andwhat is that future, which is to make us happy or miserable through anendless vista of time? Is it not composed of an existence, in whichconscience, released from the delusions and weaknesses of the body, sees all in its true colors, appreciates all, and punishes all? Suchan existence would make every man the keeper of the record of his owntransgressions, even to the most minute exactness. It would of itselfmete out perfect justice, since the sin would be seen amid itsaccompanying facts, every aggravating or extenuating circumstance. Each man would be strictly punished according to his talents. As noone is without sin, it makes the necessity of an atonementindispensable, and, in its most rigid interpretation, it exhibits thetruth of the scheme of salvation in the clearest colors. The soul, orconscience, that can admit the necessary degree of faith in thatatonement, and in admitting, _feels_ its efficacy, throws the burthenof its own transgressions away, and remains forever in the conditionof its original existence, pure, and consequently happy. 

We do not presume to lay down a creed on this mighty and mysteriousmatter, in which all have so deep an interest, and concerning which sovery small a portion of the human race think much, or think with anyclearness when it does become the subject of their passing thoughts atall. We too well know our own ignorance to venture on dogmas which ithas probably been intended that the mind of man should not yetgrapple with and comprehend. To return to our subject. 

Stephen Spike was now made to feel the incubus-load, whichperseverance in sin heaps on the breast of the reckless offender. Whatwas the most grievous of all, his power to shake off this dead weightwas diminished in precisely the same proportion as the burthen wasincreased, the moral force of every man lessening in a very just ratioto the magnitude of his delinquencies. Bitterly did this deep offenderstruggle with his conscience, and little did his half-unsexed wifeknow how to console or aid him. Jack had been superficially instructedin the dogmas of her faith, in childhood and youth, as most personsare instructed in what are termed Christian communities--had been madeto learn the Catechism, the Lord's Prayer, and the Creed--and had beenleft to set up for herself on this small capital, in the great concernof human existence, on her marriage and entrance on the activebusiness of life. When the manner in which she had passed the lasttwenty years is remembered, no one can be surprised to learn that Jackwas of little assistance to her husband in his extremity. Rose made aneffort to administer hope and consolation, but the terrible nature ofthe struggle she witnessed, induced her to send for the chaplain ofthe Poughkeepsie. This divine prayed with the dying man; but even he, in the last moments of the sufferer, was little more than a passivebut shocked witness of remorse, suspended over the abyss of eternityin hopeless dread. We shall not enter into the details of therevolting scene, but simply add that curses, blasphemy, tremulouscries for mercy, agonized entreaties to be advised, and sullendefiance, were all strangely and fearfully blended. In the midst ofone of these revolting paroxysms Spike breathed his last. A few hourslater his body was interred in the sands of the shore. It may be wellto say in this place, that the hurricane of 1846, which is known tohave occurred only a few months later, swept off the frail coveringand that the body was washed away to leave its bones among the wrecksand relics of the Florida Reef. 

Mulford did not return from his fruitless expedition in quest of theremains of Mrs. Budd, until after the death and interment of Spike. Asnothing remained to be done at Key West, he and Rose accompanied byJack Tier, took passage for Charleston in the first convenient vesselthat offered. Two days before they sailed, the Poughkeepsie went outto cruise in the gulf, agreeably to her general orders. The eveningpreviously Capt. Mull, Wallace, and the chaplain, passed with thebridegroom and bride, when the matter of the doubloons found in theboat was discussed. It was agreed that Jack Tier should have them; andinto her hands the bag was now placed. On this occasion, to oblige theofficers, Jack went into a narrative of all she had seen and suffered, from the moment when abandoned by her late husband down to that whenshe found him again. It was a strange account, and one filled withsurprising adventures. In most of the vessels in which she hadserved, Jack had acted in the steward's department, though she hadfrequently done duty as a fore-mast hand. In strength and skill sheadmitted that she had often failed; but in courage, never. Having beengiven reason to think her husband was reduced to serving in a vesselof war, she had shipped on board a frigate bound to the Mediterranean, and had actually made a whole cruise as a ward-room boy on thatstation. While thus employed she had met with two of the gentlemenpresent; Capt. Mull and Mr. Wallace. The former was then firstlieutenant of the frigate, and the latter a passed-midshipman; and inthese capacities both had been well known to her. As the name she thenbore was the same as that under which she now "hailed, " these officerswere soon made to recollect her, though Jack was no longer the light, trim-built lad he had then appeared to be. Neither of the gentlemennamed had made the whole cruise in the ship, but each had beenpromoted and transferred to another craft, after being Jack's shipmaterather more than a year. This information greatly facilitated theaffair of the doubloons. 

From Charleston the travelers came north by railroad. Harry madeseveral stops by the way, in order to divert the thoughts of hisbeautiful young bride from dwelling too much on the fate of her aunt. He knew that home would revive all these recollections painfully, andwished to put off the hour of their return, until time had a littleweakened Rose's regrets. For this reason, he passed a whole week inWashington, though it was a season of the year that the place is notin much request. Still, Washington is scarce a town, at any season. Itis much the fashion to deride the American capital, and to treat it asa place of very humble performance with very sounding pretensions. Certainly, Washington has very few of the peculiarities of a greatEuropean capital, but few as these are, they are more than belong toany other place in this country. We now allude to the _distinctive_characteristics of a capital, and not to a mere concentration ofhouses and shops within a given space. In this last respect, Washington is much behind fifty other American towns, even while it isthe only place in the whole republic which possesses specimens ofarchitecture, on a scale approaching that of the higher classes of theedifices of the old world. It is totally deficient in churches, andtheatres, and markets; or those it does possess are, in anarchitectural sense, not at all above the level of village orcountry-town pretensions, but one or two of its national edifices doapproach the magnificence and grandeur of the old world. The newTreasury Buildings are unquestionably, on the score of size, embellishments and finish, _the_ American edifice that comes nearestto first class architecture on the other side of the Atlantic. TheCapitol comes next, though it can scarce be ranked, relatively, ashigh. As for the White House, it is every way sufficient for itspurposes and the institutions; and now that its grounds are finished, and the shrubbery and trees begin to tell, one sees about it somethingthat is not unworthy of its high uses and origin. Those grounds, which so long lay a reproach to the national taste and liberality, arenow fast becoming beautiful, are already exceedingly pretty, and giveto a structure that is destined to become historical, having alreadyassociated with it the names of Jefferson, Madison, Jackson, andQuincy Adams, together with the _ci polloi_ of the later Presidents, an _entourage_ that is suitable to its past recollections and itspresent purposes. They are not quite on a level with the parks ofLondon, it is true; or even with the Tuileries, or Luxembourg, or theBoboli, or the Villa Reale, or fifty more grounds and gardens, of asimilar nature, that might be mentioned; but, seen in the spring andearly summer, they adorn the building they surround, and lend to thewhole neighborhood a character of high civilization, that no otherplace in America can show, in precisely the same form, or to the sameextent. 

This much have we said on the subject of the White House and itsprecincts, because we took occasion, in a former work, to berate thenarrow-minded parsimony which left the grounds of the White House in acondition that was discreditable to the republic. How far ourphilippic may have hastened the improvements which have been made, ismore than we shall pretend to say, but having made the formerstrictures, we are happy to have an occasion to say (though nearlytwenty years have intervened between the expressions of the twoopinions) that they are no longer merited. 

And here we will add another word, and that on a subject that is notsufficiently pressed on the attention of a people, who, by position, are unavoidably provincial. We invite those whose gorges rise at anystricture on any thing American, and who fancy it is enough to belongto the great republic to be great in itself, to place themselves infront of the State Department, as it now stands, and to examine itsdimensions, material and form with critical eyes; then to look alongthe adjacent Treasury Buildings, to fancy them completed, by ajunction with new edifices of a similar construction to contain thedepartment of state; next to fancy similar works completed for the twoopposite departments; after which, to compare the past and presentwith the future as thus finished, and remember how recent has been thepartial improvement which even now exists. If this examination andcomparison do not show, directly to the sense of sight, how much therewas and is to criticise, as put in contrast with other countries, weshall give up the individuals in question, as too deeply dyed in theprovincial wool ever to be whitened. The present Trinity church, NewYork, certainly not more than a third class European church, if asmuch, compared with its village-like predecessor, may supply apractical homily of the same degree of usefulness. There may be thoseamong us, however, who fancy it patriotism to maintain that the oldTreasury Buildings were quite equal to the new, and of these intenseAmericans we cry their mercy!

Rose felt keenly on reaching her late aunt's very neat dwelling inFourteenth Street, New York. But the manly tenderness of Mulford wasa great support to her, and a little time brought her to think of thatweak-minded, but well-meaning and affectionate relative, with gentleregret, rather than with grief. Among the connections of her younghusband, she found several females of a class in life certainly equalto her own, and somewhat superior to the latter in education andhabits. As for Harry, he very gladly passed the season with hisbeautiful bride, though a fine ship was laid down for him, by means ofRose's fortune, now much increased by her aunt's death, and he wasabsent in Europe when his son was born; an event that occurred onlytwo months since. 

The Swash, and the shipment of gunpowder, were thought of no more inthe good town of Manhattan. This great emporium--we beg pardon, thisgreat _commercial_ emporium--has a trick of forgetting; condensing allinterests into those of the present moment. It is much addicted tobelieving that which never had an existence, and of overlooking thatwhich is occurring directly _under its nose_. So marked is thistendency to forgetfulness, we should not be surprised to hear some ofthe Manhattanese pretend that our legend is nothing but a fiction, anddeny the existence of the Molly, Capt. Spike, and even of Biddy Noon. But we know them too well to mind what they say, and shall go on andfinish our narrative in our own way, just as if there were no suchraven-throated commentators at all. 

Jack Tier, still known by that name, lives in the family of Capt. Mulford. She is fast losing the tan on her face and hands, and everyday is improving in appearance. She now habitually wears her properattire, and is dropping gradually into the feelings and habits of hersex. She never can become what she once was, any more than theblackamoor can become white, or the leopard change his spots; but sheis no longer revolting. She has left off chewing and smoking, havingfound a refuge in snuff. Her hair is permitted to grow, and is alreadyturned up with a comb, though constantly concealed beneath a cap. Theheart of Jack, alone, seems unaltered. The strange, tiger-likeaffection that she bore for Spike, during twenty years of abandonment, has disappeared in regrets for his end. It is succeeded by a mostsincere attachment for Rose, in which the little boy, since hisappearance on the scene, is becoming a large participator. This childJack is beginning to love intensely; and the doubloons, well invested, placing her above the feeling of dependence, she is likely to end herlife, once so errant and disturbed, in tranquillity and a home-likehappiness. 

THE BELLE. 

BY MARY L. LAWSON. 

She stands before the mirror--she is fair, And soft the light within her beaming eyes, But unshed tears are slowly gathering there, Like passing clouds that float o'er summer skies;Her cheek is wan, as blanched by thoughts of pain, And on her snowy brow a shadow sleeps:Are such surpassing gifts bestowed in vain?-- The pale, sad beauty turns aside and weeps!

Long, long in anguish flows the burning tide-- Dark storms of feeling sweep across her breast--In loneliness there needs no mask of pride-- To nerve the soul, and veil the heart's unrest, Amid the crowd her glances brightly beam, Her smiles with undimmed lustre sweetly shine:The haunting visions of life's fevered dream The cold and careless seek not to divine. 

Night after night unheeded glides away 'Mid mirth and music, flattery's whispered tone, Her dreary penance--ever to be gay, Yet longing, oh! how oft--to be alone;But when all other hearts seek needful rest, And heavy sleep the saddest eyelids close, Her dreams are those the wretched only know, As memory o'er her soul its shadow's throw. 

Friends that had shared her girlhood's happier day, And forms now mingling with the dust arise, The early loved recalled with pensive tears, Though once in pride half scorned and lightly prized;Fair pictured scenes long vanished from her sight, Soft tones of songs and voices loved of yore. And words of tenderness and looks of light, And fresh young hopes that bloom for her no more. 

But this one hour has crowned in deep despair The many sorrows of life's galling chain, Yet mid those sighs that rend her aching soul The heart's wild struggle is not felt in vain, For she has turned to Him whose smile can cheer The darkened mind and hopes lost light reveal, And learns to feel 'mid trembling doubt and fear-- That HE whose power can wound is strong to heal. 

While loftier thoughts to nobler purpose given Than those long wasted amid fashion's glare, And deep resolves the future shall be fraught With holy deeds, her earnest musings share--Though in the dance her step no more may glide, The glittering circle miss its chosen queen, Around the vacant place a closing tide Will leave no record where her form was seen. 

But where the widow's tear-drop may be dried, And where the orphan wanders sad and lone, Where poverty its grieving head may hide, Will breathe the music of her voice's tone;And if her face was blest with beauty rare 'Mid gilded sighs and worldly vanity, When heavenly peace has left its impress there Its loveliness from earthly stain is free. 

LE PETIT SOULIER. 

A STORY: IN TWO PARTS. 

BY IK. MARVEL. 

PART I. 

I have said that the Abbé G---- had a room in some dark corner of ahotel in the Rue de Seine, or Rue de la Harpe--which of the two it wasI really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and the streetout of which I used to step into its ill-paved, triangular court, wasvery narrow, and very dirty. 

At the end of the court, farthest from the heavy gateway, was the boxof the _concierge_, who was a brisk little shoemaker, foreverbethwacking his lap-stone. If I remember right, the hammer of thelittle _cordonnier_ made the only sound I used to hear in the court;for though the house was full of lodgers, I never saw two of themtogether, and never heard them talking across the court from the upperwindows, even in mid-summer. 

At this distance of time, I do not think it would be possible for meto describe accurately all the windings of the corridor which led tothe abbé's door. I remember that the first part was damp and low, andafter it I used to mount a crazy stone staircase, and at the toppassed through a passage that opened on one side upon a narrow court;then there was a little wicket of iron, which, when it turned, tinkleda bell. Sometimes the abbé would hear the bell, and open his door downat the end of the corridor; and sometimes a lodger, who occupied aroom looking into the last-mentioned court, would draw, slyly, acorner of his curtain, and peep out, to see who was passing. SometimesI would loiter myself to look down upon the lower windows in thecourt, or to glance up at story resting above story, and at the peakedroof, and dot of a loop-hole at the top. 

A single small door opened into the court, and occasionally an oldwoman, or bustling, shabbily-dressed man would shuffle across thepavement; the faces at the windows seemed altogether sordid andevery-day faces, so that I came to regard the quarters of the abbé, notwithstanding the quaint-fashioned windows and dim stairway, andsuspicious quiet, a very matter of fact, and so, very uninterestingneighborhood. 

As the abbé and myself passed out sometimes together through theopen-sided corridor, I would point into the court, and ask who livedin the little room at the top. 

"Ah, _mon cher_, I do not know, " the abbé would say. 

Or, "who lives in the corner, with the queer narrow window and thestriped curtain?"

"I cannot tell you, _mon cher_. "

Or, "whose is the little window with so many broken panes, and an oldplacard pinned against the frame?"

"Ah, who knows! perhaps a _chiffonier_, or a shopman, or perhaps--"and the abbé lifted his finger, and shook his head expressively, andcontinued, "It is a strange world we live in, _mon ami_. "

What could the abbé mean? I looked up at the window again; it wassmall, and the panes were set in rough metal casing; it was high up onthe fourth or fifth floor. I could see nothing through but the dirtyyellow placard. 

"Is it in the same hotel with you?" said I. 

"_Ma foi_, I do not know. "

I tried to picture satisfactorily to my own mind the appearance of thechamber to which the little window belonged. Small it must be, I knew, for in that quarter few were large even upon the first floor, andlooking upon the street. Dirty, too, it should surely be, andcomfortless, and tenanted by misery, or poverty, or sin, or, verylikely, all together. Possibly some miserly old wretch lived there, needing only a little light to count up his hoard, and caring littlefor any intrusive wind, if it did not blow away his treasure. Ifancied I could see him running over the tale of his coin by a feeblerushlight--squat, perhaps, on the dirty tile-floor--then locking hisbox, and placing it carefully under the pillow of his straw pallet, then tip-toeing to the door to examine again the fastening, thencarefully extinguishing the taper, and after, dropping into ananxious, fevered sleep. 

