← catalogue

Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII. No. 5. May 1848

by Various · English · Gutenberg #29262 · 355,646 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII.  No. 5.  May 1848
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII.  No. 5.  May 1848

Author: Various

Editor: Robert Taylor Conrad
        George R. Graham


        
Release date: June 28, 2009 [eBook #29262]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29262

Credits: Produced by David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
        http://www.pgdpcanada.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE VOL XXXII.  NO. 5.  MAY 1848 ***




Produced by David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net







[Illustration: J. Addison]

CLARA HARLAND

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine


GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1848.    NO. 5.

CLARA HARLAND.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]


CHAPTER I.

I am no visionary--no dreamer; and yet my life has been a ceaseless
struggle between the realities of everyday care, and a myriad of
shadowy phantoms which ever haunt me. In the crowded and thronged
city; in the green walks and sunny forests of my native hills; on the
broad and boundless prairie, carpeted with velvet flowers; on the blue
and dreamy sea--it is the same. I look around, and perceive men and
women moving mechanically about me; I even take part in their
proceedings, and seem to float along the tardy current upon which they
swim, and become a part--an insignificant portion--of the dull and
stagnant scene; and yet, often and often, in the busiest moment, when
commonplace has its strongest hold upon me, and I feel actually
interested in the ordinary pursuits of my fellow-beings, of a sudden,
a great curtain seems to fall around, and enclose me on every side;
and, instead of the staid and sober visages of the throng, vague and
shadowy faces gleam around me, and magnificent eyes, bright and
dreamy, glance and flash before me like the figures on a
phantasmagoria. In such moments, there comes over me a happy
consciousness that _this_ is the reality and all else a dull and
painful dream, from which I have escaped as by a great effort. The
dreamy faces are familiar to me, and their large, spiritual eyes
encounter mine with glances of pleasant recognition. My heart is glad
within me that it has found again its friends and old companions, and
the mental outline of the common world, faintly drawn by memory,
becomes more and more dim and indistinct, like the surface of the
earth to one who soars upward in a balloon, and is at length blended
with the gray shadows of forgotten thought, which disturb me no more.
But anon some rude and jarring discord, from the world below, pierces
upward to my ear, and the air becomes suddenly dark and dreary, and
dusty, and I fall heavily to earth again.

As years steal by, these fits of delightful abstraction become rarer
and rarer. My visions seem to have lost their substantiality; and even
when they do revisit me, they are thin and transparent, and no longer
hide the real world from my sight--yet they hold strange power over
me; and when they come upon my soul, although they do not all conceal
the real, yet they concentrate upon some casual object there, and
impart to it a spirituality of aspect and quality which straightway
embalms it in my heart. Thus do I invest the faces of friends with a
holiness and fervor of devotion which belongs not to them; and when I
have wreaked the treasures of my soul upon objects thus elevated above
their real quality, I find what a false vision I have been
worshiping--its higher qualities mingle again with my own thoughts,
whence they emanated, and the real object stands before me, low, dull,
and insipid as the thousands of similar ones by which it is
surrounded. Thus do I, enamored of qualities and perfections which
exist only in my own thought, continually cheat and delude myself into
the belief that a congenial spirit has been found, when some trivial
incident breaks the spell--the charms I loved glide back to my own
soul, and the charmer, unconscious of change in himself, wonders what
has wrought so sudden an alteration in me. Then come heart-burnings
and self-reproaches against those I have foolishly loved, of
treachery, hypocrisy, and ingratitude, which they cannot understand,
and over which I mourn and weep.

I had a friend once--not long ago, for the turf is still fresh over
his gentle breast--whose soul was fashioned like my own, save that he
was all softness, and wanted the hardness and commonplace which events
and years have given to me. For a long and delightful season we held
sweet converse together; and, although he was much younger than I, yet
was there no restraint or concealment between us. Every throb of his
heart, almost every evolution of his brain, found an echo in me. I was
his mirror--a fountain in which he contemplated himself. From _him_ I
never dreamed of treachery, or selfishness, or ingratitude--and he
alone did not deceive me. He never gave me pain but once--and who
shall tell the agony of that hour, when his hand ceased to return the
pressure of my eager fingers, and the dark curtain of death shut out
the light of his dear eyes from my soul! Yet, after the anguish was
over, and I had laid him in the fragrant earth, amongst the roots of
happy flowers, where the limpid brook murmurs its soft and
never-ending requiem, and the birds come every night to dream and
sleep amid the overhanging branches, although my mortal sense was all
too dull to realize his presence, yet in my _soul_ I felt that he was
still with me. No midnight breeze came sighing through the dewy
moonlight, or brought the exhalations of the stars upon its wings,
that did not speak to me of him; and ever when I prayed, I knew that
he was near me, mingling, as of old, his soul with mine.

Poets may sing of love, and romantic youths may dream they realize the
soft delusion; strong hearts may swear they break and wither away with
unrequited passion, and keen brains may be turned by the maddening
glances of woman's eyes; but all these to me seem weak and common
emotions when compared with the intenseness of man's friendship--that
pure, devoted identification with each other which two congenial souls
experience when the alloy of no sexual or animal passion mingles with
the devotion of the spirit. I could go through fiery ordeals, or
submit with patience to the keenest tortures, both of mind or body, so
that I felt the sustaining presence of one real friend; while, if
alone, my heart shrinks from the contest, and retires dismayed upon
itself.

But my poor friend was in love, and _his_ love was as pervading and
absorbing as the fragrance of a flower, or the light of a star. The
woman he had chosen for his idol--the shrine at which his pure
devotions of heart and soul were offered--was a gay and beautiful
Creole from New Orleans, who, with her mother, and a young gentleman
who appeared in the capacity of friend, spent the summer months in the
North. They stopped at the Carlton, where my friend was boarding, and
the acquaintance had been formed quite accidentally. The lady was
beautiful, bewitching, and very tender; and, without stopping to
inquire as to the consequences, or to assure himself that he had the
least chance of success, Medwin fell desperately and hopelessly in
love in a few days. I was soon made aware of the state of the case,
for he had no secrets from me; and, foreseeing that he might very
easily have deceived himself entirely in taking for granted that the
young lady's affections were not pre-engaged, I begged him to be
cautious, and not throw away his regards upon an object, perhaps,
unattainable--perhaps even unworthy of them. I represented to him that
ladies in the South were usually not very long in falling in love; and
it was altogether probable that Clara Harland was already engaged to
the gentleman who had accompanied her and her mother, and who was
evidently a favored acquaintance. Charles, however, infatuated with
his passion, was deaf to my remonstrances, and the very next day
sought and obtained an interview, in which he declared his passion,
and was made happy by the beautiful Creole. She, however, cautioned
him to be on his guard, as her companion had for some time been a
suitor for her hand, and was a great favorite with her mother, who had
frequently and earnestly urged her to accept his attentions. The fair
girl avowed, with flashing eyes, that she loved him not, and had never
loved before she met with Medwin. "How," she exclaimed with unwonted
energy, "can dear mamma suppose that I shall ever become enamored of
that coarse, ferocious, unintellectual man? He has not a generous or
delicate sympathy in his nature, and is as rude in heart and feeling
as in manner. Beware, however, my dear Charles," continued she, with
earnestness, "of Mr. Allington. He is a bold, bad man, whom habits and
associations have made haughty, imperious, cold-blooded, and cruel;
and I tremble for you when he shall learn what has this day passed
between us. Beware of him, for _my_ sake; and, oh! promise me, dearest
Charles, that, whatever may be the consequence of what we now have
done, you will never fight with him."

Charles smiled, and pressed her hand. "Do not alarm yourself,
dearest," said he, "I love you too well to rashly expose myself to
danger. I have ever entertained a just horror of the inhuman and
barbarous practice at which you hint; and beside," continued he,
earnestly, fixing his eyes upon her face with such tenderness that the
blood rushed unconsciously to her temples beneath that dear gaze,
"since your words of hope and love to me to-day, existence possesses
new value in my eyes. Be assured I shall not rashly peril it."

They parted with kind looks and a timid pressure of the hands. Medwin
firmly resolved, let what would happen, to keep his promise to his
beautiful Creole; and Clara, convinced that, although she had been
bred and educated in the midst of a community where not to fight was
of itself dishonorable, she should be _entirely_ satisfied with what
the world, or even her own mother should say, about his cowardice and
want of honor. Poor girl! she had sadly miscalculated both the effects
of the act she had advised, and the strength of her own resolution.