I even lingered very late at the abbé's room, to see if I could detectthe old man; but there was never any light to be seen. 

Perhaps it was the home of some poor gentleman who had seen betterdays, and whom necessity obliged to deny himself the poor luxury of acentime light. Possibly it was a little shopman, as the abbé hadsuggested, struggling with fortune--not scrupulous in honesty, andshunning observation; or it might be (who could tell) a sleek-facedvillain, stealing about in the dusk, and far into the night, makingthe dim chamber his home only when more honest lodgers were astir inthe city. 

All sorts of conjectures came thronging on me, and I cast my eyes up, day after day, at the little window, hoping some change of appearancemight give plausibility to some one of my fancies. 

Week after week, however, the corridor wore its old quietude; thestriped curtain in the wing window, and the yellow placard in thesuspicious window at the top, still kept their places with provokingtenacity; and I could never, with all my art, seduce the good-naturedabbé into any bugbear story about the occupant of the dim chamber onthe court. 

I dare say I might soon have neglected to look up at all, had I notobserved one day, after my glances had grown very careless, and almostinvoluntary, a rich lace veil hanging against the same little windowwhere had hung the placard. There was no mistaking it--the veil was ofthe richest Mechlin lace. I knew very well that no lady of elegancecould occupy such apartment, or, indeed, was to be found (I mean nodisrespect to the abbé) in that quarter of Paris. The window plainlybelonged to some thievish den, and the lace formed a portion of thespoils. I began to be distrustful of late visits to the abbé'squarters, and full of the notion of thievish eyes looking out from thestrange window--I used half to tremble as I passed along the corridor. I told the abbé of the veil, and hinted my suspicions. 

"It is nothing, " said he, "princes have lived in worse corners. "

"And yet you are not curious to know more?"

"_Mon cher_, it is dangerous to be too curious, _je suis un prêtre_. "

Some days after--it was on a winter's morning, when a little snow hadfallen--I chanced to glance over into the court on which themysterious window looked, and saw the beautiful foot-mark of a lady'sslipper. It was scarce longer than my hand--too narrow and delicatelyformed for a child's foot, least of all the foot of such children asbelonged to the Rue de Seine. I could not but associate thefoot-track--so small, so beautiful, and so unlocked for in suchscene--with the veil I had seen at the window. 

Through all of my morning's lesson--I was then reading _La Grammairedes Grammaires_--I could think of nothing but the pretty foot-track inthe snow. No such foot, I was quite sure, could be seen in the dirtyRue de Seine--not even the shop-girls of the Rue de la Paix, or thetidiest Llorettes could boast of one so pretty. 

I asked the abbé to walk with me; and as we passed the corridor, Ithrew my eye carelessly into the court, as if it were only my firstobservation, and said as quietly as possible, "_Mon cher abbé_, thesnow tells tales this morning. "

The abbé looked curiously down upon the foot-marks, ran his eyerapidly over the windows, turned to me, shook his head expressively, and said, as he glanced down again, "_O'etait un fort joli petitsoulier. _" (It was a very pretty little shoe. )

"Whose was it?" said I. 

"_Mon cher_, I do not know. "

I still kept up, day after day, my watch upon the window. It shortlysupplied me with an important link in the chain of observations. I sawlying within the glass, against which the veil yet hung, nothing morenor less than the same little shoe, I thoroughly believed, which hadmade the delicate foot-marks on the snow in the court. Not a prettiershoe could be seen on the Boulevards, and scarce one so small. Itwould have been very strange to see such delicate articles of dress atany hotels of the neighborhood, and stranger still to find them inthe humblest window of so dismal a court. 

There was a mystery about the matter that perplexed me. Every oneknows, who knows any thing about Paris, that that part of the cityalong the Rue de Seine, between the Rues Jacob and Bussy, and thoughvery reputable in its way, is yet no place for delicate ladies, noteven as a promenade, and much less as a residence. It is assignedover, as well by common consent as custom, to medical students, shop-men, attorneys, physicians, priests, lodging-house keepers, market-men, sub-officials, shop-women, second-class milliners, andgrisettes. 

Indeed a delicate lady--and such only, I was sure, could have left thefoot-print in the court, and be the owner of the shoe I hadseen--could hardly pass through the Rue de Seine without drawing theeyes of all the lodgers on the street. Dried up hag faces would havemet the apparition with a leer; the porters would have turned tostare, and she would have had very suspicious followers. 

I loitered about the outer court of the hotel, under pretence ofwaiting for the abbé, in hope of seeing something which would throwlight upon the mysterious occupant of the chamber. But the comers andgoers were all of the most unobtrusive and ordinary cast. I venturedto question the concierge concerning his lodgers. They were all _bonsgens_. 

"Were there any ladies?"

The little shoemaker lifted his hammer a moment while he eyed me--"Butone, monsieur; the wife of the old tobacconist at the corner. "

I asked about the windows in the little court, beside which Ipassed--did they belong to his hotel?

He did not think it. 

I prevailed on him to step with me a moment into the corridor, andpointed out to him the window which had drawn so much of my attention. I asked if he knew the hotel to which it belonged?

He did not. It might be the next, or the next after, or down thelittle alley branching out of the Rue de Seine. I asked him of thecharacter of the neighborhood. 

It was a good neighborhood, he said--a very reputable neighborhood. Hebelieved the lodgers of the quarter to be all _honnêtes gens_. 

I took occasion to loiter about the courts of the adjoining houses, frequently passing the opposite side of the way, with my eye all thetime upon the entrance gates. The lodgers seemed to be even inferiorto those who passed in at the court where the abbé resided. 

One individual alone had attracted my attention. He was a tall, paleman, in the decline of life, dressed in a sort of half-uniform; hewalked with a stooping gait, and seemed to me (perhaps it was a merefancy) as much weighed down by care as years. Several times I had seenhim going in or coming out of the court that opened two doors abovethe abbé's. He was unlike most inhabitants of the neighborhood in bothdress and air. 

I ventured to step up to the brisk little concierge in the court oneday, and ask who was the tall gentleman with the tarnished lace whohad just entered?

"It is _un Monsieur Very_, " said the concierge. 

"And poor Monsieur Very lives alone?" said I. 

"How should I know, monsieur?"

"He always walks alone, " said I. 

"It is true, " said the concierge. 

"He has children, perhaps?" said I. 

"_Très probable_, " said the concierge. 

He was little disposed to be communicative, yet I determined to makeanother trial. 

"You have very pretty lodgers, " said I. 

"Pardon, monsieur, " said he, "I do not understand you. "

"Pretty--very pretty lodgers, " said I. 

"You are facetious, monsieur, " said the concierge, smiling. 

"Not at all, " said I; "have I not seen (a sad lie) a very pretty faceat one of the windows on the back court?"

"I do not think it, monsieur. "

"And then there are no female lodgers?"

"_Pardon, monsieur_--there are several. "

Here the little concierge was interrupted by a lodger, and I could askno more. 

I still, however, kept up my scrutiny of the attic window--observedclosely every female foot that glanced about the neighboring courts, and remitted sadly my attention to the _Grammaire des Grammaires_, inthe quiet room of my demure friend the abbé. 

Sometimes, in my fancies, the object of wonder was a young maiden ofthe _noblesse_, who, for imputed family crimes, had hid herself in sohumble a quarter. Sometimes I pictured the occupant of the chamber asthe suffering daughter of some miserly parent, with trace of nobleblood--filial, yet dependent in her degradation. Sometimes I imaginedher the daughter of shame--the beloved of a doating, and too laterepentant mother--shunning the face of a world that had seduced herwith its smiles, and that now made smiles the executioners of itspunishment. 

In short, form what fancies I would, I could not but feel a mostextraordinary interest in clearing the mystery that seemed to me tohang about the little window in the court. Unconnected with thefoot-track and the slipper, the window on the court would have beennothing more than half the courts to be seen in the old quarters ofParis. Or, indeed, the delicate foot-prints, and articles of femaleluxury would have hardly caught attention, much less sustained it withso feverish curiosity, in any one of the courts opening upon the Ruede Rivoli, or Rue Lafitte. 

The concierge next door, I was persuaded, knew more of his inmatesthan he cared to say. I still, as I have said, glanced my eye, eachmorning, along the upper angles of the court, and sidled now and thenby the gate of the neighboring hotel; but the window wore its usuallook--there was the veil, and the placard, and the disjointed, rattling sash; and in the neighboring court was, sometimes, the tallgentleman picking his way carefully over the stones, and sometimes thestumpy figure of a waiting woman. 

Some ten days after my chat with the neighbor concierge, I reachedthe hotel of the abbé an hour earlier than my usual morning visit, andtook the occasion to reconnoitre the adjoining courts. The concierge, my acquaintance of the week before, was busy with a bowl of coffee anda huge roll; and, just as I had sidled up to his box for a word withhim, who should brush past in great apparent haste, but the pale, thingentleman who had before attracted my observation. 

I determined to step around at once into the open corridor of theabbé's hotel, and see if I could detect any movement--so slight evenas the opening or shutting of a door in the chamber of the narrowwindow. 

It was earlier by a half hour at the least than I had ever been in thecorridor before. The court was quiet; my eye ran to the littlewindow--at a glance I saw it had not its usual appearance. A lightcambric handkerchief, with lace border, was pinned across it from sideto side; and just at the moment that I began to scrutinize what seemedto me like a coronet stitched on the corner, a couple of delicatefingers reached over the hem, removed the fastening, first on oneside, then on the other--the handkerchief was gone. 

It was the work of an instant, and evidently done in haste; but Istill caught a glimpse of a delicate female figure--sleeve hangingloose about the arm a short way below the elbow, hair sweeping, halfcurled and half carelessly over a cheek white as her dress, and anexpression, so far as I could judge, of deep sadness. 

I shrunk back into a shadow of the corridor, and waited; but there wasno more stir at the window. The yellow placard dangled by onefastening; a bit of the veil was visible, nothing else, to tell me ofthe character of the inmate. 

I told the abbé what I had seen. 

The abbé closed his grammar, (keeping his thumb at the place, ) shookhis head slowly from side to side, smiled, lifted his finger inplayful menace, and--went on with his lesson. 

"Who can it be?" said I. 

"Indeed, I cannot tell you, _mon ami_, " said the abbé, laying down hisbook with a look of despair. 

The morning after I was again in the corridor a full half hour beforemy usual time, but the window wore its usual air. The next day, againI was an hour beforehand, and the abbé had not put off his priestrobe, in which he goes to morning mass; still there was nohandkerchief at the little window--no wavy mesh of hair--no taperarm--no shadowy form moving in the dim chamber. 

I had arranged to leave for the south in a few days, and was more thanever anxious for some explication of the mystery. A single furthermode only occurred to me; I would go to the concierge next door, andunder pretence of looking for rooms, would have him conduct me throughhis hotel. 

It had dismal corridors, and steeper stairways than even the abbé's. Iwas careless about the second and the third floors; and it was nottill we had mounted a half dozen crazy pair of stairs, that I began toscrutinize narrowly the doors, and sometimes to ask if this or thatchamber was occupied. I made my way always to the windows of the roomsshown me, in hope of seeing the little court I knew so well, and theabbé's half-open corridor, and yet in half fear, that I might, afterall, be looking from the very window about which hung so perplexingmystery. 

It was long before I caught sight of my old point of observation inthe neighboring corridor. The room was small, and was covered withsingular ancient hangings, with a concealed door, which the conciergeopened into a charming little cabinet. How many more concealed doorsthere might have been I do not know. I put my head out the window, andlooked down in search of the strange casement; it was not below. ThenI looked to one side--there was the long window with a stripedcurtain. I looked to the other side--another long window. I lookedup--there at length it was, over my left shoulder. I could see plainlythe yellow placard, and heard it flapping the casement. 

I asked the concierge if he had no rooms above. 

"_Oui, monsieur_--a single one; but it is too high for monsieur. "

"Let me see, " said I--and we mounted a miserably dim staircase. Therewere three doors; the concierge opened the nearest to the landing. 

"_La voici, monsieur. _" It was a sad little affair, and looked out byjust such a loop-hole as was the object of my curiosity, upon a courtI did not know. 

"It will never do, " said I, as I came out of the room. "But what ishere?" continued I, brushing up to the next door. 

The concierge caught me by the arm, and drew me back. Then he raisedhimself forward on tip-toe, and whispered, "_C'nt le Monsieur Very. _"

I knew from its position it must have been the little casement whichlooked upon the corridor. There was another door opposite; I brushedup to this, and was again drawn back by the concierge. 

"Who is here?" said I. 

"_La Mademoiselle Marie_, " said the concierge, and put his finger onhis lip. 

"Is she young?" said I, following the concierge down the stairway. 

"_Oui, monsieur. _"

"And pretty?"

"_Oui, monsieur. _"

"I have never seen her, " said I. 

"_Ma foi_, that is not strange, monsieur. "

"And she has been here--?"

"A month. "

"Perhaps she is rich, " said I. 

"_Mon Dieu!_" said the concierge, turning round to look at me, "andlive in such a chamber?"

"But she dresses richly, " said I. 

"_Eh bien!_ you have seen her, then!" exclaimed briskly the littleconcierge. 

By this time we were in the court again. My search had only stimulatedmy curiosity tenfold more. I half fancied the concierge began tosuspect my inquiries. Yet I determined to venture a single furtherone. It was just as I was carelessly leaving the court--"_Mais_, _lamademoiselle_, is, perhaps, the daughter of Monsieur Very, eh, monsieur?"

"_Ma foi_, I cannot tell you, monsieur, " said the littleconcierge--and he closed his door. 

I told the abbé of my search. He smiled, and shook his head. 

I described to him the person of Monsieur Very, and told him he mustkeep his eye upon him, and, if possible, clear up the strange mysteryof the window in the court. 

The abbé shook his finger doubtingly, yet gave me a half promise. 

Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances eachmorning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit ofthe veil to be seen--the little shoe was gone. My last evening Ipassed with the abbé, and came away late. I stopped five minutes onthe corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright, and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court wasdark--all dark. 

PART II. 

Poor Clerie! but I have told his story, [A] so I will not tell itagain. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbé, when Ifirst came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it willnot, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbé in his priest-robes, and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely toask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic. Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window ofthe court--alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone, the veil was gone--there was nothing but a flimsy web which a boldspider had stretched across one of the comers. I felt sure that thelast six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well asthe house of Clerie. 

I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of theneighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had gotfairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away--I wasafraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I hadalready heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge ofsadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybodyknows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and thereare times, too--Heaven knows!--when a saddened soul shrinks, fearfulas a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone!

I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walkedhome--one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; andanother while the current of my thought would disengage itself fromthese hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, andsad--pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate. 

I knew the abbé would tell me all next day--and so he did. 

We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snugrestaurant up-stairs, near the Theatre Français. We look a littlecabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a bottle of Chambertin. 

[Footnote A: Fresh Gleanings, pp. 132, 133. ]

The soup was gone, a nice dish of _filet de veau_, _aux epinards_, wasbefore us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before Iventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very. 

"_Ah, mon cher, _" said the abbé--at the same time laying down hisfork--"_il est mort!_"

"And mademoiselle--"

"_Attendez_, " said the abbé, "and you shall hear it all. "

The abbé resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, and he commenced:

"You will remember, _mon cher_, having described to me the person ofthe tall pale gentleman who was our neighbor. The description was avery good one, for I recognized him the moment I saw him. 

"It was a week or more after you had left for the south, and I hadhalf forgotten--excuse me, _mon ami_--the curiosity you had felt inthe little window in the court; I happened to be a half hour laterthan usual in returning from mass, and as I passed the hotel at thecorner, I saw coming out a tall gentleman, in a cloak trimmed with alittle tawny lace, and with an air so different from that of mostlodgers in the neighborhood, that I was sure it must be MonsieurVery. "

"The very same, " said I. 

"Indeed, " continued the abbé, "I was so struck with hisappearance--added to your interest in him--(here the abbé bowed andsipped his wine) that I determined to follow him a short way down thestreet. He kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing under thecolonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont de Fer, continued alongthe quay as far as the gates of the garden--into the Rue de Rivoli, and though I thought he would have stopped at some of the _cafés_ inthe neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily on, nor did I give uppursuit until he had taken his place in one of the omnibuses whichpass the head of the Rue de la Paix. 

"A week after, happening to see him, as I came home from Martin's, under the Odeon, I followed him again: I took a place in the sameomnibus at the head of the Rue de la Paix. Opposite the Rue de Lancryhe stopped. I stopped a short way above, and stepping back, soon foundthe poor gentleman picking his feeble paces along the dirty sideway. 

"You remember, _mon cher_, wandering with me in the Rue de Lancry; youremember that it is crooked and long. The poor gentleman found it so;for before he had reached the end he leaned against the wall, apparently overcome with fatigue. I offered him assistance; at firsthe declined; he told me he was going only to the Hôpital St. Louis, which was now near by. I told him I was going the same way, upon whichhe took my arm, and we walked together to the gates. The poorgentleman seemed unable or unwilling to talk with me, and at the gateshe merely pulled a slip of paper from his pocket to show theconcierge, and passed in. I attended him as far as the middle hall inthe court, when he kindly thanked me, and turned into one of the malewards. I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my companion halfway down the hall, at the bed-side of a very feeble-looking patient ofperhaps seven or eight-and-twenty. 

"There seemed a degree of familiarity between them, more than wouldbelong to patient and physician. I noticed too that the attendantstreated the old gentleman with marked respect; this was, I fancy, however, owing to the old gentleman's air, for not one of them couldtell me who he was. 

"I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could bethe occupant of your little chamber. He seemed to me to have seenbetter days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so longbefore I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think shehad no existence, save in your lively imagination. "

Here the abbé sipped his wine. 

"You saw her at length, then?" said I. 

"_Attendez. _ One evening I caught a glimpse of the tall gentlemangoing into the court of his hotel, with a lady closely muffled inblack upon his arm. "

"And she had a pretty foot?"

"Ah, _mon ami_, it was too dark to see. "

"And did you see her again?"

"_Attendez. _ (The abbé sipped his wine. ) For a month I saw neithermonsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I evenwent up to St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole matter hadnearly dropped from my mind, when one night--it was late, and verydark--the little bell at the wicket rung, and presently there was aloud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man hesaid was dying, and a priest was wanted. 

"I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how manystairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard atthe window--"

I filled the abbé's glass and my own. 

"Poor Monsieur Very, " continued the abbé, "was on the couch before me, dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a thirdperson present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place. "

The abbé saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine. 

"This is very good wine, monsieur, " said the abbé. 

"Was she pretty?" said I. 

"Beautiful, " said the abbé, earnestly. 

I filled the abbé's glass. The garçon had taken away the _fricandeau_, and served us with _poulet roti_. 

"Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I. 

"She was beautiful, " said the abbé, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad--ah, _mon ami_--_ah, pauvre_--_pauvre fille!_"

The abbé had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face. 

"And so poor Very died?" said I. 

"It was a sad sight, " said the abbé. 

"And he confessed to you?"

"I was too late, _mon ami_; he murmured a word or two in my ear Icould not understand. He confessed to God. "

"And mademoiselle--"

"She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her handsclasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face;now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks--but she did not know it. 

"Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the headof the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers. 

"'Marie, ' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone--soon. '

"The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand ofthe old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go. 

"'Marie, ' continued he, very feebly, 'you will want a friend. '

"Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. She could saynothing. 

"'I have seen Remy, ' continued the old man, still addressing the girl, who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. 'He hassuffered like us; he has been ill, too--very ill; you may trust himnow, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will youtrust him?'

"'Dear father, I will do what you wish, ' said the girl, weeping. 

"'Thank you, Marie, ' said the old man, and he tried to carry the whitehand to his lips, but he could not. 'And now, Marie--the littlelocket?'

"Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small goldlocket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the oldman raised it toward his face. 

"'A little more light, dear Marie, ' said he. 

"Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard. 

"'A little more--light, Marie, ' said the old man, feebly. He wasgetting lower and lower. 

"Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled alittle handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dustfrom the glass. 

"'Light, Marie; dear Marie--more light!' He said it scarce above hisbreath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She sawhow it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man. 

"'Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over it. Her sobs rousedthe old man for a moment. 

"'Marie, ' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till itrested on her head, 'Marie--God bless you!'

"I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of theold man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till herknees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested onthe couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay uponher white, smooth neck. 

"Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes ofthe old man--they must have looked strangely to her. 

"'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at thefoot of the couch, and it ticked very--very loud. 

"The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and anotherhurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how itmust be; ah, _mon ami_, if you had heard her cry, '_Mon Dieu! il estmort!_--_il est mort!_'"

For a moment the abbé could not go on. 

"She was right, " continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!"

The garçon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two ofoysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbé had not touched hiswine--nor had I. 

"He was buried, " resumed the abbé, "just within the gates of Pere laChaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress isgrowing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed simply, '_à mon pere_, 1845. '

"I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn. "

"You saw mademoiselle?"

"Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with athick black veil--not so thick, though, but I could see a whitehandkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figuretremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commencedthrowing down the earth upon the coffin. 

"_Oui_, _mon ami_, I saw her walk away--not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I hadseen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered acarriage together, and drove away. "

"It was Remy, I suppose?" said I. 

"I do not know, " said the abbé. 

"And when did you see her again?"

"Not for months, " said the abbé; and he sipped his wine. 

"Shall I go on, _mon cher_?--it is a sad story. "

I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbé's glass, and took a nut ortwo from the dish before us. 

"I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and madeinquiries for a Monsieur Remy--no such name had been entered within ayear. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court;it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the graveof the old man--it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-treehad been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought whomust have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful_Marie_ again. 

"You remember, _mon ami_, the pretty little houses along the Rue deParis, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clearmarble door-steps?"

"_Très bien, mon cher abbé. _"

"It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at thewindow of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I wentin, _mon ami_. I made myself known as the attendant on her father'sdeath. She took my hand at this--ah, the soft white hand. "

The abbé sipped his wine. 

"She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuriesaround her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, andfastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reachedbut a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix. 

"I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled herthanks. 

"I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, ofwhom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears. 

"I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend. 

"'_Mon Dieu!_' said she, looking at me earnestly, '_il est_--_il etaitmon mari!_'

"She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?"

"'_Ah, non, non, monsieur_--worse--_Mon Dieu! quel mariage!_' and sheburied her face in her hands. 

"What could I do, _mon cher_? The _friend_ had betrayed her. They toldme as much at Passy. "

Again the abbé stopped. 

"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visithis grave again. She took the rose from her bosom--it was from hisgrave--and kissed it, and then--crushed it in her hand--'Oh, God!what should I do now with flowers?' said she. 

"I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave--but not topick roses. 

"_She is there now_, " said the abbé. 

There was a long pause. The abbé did not want to speak--nor did I. 

At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy. 

"You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens, " said the abbé. "Ah, _mon ami_, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on himagain; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles;but there is a time coming--it is coming, _mon cher_, when he will goaway--where God judgeth, and not man. "

Our dinner was ended. The abbé and myself took a _voiture_ to go toPere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of thecarriage-track, were two tablets, side by side--one was older than theother. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply--"Marie, 1846. " There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rootedabout the smaller grave--but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of theold man. I have it now. 

Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in theRue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at thetop. 

A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirtyprinted curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather haveseen it empty. 

I half wished I had never seen _Le Petit Soulier_. 

EARLY ENGLISH POETS. 

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 

 MILTON. Learned and illustrious of all Poets thou, Whose Titan intellect sublimely boreThe weight of years unbent; thou, on whose brow Flourish'd the blossom of all human lore--How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision, To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim;And we behold in visitings Elysian, Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim;But, through thy "Paradise Lost, " and "Regained, " We might, enchanted, wander evermore. Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned King of our hearts; and, till upon the shoreOf the Eternal dies the voice of Time, Thy name shall mightiest stand--pure, brilliant, and sublime. 

 DRYDEN. Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine, (Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore, ) The daintie Poesie of days of yore--The choice old English rhyme--and over thine, Oh! "glorious John, " delightedly I pore--Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony, Deep in the soil of our humanity It taketh root, until the goodly treeOf Poesy puts forth green branch and bough, With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloomOf one embowered haunt I see thee now, Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom. That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago, Yet its creations with immortal life still glow. 

 ADDISON. Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen, "In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn, " did shed, A noontide glory over Milton's head--He, "Prince of Poets"--thou, the prince of men-- Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead. How dost thou charm for us the touching story Of the lost children in the gloomy wood;Haunting dim memory with the early glory, That in youth's golden years our hearts imbued. From the fine world of olden Poetry, Life-like and fresh, thou bringest forth again The gallant heroes of an earlier reign, And blend them in our minds with thoughts of thee, Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory. 

DISSOLVING VIEWS. 

OR, A BELLE IN A NEW LIGHT. 

BY F. E. F. , AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD, " "TELLING SECRETS, " ETC. 

CHAPTER I. 

"You had better leave Harry alone about that girl, " said Tom Leveredgeto his sisters, who were talking very fast, and sometimes bothtogether, in the heat and excitement of the subject under discussion. "You only make Harry angry, and you do no good. Take my advice, andsay no more to him about her. "

"And let him engage himself without one word of remonstrance, "exclaimed Miss Leveredge, despairingly. 

"You don't know that he means to engage himself, " argued Tom; "and ifhe does, opposition wont prevent him. On the contrary, it may settle apassing fancy into a serious feeling; and if he does not mean it now, you are enough to put it into his head, with all the talk you makeabout it. "

"_She'll_ put it into his head, " ejaculated Miss Leveredge, scornfully. "Leave her alone for that. She'll get him--I know shewill, " she continued, almost in tears at the thought. "It's too bad!"

"What do you think about it, Tom?" inquired Mrs. Castleton, earnestly. "Do you think with Emma, that it will end in his having her?"

"I should not be surprised, " replied Tom, coolly. 

"Then you think he is in love with her?" continued his sister, mournfully. 

"There's no telling, " replied Tom. "He's a good deal with her; and ifhe is thwarted at home, and flattered by her, I think it very possiblehe may fancy himself so, whether he is or not. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, "that would be melancholy, indeed--tobe taken in without even being attached to her!"

"Don't be in such a hurry, " said Tom. "I don't know that he is not inlove with her, or that he is going to be taken in; but I do say, thatEmma's course is very injudicious. "

"What is that?" inquired Mrs. Castleton. 

"Oh, abusing the girl so--saying she is vulgar, and--"

"I am sure I did not say any thing that is not true, " said Emma, withsome spirit. |

"Perhaps not, " replied Tom; "but it is not always wise to be forcingthe truth upon people at all times, and in all tempers. "

"Where on earth did Harry become acquainted with her?" asked Mrs. Castleton. 

"That's more than I can tell you, " replied Tom. "He told me thatJewiston introduced him. "

"I never could bear that Jewiston, " remarked Miss Leveredge; "I alwaysthought him very under-bred and vulgar. Why will Harry have any thingto do with him?"

"Who--Jewiston? He's a clever fellow enough, " said Tom. 

"Oh, Tom! how can you say so!"

"So he is, " persisted the young man. "He's not very refined orelegant, I grant you--but still a very good fellow. "

"And so you think, Tom, " continued Mrs. Castleton, still intent on themain theme, "that in all probability Miss Dawson will be oursister-in-law?"

Emma shivered. 

"I don't think it probable, but very possible, " replied the young man, "particularly under the present system of family politics. "

"And it would be very bad. " pursued Mrs. Castleton, inquiringly. 

"Oh, dreadful!" ejaculated Emma. 

"There's nothing very _dreadful_ about it, " remonstrated Tom; "itwould not be pleasant, certainly--but that's all. There's no use inmaking the matter worse than it is. "

Emma looked as if that were impossible, but said nothing, while Mrs. Castleton continued with--

"What kind of a set is she in--and what are the family?"

"Very low, vulgar people, " said Emma. 

"Now, Emma, there again you are exaggerating, " rejoined Tom. "They are_not_ a low set--vulgar, I admit. "

"The same thing, " persisted Emma. 

"It's not the same thing, Emma, " said the young man, decidedly. "Theyare very far from being _low_ people. Her father is a highlyrespectable man, and, indeed, so are all the family--not fashionable, I grant you. "

"Fashionable!" ejaculated Emma, with a smile full of scornful meaning. 

"But I admit, " continued Tom, "that it is not a connection that wouldaltogether suit us. I should be as sorry, perhaps, as any of you tosee the thing take place. "

"And what is the girl in herself, " pursued Mrs. Castleton. 

"A vulgar, forward, ugly thing, " said Emma, speaking quickly, as ifshe could not help herself--the words must out, let Tom say what hewould. 

Tom said nothing, however. 

"Is she?" said Mrs. Castleton, looking very much distressed, andturning to her brother. 

"Emma will have it that she is, " he replied. 

"Now, Tom, you know she is, " expostulated Emma. 

"No, Emma, " said Tom, "if you will permit me, I know no such thing. "

"You surely don't admire her, too, " said Emma, with a look of mingledalarm and disgust. 

"No, " said Tom, "she is as you say, vulgar, and somewhat forward--butnot ugly. On the contrary, she is decidedly handsome. "

"Handsome!" repeated Miss Leveredge. "Do you call her handsome, withall those hanging curls, and that _feronière_, and her hat on the veryback of her head; with her short petticoats and big feet--and suchbright colors, and quantity of tawdry jewelry as she wears, too. "

"You women never can separate a girl from her dress, " said Tom, laughing. "Miss Dawson dresses execrably, I grant you; but give herone half of the advantages of the girls that you see around you insociety, and she would be not only pretty, but beautiful. "

"Then she may be improved, " said Mrs. Castleton, hopefully. 

"Not much of that, " said Tom. "She is very well satisfied withherself, I imagine. "

"Oh, it's evident she's a public belle and beauty in her own set, "said Emma. "She's full of airs and graces. "

Mrs. Castleton sighed. 

"It's a bad business, I am afraid, " she said, mournfully. 

"No, " said Tom, stoutly, "it's not pleasant, and that's all. The girlmay make a very good wife, though she does dress badly. She looksamiable, and I dare say has sense enough. "

"It's not her dress only, " persisted Emma, "but her manners are sobad. "

"Well, many a flirty girl has settled into a very respectable marriedwoman, " continued Tom. 

"Where have you seen her, Emma?" asked Mrs. Castleton. 

"Tom pointed her out to me one night at the theatre; and I have sinceseen her in the street frequently. "

"Then you do not know her at all?" continued Mrs. Castleton, with somesurprise in her tone. "How, then, do you know any thing about hermanners, Emma?"

"It's not necessary to know her to know what her manners are, " repliedEmma. "One glance across the theatre is enough for that. She had twoor three beaux with her--indeed, I believe she was there only withthem--"

"Her mother was with her, Emma, " interposed Tom, decidedly. 

"Well, " continued Emma, a little provoked at being set right, "sheought to have made her behave herself, then. "

"But how did she behave, Emma?" pursued Mrs. Castleton, who had beenabsent from the city during the rise and progress of this flirtation, and was now anxious for as much information as could be obtained onthe subject. 

"Oh, laughing, and flirting, and shaking her long curls back, andlooking up to their faces--perfectly disgusting!"

Mrs. Castleton looked at her brother in the hopes of some amendmenthere on his part; but he only smiled, and shook his head, and said, "Pretty much so, Emma. "

"And then, dressed--oh, you never saw a girl so bedizzened!"

"Strange!" said Mrs. Castleton. "that Harry should admire such a girl. He is generally rather critical--hates particularly to see you at allover-dressed, Emma. He never would admire Fanny Lewis, you know, because she had something of that manner. I wonder he should admirethis girl. "

"Oh, it all depends very much upon the _clique_ in which a man sees agirl how she strikes him, " said Tom. "Miss Dawson's manners are verymuch those of the girls around her, quite as good, if not better; thenshe is really handsome--moreover, very much admired, the belle of theset; and Harry's vanity is rather flattered, I suppose, by thepreference she shows him. "

"You think, then, she likes him?" said Mrs. Castleton. 