In a few days Mrs. Harland suddenly announced her determination of
returning to New Orleans, and Clara sadly and tremblingly prepared
herself to take leave of her lover. He came--was told by her of her
mother's resolution to depart, which she was at no loss in tracing to
the advice of Allington--and was made alive and happy again by Charles
assuring her that he himself should start for New Orleans, although by
another route, on the very day she departed.

"Oh, now I know that you do love me, indeed!" said the beautiful girl,
while she pressed her lover's head to her dainty bosom, and, kissing
his forehead, ran out of the room.


CHAPTER II.

"Well, these d----d Yankees _are_ all a pack of cowards, after all,
and I will never defend them again," said a young Creole, as he met
Mr. Allington one morning, at the Merchants' Exchange in New Orleans.
"Not fight, and after being challenged on account of as lovely a woman
as Clara Harland! Why, what the devil did he take the trouble of
following you all the way from New York for, if he didn't mean to
_fight_ you?"

"Oh, nonsense! my dear St. Maur," replied Allington, "you don't
understand the laws of honor, as they are construed at the North.
There, my dear fellow, every thing is regulated by law; and if a
fellow treads on your corns, slanders you behind your back, or steals
your mistress, the only remedy is 'an action for damages,' and,
perhaps, a paragraph in a newspaper."

"But what says she herself to the cowardly fellow's refusal to fight
you? I suppose that now, of course, she will think no more of the
puppy, and return to Allington and first love."

"I know not--for I have not seen her these four days. But if this
beggarly attorney's clerk document is to be believed," continued
Allington, pulling a letter from his pocket, "she herself expressly
commanded him not to fight."

"Oh, do let us hear it!" cried St. Maur, and half a dozen young bloods
without vests, and with shirt-bosoms falling over their waistbands
nearly to the knee. "Do let us hear, by all means, what the
white-livered fellow has to say for himself."

"No," replied Allington, hesitatingly; "that I think would be
dishonorable; although--I--don't know--the d----d fellow wouldn't
fight, and so I am not certain that I am not released--there, St.
Maur, what the devil are you at?"

But St. Maur had snatched the missile from Allington's half-extended
hand, and mounting one of the little marble julep-tables, and
supporting himself against a massive granite pillar that ran from the
ground-floor to the base of the dome, he began reading, while the
company, now increased to half a hundred morning loungers, pressed
eagerly round to hear. As my poor friend is dead, and there are none
whose feelings can now be wounded by its publication, here is the
letter.

     "SIR,--Hours of an agonized struggle, in comparison
     with which mere _death_ would have been an infinite
     relief, have nerved me for the task of telling you,
     calmly and deliberately, that I take back my acceptance
     of your challenge. When I received it, I was forgetful
     of my sacred promise, and acted only from the impulse
     of the moment. Had your friend staid an instant, the
     matter should then have been explained. As it is, I am
     positively compelled, much as my heart revolts at it,
     to drag a lady into my explanation. _She_, (I need not
     write her name,) bound me by a solemn and most sacred
     promise--to violate which would be dishonor--that I
     _would not_ fight you. I must and will keep my word,
     although I have seen enough of public opinion, during
     the few days of my sojourn here, to know that by doing
     so I am covering myself with a load of infamy which I
     may find it impossible to bear.

     "But enough; my course is taken, and I must abide the
     consequences, whatever they may be. I, therefore, sir,
     have to beg pardon, both of yourself and your friend,
     for the trouble this affair has already occasioned you.

     "This letter is directed to you without the knowledge
     or consent of the gentleman who was to have acted as my
     friend on the occasion; and he must, therefore, be held
     responsible for nothing.

     "Yours respectfully."

"A very pretty piece of argument and logic, eloquently urged, withal!"
said St. Maur, as he coolly folded the letter, and leaping upon the
floor, restored it to its owner.

"Hush!" said Allington, as he hastily deposited the letter in his
pocket, "there he is. Can he have been a witness to St. Maur's folly,
in reading the letter?"

All eyes turned instinctively to the further pillar in the large room,
against which was leaning my poor friend, his face perfectly livid,
and in an attitude as if he had fallen against the granite column for
support. Several of the young Creoles approached the place where he
stood; but there was something terrible in his aspect which made them
start back, and quietly turn into the great passage leading to the
street.

Medwin had recovered, if he had fainted, (which seemed probable,) and
his eye now glared like fire.

St. Maur, however, approached him.

"So, my good Yankee friend," said he, bowing in affected politeness,
"you did not like to risk Allington here with a pistol at twelve paces
from your body, eh? You are very right, Mr. Wooden Nutmeg; it would
not be safe!"

"Beware!" uttered Medwin, in such a deep and thrilling voice, that the
Creole nearly jumped off the floor; but, before he could make a step
backward, Medwin's open hand struck him a smart blow on the cheek.

"Ten thousand hell-fires exclaimed the astonished Frenchman, leaping
back and almost tumbling over Allington, in his amazement. "What does
he mean? I will have your heart's blood, sir, for this."

Medwin said nothing, but quietly handed the discomfited bully his
card, which, however, Allington snatched away.

"What, St. Maur," cried he, would you fight a coward--a published
poltroon? You know you dare not do it."

"Let me alone," cried the infuriated Frenchman. He has struck me, and
I will have his heart's blood. _Sacre nomme de Dieu!_" screamed he,
forgetting his usual polished manner along with his English, and
leaping about like a madman. "_Donnez moi son gage!_"

"Not now, I tell you, not now. Come along and I will satisfy you in
ten minutes that you cannot fight that _coward_," emphasizing the last
word, so that Medwin could not fail to hear.

"Mr. Allington," said Medwin, coming forward into the middle of the
group, now reduced to some dozen persons--for an altercation is not of
such rarity as to create any particular excitement there--"after the
base and dishonorable use you have this day permitted to be made of a
private letter, I am sincerely glad that circumstances rendered it
impossible for me to treat you as a gentleman; but as to this person,
(pointing to St. Maur,) I can easily satisfy him that he will run no
risk of losing his reputation by honoring me with his notice. I have
the honor to refer Monsieur St. Maur to Mr. ----, now at the St.
Charles, whose character for honor is too well known throughout the
country to be disputed." And, bowing low, Medwin left the room.

"Well, now this is a pretty scrape," said St. Maur, subsiding at once;
"and I don't see how I can avoid fighting him. He is not such a
cockroach!" and the Frenchman turned a little pale, despite his yellow
skin.

"Nonsense," replied Allington, "you shall do no such thing. In the
first place, I can't spare you; and in the next, if we can
irretrievably disgrace Medwin, so that he may be shunned by everybody,
I do not think the weak head of my Clara can withstand the storm; and
she will gradually learn to despise him, too. So take no further
notice of this matter; for a blow from a published coward carries no
more disgrace with it than a bite from a dog, or a kick from an ass.
You must help me out with my plans, too, in behalf of my charming
heiress, and I'll be sure to remember you in my will. Let's take a
julep."

For three days Medwin waited in an agony of impatience to hear from
St. Maur, but not a word came--and he began to despair. Everywhere he
went he was regarded with significant glances, and pointed at, while a
disdainful whisper ran round the room, in which he could always
distinguish the words, "white-livered Yankee," "coward," or some
equally obnoxious epithet. He saw the cruel game that was playing
against him. He had forgotten that, in refusing to fight with
Allington, he had rendered it perfectly safe for every whipster in the
community to insult him; and he now became suddenly aware that he had
involved himself in a dilemma from which it was impossible for him to
escape.

In the midst of these reflections--while life had become intolerable,
and infamy and disgrace dogged his steps like a shadow--he never
entertained a doubt of Clara's love and constancy, and looked forward
to the time when he might claim her as his bride, and, amid the milder
and manlier associations of his youth, regain that calmness and
self-respect which he had here so strangely lost. His position was, in
truth, a most wretched one. Opposed to the barbarous practice of
dueling, circumstances and his own loss of self-control had forced him
to _accept_ a challenge, and then recall that acceptance, and to offer
an insult to a stranger, for the express purpose of drawing out
another.