"I know nothing more about it than you do, " replied Tom. "I supposeshe must, for she certainly could marry richer men than Harry if shewanted to. She has the merit, at least, of disinterestedness. "

"Harry would be a great match for her, " said Emma, indignantly--"andshe knows it. She might get more money, perhaps, but think of thedifference of position. "

"Yes, I suppose that has something to do with it, " replied Tom. "Youwomen all think so much of such things. "

"Strange!" repeated Mrs. Castleton, "I don't know how Harry can fancysuch a girl. "

"Don't you know all objects vary according to the light they are in, "said Tom. "If Harry saw Miss Dawson among young ladies of a differentstyle and stamp, the changes of the 'dissolving views' would not begreater. The present picture would fade away, and a new, and in allprobability a very different one, would take its place. "

"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, suddenly, and clappingher hands joyfully. "I'll call and ask her to my party for the bride. "

Emma looked at her for a moment aghast, as if she thought she hadsuddenly gone crazy. 

"What do you mean, Laura?" she exclaimed. 

"Why, to follow out Tom's idea, " she said. "It's excellent! I'm goingto give Mrs. Flemming a party. I'll make it very select, and notlarge; invite all the prettiest and most elegant girls, and then playamiable to Harry, by telling him I'll call upon his Miss Dawson andinvite her. "

Emma looked very dubious, and said, "I don't like our countenancing the thing in this way. "

"You need have nothing to do with it, " returned her sister. "As itseems you and Harry have had words about it, you had better not; but_I_'ll call--I'll have her. And it shall be such an elegant, selectlittle affair that it will show her off to charming advantage, " shecontinued, with much animation, delighted with her own cleverness inthe scheme. "He can't help but be ashamed of her. Don't you think so, Tom?"

The young man laughed. 

"Now, Tom, " said she, a little disappointed, "don't you think so?"

"There's a good chance of it, certainly, " he replied. "You can but tryit. "

"Then why do you laugh, " she continued, still dissatisfied. 

"Only to see what spiteful creatures you women are, " he continued, smiling. "To see the pains you'll take to put down a girl you don'thappen to fancy. "

"Surely, you yourself, Tom, " commenced Mrs. Castleton, seriously, and"I am sure, Tom, " chimed in Emma, in the same breath, "you have alwayssaid--" and then they both poured forth such a torrent of reminiscencesand good reasons for wishing to prevent the match, that he was glad tocry for mercy, and ended by saying seriously, "I am sure I hope you may succeed. "

CHAPTER II. 

"Harry, " said Mrs. Castleton, in her prettiest and most winningmanner, "I am going to call on your friend, Miss Dawson, and inviteher for Thursday evening. "

Harry looked up very much astonished, hardly knowing whether to bepleased or not, and said, "What put that in your head?"

"I want to know her, " continued Mrs. Castleton. "They tell me youadmire her, Harry; and if she is to be my future sister, as peoplesay--"

"People say a great deal more than they know, " said Harry, hastily. 

"Well, " rejoined his sister, playfully, "be that as it may, Harry, Ishould like to see the young lady; and beside, I want as many prettygirls as I can get, they always make a party brilliant--and you sayshe is pretty, don't you, Harry?"

"Beautiful, " he replied, with an earnestness that startled Mrs. Castleton. "You'll have no prettier girl here, I promise you that, Laura, " he added, presently, more quietly. "But what will Emma say, "he continued, bitterly. "She'll never give her consent, depend uponit, to your calling. "

"It's not necessary that she should, " said Mrs. Castleton, goodhumoredly; "so perhaps I had better not ask her. "

"Emma gives herself airs, " continued Harry, angrily. "She thinks thatall the world are just confined to her one little _clique_; thatthere's neither beauty, nor sense, nor any thing else out of herparticular set. Now I can tell her that there's more beauty amongthose who don't give themselves half the airs, and who she looks downupon, than there is to be found among her 'fashionables. ' But Emma isperfectly ridiculous with her 'exclusive' nonsense, " he continued, with much feeling, evidently showing how deeply he resented hissister's reflections upon the style and stamp of his presentadmiration, Miss Dawson. 

"Oh, " said Mrs. Castleton, soothingly, "it's a mistake all very younggirls make, Harry. They know nothing out of one circle. Of course, they disparage all others. "

But Harry was not to be quieted so easily. He was not satisfied untilhe had poured forth all his complaints against Emma; and Mrs. Castleton found it best not to take her part, but trust to the resultof her experiment of the next week with putting him in good humor withher again. 

"Will you call with me?" she continued, presently. "I have ordered thecarriage at one. "

He looked pleased, and said he would. But after a little while heseemed to grow nervous and fidgetty--walked about the room--asked agood many questions, without seeming to attend much to the answers, and at last said, hurriedly, "Well, Laura, it's rather late, and I have an engagement down town--doyou care about my calling with you? You know it's only necessary foryou to leave your card. You need not go in even, if you don't careabout it. "

"Oh, certainly, " she replied. "No, don't wait for me. "

And he took his hat and darted off like light, as if he had made anescape from he hardly knew what. 

Mrs. Castleton could not but laugh as she heard him shut thehall-door, almost before she was aware he had left the room, wellpleased with this indication of susceptibility on his part, which shetook as a good omen of the future, fully believing that "future eventscast their shadows before. " "If Harry were nervous already, what wouldhe be on Thursday evening. "

The call was made. Miss Dawson was out. A card was left, with aninvitation, which, in due time, was accepted. 

"Are you going to ask the Hazletons, " inquired Emma. 

"No, " said Mrs. Castleton; "I don't want to have too large a party. Iwant just enough to fill my rooms prettily, so that you can seeeverybody, and how they are dressed--just one of those small, select, pretty parties, where everybody is noticed. I have hardly asked aperson--I don't know one--who is not in some way distinguished foreither dress, manner, air, or beauty. I have taken pains to cull themost choice of my acquaintance. The rooms will be beautifullylighted--and I expect it to be a brilliant affair. "

"If it were not for that Miss Dawson to spoil all, " said Emma, dejectedly--for she had never liked the scheme, though she did notoppose it. "I declare, Laura, I wonder at your moral courage in havingher. I don't think _I_ could introduce her among such a set, even tobe sure of breaking it off. You will be terribly ashamed of her. Youdon't know, I think, what you have undertaken. "

Mrs. Castleton could not but laugh at the earnestness, not to saysolemnity, of Emma's manner. 

"Not I, Emma--why should I be ashamed of her. If she were Harry'swife, or if even he were engaged to her, the case would bedifferent--I should blush for her then, if she is vulgar. But merelyas a guest, how can her dress or manners affect _me_. My position isnot to be altered by my happening to visit a girl who dresses vilely, and flirts _à discretion_. "

But still Emma looked very dubious, and only said, "Well, don'tintroduce me. "

"Don't be alarmed, " replied her sister. "I don't mean to. Come, come, Emma, " she continued, laughing, "I see you are nervous about it, but Ithink you may trust me for carrying it off well, " to which her sisterreplied, "Well, Laura, if any one _can_ get out of such a scrape gracefully, you will. "

Mrs. Castleton laughed, and the subject dropped. 

What Emma had said was true. There was an airy grace, a high-bred easeabout Mrs. Castlelon, that could carry her through any thing she choseto undertake. 

Thursday evening arrived at last. Mrs. Castleton's rooms were lightedto perfection, and she herself dressed with exquisite taste, lookingthe fitting priestess of the elegant shrine over which she presided. Emma, with her brothers, came early--and one glance satisfied Mrs. Castleton. The simplicity and elegance of Emma's _toilette_ were notto be out-done even by her own. Tom looked at them both with greatpride; and, certainly, two prettier or more elegant specimens ofhumanity are not often to be met with. 

He made some playful observation to his sister, expressive of hisadmiration of her taste, and looking about, said, "Your rooms are very well lighted. There's nothing like wax, afterall. "

"They are too hot, " said Harry, pettishly. 

"Bless you, man, " replied Tom, "how can you say so. I am downrightchilly; but as there is to be dancing, it is better it should be so. "

"If you find this room warm, Harry, " said Mrs. Castleton, "you hadbetter go in the dancing-room--there is not a spark of fire there. "

Harry walked off, and Emma said, "I don't know what is the matter with him--he's so cross. He has beenso irritable all day that I have hardly dared to speak to him. "

Tom only laughed. 

Mrs. Castleton gave him a quick look of intelligence, but before shehad time to speak, she was called upon to receive her guests, whobegan to come. 

At every fresh arrival Harry's face was to be seen peeping inanxiously from the dancing-room, and it wore something of a look ofrelief as he turned off each time to resume his restless wanderings inthe still empty apartment. 

Miss Dawson, meaning to be very fashionable, came late. The bride forwhom the party was ostensibly given had arrived; and Mrs. Castletonwas about giving orders to have the dancing-room thrown open, and justat the pause that frequently precedes such a movement in a smallparty, the door was thrown open, and Miss Dawson entered, leaning onthe arm of a gentleman whom she introduced as Mr. Hardwicks. Now thisMr. Hardwicks was something more than Mrs. Castleton had bargainedfor; and Harry hastened forward with a look of some embarrassment andvexation as he perceived the mistake his fair friend had made intaking such a liberty with his high-bred sister. Miss Dawson had oftentaken _him_ to parties with her, and somehow it had not struck himthen as strange. Perhaps it was because he saw it was the style amongthose around him. But these were not the "customs of Branksome Hall;"and Harry was evidently annoyed. Moreover, this Mr. Hardwicks was aforward, under-bred looking individual, with a quantity of blackwhisker, and brass buttons to his claret-colored coat, altogether avery different looking person from the black-coated, gentlemanly-lookingset that Mrs. Castleton had invited. She received him with a gracefulbut distant bow, somewhat annoyed, it is true; but as she neverallowed trifles to disturb her, she turned calmly away, and never gavehim a second thought during the evening. 

Miss Dawson she received with _empressement_. She was dressed to herheart's delight, with a profusion of mock pearl and tinsel; her hairin a shower of long curls in front, with any quantity of bows andbraids behind, and a wreath!--that required all Mrs. Castleton'sself-possession to look at without laughing. Her entrance excited nolittle sensation--for she was a striking-looking girl, being tall, andfull formed, with a very brilliant complexion. Simply and quietlydressed, and she would have been decidedly handsome; but as it was, she was intensely _showy_ and vulgar. 

"Harry, the music is just beginning; you will find a place for MissDawson in the dancing-room, " and so, whether he would or no, he had toask her to dance. Probably he would have done so if his sister had lethim alone; but as it was, he felt as if he _had_ to. 

She danced very badly. Harry had not been aware of it before; but shejumped up and down--and if the truth must be told, with an air andspirit of enjoyment not just then the fashionable style. 

"How in earnest your fair friend dances, " said a young man, with asmile, to Harry, as they passed in the dance. 

Harry colored. 

"Who on earth have you there, Harry?" asked another, with rather aquizzical look. "Introduce me, wont you?" But Harry affected not tohear the request. 

"Who is the young lady your brother is dancing with, Mrs. Castleton?"he heard asked several times; to which his sister answered in hersweetest and most winning manner, "Miss Dawson--a friend of Harry's;"and to some of her brother's particular friends, he heard her say, "Oh, that's Harry's _belle_. Don't you know Miss Dawson--let meintroduce you. "

Harry felt quite provoked, he did not know why, at hearing his sistercouple _him_ always with Miss Dawson; and if he thought the room hotat the beginning of the dance, he did not feel it any cooler before itwas over. 

Mrs. Castleton introduced a gentleman just as the dance finished, whoasked her for the next, when Harry said quickly, "You are fatigued, are you not? Perhaps you had better go with me andget an ice. "

"Do you go and bring Miss Dawson one, " said his sister. "I hope, " shecontinued, "you are not fatigued already?"

"Oh, no, " replied the young lady, with an animation and energy thatproclaimed she had a dancing power within not to be readily exhausted. "Oh, no, indeed; I could dance all night. "

"I am glad to hear it, " said Mrs. Castleton, graciously, as if shefelt her dancing a personal compliment. And before the dance was overshe had introduced half a dozen young men to her. 

Feeling herself a decided belle, Miss Dawson was in high spirits (thattrying test to an unrefined woman. ) She considered Mrs. Castleton'svisit and invitation as a marked compliment, (as she had every rightto do, ) and her attentions now, and the admiration she received, excited her to even more than her ordinary animation, which wasalways, to say the least of it, sufficient. She laughed, and shetalked, and shook her long curls about, and flirted in a style thatmade the ladies look, and the gentlemen smile. Moreover, Mr. Hardwicks, who knew no one else, (for Mrs. Castleton had no idea offorcing _him_ on any of her friends, ) never left her side; and theeasy manner in which he spoke to her, and took her fan from her handwhile she was talking, and even touched her sleeve to call herattention when her head was turned away, all of which she seemed tothink quite natural, made Harry color, and bite his lip more than oncewith mortification and vexation. 

"You are not going to waltz?" he said, justly distrusting the waltzingof a lady who danced so. 

"Yes, " she said, "with Mr. Hardwicks;" and in a moment they werewhirling round in a style quite peculiar, and altogether new to theaccomplished waltzers then and there assembled. 

People looked, and some smiled--and then couple after couple paused inthe dance to gaze on the strangers who had just taken the floor--andsoon they had it all to themselves, and on they whirled like mad ones. Harry could not stand it--he left the room. 

Presently some of his young friends followed him, who seemedexcessively amused, and one of them exclaimed, "Harry, where on earth did you pick up those extraordinary waltzers. Mrs. Castleton tells me they are friends of yours?"

Harry muttered something, and said, "Hardwicks should not ask any woman to waltz. He did not know how; noman should, if he could not waltz himself. "

"Are you dancing, Francis?" asked another, of a fashionable lookingyoung man standing near. 

"No, " he replied, languidly, "I am exhausted. I danced with Harry'sfair friend the last dance, and it requires no small degree ofphysical power to keep pace with her efforts. "

Harry was excessively annoyed. He heartily wished he had never seenher; and was quite angry with Mrs. Castleton for having invited her. And just then, irritated and cross as he was, Mrs. Castleton met himwith, "Harry, Miss Dawson says you have carried off her bouquet. "

"I have not got her bouquet, " he answered, angrily. 

"Well, go and make your own apology, " and before he had time to knowwhat she was about, she had her arm in his, and had taken him up toMiss Dawson, saying, "Here is the culprit, Miss Dawson--but he pleads not guilty;"whereupon the young lady tapped him with her fan, and declared he wasa "sad fellow, " and shook her curls back, and looked up in his face, and flirted, as she thought, bewitchingly, while he with pleasurecould have boxed her ears. 

"Your carriage is at the door, " Mrs. Castlelon heard him say soonafter. 

"Why, Harry!" exclaimed his sister, looking almost shocked at hisevident desire to hurry away her guest. "You surely don't think ofgoing yet. Miss Dawson?" said she, in her most persuasive manner. "Youwill dance this polka. "

A polka! Harry was in despair. He would have preferred dancing on hotploughshares himself. 

"The scheme works to admiration, " said Mrs. Castleton to Emma, as theymet for a moment in the crowd. 

"But it has spoiled your party, " replied the other. 

"Not at all, " she answered, laughing, "what it has withdrawn inelegance, it has made up in spirit. The joke seems to takewonderfully. "

But Emma did not like such "jokes. " Mrs. Castleton's _hauteur_ was ofa more flexible kind. To spoil a match she was willing to spoil herparty. 

"Was I right?" she said to Tom, toward the close of the evening. 

He nodded and laughed, and said, "I congratulate you. "

Harry had in vain attempted to persuade Miss Dawson that she washeated and tired, and had better not polka; but the young lady thoughthim over-careful, and chose to dance. 

"A willful thing!" muttered Harry, as he turned off. "Trifles show thetemper--preserve me from an unamiable woman. "

Now Miss Dawson was not unamiable, but Harry was cross. If he wereashamed of her, she was hardly to be expected to know that. At anyrate he walked off and left her to take care of herself. Mr. Hardwickstook her home as he had brought her--and Harry hardly looked at heragain. 

He was thoroughly out of humor. Mrs. Castleton had discretion enoughnot to follow up her victory. She saw she was successful, and so leftthings to their own course. 

Never was a "dissolving view" more perfect. Harry had really imaginedMiss Dawson not only very beautiful, but thought she would grace anydrawing-room in Europe. He now saw her hoydenish, flirty, andungraceful, with beauty of a very unrefined style--in fact, adifferent person. Such is the power of contrast, and the effect of a"new light. "

The spell was broken--for when a lover is mortified, ashamed of hischoice, the danger is over. 

Fortunately, his honor was no deeper pledged than his heart. MissDawson had not flirted more with him than with two or three others;and though she would have preferred him, one of the others would do. 

 * * * * *

"What did Harry say of my party last night?" asked Mrs. Castleton ofher sister. 

"He merely said 'it was a great bore, this going out, ' and seemedquite cross, and took his light and walked off to his roomimmediately; and, in fact, it seemed such a delicate point with him, that I did not dare to make any allusion to it this morning. "

"Poor fellow! I don't wonder, " said Mrs. Castleton, laughing. "How shedid look beside the Claverings and Lesters. "

"Like a peony among moss rose-buds, " said Emma. 

 * * * * *

"Laura, " said Harry, a few days after, "I am going to New Orleans forthe rest of the winter. "

"Are you?" she said, in surprise. 

"Yes. My father is anxious about that business of his, and I am goingfor him. "

"I thought you had declined, and that he was going to send Tom, " shesaid. 

"I've changed my mind, " he replied. "In fact it is very dull here, andas Tom don't want to go, I think I shall like the trip. "

"I've no doubt you will find it very pleasant, " she said, cheerfully, amused at his proposing himself the very thing they had all been soanxious to have him do, and which he had negatived so decidedly someweeks back. 

 * * * * *

"Ah, Tom, " said Mrs. Castleton, laughing, "that was a bright idea ofyours. There's nothing like a new light for bringing out new colors. Ithink that party of mine finished Miss Dawson. "

"You need not crow too much, Laura, " replied Tom, "for, in allprobability, if you had left Harry alone in the beginning, the partynever would have been required. You women never learn not to thwartand oppose a man until it is too late. _Then_, you'll move heaven andearth to undo your own work. If you would only govern that 'unrulymember' in the beginning, you would have required no 'dissolvingviews, in the end. "

THE VOICE OF THE FIRE. 

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. 

They sat by the hearth-stone, broad and bright, Whose burning brands threw a cheerful lightOn the frosty calm of the winter's night. 

Her radiant features wore the gleamWhich childhood learns from an angel-dream, And her bright hair stirred in the flickering beam. 

Those tresses soft to his lips were pressed, Her head was leaned on his happy breast, And the throb of the bosom his soul expressed;

And ever a gentle murmur cameFrom the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame, Like the faltering thrill of a worshiped name. 

He kissed her on the warm, white brow, And told her in fonder words, the vowHe whispered under the moonlit bough;

And o'er them a steady radiance cameFrom the shining heart of the mounting flame, Like a love that burns through life the same. 

The maiden smiled through her joy-dimmed eyes, As he led her spirit to sunnier skies, Whose cloudless light on the future lies--

And a moment paused the laughing flame, And it listened awhile, and then there cameA cheery burst from its sparkling frame. 

He visioned a home by pure love blest, Clasping their souls in a calmer rest, Like woodland birds in their leafy nest. 

There slept, foreshadowed, the bliss to be, When a tenderer life that home should see, In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee. 

And the flame went on with its flickering song, And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long, Who sat in its radiance, red and strong. 

Then broke and fell a glimmering brandTo the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned, And its last gleam leaped like an infant's hand. 

A sudden dread to the maiden stole, For the gloom of a sorrow seemed to rollO'er the sunny landscape within her soul. 

But, hovering over its smouldering bed, Its ruddy pinions the flame outspread, And again through the chamber its glory shed;

And ever its chorus seemed to beThe mingled voices of household glee, Like a gush of winds in a mountain tree. 

The night went on in its silent flow, While through the waving and wreathèd glowThey watched the years of the Future go. 

Their happy spirits learned the chimeOf its laughing voice and murmured rhyme--A joyous music for aftertime. 

They felt a flame as glorious start, Where, side by side, they dwelt apart, In the quiet homestead of the heart. 

MARGINALIA. 

BY EDGAR A. POE. 

One of the happiest examples, in a small way, of thecarrying-one's-self-in-a-hand-basket logic, is to be found in a Londonweekly paper called "The Popular Record of Modern Science; a Journalof Philosophy and General Information. " This work has a vastcirculation, and is respected by eminent men. Sometime in November, 1845, it copied from the "Columbian Magazine" of New York, a ratheradventurous article of mine, called "Mesmeric Revelation. " It had theimpudence, also, to spoil the title by improving it to "The LastConversation of a Somnambule"--a phrase that is nothing at all to thepurpose, since the person who "converses" is _not_ a somnambule. He isa sleep-waker--_not_ a sleep-walker; but I presume that "The Record"thought it was only the difference of an _l_. What I chiefly complainof, however, is that the London editor prefaced my paper with thesewords:--"The following is an article communicated to the ColumbianMagazine, a journal of respectability and influence in the UnitedStates, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe. _It bears internal evidence ofauthenticity. _"!

There is no subject under heaven about which funnier ideas are, ingeneral, entertained than about this subject of internal evidence. Itis by "internal evidence, " observe, that we decide upon the mind. 

But to "The Record:"--On the issue of my "Valdemar Case, " this journalcopies it, as a matter of course, and (also as a matter of course)improves the title, as in the previous instance. But the editorialcomments may as well be called profound. Here they are:

 "The following narrative appears in a recent number of _The American Magazine_, a respectable periodical in the United States. It comes, it will be observed, from the narrator of the 'Last Conversation of a Somnambule, ' published in The Record of the 29th of November. In extracting this case the _Morning Post_ of Monday last, takes what it considers the safe side, by remarking--'For our own parts we do not believe it; and there are several statements made, more especially with regard to the disease of which the patient died, which at once prove the case to be either a fabrication, or the work of one little acquainted with consumption. The story, however, is wonderful, and we therefore give it. ' The editor, however, does not point out the especial statements which are inconsistent with what we know of the progress of consumption, and as few scientific persons would be willing to take their pathology any more than their logic from the _Morning Post_, his caution, it is to be feared, will not have much weight. The reason assigned by the Post for publishing the account is quaint, and would apply equally to an adventure from Baron Munchausen:--'it is wonderful and we therefore give it. '... The above case is obviously one that cannot be received except on the strongest testimony, and it is equally clear that the testimony by which it is at present accompanied, is not of that character. The most favorable circumstances in support of it, consist in the fact that credence is understood to be given to it at New York, within a few miles of which city the affair took place, and where consequently the most ready means must be found for its authentication or disproval. The initials of the medical men and of the young medical student must be sufficient in the immediate locality, to establish their identity, especially as M. Valdemar was well known, and had been so long ill as to render it out of the question that there should be any difficulty in ascertaining the names of the physicians by whom he had been attended. In the same way the nurses and servants under whose cognizance the case must have come during the seven months which it occupied, are of course accessible to all sorts of inquiries. It will, therefore, appear that there must have been too many parties concerned to render prolonged deception practicable. The angry excitement and various rumors which have at length rendered a public statement necessary, are also sufficient to show that _something_ extraordinary must have taken place. On the other hand there is no strong point for disbelief. The circumstances are, as the Post says, 'wonderful;' but so are all circumstances that come to our knowledge for the first time--and in Mesmerism every thing is new. An objection may be made that the article has rather a Magazinish air; Mr. Poe having evidently written with a view to effect, and so as to excite rather than to subdue the vague appetite for the mysterious and the horrible which such a case, under any circumstances, is sure to awaken--but apart from this there is nothing to deter a philosophic mind from further inquiries regarding it. It is a matter entirely for testimony. [So it is. ] Under this view we shall take steps to procure from some of the most intelligent and influential citizens of New York all the evidence that can be had upon the subject. No steamer will leave England for America till the 3d of February, but within a few weeks of that time we doubt not it will be possible to lay before the readers of the _Record_ information which will enable them to come to a pretty accurate conclusion. "

Yes; and no doubt they came to one accurate enough, in the end. Butall this rigmarole is what people call testing a thing by "internalevidence. " The _Record_ insists upon the truth of the story because ofcertain facts--because "the initials of the young men _must_ besufficient to establish their identity"--because "the nurses _must_ beaccessible to all sorts of inquiries"--and because the "angryexcitement and various rumors which at length rendered a publicstatement necessary, are sufficient to show that _something_extraordinary _must_ have taken place. "

To be sure! The story is proved by these facts--the facts about thestudents, the nurses, the excitement, the credence given the tale atNew York. And now all we have to do is to prove these facts. Ah!--_they_ are proved _by the story_. 

As for the _Morning Post_, it evinces more weakness in its disbeliefthan the _Record_ in its credulity. What the former says aboutdoubting on account of inaccuracy in the detail of the phthisicalsymptoms, is a mere _fetch_, as the Cockneys have it, in order to makea very few little children believe that it, the Post, is not quite sostupid as a post proverbially is. It knows nearly as much aboutpathology as it does about English grammar--and I really hope it willnot feel called upon to blush at the compliment. I represented thesymptoms of M. Valdemar as "severe, " to be sure. I put an extremecase; for it was necessary that I should leave on the reader's mind nodoubt as to the certainty of death without the aid of theMesmerist--but such symptoms _might_ have appeared--the identicalsymptoms _have appeared_, and will be presented again and again. Hadthe Post been only half as honest as ignorant, it would have ownedthat it disbelieved for no reason more profound than that whichinfluences all dunces in disbelieving--it would have owned that itdoubted the thing merely because the thing was a "wonderful" thing, and had never yet been printed in a book. 

LETHE. 

BY HENRY B. HIRST. 

 _Agressi sunt mare tenebrarum id in eo exploraturi esset. _ NUBIAN GEOGRAPHER. 

 _Looking like Lethe, see! the lake_ A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not for the world awake. "_The Sleepers_. " POE. 

There is a lake whose lilies lie Like maidens in the lap of death, So pale, so cold, so motionless Its Stygian breast they press;They breathe, and toward the purple sky The pallid perfumes of their breathAscend in spiral shapes, for thereNo wind disturbs the voiceless air--No murmur breaks the oblivious moodOf that tenebrean solitude--No Djinn, no Ghoul, no Afrit lavesHis giant limbs within its wavesBeneath the wan Saturnian lightThat swoons in the omnipresent night;But only funeral forms arise, With arms uplifted to the skies, And gaze, with blank, cavernous eyesIn whose dull glare no Future lies, --The shadows of the dead--the DeadOf whom no mortal soul hath read, No record come, in prose or rhyme, Down from the dim Primeval Time!A moment gazing--they are gone--Without a sob--without a groan--Without a sigh--without a moan--And the lake again is left alone--Left to that undisturbed reposeWhich in an ebon vapor flowsAmong the cypresses that standA stone-cast from the sombre strand--Among the trees whose shadows wake, But not to life, within the lake, That stand, like statues of the Past, And will, while that ebony lake shall last. 

But when the more than Stygian nightDescends with slow and owl-like flight, Silent as Death (who comes--we know--Unheard, unknown of all below;)Above that dark and desolate wave, The reflex of the eternal grave--Gigantic birds with flaming eyesSweep upward, onward through the skies, Or stalk, without a wish to fly, Where the reposing lilies lie;While, stirring neither twig nor grass, Among the trees, in silence, passTitanic animals whose raceExisted, but has left no traceOf name, or size, or shape, or hue--Whom ancient Adam never knew. 

At midnight, still without a sound, Approaching through the black Profound, Shadows, in shrouds of pallid hue, Come slowly, slowly, two by two, In double line, with funeral march, Through groves of cypress, yew and larch, Descending in those waves that part, Then close, above each silent heart;While, in the distance, far ahead, The shadows of the Earlier DeadArise, with speculating eyes, Forgetful of their destinies, And gaze, and gaze, and gaze againUpon the long funereal train, Undreaming their Descendants comeTo make that ebony lake their home--To vanish, and become at lastA parcel of the awful Past--The hideous, unremembered PastWhich Time, in utter scorn, has castBehind him, as with unblenched eye, He travels toward Eternity--That Lethe, in whose sunless waveEven he, himself, must find a grave!

EPITAPH ON A RESTLESS LADY. 

The gates were unbarred--the home of the blest Freely opened to welcome Miss C----;But hearing the chorus that "Heaven is Rest, " She turned from the angels to flee, Saying, "Rest is no Heaven to me!"

MY LADY-HELP. 

OR AUNT LINA'S VISIT. 

BY ENNA DUVAL. 

"You are in want of an efficient person to assist you in taking chargeof your domestic affairs, Enna, " said a maiden aunt of mine to me oneevening. I pulled my little sewing-table toward me with a slightdegree of impatience, and began very earnestly to examine the contentsof my work-box, that I might not express aloud my weariness of myaunt's favorite subject. I had been in want of just such an article asan "efficient person" ever since I had taken charge of my father's_ménage_; and after undergoing almost martyrdom with slip-shod, thriftless, good-for-nothing "_help_, " as we Americans, with suchdelicate consideration, term our serving maids, I had come to theconclusion that indifferent "_help_" was an unavoidable evil, and thatthe best must be made of the poor, miserable instruments of assistancevouchsafed unto the race of tried, vexed housekeepers. 

"I have just thought, " continued my aunt, "of a very excellent personthat will suit you in every way. Lizzie Hall, the one I was thinkingof, has never been accustomed to living out. Her father is a farmer inour place, but having made a second marriage, and with a young familycoming up around him, Lizzie very properly wishes to do something forherself. I remember having heard her express such a desire; and I haveno doubt I could persuade her to come to you. She is not veryyoung--about eight-and-twenty, or thereabouts. "

I listened to my Aunt Lina's talk with, it must be confessed, indifference, mingled with a little sullenness, and quieted myimpatience by inward ejaculations--a vast deal of good do those inwardconversations produce, such mollifiers of the temper are they. "So, so, " said I to myself, "my Aunt Lina's paragon is a '_lady-help_. ' Ofall kinds 'of help' the very one I have endeavored most to avoid; itis such a nondescript kind of creature that lady-help;" and as Isoliloquized, recollections of specimens of the kind I had beenafflicted with, came in sad array before my memory--maids withslip-shod French kid slippers, that had never been large enough fortheir feet--love-locks on either side of their cheeks, twirled upduring the day in brown curl-papers--faded lawn dresses, with danglingflounces and tattered edging; then such sentimental entreaties that Ishould not make them answer the door-bell if Ike, the black boy, mighthappen to be away on some errand, or expose them to the rude gaze ofthe multitude in the market-house; and I groaned in spirit as Ithought what a troublesome creature the "lady-help" was to manage. During this sympathizing colloquy with myself, my aunt went onexpatiating most eloquently on the merits of her _protégé_, LizzieHall. Some pause occurring--for want of breath, I really believe, onmy aunt's side--good-breeding seemed to require a remark from me, andI faltered out some objection as to the accommodations a cityhousehold afforded for a person of Lizzie Hall's condition. 