Upon the day after his refusal to fight with Allington, he had called
at Mr. Harland's, but was told that Clara had been taken suddenly
ill, and could not be seen. This was a new and deeper anxiety, added
to his already overburdened spirit; and he really had begun to be
deserted of hope, and to contemplate a speedy relief from the pains of
existence. Nothing but the confidence which he reposed upon Clara's
love, rendered the bright sunshine an endurable blessing to the sadly
distempered youth. But he could not see her. Day after day he called,
and always the same cold, formal reply--"Miss Harland was yet very
ill, but in no danger, and could not be spoken with." Could he but see
her for an instant--could he touch her hand, or meet her smile, or
drink in the sweet music of her voice, he would feel his heart nerved
against every disaster, and would wait in patience; but all, all
alone, amid lowering brows, or sneering faces, which ever glowered
like phantoms about him--whether in reality, as he walked the streets,
or in dreams, as he tossed upon his pillow--it was too much. His heart
seemed to be on fire.

It was in this frame of mind, with reason tortured to her utmost power
of endurance, and insanity peeping into that soul which might so soon
become her own, that Medwin, while walking up the Shell-Road, and
looking wistfully at the muddy canal, which swam away sluggishly on
one hand, while the green and stagnant swamp stretched interminably
upon the other, that he was startled by the rapid approach of a
carriage, and the sound of gay and noisy mirth. He looked up. The
brilliant equipage of Mrs. Harland was hurrying by, and he had barely
time to distinguish Clara, looking as fresh and blooming as a newly
flowered rose, and laughing and chatting in a lively and even
boisterous manner with--Mr. Allington!

She leaned over the carriage-side as they whirled along, and, for an
instant, her eyes met those of her bewildered lover.


CHAPTER III.

Alas! poor, silly Clara! How dared you thus rudely tamper with a soul
of such exquisite and refined fire, that it constantly trembled and
fluttered around its earthly shrine, like the flame of burning
essence, as if doubtful whether to blaze or go out forever! Oh!
shallow-hearted woman! what a wide and glorious world of bright hopes
and angel aspirations--of beautiful thoughts and unutterable
dreamings--in all of which thou wert a part--hast thou crushed even as
the foolish child grinds the gay butterfly to powder between his
fingers. And art thou, indeed, so heartless a _coward_, that, because
men's tongues have dared to wag against the beloved of thy soul, thou
durst not own him thenceforth, and hast cast him off forever! Murmur
not, oh, woman! that thou art made the sport and plaything for rakes
and libertines to beguile a weary hour withal. Search thine own heart;
and, in that deep and dark recess, where lurk the demons of thy
destiny--pride, vanity, frowardness--behold reflected the blackness
and the _justice_ of thy fate! Who setteth his whole soul upon a
flower, and findeth its fragrance at last to be a deadly poison, if
he escape from its contact, placeth no more flowers in his bosom. In
vain they woo him with their beauteous eyes and breath of perfume. He
heeds them not, or, at best, plucks them disdainfully, to gaze upon in
listless indifference for a moment, and then cast them behind him, to
be crushed beneath the stranger's heel.

Clara's heart smote her to the quick as she caught that wild glance of
her lover, and saw the haggard ghost that looked out from those hollow
eyes. She screamed slightly, and sunk back in the carriage as pale as
marble. Allington and her mother exchanged glances, and were silent,
while the young man made a motion, as if he would support her in his
arms, and the carriage was turned homeward, and the horses urged to
their utmost speed. Clara made no resistance to the attentions of
Allington, and it was doubtful whether she was conscious--so pale, and
cold, and pulseless were her beautiful cheeks and temples; but a
tremulous quivering of the upper lip told of a storm that raged
within.

By the time she arrived at home Clara had recovered herself
completely, and, pushing aside the arm of Allington, almost rudely,
she sprang upon the _banquette_ and into the house; and, turning upon
him a look of lively indignation, darted up stairs to her chamber.
Here she was quickly rejoined by her mother, whose obtuse apprehension
had at length discovered that something was wrong, and who now came to
offer her maternal consolations.

"Mother!" exclaimed Clara, the moment she entered the room, "I am a
wretch. It was I who compelled Medwin to promise me, upon his honor as
a man, that he would not fight Allington; and now that all the world
has frowned upon him, _I_, too, have turned recreant, and cast him
off. Mother, speak to me no word of command or remonstrance. I will
never see Mr. Allington again; and I will this very hour go to Medwin,
and throw myself on my knees before him. Yes, we shall be happy!"

"My child, you are excited just now, and I beg you to wait until
morning. We will then talk the matter over calmly; and if you cannot
really be happy without Mr. Medwin, why, my child, I will not urge you
further. Come, dear girl, go to bed now, and to-morrow you will be
yourself again."

With gentle and soothing care--for the _mother_ was now all aroused in
the callous heart of this worldly woman, and bent every accent and
every motion into grace and kindness--Mrs. Harland at length succeeded
in calming the excitement of her child, and inducing her to consent to
wait until the next morning, when, if she wished, her mother said,
Medwin should be sent for. "I am sure, my child," she said, as she
kissed her and bid her good-night, "I have acted for the best, and
have nothing but your happiness in view."

And now she was alone; and leaving her bed, she leaned against the
window, while the shadowy curtain of evening, which falls in that
climate suddenly down from the sky, shut out the day, and seemed, at
the same moment, to shut the light from her heart. Then, with rapid
steps, her little feet paced the luxurious carpet of her apartment,
while her heart beat loudly and still more rapidly in her bosom. Again
she tried to rest, but the taper which she had lighted threw such
ghastly shadows upon the walls, which seemed to wave and beckon her,
that she leaped from the bed in agony, and almost screamed outright.
Hours passed slowly and sadly, and the short, sharp ringing of the
watchman's club upon the pavement beneath her window, mingled with the
chimes of the old cathedral clock as it struck midnight--and still the
poor frightened girl could neither sleep nor compose herself. Once,
indeed, she had fallen into a kind of slumber, curtained with such
horrid dreams as made it torture instead of rest. She saw her lover
with his bright eye turned sweetly upon her, as of old, and his
beautiful locks resting upon her shoulder, while she held his hand
upon her throbbing heart, and he whispered dear words and precious
sighs into her willing ear. But anon the paleness of death stole over
that manly brow--the lips fell apart, white and ghastly, and the noble
form fell down at her feet, a stiffened corse. She shrieked aloud in
her agony, and awoke. The moon had risen, and was throwing a broad and
brilliant stream of light into the apartment, and the busy breeze,
fresh from the fragrant sea, whispered its musical noises through the
waving curtains of her couch.

    *    *    *    *    *

At length the white blaze of the moon went out, and the misty morn
looked dim and sad over the sleeping city. Throwing a cloak about her,
Clara hurried down the stairs, and, opening the door softly, found
herself in the street, at an hour she had never before been there.
What a strange and dreary aspect every thing seemed to wear! The
windows of the houses, as she passed, were all closed, and no one
could be seen but dozens of loitering negroes returning from market,
or here and there some industrious landlady with a small basket of
vegetables on her arm, and closely veiled, hurrying along as if to
escape observation, followed by a servant with the day's provisions in
a large basket, which she carried steadily upon her head. Every one
who met her turned and stared curiously; and as she hurried over the
long crossing of Canal street, and threaded her way between the hacks
that had already taken their station, she felt that rude eyes, and
ruder sneers were upon her. She paused not for an instant, however,
but redoubled her speed until she reached the private entrance to the
St. Charles, where, leaning for a moment against a column, she
beckoned a woman from the saloon of the baths into the vestibule, and,
putting a piece of money into her hand, whispered, "Find out the
chamber of Mr. Medwin. He is very sick, and a dear friend of mine--I
must see him immediately."

The woman disappeared up the stairs leading to the "office" of the
hotel, and, returning in a moment, made a sign for Clara to follow.

As they approached, a noise and bustle were apparent at the further
end of the corridor, and several servants were hurrying in and out, as
if some sudden accident had occurred. Clara's guide pointed out
Medwin's room, and she rushed in--feeling certain in her heart that
her lover was dying.

He lay stiff and stark upon the sofa, with a few white froth bubbles
gathered upon his lips, and a letter clasped tightly in his hand. It
seemed that he was not yet dead, for a physician, who had been hastily
summoned, was attempting to force open his mouth, as if to administer
a restorative to the dying man. As Clara approached, he stared in
astonishment, but she heeded him not, and exclaiming, "Oh, Charles,
what frightful dream is this!" threw herself on her knees before him.

Life rallied for an instant, and he opened those wild, fearful eyes.
Oh! what a world of wretchedness and despair was in that glance! He
knew her; and conquering, with a convulsive effort, the agony which
was withering up the last drops of life, caught her to his heart,
exclaiming,

"Clara, thou art forgiven! I am _not_ a coward; for I can even die and
leave thee thus. Farewell! be happy!"

    *    *    *    *    *

All was over. My poor friend had fought his last battle, and his
antagonist and conqueror was Death. That pure and noble spirit, with
all its wild and restless fever-dreams, "sleeps well" amid the
beautiful solitudes of Cypress Grove Cemetery--the _home of the
stranger_--where so many proud and buoyant hearts crumble beneath the
golden air, new filled with odorous dew. And I wait patiently, yet
sadly, for the hour which is to restore me to the friend of my bosom.




THE ANCIENT AND THE MODERN MUSE.

BY LYMAN LONG.

    The Muse, in times more ancient, made
      The grove's thick gloom her dwelling-place,
    And, queen-like, her proud sceptre swayed
      O'er a submiss and trembling race.

    When stirred her breath the sleeping trees,
      Awe-struck, with fearful feet they trod,
    And when her voice swelled on the breeze,
      Adoring bowed, as to a God!

    Her wildly murmured strains they caught,
      As echoes from the spirit-world,
    Till reeled the brain, to frenzy wrought,
      With mixt amaze and rapture whirled!

    Thus stern, retired, she swayed the earth,
      Till, as new dawned an age of gold,
    A happier era led her forth
      To dwell with men, like gods of old.

    To dwell with us--to roam no more!
      _Ours_ is this golden age of bliss!
    She comes with blessings rich in store;
      And, like a sister, whispers peace.

    Not now with awe-inspiring air,
      But gentle as the meek-eyed dove,
    And clad in smiles that angels wear,
      And with an aspect full of love.

    She greets us at our fire-sides, when
      Sweet looks to accents sweet respond,
    And breathing soft her tender strain,
      More closely knits the silken bond.

    Unmingled joy her smiles afford,
      Where meet the mirthful, social throng,
    As, gathered round the festive board,
      Our healths she pledges in a song.

    She meets us in our private walks,
      'Mid groves that fairy glens embower,
    When Morning gems her purple locks,
      Or Vesper rules the silent hour.

    Her hand, upon the beech's rind,
      Marks well, for fair Belinda's eyes,
    (Else vainly murmured to the wind,)
      Thy flame, young Damon, and thy sighs.

    Stern Toil, beneath her gentle sway,
      Well pleased, unbends his rugged brow--
    With Bloomfield chants the rustic lay,
      Or guides with Burns the daisied plough.

    Her form appears the bow of peace,
      Upon the clouds that darken life,
    Now bidding Sorrow's tears to cease,
      And staying now the hand of Strife.

    She smiles on me, no bard inspired,
      But wand'rer o'er life's arid waste,
    Who, fainting, halting, parched and tired,
      One cordial, nectared drop would taste.

    Companion of the pure in heart,
      She tunes the lyre to David's flame,
    And rapt, as mortal scenes depart,
      She hymns the heaven from whence she came!




THERESA, OR GENIUS AND WOMANHOOD.

A TALE OF DOMESTIC LIFE.

BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.


CHAPTER I.

    What sad experience may be thine to bear
          Through coming years;
    For womanhood hath weariness and care,
          And anxious tears;
    And they may all be thine, to brand the brow
    That in its childish beauty sleepeth now.

Theresa Germaine was a child some six years of age when I saw her
first, nearly twenty-five years ago. It is a long time to look back
on; but I well remember the bright, winning face, and cordial manners
of the little lady, when she would come to the parsonage and enliven
our tranquil hearts by her gay, spontaneous glee. She was full of life
and buoyancy; there was even then a sort of sparkling rapture about
her existence, a keen susceptibility of enjoyment, and an intense
sympathy with those she loved, which bespoke her, from the first, no
ordinary being. Ah, me! I have lived to see all that fade away, and to
feel grateful when the dust was laid on the brow I had kissed so often
in an old man's fondness--but let that pass. I must write calmly, or
tears will blind me; and I have undertaken the task of recording
Theresa's experience, not to tell how well we loved her, but to
strive, however feebly and imperfectly, to lay bare some of the
peculiarities of genius, when found in sad combination with a woman's
lot.

There was little marked or unusual in Theresa's outward life; her
visible griefs were such as come to all, but the history of her inner
being--the true and unseen life--was one of extremes. It was her fate
to feel every thing vividly; and her joys and troubles were fully
realized by the impassioned depth of her nature; and if, in my loving
remembrances, I dwell somewhat bitterly on the portion society gave
one who richly deserved its homage, and singularly needed its
indulgences; if I portray too warmly the censure and neglect that made
her path so full of trial, let me not be misunderstood. I would give
no sanction to the hasty disregard of appearances which is the
besetting sin of exalted and independent intellect. Under all
circumstances it is an unwise experiment to transgress established
rules; and in a woman, however rarely she may be gifted, it is a rash
and hazardous thing to defy public opinion. Wearying and frivolous as
many of society's conventionalities are, there is much wisdom in them;
they are indispensible links in the chain binding together "all sorts
of people," and she who breaks them knowingly, sins against one of her
greatest safeguards.

Theresa's father, a man of good birth and great acquirements, but
ruined fortunes, had come to reside in our village about five years
before the commencement of this story. She was then his only child,
his elder treasures having been laid, one after another, in distant
graves. Her mother was a tranquil, quiet woman, and still retained the
traces of a beauty which must once have been remarkable. She was a
person of placid temper and mediocre mind, but wavering in judgment,
and not in the least calculated to control the impetuosity, or guide
the enthusiasm of her ardent and reckless child. This Mr. Germaine
seemed acutely to feel; and I could read his fears in the fixed gaze
of prophetic anxiety which he would often rivet on the varying
countenance of his happy and unconscious daughter. His health was
already gradually declining, and he evidently dreaded the future, when
his favorite should be left in many respects guardianless amid the
world's temptations. In my capacity as pastor, I was a frequent
visiter at the little cottage, where, in subdued resignation he was
patiently wearing out his life; and we at length acquired that mental
intimacy which men are apt to feel when they have spoken together of
life's highest aims and holiest hopes. I was many years his
senior--for it is with the tremulous hand of old age that I write
these lines, and I felt sincere and admiring sympathy for one who,
through various perplexities and misfortunes, still retained serenity
and peace.

We were sitting together one starlight evening, in the small
vine-draperied porch of his simple dwelling. Mrs. Germaine was
occupied with household duties, and Theresa, after having asked us
both a thousand unanswerable questions, had reluctantly obeyed her
mother's summons to retire to rest.

"I cannot describe to you," said my companion, "the fear with which I
anticipate the hereafter for that child; she is one whose blended
characteristics are rare, and her fate can have no medium. Were she a
boy, and possessed of those traits, I should have no dread, for with
such energies as are even now visible in her temperament,
circumstances can be almost controlled, but it is a dangerous thing
for her own happiness, for a woman to be thus endowed."

"I think you are too desponding," was my reply; "it appears to me that
talent is necessarily in a great degree its own reward; and though it
is the fashion to talk and write much of the griefs of intellect, I
believe human sorrow is more equally divided than we acknowledge, and
that the joys resulting from high gifts far overbalance their trials."