"Of course, " said my aunt, "she will not wish to sit at the same tablewith the black servants you may happen to have; but Lizzie will notcause you any trouble on the score of accommodations, I'll answer forit, Enna; she is too sensible a person not to fully understand thedifference between town and country habits--and if you say so, I willengage her for you when I return to Rockland. "

My father, who had been dozing over his paper, gradually arousedhimself as this conversation progressed, and as my aunt made the lastproposition, he entered into it most cordially, and begged she wouldendeavor to procure the young woman, and send her by the earliestopportunity. I remained quiet--for I could not say any thing heartily, seeing nothing but vexation and annoyance in the whole affair for me. The young woman was evidently a favorite with my Aunt Lina; and shouldshe not prove a very useful or agreeable maid to me, I would receivebut little sympathy from my immediate family. My father is as ignorantas a child of what we poor housekeepers require in a domestic; and myAunt Lina, though kind-hearted and well-wishing, is in equally asblissful a state. A very indifferent servant, who happened to pleaseher fancy, she would magnify into a very excellent one; then, beingrather opinionative and "_set_, " as maiden ladies are apt to be whenthey pass the fatal threshold of forty, I despaired of ever convincingher to the contrary. "However, " said I to myself, "I will notanticipate trouble. "

I had just recovered from a dangerous fit of illness, through which mykind, well-meaning aunt had patiently nursed me. At the first news ofmy sickness she had, unsummoned, left her comfortable home inRockland, in mid-winter, and had crossed the mountains to watch besidethe feverish pillow of her motherless niece. Careful and kind was hernursing; and even the physicians owned that to her patientwatchfulness I owed my life. How grateful was I; and with what looksof love did I gaze on her trim, spinster figure, as she movedearnestly and pains-taking around my chamber; but, alas! the kitchentold a different story when I was well enough to make my appearancethere. Biddy, a raw, bewildered-looking Irish girl, with huge red armsand stamping feet, had quite lost her confused, stupid expression ofcountenance, and was most eloquent in telling me, with all thevolubility of our sex, of the "quare ways of the ould maid. "

"Sure, and if the ould sowl could only have had a husband and a parcelof childthers to mind, she wouldn't have been half so stiff andconcated, " exclaimed Biddy. 

Even poor little roguish Ike, with mischief enough in his compositionto derange a dozen well-ordered houses, looked wise and quiet when myprim, demure aunt came in sight. Complaints met me on all sides, however, for my Aunt Lina was quite as dissatisfied as the rest. 

"I found them all wrong, my dear, " she said, "no order, no regulation, every thing at sixes and sevens; and as for the woman Biddy, she isquite, quite incorrigible. I showed her a new way of preparing herclothes for the wash, by which she could save a deal of labor; but allin vain, she persisted most obstinately to follow the old troublesomeway. Then she confuses her work altogether in such a manner that Inever can tell at which stage of labor she has arrived; and when I putthem all _en traine_, and leave them a few instants, I find on myreturn every thing as tangled as ever. Method is the soul ofhousekeeping, Enna. You will never succeed without order. I fear youare too easy and indulgent; although I have never kept a house, I knowexactly how it should be done. A place for every thing--every thing inits place, as your grandpapa used to say. If you insist upon yourservants doing every thing at a certain hour, and in a certain way, your affairs will go on like clock-work. "

I could not but assent to all these truisms--for I feltconscience-stricken. I knew I had always depended in all myhousekeeping emergencies too much on my "talent for improvising, " asKate Wilson merrily entitles my readiness in a domestic tangle andstand-still. I had been in the habit of letting things go on as easilyas possible, scrupulously avoiding domestic tempests, because theyderanged my nervous system; and if I found a servant would not do athing in my way, I would let her accomplish it in her own manner, andat her own time--so that it was done, that was all I required. I feltalmost disheartened as the remarks of my precise aunt proved to me howremiss I had been, and resolved in a very humble mood to reform. Batwhen Aunt Lina continued her conversations about the mismanagementbefore my father, then I felt the "old Adam" stir within me. There shesurely was wrong. I could not bear he should have his eyes opened; hehad always fancied me a little queen in my domestic arrangements--whyshould he think differently--what good did it do? If he found hisdinner nicely cooked and served, his tea and toast snugly arranged inthe library, in the evening, when he returned wearied from his office, with his dressing-gown and slippers most temptingly spread out; thenawakened in the morning in a clean, well-ordered bed-room, with Ike athis elbow to wait his orders, and a warm, cozy breakfast to strengthenhim ere he started out on his daily labors--if all this was carefullyand quietly provided for him, what need of his knowing how it wasdone, or what straits I might be driven to sometimes, from my ownthoughtlessness or forgetfulness to accomplish these comforts for him. I had always scrupulously avoided talking of my household affairsbefore him; but when Aunt Lina discoursed so eloquently and learnedlyin his presence, slipping in once in a while such high-sounding wordsas "domestic economy, " "well-ordered household, " "proper distributionof time and labor, " &c. , &c. , he began to prick up his ears, and fancyhis thrifty little daughter Enna was not quite so excellent in hermanagement as he had blindly dreamed. Poor man! his former ignorancehad surely been bliss, for his unfortunate knowledge only made himlook vexed and full of care whenever he entered the house. He evennoted the door-handles, as to their brightness, rated poor Ike aboutthe table appointments, and pointed out when and how work should bedone--told how he managed in his business, and how we should manage inours. I was almost distraught with annoyance; and, kind as my aunt hadbeen, I wished for the time of her departure silently, but asearnestly as did my servants. Heaven pardon me for my inhospitalityand ingratitude. 

"Now, Lina, " said my father, the morning she left, "don't forget thewoman you were speaking of. Enna needs some experienced person to keepthings in order. We shall have to break up housekeeping if affairs goon in this disordered state. I do not know how we have stood it thuslong. "

I opened my eyes but said not a word. Three months before and myfather had been the happiest, free-from-care man in the city; now thelittle insight he had gained into domestic affairs--the peep behindthe curtain given him by my mistaken maiden aunt, had served toembitter his existence, surrounding his path with those nettles oflife, household trifles, vulgar cares and petty annoyances. I almostechoed Biddy's ejaculation as the carriage drove from the door with myaunt and her numberless boxes, each one arranged on a new, orderly, time-saving plan. 

"Sure, and it's glad I am, that the ould craythur is fairly off--fordivil a bit of comfort did she give the laste of us with hertime-saving orderly ways. And it's not an owld maid ye must ever be, darlint Miss Enna, or ye'll favor the troublesome aunty with her tabbynotions. "

Ike shouted with glee, and turned somersets all the way through thehall into the back entry, regardless of all I could say; and themerriment and light heartedness that pervaded the whole house was mostcheering. Biddy stamped and put her work in a greater confusion thanever; and Ike dusted the blinds from the top to the bottom in a"wholesale way, " as he called it, and cleaned the knives on the wrongside of the Bath-brick to his heart's content. Every one, even thedumb animals, seemed conscious of Aunt Lina's departure. My little petkitten, Norah, resumed her place by the side of the heater in thelibrary, starting once in a while in her dreams and springing up asthough she heard the rustle of Aunt Lina's gown, or the sharp, clearnotes of her voice--but coiled herself down with a consoling "pur, " asshe saw only "little me" laughing at her fears--and my little darlingspaniel Flirt laid in my lap, nestled on the foot of my bed, andromped all over the house to his perfect satisfaction. I should havebeen as happy as the rest also, if it had not been for theanticipation that weighed down on me, of the expected pattern-card--mylady-help. 

Soon after my aunt's return home I received a letter from her, announcing with great gratification her success. The letter was filledwith a long _preachment_ on household management, which my father readvery seriously, pronouncing his sister Lina a most excellent, sensiblewoman, possessing more mind and judgment than did most of her sex. Myaunt wound up her letter, saying--

"But you will have little order and regulation about your house solong as you keep that thriftless Biddy in it. Take my advice and trampher off bag and baggage before Lizzie comes, for, from my account ofher, Lizzie is not very favorably disposed toward her. "

Here was a pretty state of affairs to be sure, not very agreeable to ayoung housekeeper who had hitherto been her own mistress--my new maidwas to dictate to me even my own domestic arrangements. My father wasearnest in wishing to dispose of Biddy--but on that point, thoughquiet, I was resolute in opposition. Poor warm-hearted Biddy, with allher stupid thriftless ways, I could not find in my heart to turn away, and as my chambermaid wanted to go to her relations in the "backstates, " as she called the great West, I proposed to Biddy to take herplace, so soon as the new woman should make her appearance. 

"If she's like the aunty of ye, " said Biddy when we concluded thisarrangement and were talking of the expected new comer, "I'll wish herall the bad luck in the world, for it's hot wather she'll kape us inall the time with her painstakings. "

Not in a very pleasant frame of mind I awaited the arrival of my newdomestic. Poor girl, there was no one to welcome her when she at lastcame, and she stepped into the kitchen without one kind feelingadvancing to greet her. Biddy's warm Irish heart was completely closedagainst her, and Ike, the saucy rogue, pursed up his thick lips in amost comical manner when she appeared. But how my heart smote me whenI first looked at the pale, care-worn, sad-looking creature. She wasnot pretty--her face bore the marks of early care and trial. She mighthave been well-favored in girlhood, but if so, those good looks hadcompletely vanished. Her eyes were dim, her cheek hollow, and her browwas marked with lines stamped by endurance; her whole person thin andspare, with hard, toil-worn hands, and large feet, showed that laborand sorrow had been her constant companions. And how unjust had beenour hasty judgment of her--for so far from proving to be thetroublesome, fault-finding, airs-taking, lady-help I had fearfullyanticipated, I found her amiable, yielding and patiently industrious. She had no regular set ways about her, but worked unceasingly frommorning till night in every department in the house. Not a week passedbefore I heard Biddy, with her Irish enthusiasm, calling on Heaven tobless the "darlint. " She was always ready to excuse Biddy'sthriftlessness and Ike's mischief, helping them on in their dutiesconstantly. Good Lizzie Hall! every one in the house loved her. Yes, indeed, my dear housekeeping reader, all doubtful as you look, I hadat last obtained that paragon, so seldom met with--a good, efficientservant. Lizzie lived with me many years, and when I parted with her, as I had to at last, I felt certain, I had had my share of good"help"--that her place would never be supplied. 

Lizzie grew very fond of me, and ere she had lived with us many monthstold me her whole history. Poor girl, without beauty, without mentalattractions, of an humble station, and slender abilities, herlife-woof had in it the glittering thread of romance--humble romance, but romance still it was. Lizzie's father was a farmer, owning a smallfarm in the part of the country where my Aunt Lina resided. His firstwife, Lizzie's mother, was an heiress according to her station, bringing her husband on her marriage some hundreds of dollars, whichenabled him to purchase his little farm, and stock it. They laboredmorning, noon, and night, unceasingly. Lizzie's mother was a thrifty, careful body; but, unfortunately, she had more industry thanconstitution; and when Lizzie was seventeen, her mother was fastsinking into the grave, a worn-out creature, borne down by hard laborand sickness. Nine children had she, and of them Lizzie was the eldestand only girl. What sorrow for a dying mother! Before her mother'slast sickness, Lizzie was "wooed and won" by the best match in theplace. James Foster, her lover, was a young farmer, an orphan, butwell off in life. He owned a handsome, well-stocked farm, and was agood-looking, excellent young man. Both father and mother cheerfullygave their consent, but insisted that their engagement should last ayear or so, until Lizzie might be older. As Mrs. Hall felt deathapproaching, she looked around on the little family she was to leavemotherless behind her; and with moving, heart-rending entreaties, besought of Lizzie not to leave them. 

"Stay with your father, my child, " she urged; "James, if he loves you, will wait for you. Don't marry until the boys are all old enough to beout of trouble. Think, Lizzie, of the misery a step-mother might causewith your brother Jack's impetuous temper, and Sam's hopeless, despairing disposition--each one would be hard for a step-mother toguide. Be a mother to them, my girl; down on your knees, and to makeyour mother's heart easy, promise before God that you will guide them, and watch over them as long as you are needed. Stay with your father, and Heaven will bless you, as does your dying mother. "

Willingly did the almost heart-broken girl give the requiredpromise--and James Foster loved her all the better for it. She weptbitter, heart-aching tears over her dear mother's grave, but turnedsteadily to the hard path traced out before her; but she was young andbeloved, and a bright star beamed before her--the star of love--togild her toilsome path; and a mother's smile seemed blended with itsbright rays. A year or two rolled around--years of hard labor, whichmade Lizzie, who toiled untiringly, as her mother had done, old beforeher time. She was noted, however, all over the village for a thrifty, industrious, excellent girl. James Foster was a pattern for lovers;every spare moment he gave to her. What few amusements she had time toenjoy he procured for her; and as the village people said, they wentas steadily together as old married people. 

Lizzie's father was a narrow-minded, selfish man, caring very littlefor any one's comfort but his own, and at times was exceedingly crossand testy. Unfortunately, he took great interest in politics, and wasquite an oracle in the village bar-room. He was bigoted and "set" inhis opinions, considering all who differed from him as enemies totheir country, and called them rascals and hypocrites freely. His wifehad been dead about two years, when a presidential election came on. James Foster, unluckily, had been brought up with different politicalopinions from Mr. Hall; but, being very quiet and retiring in hisdisposition, he never had rendered himself obnoxious. Of course, Mr. Hall took great interest in the approaching election. He became veryambitious of his township giving a large vote on the side to which hebelonged--and he used every means to obtain votes. Elated with fanciedsuccess, he swore one day in the tavern bar-room, that he would makeJames Foster abandon his party, and vote to please him. Some, who knewFoster's quiet but resolute disposition, bantered and teased Hall, which wrought him to such a pitch of excitement that, on meeting JamesFoster a little while after in front of the tavern, he made the demandof him. Foster at first treated it as a jest; then, when he found Hallwas in earnest, decidedly, but civilly, refused; and in such a manneras to put at rest all further conversation. Enraged, Hall instantlyturned, swearing to the laughing politicians that surrounded thetavern steps, and who had witnessed his discomfiture, that he wouldpunish Foster's impudent obstinacy. Accordingly, full of ill, revengeful feelings, he returned home, and forbade his daughter everpermitting Foster to step over the threshold of the door--commandingher instantly to break the engagement. She used every entreaty, expostulated, temporized--all was of no avail; indeed, her entreatiesseemed but to heighten her father's anger; and at last, with a fearfuloath, he declared, if she did not break the engagement with thepurse-proud, hypocritical rascal, she should leave his houseinstantly. She looked on the terrified children, the youngest onlyfive years old, and who clung weeping to her knees, as her fatherthreatened to turn her out of doors, never to see them again; and shethought of her mother's last words--her decision was made; and with aheavy heart she performed the self-sacrifice. 

"Don't say you will never marry me, Lizzie, " urged her lover; "I canwait ten years for you, darling. "

But Lizzie was conscientious; her father had expressly stipulatedthere should be no "half-way work--no putting off;" all hope must begiven up, she never could be his--and forever she bid him farewell. James tried to argue with and persuade her father; but the selfish, obstinate old man would listen to nothing from him. Poor James, finding both immovable, at last sold off his farm, and all hisproperty, and moved away into a distant state; he could not, he said, live near Lizzie, and feel that she never would be his wife. Men areso soon despairing in love affairs, while women hope on, even todeath. Poor Lizzie, how her heart sunk when the sight of her lover wasdenied to her; and she felt even more wretched than she did at themoment of her mother's death. Nothing now remained to her in life butthe performance of stern, rigid duty. Two or three years passed by, and one by one her charges departed from her. One brother was placedwith a farmer, and the others were apprenticed to good trades. Thelittle white-headed Willie, who at his mother's death was a tiny, roly-poly prattler, only two years old, was becoming a slender, tallyouth. Lizzie felt proud as she looked at her crowd of tall boys, whenonce or twice a year they would assemble at home; and on a Sunday'safternoon, at twilight, on her way to the evening meeting, she wouldsteal down into the quiet church-yard, and kneeling beside hermother's grave, ask, with streaming eyes, if she had not done well. Such moments were fraught with bitter anguish; but a heavenly peacewould descend on her, and she said her trials, after the agony wasover, seemed lighter to bear. 