"It may be so generally," Mr. Germaine answered, "but my experience
and observation have impressed me differently. I never knew,
personally, but one woman of genius, and she was a mournful instance
of the truth of my convictions, and of the fatal folly of striving to
pass beyond the brazen walls with which prejudice has encompassed
womanhood. She was young, fair, and flattered, and fascinating above
any comparison I can think of. Of course, she was aware of her
capabilities--for ignorance in such cases is not possible, and
naturally self-confident, she grew impatient for praise and power. Her
affections, unfortunately, were warm and enduring; but she sacrificed
them, to promote her desire for distinction, and unable, though so
superior, to escape the heart-thraldom, which is the destiny of her
sex, she died at last, more of disappointment than disease, with her
boundless aspirations all unfulfilled. I fancy I can trace in Theresa
many points of resemblance to her I have mentioned--for I knew her in
early childhood. Solicitude on this subject is the only anxiety I
cannot patiently conquer, and which makes the prospect of parting
painful." He paused for a moment, and then, as if to turn his
reflections from their depressing course, he said, "I have been
reading to-day some extracts from Mrs. Hemans' works. As I grow older
and more thoughtful, such things touch me deeply, and I experience a
constantly increasing interest in the products of female talent. There
is an intensity of sentiment, a pure tenderness of heart about such
writings generally, which, in my present tranquil state of mind, are
in harmony with my heavenward reflections, and the ideal spirit
pervading them, soothes my imagination. In my restless and hopeful
years I sought literary recreation from far different sources, but now
that I feel myself a pilgrim, and stand surrounded by shadows on the
verge of an unknown hereafter, I prize inexpressibly these glimpses of
paradise which are God's precious gift to every true and intellectual
woman."

It was thus my friend often spoke, for it was a theme on which he
always delighted to dwell. I have never seen any one whose reverence
for woman's gifts was so strong, and who appreciated with such
sincerity the moral loveliness of her perfected nature. It was about
this time that the birth of a second daughter added a new tie to Mr.
Germaine's life; and the event saddened him more than I believed any
earthly event could have done. The feeling was probably a natural one,
but it grieved me to see how he strove to crush every impulse of
tenderness toward the little one he must leave so soon.

It would have been well for Theresa had her father lived to view the
ripening of the faculties whose blossoming he already traced with the
prophetic gaze of parental affection; but she was destined to tread
her path alone, and to know in their wide extent both the triumphs and
the penalties of superiority. She was seven years of age when her
father died, leaving herself and her sister to their mother's care. I
need not relate here the many interesting interviews between Mr.
Germaine and myself, which were more and more touching as his
departure drew near. With an earnestness unutterably impressive, he
implored my watchful solicitude for his eldest daughter, entreating me
to afford her that guidance from experience, which she must inevitably
need.

"Be gentle with her," he said, "but not too indulgent; she will
require strictness of management, for with such impetuosity of nature
her judgment must often err. She is too young as yet for me to be able
to foresee the particular bent her character will assume, but I
entreat you to be her candid friend and firm adviser when she will
assuredly want both."

On the trying scenes of that period I will not longer linger; for
there is something unutterably solemn in the tranquil passing away of
a good man's soul, something that hallows to our thoughts even the
fear-fraught moment of dissolution from which mere mortality
instinctively shrinks. Yet it is a sad thing when so much worth and
wisdom leaves the earth forever; and to those who realize the
inestimable advantages and useful influences of a high example, it is
a mournful sight to look on the closing sunset of one who evidenced
the beautiful union between holiness and humanity.


CHAPTER II.

    Spirit-like fair forms are pressing
          'Round her now,
    With their angel hands caressing
          Her pale brow.

    Words of solace they are chanting,
          Sweet and clear,
    That evermore will now be haunting
          Her life here.

I visited the cottage frequently, and for several months after Mr.
Germaine's death, it was the scene of no ordinary grief. Mrs. Germaine
bore her bereavement patiently--for it was an event she had long
anticipated with womanly meekness and resignation; but she mourned
most deeply--for it is a great mistake to think commonplace persons
deficient in vividness of feeling. I believe their emotions are as
keen, and generally more enduring, than those of more decided minds,
from the very fact of their possessing few self-resources to divert
the course of affliction. Be this as it may, Mrs. Germaine was soon,
in all that was apparent, the quiet and anxious mother she had always
been; and if she suffered still, it was in the silence of a heart that
had no language for its sorrows. Far wilder and more vehement was the
passionate and unresisted tide of Theresa's suffering; and for many
weeks she refused all the consolation that could be offered to a child
of her age. She would sit by my side and converse of her father, with
an admiration for his virtues, and an appreciation of his character
far beyond what I had supposed she could comprehend.

This violent emotion necessarily exhausted itself, as a heavy cloud
weeps itself away; but for a long time she was painfully dejected, and
her face lost its childishness of expression, and wore a look of
appealing, unspeakable melancholy I never remarked on any other
countenance. It was the "settled shadow of an inward strife," the
outward impress of a mind suddenly aroused to a knowledge of trial,
and never again to sleep in unconsciousnes; and often in after years,
the same inexpressible look darkened her brow through the tumult of
conflicting impulses, and amid the war of triumph and pain.

I have said that Mr. Germaine's pecuniary circumstances were limited;
but for some time previous to his illness, he had, at the expense of
many a personal comfort, laid by a sum sufficient to procure for
Theresa all the advantages of an accomplished education. His wife had
frequently remonstrated against the innumerable little privations he
voluntarily endured for this favorite purpose, for she attached more
value to physical than mental gratifications, and could scarcely
sympathize with his disinterested solicitude for his daughter's
intellectual culture. It had been a great happiness to him to trace
the gradual development of her intelligence, and to direct her simple
studies; and it had been one of his last requests that I would in this
respect occupy his place until she should be old enough to require
other superintendence. His love was one of hope and trust, and he had
diligently sown the seed, though he knew he never might behold its
ripening.

For two months I made no attempt to alter the current of her thoughts,
believing it better to allow her sensibilities to exhaust themselves
without interruption. When she grew calmer, I proposed that she should
come every morning to the parsonage to resume her daily studies; and,
as I had hoped and anticipated, she eagerly acceded to the
arrangement. And thus commenced the cultivation of a mind, whose early
maturity bore a rich harvest of recompense; and thus dawned that
loving anxiety for my pupil's welfare which realized many of my life's
younger wishes, and lent so sunny and living an interest to my
solitary and remembering years.

It was with some difficulty and after much remonstrance that I induced
Theresa's application to the graver branches of acquirement, which,
with my old-fashioned ideas of education, I considered indispensable
even to a woman. At last, I believe, it was only through affection for
me that she yielded her taste, and consented to devote her mind to
such acquisitions. Her inclinations were all for what was beautiful or
imaginative; she early loved whatever touched her feelings or awoke
the vivid impressions of her young fancy; and I found some trouble in
curbing within rational limits her natural and fascinating
prepossessions. As she grew older, and passed what she deemed the
drudgery of learning, and drew nearer, with rapid steps, to Thought's
promised land of compensation, we constantly read and conversed
together. We dwelt on the inspired pages of the poets, I, with old
age's returning love for the romantic, and increasing reverence for
the true, and she, with the intense, bewildered delight of a spirit
that hoped all things, and a simple faith that trusted the future
would brightly fulfill all the fairest prospects which poetry could
portray.

Her disposition was sanguine to an extreme, with the happy faculty of
believing what she hoped; and she possessed in a remarkable degree the
power of expressing and defining her ideas and emotions, and rendering
them visible by words. She never paused for an expression, or selected
an injudicious one; and her fluency was the result of a mingled
vividness and clearness of intellect, blended with artist-skill, and
all the fervor of dawning and dreaming womanhood.

Her affections were spontaneous and impassioned, at once impulsive and
enduring, and, like all enthusiasts, she was frequently governed by
prejudice. Her little sister was a child of rare beauty and
gentleness, and was Theresa's perfect idol. She was perpetually
contriving pleasant surprises for her favorite; and it was her delight
to wreath flowers around Amy's golden curls, and to add a thousand
fantastic decorations to her delicate and seraphic loveliness. They
would have made an exquisite picture, those two sisters, so different
in age and character; the one so fair, with childhood's silent and
fragile beauty, the other glowing with life and premature thought,
already testing the "rapture of the strife," and revealing in the
intense gaze of her dark, restless eyes, the world of gleaming visions
within whose enchantment she lived.

It was when my pupil had reached her fourteenth year, that, in
obedience to her father's written directions, she prepared to leave
our tranquil home, to enter the school of the convent, near the city
of ----. I know not why Mr. Germaine wished her placed there, for he
was himself a Protestant, but the advantages of instruction were at
that time tempting. Probably, in dwelling on them, he overlooked the
risk of placing his daughter where the unnumbered graces of mind and
manner veil another creed, and make it alluring, and where the
imaginative and gorgeous pomp of a different faith were to be placed
in their most attractive colors before her unsuspecting eyes. It was
with many a misgiving, many a secret fear, that I anticipated
Theresa's removal from my watchfulness; and I warned her with the most
sincere affection, against the temptations of various kinds which she
would probably encounter in her new abode. Early in the autumn we were
to part with her, and the sweet summer, with its wealth of fruit and
flowers was now around us, and our village, in its garlands of
blossoms, looked its loveliest.


CHAPTER III.

    O! were it thus! had we, indeed, the gift,
    Though human, our humanity to chain;
    Could we in truth our restless spirits lift,
    And never feel the weight of earth again,
    Then would I leave the sorrows I bewail,
    To clasp the cross, the cloister, and the veil.

Some weeks previous to the time at which my last chapter terminates, I
had received a letter from an old friend, requesting me to inform him
if any dwelling in our vicinity was for sale, as he was anxious to
leave the city, and bring his family to a quieter home. I answered his
inquiries satisfactorily, and now daily expected him to arrive, and
make final arrangements for his removal.

He came at last, bringing with him his only son, a boy somewhat older
than Theresa. Gerald Brandon was pale and feeble from recent illness,
and I persuaded his father to leave him with me, until his new
residence was prepared to receive its inmates. He gladly assented, and
accordingly returned to town, while Gerald remained at the parsonage.
The next two months were among the happiest my memory recalls; and
they were the last untroubled ones Theresa passed in her secluded
home. From their threshold she glided to a new life--to that conflict
of will and purpose, that tempest of impulse and disappointment which
finally subdued her spirit and wearied out her existence. But as yet
all was serene and full of promise; and the golden hues of her sunny
dreams invested our simple pleasures with varied and poetic interest.
My young guest was a gentle, reflective boy of more than ordinary
capabilities, but enfeebled by ill-health, and a victim to the
lassitude which frequently follows protracted bodily suffering. He was
too placid and pensive for his age, and his mind, though refined and
harmonious, had nothing of that restless, energetic brilliancy which
sparkled through Theresa's thoughts. He, however, eagerly participated
in her accustomed studies, and contributed his share to our literary
recreations. I sometimes looked on the two with that involuntary wish
for the power of prophecy which so often rises upon us, and which in
great mercy we are denied, and would frequently strive to shadow forth
the destiny of beings who were now reveling in the brief, bright
interval between childhood and the world. Beautiful era! time of star
and flower, when the "young moon is on the horizon's verge," and the
young heart, lovelier still, seems on the brink of rapture, and
hallows existence with its own unshadowed and seraphic light. We have
cause to be grateful that this episode is transient, that reality
contradicts its hopes, for could its illusions last, who would pause
to think of heaven, with so much of enchanting fulfillment around us
here.

It was with instinctive pride that I felt my favorite's mental
superiority to her companion, and noticed the genuine admiration with
which Gerald acknowledged it. He was astonished at her variety of
acquirement, her daring originality of opinion, and her unstudied
readiness of expression. He was gratified, and it may be, flattered,
by the disinterested solicitude she evinced for his enjoyment, and the
readiness with which she discarded any scheme of amusement in which
his health prevented his participation. There is a period in youth
when the affections feel as a strong necessity, the desire for
sympathy, when love is yet a stranger, and friendship is as intense as
passion. Dearer than any after friend, is the one who first fills this
yearning vacancy; and though as time wears on, and separation follows,
that tie may be broken never to be re-knit, there is a halo around it
still, and it is made almost holy by the blended tints of hope and
trust, and tenderness, that, with reflected light, shine back upon its
memory.

It was the evening before Theresa's departure, and we were all
assembled at the cottage. It was impossible to feel very sad, where
the majority were so eager and fraught with hope, and yet the mother's
countenance was full of anxiety for her child. Little Amy sat on her
sister's knee, and Theresa, in her graphic language, was relating some
romantic history of her own invention, while Mrs. Germaine and myself
spoke of her. The parent's solicitude was altogether physical; she
feared only that Theresa would be sick, or that she would encounter
some of the thousand accidents and evils, whose spectres haunt us upon
the eve of a first separation. I thought it kinder to be silent as to
my own very different misgivings, and to dwell only on the encouraging
part of the prospect. There might be nothing to dread, after all, and
it was possibly only our unwillingness to part with Theresa, that thus
assumed to itself the tormenting shape of inquietude.

During our conversation, which was carried on in an under tone, little
Amy had fallen asleep, and after carefully placing her on the couch,
and kissing the fair face of the slumberer, that shone like a
faultless picture from its frame of golden curls, Theresa adjourned
with Gerald to the porch. It was a perfect evening, and the rays of
the full moon illumined the little portico, throwing on its floor, in
fanciful mosaic, the fantastic shadows of the vines which draperied
the pillars, and lighting up with its spiritual radiance, the earnest
countenances of the youthful friends. Gerald looked more than usually
pale in the blanching beams, and Theresa's gaze was sad and tearful.

"You will forget us all, Theresa," said the boy; "you will find
elsewhere gayer and dearer companions; you will be praised and
flattered, and it will be several years before you will be stationary
here again."

"Do you remember the book we read together but a few days since?" she
answered, "and which says there is no such thing as forgetting
possible to the mind?"

"Well, but at least you may grow indifferent," persisted Gerald,
already betraying manhood's perverseness in suspicion, "at least you
may grow indifferent, and that is even worse than forgetfulness."

"Far worse," answered Theresa, "I would rather a thousand times be
wholly forgotten, than know that the heart which loved me had grown
cold and careless. But, Gerald, you are my first friend, the only one
of my own age I have ever known, and how can I lose the recollection
of all we have thought and hoped together? And then I shall be too
constantly occupied to form other ties, for I intend to study
incessantly, and to return here all, mentally, that my friends can
wish me."

"Are you not that already; I, for one, do not desire you to change."

"You will alter your flattering opinion, _mon ami_, if I can by
application realize the bright pictures my ambition paints. I shall be
so much happier when I have tested myself; for now, all is untried,
the present is restless, and the future perplexing. It is so difficult
for me to curb my impatience, to remember that our progressive path
must be trodden step by step, it may be, through thorns and
temptations. Patience is the golden rule of talent, the indispensable
companion of success; for the 'worm may patiently creep to the height
where the mountain-eagle has rested.' The hardest task for genius to
learn is, through toiling, to hope on, and though baffled, never to
despond."

Her face flushed with her own eagerness as she spoke, and Gerald
looked on her with mingled admiration and want of comprehension, and
something of that pity with which boyhood is prone to regard the
wildness of girlish aspirations. It was with hopes and tears united,
that Theresa bade me farewell; and as I turned away to seek my quiet
home, the old feeling of desolation and loneliness, which interest in
my favorite had long dissipated, returned upon me with its depressing
weight. Our walk to the parsonage was taken in unbroken silence, for
Gerald, like myself, was busy with the future--to him a smiling world
of compensation and promise, to me, the silent land of fears and
shadows. A whole year was to elapse before Theresa's return to us, and
in the interval she engaged to write every week, either to her mother
or myself.

For more than an hour that evening I sat beside my window, looking on
the serene prospect around me, and endeavoring to lay something of
that external stillness to the restlessness of my disturbing fancies.
All around was spiritualized by the moonlight; the trees on the lawn
threw long shadows on the grass, and far away, in their mysterious and
majestic silence, stood the eternal mountains; like gigantic watchers,
they kept their vigil over the placid scene beneath--the vigil of
untold centuries. Cloudless, unsympathizing, changeless, they had no
part in the busy drama of human experience their loftiness overlooked,
and now they loomed with shadowy outline, through the sanctifying
light, habitants alike of earth and sky.

I anticipated tidings from Theresa with that interest which slight
occurrences lend a life whose stirring events are few.

To me, she engaged to record her thoughts and impressions as they
came, and to be to me what, under similar circumstances _she_ would
have been, whose sweet face for a few years brightened my life, and
who now sleeps, in her childish beauty, by her mother's side.

THERESA'S FIRST LETTER.