"But I was blessed in one thing, dear Miss Enna, " she would exclaim, "not one of those darling boys was taken from me, and all bid fair toturn out well. God surely smiled on the motherless, and gave mestrength to perform my labor of love. "

At last there moved to the village a woman of the name of Pierce; sheopened a little milliner's shop, and soon made herself busy with theaffairs of others, as well as her own, becoming quite a considerableperson amongst the villagers. She was a widow with two or threechildren--a girl or two, and a boy--little things. She was a stout, healthy, good-looking woman, "rising forty, " with a clear, shrillvoice, and good, bright black eyes in her head. She soon steadiedthese bonnie eyes at the widower, Lizzie's father, and not in vain;for after hailing him industriously, as he passed the door of hershop, with questions about the weather, or the crops, he at lastmanaged to stop without the hailing; and after a short courtshipbrought her and her children to his own home. How Lizzie rejoiced thather brothers were now all out of the way. Her last pet, Willie, had, afew months previous to the new marriage, been sent to a printer in theneighboring city. She never thought of herself, but commenced withredoubled industry to assist in taking care of the new family. But herconstant industry and thrifty habits were a silent reproach to thestep-mother, I fancy, for she left no stone unturned to rid herselfof the troublesome grown up daughter. She tried every means, threw outhints, until at last Lizzie perceived her drift. Even her fatherseemed restrained and annoyed by her presence; and when she proposedto him that she should do something now for herself, in the way ofsupport, he made no opposition; on the contrary, seemed relieved, saying the times were hard, and he had always had an expensive family. At this time my dear Aunt Lina obtained her for me. Blessed Aunt Lina!how we all loved her for this good act; even Biddy said, "Well, the owld toad wasn't so bad, afther all. She had some good inher, for she sent the angel to our door--good luck to her forever. "

And what parted Lizzie from us? Ah, there is the romance of mystory--the darling little bit of sentiment so dear to my woman'sheart. Lizzie lived with me five years. In the meantime her father haddied; the thriftless wife had broken his heart by her extravaganthabits, and Lizzie and her brothers never received a penny of theirmother's little fortune. One evening, my father, on handing me theletters and papers, said, "Amongst those, Enna, you will find a letterfor Lizzie, which has come from the far West, clear beyond St. Louis--what relations has she there?"

I could not tell him, but gave the letter to Ike, now grown into quitea dandy waiter, to take to her. I did not feel much curiosity aboutthe letter, thinking it might be from some cousin of hers; but when Iretired to bed that evening, she came into my room, and throwingherself down on the soft rug beside my bed, by the dim light of mynight-lamp, told me all her happiness. The letter was from JamesFoster--he still loved her as dearly as ever. He had heard by chanceof her father's death, and her situation, and said if she was ready tomarry him, he was still waiting. He wrote of his handsome farm he hadcleared with his own hands, and the beautiful wild country he livedin, telling her he hoped her future life would be free from all care. All this, and even more, dear reader, he told her--in plain, homelywords, it is true; but love's language is always sweet, be it incourtly tongue or homely phrase. 

And James Foster came for her; and in our house was she married. Myfather presented the soft mull dress to the bride, which Kate Wilsonand I made, and assisted in dressing her, and stood as herbride-maids. Aunt Lina, Biddy, the stamping, good-hearted Biddy, anddandy Ike, were all there, rejoicing in her happiness. Her husband wasa stout, strong, hard-featured, but kind-hearted man, and looked uponhis poor, care-worn, slender Lizzie as if she were an angel. We allliked him; and her whole troop of brothers, who were present at theceremony, greeted him with hearty words of friendship. Three hepersuaded to accompany them out to the "new home"--the farmer, theshoemaker, and the little white-headed Willie, Lizzie's pet--declaringall the time that his house and heart, like the wide western valleywhere he lived, was large enough to hold them all. They all went outone after another; and when I last heard from Lizzie, she was veryhappy, surrounded by all her brothers; and she told me of a littledarling girl, whom she had named after her dear Miss Enna. My fatherand I often talk during the winter evenings, when sitting very cozilytogether in the warm library, of taking a summer's jaunt to Lizzie'swestern home. I wish we could, that I might see my lady-help asmistress of her own household; and what is still better, a happy wife, mother, and sister. 

LINES

 _Addressed to a friend who asked "How would you be remembered when you die?"_

How would I be remembered?--not forever, As those of yore. Not as the warrior, whose bright glories quiver O'er fields of gore;Nor e'en as they whose song down life's dark river Is heard no more. 

No! in my veins a gentler stream is flowing In silent bliss. No! in my breast a woman's heart is glowing, It asks not this. I would not, as down life's dark vale I'm going My true path miss. 

I do not hope to lay a wreath undying On glory's shrine, Where coronets from mighty brows are lying In dazzling shine:Only let love, among the tomb-stones sighing, Weep over mine. 

Oh! when the green grass softly waves above me In some low glen, Say, will the hearts that now so truly love me Think of me then;And, with fond tones that never more can move me, Call me again?

Say, when the fond smiles in our happy home Their soft light shed, When round the hearth at quiet eve they come, And mine has fled, Will any gentle voice then ask for room-- _Room for the dead?_

Oh! will they say, as rosy day is dying, And shadows fall, "Come, let us speak of her now lowly lying, She loved us all!"And will a gentle tear-drop, then replying, From some eye fall?

Give me, oh! give me not the echo ringing From trump of fame;Be mine, be mine the pearls from fond eyes springing, _This_, would I claim. Oh! may I think such memories _will_ be clingingAround my name. GRETTA. 

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA. --NO. IX. 

[Illustration: PASSENGER PIGEON. ]

This bird, the marvel of the whole Pigeon race, is beautiful in itscolors, graceful in its form, and far more a child of wild nature thanany other of the pigeons. The chief wonder, however, is in itsmultitudes; multitudes which no man can number; and when AlexanderWilson lays the mighty wand of the enchanter upon the Valley of theMississippi, and conjures it up to the understanding and the feelingof the reader, with far more certain and more concentrated andstriking effect than if it were painted on canvas, or modeled in wax, these pigeons form a feature in it which no one who knows can bypossibility forget. It is probable that the multitudes may not be morenumerous than those of the petrels in Bass's Strait, of which CaptainFlinders--who also was a kind of Wilson in his way--gives a graphicdescription. But vast as the multitude of these was, it was only as apassing cloud to the captain; he was unable to follow it up; and eventhough he had, the flight of birds over the surface of the sea is tameand storyless, as compared with the movements of the unnumberedmyriads of these pigeons in the great central valley of our continent. None of the names which have been bestowed upon this species aresufficiently, or at all, descriptive of it. Passenger, the Englishexpression, and _Migratoria_, the Latin name, fall equally short, inasmuch as every known pigeon is to a greater or less extentmigratory as well as this one. The "swarm" pigeon, the "flood" pigeon, or even the "deluge" pigeon would be a more appropriate appellation;for the weight of their numbers breaks down the forest with scarcelyless havoc than if the stream of the Mississippi were poured upon it. 

Birds so numerous demand both a wide pasture and powerful means ofmigration, and the Passengers are not stinted in either of thoserespects. In latitude, their pasture extends from the thirtieth to thesixtieth degree, which is upward of two thousand miles; and theextensive breadth in longitude cannot be estimated at less thanfifteen hundred. Three millions of square miles is thus the extent ofterritory of which the Passenger pigeon has command; and thatterritory has its dimensions so situated as that the largest one isthe line upon which the birds migrate. 

In Canada their numbers are so great, and the ravages which theycommit upon the cultivated ground so extensive, that instances arerecorded in which the bishop has been seriously and earnestly imploredto exorcise them "by bell, book, and candle"--to cast them out of theland by the same means used in days of yore against spiritstroublesome to other individuals, men and women. But as the Passengerswere material and not spiritual, the bishop had the good sense not totry the experiment upon them. At least, La Houton, who records thematter, is perfectly silent as to the success or failure of theproposition. 

Both sexes are beautiful birds; but their value, in an economicalpoint of view, is not, however, in any way equal to their numbers ortheir beauty. The flesh of the old ones is dark, dry, hard andunpalatable, as is very generally the case with birds which are muchon the wing; but the young, or _squabs_, as they are called, areremarkably fat; and as in the places where the birds congregate, theymay be obtained without much difficulty, this fat is obtained bymelting them, and is used instead of lard. As they nestle in vastmultitudes at the same place, their resting-places have manyattractions for the birds of prey, which indiscriminately seize uponboth the old and the young. The eggs, like those of most of thepigeon tribe, are usually two in number; but the number of birds atone nesting-place is so great that the young, when they begin tobranch and feed, literally drive along the woods like a torrent. Theyfeed upon the fruits which at this time they procure at the middleheights of the forests, and do not venture upon the open grounds. Thenests are far more closely packed together than in any rookery, andare built one above another, from the height of twenty feet to the topof the tallest trees. 

Wilson says that as soon as the young were fully grown, and beforethey left the nests, numerous parties of the inhabitants from allparts of the adjacent country came with wagons, axes, beds, cookingutensils, many of them accompanied by the greater part of theirfamilies, and encamped for several days at this immense nursery, nearShelbyville, Kentucky, forty miles long, and several miles in breadth. The noise in the woods was so great as to terrify their horses, and itwas difficult for one person to hear another speak without bawling inhis ear. The ground was strewed with broken limbs of trees, eggs, andyoung squab pigeons, which had been precipitated from above, and onwhich herds of hogs were fattening. Hawks, buzzards and eagles weresailing about in great numbers, and seizing the squabs from theirnests at pleasure, while from twenty feet upward to the tops of thetrees, the view through the woods presented a perpetual tumult ofcrowding and fluttering multitudes of pigeons, their wings roaringlike thunder, mingled with the frequent crash of falling timber, fornow the axe-men were at work cutting down those trees which seemed tobe most crowded with nests, and seemed to fell them in such a mannerthat, in their descent, they might bring down several others, by whichmeans the falling of one large tree sometimes produced two hundredsquabs, little inferior in size to the old ones, and almost one massof fat. On some single trees upward of one hundred nests were found. It was dangerous to walk under these flying and fluttering millions, from the frequent fall of large branches, broken down by the weight ofthe multitudes above, and which in their descent often destroyednumbers of the birds themselves. This is a scene to which we are awareof no parallel in the nesting-places of the feathered tribes. In theselect places where the birds only roost for the night, thecongregating, though not permanent, is often as great and destructiveto the forest. The native Indians rejoice in a breeding or aroosting-place of the migratory pigeon, as one which shall supply themwith an unbounded quantity of provisions, in the quality of which theyare not particularly chary. Nor are these roosting-places attractiveto the Indians only, for the settlers near them also pay themnocturnal visits. They come with guns, clubs, pots of suffocatingmaterials, and every other means of destruction that can well beimagined to be within their command, and procure immense quantities ofthe birds in a very short time. These they stuff into sacks and carryhome on their horses. 

The flocks being less abundant in the Atlantic States, the gun, decoyand net are brought into operation against them, and very considerablenumbers of them are taken. In some seasons they may be purchased inour markets for one dollar a hundred, and flocks have been known tooccupy two hours in passing, in New Jersey and the adjoining States. Many thousands are drowned on the edges of the ponds to which theydescend to drink while on their aerial passage; those in the rearalighting on the backs of those who touched the ground first, in thesame manner as the domestic pigeon, and pressing them beneath thesurface of the water. Nuttall estimates the rapidity of their flightat about a mile a minute, and states among other data for this result, that there have been wild pigeons shot near New York, whose crops werefilled with rice that must have been collected in the plantations ofGeorgia, and to digest which would not require more than twelve hours. 

[Illustration: SHORE LARK. ]

Usually fat, much esteemed as food, and not uncommon in our markets, this beautiful bird may be seen in different seasons ranging fromHudson's Bay to Mexico, and from New England to the Rocky Mountains. They arrive in the Northern and Middle States late in the fall, andmany remain through-out the winter. As the weather grows colder inthe north, however, they become quite common in South Carolina andGeorgia, frequenting the plains, commons and dry ground, keepingconstantly upon the ground, and roving about in families under theguidance of the old birds, whose patriarchal care extends over all, towarn them by a plaintive call of the approach of danger, and instructthem by example how to avoid it. They roost somewhat in the samemanner as partridges, in a close ring or circle, keeping each otherwarm, and abiding with indifference the frost and the storm. Theymigrate only when driven by want of food; this appears to consist ofsmall round compressed black seeds, oats, buckwheat, &c. , with a largeproportion of gravel. Shore Lark and Sky Lark are the names by whichthey are usually known. They are said to sing well, rising in the airand warbling as they ascend, after the manner of the sky-lark ofEurope. 

TRIUMPHS OF PEACE. 

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. 

 From palace, cot and cave Streamed forth a nation, in the olden time, To crown with flowers the brave, Flushed with the conquest of some far-off clime, And, louder than the roar of meeting seas, Applauding thunder rolled upon the breeze. Memorial columns rose Decked with the spoils of conquered foes, And bards of high renown their stormy pæans sung, While Sculpture touched the marble white, And, woke by his transforming might, To life the statue sprung. The vassal to his task was chained-- The coffers of the state were drained In rearing arches, bright with wasted gold, That after generations might be told A thing of dust once reigned. 

 Tombs, hallowed by long years of toil, Were built to shrine heroic clay, Too proud to rest in vulgar soil, And moulder silently way; Though treasure lavished on the dead The wretched might have clothed and fed-- Dragged merit from obscuring shade, And debts of gratitude have paid; From want relieved neglected sage, Or veteran in battle tried; Smoothed the rough path of weary age, And the sad tears of orphanage have dried. 

 Though green the laurel round the brow Of wasting and triumphant War, Peace, with her sacred olive bough, Can boast of conquests nobler far: Beneath her gentle sway Earth blossoms like a rose-- The wide old woods recede away, Through realms, unknown but yesterday, The tide of Empire flows. Woke by her voice rise battlement and tower, Art builds a home, and Learning finds a bower-- Triumphant Labor for the conflict girds, Speaks in great works instead of empty words; Bends stubborn matter to his iron will, Drains the foul marsh, and rends in twain the hill-- A hanging bridge across the torrent flings, And gives the car of fire resistless wings. Light kindles up the forest to its heart, And happy thousands throng the new-born mart; Fleet ships of steam, deriding tide and blast, On the blue bounding waters hurry past; Adventure, eager for the task, explores Primeval wilds, and lone, sequestered shores-- Braves every peril, and a beacon lights To guide the nations on untrodden heights. 

[Illustration: EXPECTATION J. AddisonEngraved expressly for Graham's Magazine]

EXPECTATION. 

BY LOUISA M. GREEN. 

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

Why comes he not? He should have come ere this: The promised hour is past: he is not here!I love him--yes, my maiden heart is his; I sigh--I languish when he is not near. The truant! Wherefore tarries he? His love, Were it like mine, would woo him to my side--Or does he--dares he--merely seek to prove The doubted passion of his promised bride?Do I not love him? But does he love me? He swore so yester-eve, when last we metDown in the dell by our old trysting-tree: Can he be false? If so, my sun is set!No; he will come--I feel--I know he will; And he shall never dream that once I sighed;I hear his step--behold his form: be still, Warm heart; he comes--to clasp his bride. 

WOMAN'S LOVE. 

POETRY BY ANON. 

MUSIC BY MATHIAS KELLER. 

COPYRIGHTED BY J. C. SMITH, NO. 215 CHESNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA. 

[Music/Illustration:

Allegretto. 

Fine. 

A Wo-man's love, deep in the heart, Is like the vio-let

flow'r, That lifts its mo-dest head a-part, In

some se-ques-ter'd bow'r. And blest is he who

Ritardando. A tempo. 

finds that bloom, Who sips its gen-tle sweets; He

heeds not life's op-pres-sive gloom, Nor all the care he meets

 D. C. ]

SECOND VERSE. 

A woman's love is like the spring Amid the wild alone;A burning wild o'er which the wing Of cloud is seldom thrown;And blest is he who meets that fount, Beneath the sultry day;How gladly should his spirit mount, How pleasant be his way. 

THIRD VERSE. 

A woman's love is like the rock, That every tempest braves, And stands secure amid the shock Of ocean's wildest waves;And blest is he to whom repose Within its shade is given--The world, with all its cares and woes, Seems less like earth than heaven. 

YEARS AGO. --A BALLAD. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR MRS. C. E. HORN. 

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. 

On the banks of that sweet river Where the water-lilies grow, Breathed the fairest flower that ever Bloomed and faded years ago. 

How we met and loved and parted, None on earth can ever know, Nor how pure and gentle-hearted Beamed the mourned one years ago. 

Like the stream with lilies laden, Will life's future current flow, Till in heaven I meet the maiden Fondly cherished years ago. 

Hearts that truly love forget not-- They're the same in weal or wo--And that star of memory set not In the grave of years ago. 

TO MY WIFE. 

BY ROBT. T. CONRAD. 