     "You will have learned from my letter to my mother, my
     kind friend, all the little details of my journey and
     safe arrival at my destination. I felt as if some of my
     visions of romance were realized, when this beautifully
     adorned place, in its strange and solemn stillness,
     stood before me. All the grounds surrounding the
     convent-buildings are highly cultivated and tastefully
     improved, presenting a vivid contrast between the wild
     luxuriance of nature, and the formal, artificial life
     within these cold, stern walls. Several of the nuns,
     with downcast eyes and thoughtful steps, were taking
     their monotonous exercise in the paths through the
     shrubbery; and shall I confess that I looked with
     mingled doubt and envy upon those dark-robed
     figures--doubt, if the restlessness of humanity _can_
     thus be curbed into repose, and envy of that
     uninterrupted peace, if, indeed, it may be gained.
     Strange seem this existence of sacrifice, this
     voluntary abandonment of life's aims and more extended
     duties, this repelling, crushing routine of penance and
     ceremony, with which, in the very midst of activity,
     and in the bloom of energy, vain mortals strive to put
     off the inevitable fetters of mortality. Doubtless,
     many, from long habit, have grown familiar with this
     vegetative, unbroken seclusion, and accustomed to
     struggle with tenderness, and conquer impulse, have
     ceased to feel affection, and rarely recall the friends
     of their busier days--sad consummation of womanhood's
     least enviable lot.

     "But I believe it is, in all sincerity, from
     self-delusion, not from deception, that these women,
     many of them in the freshness of youth, separate
     themselves from the wide privileges of their sex, and
     contract their hearts into the exclusive and narrow
     bounds of a convent's charities. What mental conflicts
     must have been theirs, before, from the alluring gloss
     of expectation, they could turn to embrace a career
     like this. Some, perhaps, believed the possibility of
     winning tranquillity by shutting out the temptation of
     the world, believed that dust might be spiritualized,
     and the mind, debarred from its natural tendencies,
     taught to dream only of heaven. Others have sought the
     cloister as a refuge for hearts that loved too well,
     and memories all too faithful. God help such!--for this
     is no place to forget. And it may be, that after years
     of painful self-control and depressing experience, some
     here have gradually attained the conviction that their
     efforts are vain, their yearnings not here to be
     fulfilled--what, then, must solitude be to them but an
     enduring sorrow? It is too late to retrieve the
     past--the fatal vows have been spoken--those frowning
     walls are impassable--and the dark folds of that solemn
     veil are evermore between the penitents and human
     sympathy. Never may their footsteps tread the free
     earth again, save within those still and mocking
     limits; never will the bright, rewarding world of
     social ties dawn upon their languid gaze, though, alas!
     its beauty will flash upon their thoughts, through the
     loneliness of the silent cell, perhaps even amid
     penance and prayer. I look with profound, inexpressible
     interest on these sisters, in their ungraceful, but
     romance-hallowed costume, and wish, as I watch them,
     that I could read something of what the past has been
     to each, and trace the various motives that led to this
     irrevocable fate. This monotonous life has all the glow
     of novelty for me; and I ponder with inexhaustible
     interest, and blended reverence and pity on the hidden
     moral conflict, continually occurring among beings who
     strive to taste angels' pleasures while escaping human
     duties, and are reminded of the folly of such attempts,
     by the perpetual presence of temptation, and all the
     self-reproach, regret, and disappointment which, Heaven
     be thanked! the angels never feel. I can scarcely tell,
     as yet, how I shall like learning here. My studies have
     always been such a pleasure to me, with you, that it
     appears strange to associate them with strangers. I am
     resolved to devote much time to drawing and miniature
     painting, for which you know I had always a _penchant_,
     and in the course of a month or two I shall commence
     the study of German. What a world of pleasure is before
     me. Will you not love me better, if I return to you an
     artist, brim full of German legends? All that I hope
     and aspire to, leads to that question--will these
     acquisitions render me more beloved?"

"Theresa is too ambitious, too restless," said Gerald, as he finished
the perusal of this letter, "she will only render herself discontented
and conspicuous by this wild, idle desire for superiority."

I felt somewhat provoked at his querulous words, for in my partial
eyes Theresa seldom erred, and I knew this solicitude for mental
progress, though as yet vague and undirected, was inseparable from her
active and energetic intellect. But Gerald's opinions were common ones
with his sex, and he coldly censured when away from their attractions,
the very traits of character which, when present, involuntarily
fascinated his imagination. And this is an ingratitude which almost
inevitably falls to the share of a gifted woman. Unfortunately, genius
does not shield its possessor from defects of character; and her very
superiority in raising her above the level of the many, renders her
failings more evident, and those who are forced mentally to admire,
are frequently the first morally to condemn. The following are
extracts from Theresa's letters, written at various intervals during
the first year of her residence at the convent; and they will perhaps
serve to reveal something of the rapid development of her mind, with
the self-forgetfulness and ambition so peculiarly blended in her
nature. She is the only one I have ever seen who possessed extreme
enthusiasm without selfishness, and the strong desire to excel,
without envy. There was a harmony in her being as rare as it was
winning; and while many instances of her childish generosity and
spontaneous disinterestedness rise on my memory, I feel almost
bitterness at the recollection of how unworthily her pure heart was
appreciated, and how sad was the recompense of all she suffered.

"I am happy, my kind friend, happier than I believed it possible for
me to be, when away from those I love. But I study incessantly, and in
acquiring and hoping, I have no time left for regret. When I recall
you, it is not repiningly, but with a thousand desires for your
approval, and increased anxiety to become all you can wish. You will,
perhaps, consider this vanity; but, indeed, that would be unjust, for
it is in all humility, with a painful consciousness of my own
deficiencies that I strive so eagerly to grow wiser and better. Surely
it is not vanity, to yearn to merit tenderness! . . . . . You ask if I
have made any new friends. No; and I can scarcely tell why. There are
several here whose appearance has interested me--and you know how
rapturously I admire personal attractions; but I feel a reserve I can
neither conquer nor explain. Friendship seems to me too holy and
enduring to be lightly bestowed, and yet I desire with inexpressible
earnestness, to find some one of my own age who would love and
comprehend me--some mind in whose mirror I could trace an image of my
own. I have gained something like a fulfillment of this wish in
Gerald; but he is naturally less enthusiastic than I am, and of course
cannot enter into the fervor of my expectations. He thinks them vain
an idle--and so, in truth, they may be; but only their irrevocable
disappointment will ever convince _me_ of their folly. . . . . . I
have been painting a great deal, beside my regular exercises, for my
own amusement; I take such delight in testing my power to reflect the
visible charm of beauty, and in endeavoring, however faintly, to
idealize humanity. Among other efforts, I have finished a miniature of
one of the young sisters here, whose sad, placid face, seemed to
sketch itself upon my memory. Of course, the likeness was drawn
without her knowledge--she has put away from her thoughts all such
vanities. I often look on the picture, which is scarcely more tranquil
than the original; and I wish I could speak a word of welcome sympathy
to one who is so young, and yet so sorrowful. I was much touched, a
few days since, by accidentally witnessing an interview between this
nun, whose convent name is Cecelia, and her sister. It seems that she
had taken the vows in opposition to the wishes and counsel of all her
friends, having forsaken a widowed mother and an only sister for
spiritual solitude and the cloister. I was copying an exquisite
engraving of the Madonna, which adorns the apartment allotted to
visiters, when a young lady entered, and desired to see her sister.
The nun came, but not beyond the grating which bounds one side of the
room. Those bars--signs of the heart's prison--were between beings who
from infancy had been undivided, whose pleasures and pains through
life had been inseparable, and who were now severed by a barrier
impassable as the grave. They contrasted strongly, these two sisters,
so nearly the same age, so different in their hopes for the future.
The guest wept constantly, and her words, spoken in a loud tone, were
broken by bursts of grief; but the other was composed, almost to
coldness--there was no evidence of distress on her marble cheek, and
her large, gray eyes, were quiet in their gaze. She had evidently
learned to curb emotion and regret--the past for her was a sealed
book, with all its remembrances; she was a woman without her sex's
loveliest impulses--a sister without tenderness, a daughter without
gratitude. They parted, as they had met, each unconvinced, each
grieving for the other--the visiter returned to her holy filial
duties, the devotee to her loneliness. My friend, on which of these
sisters do the angels in heaven look down most rejoicingly? This scene
made me sorrowful, as every thing does which destroys an illusion. I
had entertained such romantic ideas of life in the cloister, it seemed
so tempting to me in its rest, its spirituality; and now I realize
that we have no right to such rest, that it is not ours to shrink from
the duties, to shun the penalties, to crush the affections of
humanity--and my visions of lonely happiness have passed away _pour
toujours_. If ever I could be induced to forsake a world that now
appears to me so rich in promise; if ever I am numbered among the
tried in spirit, and broken in heart, some active solace must be mine,
not this fearful leisure for thought and remembrance. My lot is to be
a restless one; and whatever else the future may hold for me, I know,
in the spirit of prophecy, it will bestow nothing of repose. . . . .
You tell me my little sister grows every day more lovely. I can
readily believe it. There is something very fascinating in the style
of her childish beauty, something that appeals to tenderness and seeks
for love--and she is always the reality that prompts my dreams of
angels. Is it not unwise, my friend, to hold the gift of personal
beauty of little value, when it thus involuntarily commands affection,
and can win the world's charity for many faults?"