When that chaste blush suffused thy cheek and brow, Whitened anon with a pale maiden fear, Thou shrank'st in uttering what I burned to hear:And yet I loved thee, love, not then as now. Years and their snows have come and gone, and graves, Of thine and mine, have opened; and the sod Is thick above the wealth we gave to God:Over my brightest hopes the nightshade waves;And wrongs and wrestlings with a wretched world, Gray hairs, and saddened hours, and thoughts of gloom, Troop upon troop, dark-browed, have been my doom;And to the earth each hope-reared turret hurled!And yet that blush, suffusing cheek and brow, 'Twas dear, how dear! then--but 'tis dearer now. 

ISOLA. 

BY JOHN TOMLIN. 

I dreamed that thou a lily wast, Within a lowly valley blest;A wingèd cherub flying past, Plucked thee, and placed within his breast, And there by guardian angel nurst, Thou took'st a shape of human grace, Until, a lowly flower at first, Thou grew'st the first of mortal race. Alas! if I who still was blessed When thou wast but a lowly flower--To pluck thy image from my breast, Though thus thou will'st it, have no power;Thou still to me, though lifted high In hope and heart above the glen, Where first thou won my idol eye, Must spell my worship just as then. 

CONTEMPLATION. 

BY JANE R. DANA. 

[ILLUSTRATING AN ENGRAVING. ]

Strange! that a tear-drop should o'erfill the eyeOf loveliness that looks on all it loves!Yet are there moods, when the soul's wells are highWith crystal waters which a strange fear moves, To doubt if what it joys in, be a joy;Fear not, thou fond and gentle one! though lifeBe but a checkered scene, where wrong and right, Struggle forever; there is not a strifeCan reach thy bower: the future, purely bright, Is round about thee, like a summer sky. And there are those, brave hearts and true, to guardThy walks forever; and to make each hourOf coming time, by fond and faithful ward, Happy as happiest known within thy bridal bower. 

[Illustration: J. W. Wright J. Addison

CONTEMPLATION

Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine]

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. 

 _Practical Physiology: for the use of Schools and Families. By Edward Jarvis. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co. _

The popular and practical study of physiology is too much neglected inthis country, and we rejoice to see this effort to commend itsimportant truths to public attention. Perhaps no people existing arein greater need of a heedful regard to the lessons of this work thanthe over-fed, over-worked, and over-anxious people of the UnitedStates. The pursuit of wealth, honor, and power, the absorbing andhealth-sacrificing devotion to advancement, impels our people from themoment they first enter the school-house until they are snatched fromthe scene of their over-wrought strugglings. At the school, the childis treated as a man. The fresh air, the blue sky, the bright and happyhilarity of boyhood are too often proscribed indulgences. And this iscalled, not murder, but education. Those who survive it, having beentaught that an American youth should never be satisfied with thepresent, that _excelsior_ should be the only motto, and that allpleasure should be denied, health sacrificed, and time unremittinglydevoted to win the eminence struggled for, rush into the business oflife before their time. They win wrinkles before they attain manhood, and graves before the wild ambition thus kindled and inflamed canreceive its first chaplet. All our literature teaches this unquiet anddiscontented spirit as to the present, and this rash and impatientdetermination to achieve immediate success. Now, this is a peculiarityof our country, the land of all others which should cherish adisposition to be gratefully contented with the unequaled blessingswith which it is endowed. There is no necessity for this forcingsystem to expand properly and in due time the real energies of ourpeople. The truly great in every walk of science and literature havebeen generally patient students, and have lived, in tranquillity, to agood old age. The impatient ambition which scourges our people on tothe farthest stretch of their energies in any adopted pursuit, isinconsistent with the permanent and healthful character of a race. Itmade Rome great; but it left her people, as a race, so physicallyexhausted that the weakest tribes of the North dictated to her theterms of her degradation. The physical character of a nation mouldsits intellectual nature, and shapes its destinies. The study of healthis therefore the great study, and it will be found in all thingsaccordant with those loftier truths taught by the Great Physician. Strangers of intelligence often remark that, with unbounded means ofhappiness, affluence for every reasonable want, security against everydanger, and the high prerogatives of conscious and elevated freedom, we are still the most unhappy of the sons of Adam. They assert that wegrow old before our time; are restless, excitable, and ever worryingfor an attainment, in reference to some ruling passion beyond ourreach. Comfort, health, calmness, and content, are sacrificed to graspat something more. Our cheeks grow pale, our brows wrinkled, ourhearts clouded, from a settled, taught, established habit ofdiscontent with any position that is not the highest. There is much oftruth in all this, as every one who treads our crowded marts and findseach man, however prosperous, cankered with the thought that he is notprosperous enough, will admit. All this constitutes American energy;all this renders our country great in the world's eye; but does itconstitute happiness? It may be gravely doubted. The study of healthis essentially the study of happiness. Life is with our people, as ageneral rule, a thing of little value. Those who think, in a betterspirit, and remember its duties and its ends, will come to a differentconclusion, and regard the conservation of the even and steadyphysical energies of the body as superior in importance to any resultto be gained by the forced and unnatural efforts from which more isattained than nature sanctions. 

A work like the one before us is calculated to be of great service, and especially so if it be placed in the hands of children. It claims, and certainly deserves, no praise as an original work of science; butit has this merit--no ordinary one--that it communicates the mostimportant truths of physiology in language which any intelligent childcan understand; and does so in a manner that every moralist willcommend. 

 _The Fruits and Fruit Trees of America. By A. J. Downing. Published by Wiley & Putnam, New York. _

This work has been known to every scientific horticulturist andpomologist for many years. Its author has devoted a vigorous andenlightened intellect to this purest and noblest of pursuits; and haswon a reputation of which this work will form the coronal wreath. Thepast editions of this work, and they have been many, have elicited thestrongest praise here and abroad. The classic poets of every land havevalued the praise which rewarded their dedication of the firsttriumphs of the muse to subjects connected with the cultivation of thesoil, to the arts that rendered the breast of our common motherlovely, and wedded the labors which sustain life with the arts thatrender it happy. The work before us has an established reputation. Itis written by one whose labors upon this subject are known as wellabroad as here, and who has won the applause of all who regardpomology as worthy of an earnest support. He is the Prose Virgil ofour country. This work contains eighty-four colored engravings ofapples, pears, cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, raspberries, andstrawberries. These plates have been, at great expense, executed atParis, and are worthy of all commendation. Among those that seem to usworthy of especial commendation are, in the plums, the Columbia, theCoe's Golden Drop, and the Jefferson; among the pears, the Bartlett, the Bosc, the Flemish Beauty, the Frederick of Wurtemburg; among theapples, the Gravenstein, the Yellow Belle Fleur, the Dutch Mignonne, Ladies' Sweet, and Red Astrochan. All the plates are, however, good;and the work is, to all who love nature, invaluable. 

The leading horticultural societies of this country have recentlyendeavored to counteract the confusion which has heretofore prevailedin pomological nomenclature, by adopting this work as the Americanstandard; and we learn that it has been so recognized and adopted, inreference to this country, in London. Horticulture is greatly indebtedfor the advances it has made within the last few years to the authorof this work. He is well known to all those who cherish the science ofthe soil, as the popular editor of the Horticulturist, and as one ofthe ablest, most scientific and enthusiastic horticulturists andpomologists in the country. 

_Tristram Shandy. _--Original or not, Sterne gave to the literature ofthis language that which must last and should last. This edition, published by Grigg, Elliott & Co. , is cheap, and should be cheap, forit is got up for universal distribution. It is well illustrated byDarley. 

 _The Medical Companion, or Family Physician, Treating of the Diseases of the United States, &c. By James Ewell. _

This is a work long and well known to the nation; and the editionbefore us, being the tenth, is an enlargement and improvement on thosewhich have heretofore appeared. Dr. Chapman has pronounced it to beindisputably the most useful popular treatise on medicine with whichhe is acquainted; and a large number of the most celebrated professorsof the country, as Caldwell, Shippen, Barton, Woodhouse, and others, have very emphatically commended it to the confidence of the public. The edition before us is a great improvement upon those which havepreceded it, having, in addition to corrections resulting from theadvance of the science, a treatise on Hydropathy, Homoepathy, and theChronothermal system. It is published by Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co. , Philadelphia, and does, in general appearance and character, greatcredit to those enterprizing publishers. 

 _General Scott and his Staff. Comprising Memoirs of Generals Twiggs, Smith, Quitman, Shields, Pillow, Lane, Cadwallader, Patterson, and Pierce, and Colonels Childs, Riley, Harney and Butler, and Other Distinguished Officers Attached to General Scott's Army; Together with Notices of Gen. Kearney, Col. Doniphan, Fremont, and Others. Philadelphia: Grigg, Elliot & Co. _

This work embodies the floating intelligence which has reached us inrelation to the present Mexican war, and is illustrated by wood-cutsworthy of the text. We can say no more. This book is not inferior toothers which the curiosity of the community has invited, and willdoubtless sell, as they have sold, well. 

 _General Taylor and his Staff. Comprising Memoirs of Generals Taylor, Worth, Wool, and Butler, Cols. May, Cross, Clay, Hardin, Yell, Hays, and Other Distinguished Officers Attached to Gen. Taylor's Army. Philadelphia: Grigg, Elliot & Co. _

This volume seems to be as picturesque and as veritable as other worksof a like character, and is as well written and as well printed as thebest. Perhaps this is not saying much; but can we say more?

 _Lectures on the Physical Phenomena of Living Beings. By Carlo Matteuci, Professor in the University of Pisa. Translated by Jonathan Pereira, M. D. , F. R. S. Phila. : Lea & Blanchard. _

This work has passed through two editions in Italy, and one in France. A hasty examination of the volume has excited a degree of curiosityand admiration which a more careful perusal than we can now give itwill enable us hereafter to do justice to. 

 _Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and Other Poems. By Mrs. S. J. Hale. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. _

This beautiful volume is dedicated to the readers of the Lady's Book, (why not to its amiable proprietor?) of which she has long been anable and successful editor. We have not found time to examine thevolume page by page--that is a happiness reserved to us, and we feel, in so much, the richer in our capital of future enjoyment; but we knowthat Mrs. Hale is one of the purest, most powerful, truthful, andtasteful of our writers; and we are certain that the volume before usis worthy of more than praise. 

_Evangeline. _--This beautiful poem has been beautifully complimentedby an artist-poet whose contributions enrich our pages, ThomasBuchanan Read, or, as he has been aptly characterized by acontemporary, "the Doric Read. " The painting is worthy the subject, the artist, and the poet; and is one of the richest productions ofAmerican art. 

 _A Campaign in Mexico, or a Glimpse at Life in Camp. By one who has seen the Elephant. Phila. : Grigg & Elliott. _

This work, though, perhaps, beneath the dignity of a formal review, isstill good reading, and we have gone through its pages with pleasure. 

 _Principles of Physics and Meteorology. By J. Müller. First American edition, Revised and Illustrated with 538 engravings on wood, and two colored plates. Phila. : Lea & Blanchard. _

This treatise on Physics, by Professor Müller, is the first of aseries of works, on the different branches of science, now passingthrough the press of Bailliére, in London. The American editor hasmade many additions and improvements; and the work, as presented tothe public, is worthy of all praise and all patronage. 

 _The Primary School Reader--Parts First, Second, and Third. By Wm. D. Swan, Principal of the Mayhew Grammar School, Boston. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co. _

These volumes have been prepared to supply the want of a system forteaching reading in Primary Schools. The task has been well performed, and the series will be found of value both to the teacher and thetaught. 

 _Greene's Analysis. A Treatise on the Structure of the English Language, or the Analysis and Classification of Sentences and their Component Parts. With Illustrations and Exercises adapted to the use of schools. By Samuel J. Greene, A. M. , Principal of the Phillip's Grammar School, Boston. Published by Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co. _

The title of this volume sufficiently indicates its purposes andcharacter. It is a work calculated to contribute, in a considerabledegree, to improve the methods of teaching the English language. 

 _The Grammar School Reader, consisting of Selections in Prose and Poetry, with Exercises in Articulation. By William D. Swan. Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co. , Philadelphia. _

This work is well designed to correct prevailing vices ofarticulation. There is much room for reform in this branch ofeducation, even our best public speakers being guilty of provincialerrors, and faulty enunciation. The rules are lucidly explained, andthe selections made with taste. 

 _Swan's District School Reader. Same Publishers. _

This is a more advanced and more valuable branch of the same series ofclass books, and is designed for the highest classes of public andprivate schools. 

THE HOME JOURNAL. --This admirable periodical maintains and advancesits enviable reputation. With Morris & Willis as its editors, it needsno endorsement from its contemporaries. It must be, with such genius, tact and experience, all that a weekly periodical can be. We inviteattention to the advertisement upon the cover of this number of theMagazine. Those who know the Journal will complain that theadvertisers have not told half its merits. 

Transcriber's Note:

1. Page 133--corrected typo 'mizzen-rroyal' to 'mizzen-royal'

2. Page 135--corrected typo 'them erchant' to 'the merchant'

3. Page 137--punctuation mark at end of paragraph '... Not gone the voyage. , ' corrected to "

4. Page 139--period in sentence '... Of a Kentucky rifleman. I brought... ' corrected to a comma

5. Page 139--typo in '... I get acquaiuted with her?' corrected to 'acquainted'

6. Page 139--typo in '... I beg you wont get out' corrected to 'won't'

7. Page 140--typo in sentence "'Sartainly, sartainly, " said he... Changed to "'Sartainly, sartainly, ' said he... 

8. Page 140--typos in sentence '... Expect you early, gentlemem. Adieu--and with... ' corrected to '... Expect you early, gentlemen. Adieu'--corrected spelling mistake and added single quote mark

9. Page 140--comma at end of sentence '... Is she so handsome, Ben, ' changed to period

10. Page 140--single quotes added in sentence "Egad! you don't say so!", so resulting sentence reads "'Egad! you don't say so!'"

11. Page 140--later same sentence, corrected typo 'thonght' to 'thought'

12. Page 142--added missing single quote at start of sentence "Mr. Stewart, ' said Don Pedro... 

13. Page 143--removed extraneous single quote in sentence ... And answer me frankly. 'Do you really love... Sentence is part of a continuing quotation

14. Page 144--typo '... Make love à la modé?... ' corrected to 'à la mode... '

15. Page 144--typo 'wont' corrected to 'won't'

16. Page 145--single quote added at start of sentence "What!' cried Clara... 

17. Page 145--double quotes changed to single in sentence "'Oh Pedro!" continued his sister... 

18. Page 146--corrected typo 'an' in sentence '... But to cut an run, and favored... ' to 'and'

19. Page 148--typo 'Giacoma' corrected to 'Giacomo'

20. Page 158--typo 'hour's' in sentence '... Only a few hour's drive from... ' corrected to 'hours''

21. Page 158--colon at end of line 'At the sunny hour of noon:' changed to semi-colon

22. Page 162--typo 'interpretaion' corrected to 'interpretation'

23. Page 163--typo 'wtth' in sentence '... Much, compared wtth its village-like... ' corrected to 'with'

24. Page 166--typos in sentence '... Je sins un pr[=e]tre. ' corrected to '... Je suis un prêtre. '

25. Page 167--typo in sentence '... "How should I know, monsieur?, ' corrected to '"How should I know, monsieur?"'

26. Page 167, later--double quote added to sentence "Pretty--very pretty lodgers, said I. 

27. Page 168--extraneous double quote removed from sentence 'I knew from its position... '

28. Page 168--missing initial double quote added to sentence Oui, monsieur. "

29. Page 169--period substituted for comma at end of sentence '... At length, then?" said I, 30. Page 169--same error at end of '... Black upon his arm, "

31. Page 169--extraneous double quote removed from sentence '... Before me, dying!" The concierge... '

32. Page 170--added missing quote at end of sentence '... Cher?--it is a sad story. '

33. Page 171--extraneous " removed at end of sentence '... Had not found her friend. '

34. Page 171--extraneous " removed at end of sentence '... He is dead, too, then?'

35. Page 171--changed comma to period at end of line '.. Enchanted, wander evermore, '

36. Page 172--added quote at start of sentence 'Emma will have it that... '

37. Page 173--removed extra 's' from 'disinterestednesss'

38. Page 175--added missing quote at end of '... Flirts à discretion. '

39. Page 180--added 't' to word 'eloquenly'