I know not if these disjointed scraps have interest for others, but I
have recorded them, because to me they recall the young writer's
glowing enthusiasm, and evince the confident hopefulness which is one
of the most common traits of mental excellence. Without being vain,
she had yet no fears for herself, no doubt of the successful exercise
of the powers whose stirring presence she felt. All that seemed
necessary to her was opportunity; and she possessed the faith our good
God gives to youth, and whose passing away is one of the sorrows of
age.

The time appointed for her return home had now arrived, and her
mother's anxiety to see her was scarcely greater than my own. In the
meanwhile, Mr. Brandon's new residence--the handsomest in our
vicinity--had been completed, and his family was permanently located
among us. His domestic circle consisted of Gerald, a daughter, about
Theresa's age, and a maiden lady, the sister of his wife, who, since
Mrs. Brandon's death, had done the household honors. Gerald had been,
from the first, a constant visiter at the parsonage, and he now
participated in our solicitude to welcome our darling back. About
sunset, on the day of Theresa's return, I directed my steps toward the
cottage, and I was but halfway to my destination, when I saw her
coming to meet me. I could never be mistaken in her light, rapid walk,
whose movements were full of grace. Not for many a long, sad year, had
a reception so affectionate as hers been given me; and her greeting
brought tears to my old eyes, and called up painful memories to my
heart. In appearance she had greatly improved; her slight figure had
rounded into more womanly proportions, and her motions were full of
the wild, unstudied gracefulness that had always characterized her.
There was about her a fascination I cannot explain, a something
independent of externals--a witchery to be felt but not defined.
Perhaps it was the visible influence of mental gifts, the reflection
of that purity of heart and mind which impressed itself on all her
words and actions.

Let it not, however, be imagined, that because in my fond remembrance
I have lingered long upon Theresa's many virtues, I was ignorant of
her faults. They were those inseparable from her temperament; an
impetuosity which frequently misled her judgment, and a confidence in
her own beliefs, a reliance on her own will, that nothing but an
appeal to her affections could ever subdue. She was an instance of
that sad truth, that our defects shape our destinies; that one failing
may exert over our lot a more potent influence than many excellencies,
and may mar the brilliancy of our moral picture by a single shadow,
that shall darken it all. In after life, when trial and suffering
pressed wearily upon her, all her griefs might have been traced back
to the influence of faults, which in her childhood were not
sufficiently developed to seem of consequence, or to merit rebuke. To
us she was so loving and complying, that the less favorable traits of
her nature were lost to our eyes in the brightness of her better
endowments. Like all poetic persons, she had various fancies and
caprices; but hers were all pure in purpose, and imparted a charm to
her restless being. Even her tenderness had its fantasies, and
lavished itself wastefully without thought or reason. Her attachment
to her sister was remarkable in its tone, blending anxiety with its
profound and impassioned tide. She would speak to me of Amy, of her
childish loveliness, her gentle disposition, her appealing
trustfulness, until tears would start to her eyes, and the future
seemed painfully distant to one whose onward gaze had painted it with
fulfillments. There was nothing sweet and lovable in life that she did
not connect with Amy's hereafter. Alas! it was well for her she could
not foresee that future happiness was to be won by the sacrifice of
her own.

During Theresa's stay in our village, the young Brandons and herself
were often together--and Gerald's admiration had evidently lost
nothing from separation. His health had improved, though he still
looked pale and delicate; but this physical languor lent refinement to
his appearance, and excited Theresa's warmest sympathy. It would have
been strange, were not the occurrence so common, that we should not
have anticipated the probable consequences of such intercourse between
Gerald and Theresa, but always accustomed to consider them in contrast
with ourselves, as mere children, we forgot theirs was the very age
for enduring impressions, the era in existence whose memories live
longest. It was not until long afterward that I realized our error,
and then, alas! it was too late to save the repose of a heart which
possessed in fatal strength, woman's sad faculty of loving. The period
soon came round for Theresa to return to her studies; and, to my
surprise, her grief at the second separation was much more violent
than at the first. I did not note, in my simplicity, the cause of this
vehemence; I never suspected that a new tie, undefined, but powerful,
was binding her being, that in the depths of a spirit whose
earnestness I have never seen equaled, there had sprung up an
affection never to pass away, and one dangerously enhanced by the
imaginative tendency of her nature. That she had won over Gerald a
profound and fascinating influence, was evident; she was to him a
dream of intellectual beauty, and her presence idealized his life. He
connected her instinctively with all his high hopes, his visionary
schemes; but I feel, in recalling his admiration, that, from its very
character, it was not likely to be permanent. There was too little in
it of the actual world, too much of the mental; it was more the homage
of mind, than the tribute of affection; rather the irrepressible
appreciation of genius, than the spontaneous effusion of love. His
expressions of regret at separation were warm and tender; but it is
probable the young friends were both ignorant of the nature of their
feelings. They parted tearfully, as a brother and sister would have
said farewell; and the next few months, with their throng of sweet
remembrances, fostered the growth of emotions very unlike, in truth,
but equally kind and hopeful. And now there came a long interval of
melancholy tranquillity in my life, for it was not until two years
afterward that our darling returned. Her letters during the interval
were frequent, and her ambition to excel deepened daily in intensity.

"One year more," she wrote, "and this routine of application will be
over, I shall come to you no longer a child, but fitted, I trust, for
a congenial companion. What bright pictures my fancy draws for that
time! Surely the future is a land of surpassing beauty, if but one
half its radiant hopes be realized."

"I have no patience with Theresa's visionary fancies," said Gerald,
petulently, as he glanced over this letter, "I really believe she
prizes books and pictures, and her idle dreams, more than the hearts
that love her."

I have lingered long over this recording of a childhood that lent my
loneliness many pleasures; and I must trace more rapidly and briefly
the sadder portion of my recollections. Over the next two years let us
pass in silence; they saw the last shining of pleasure upon Theresa's
experience; they were the resting-place between her young hopefulness
and the perplexing cares and disappointments of her energetic and
unsatisfied womanhood. Never afterward did life appear to her so
rapturous a gift, and intellectual superiority so enchanting, but the
hereafter grew silent with its promises, and her spirit weary with its
cares.

It was not until some months afterward that the journal I am about to
quote fell into my hands; but I copy some of its fragments, to portray
its writer's feelings. Ah, me! such trustful hearts as hers are those
experience depresses soonest.

"How happy I have been this summer! I believe those who have spent
their childhood in seclusion, and formed their first associations from
the lovely creations of nature, love home better than persons _can_
do, who have been always encompassed by the excitements and artificial
enjoyments of society. These lose individual consciousness amid the
throng of recollections; they cannot trace the progress of their
being, nor retain the self-portraying vividness of memory. I am sure
that no dweller in cities can feel as I do, when I return to this
tranquil village; I can almost imagine I have stepped back into my
childhood. Yet, loving this place as I do, I am still anxious to leave
it; home, and especially a quiet one, is no place for great successes.
Too much of the childish past hangs over it, and discourages exertion,
and those who have loved us best and earliest, know least of what we
are capable. Every day intercourse fetters judgment, and thought lives
in the domestic circle with sealed lips. My kind friends do not
comprehend my wishes or emotions; my mother deems them folly, and
Gerald, instead of sympathy, tenders me only doubts and fears. But I
repel silently such depressing influence; surely the motto of youth
should be, _aide-toi_, _et Dieu t'aidera_. . . . . I have been reading
that tearful book, the Diary of an Ennuyé. What a vivid picture it
presents of mental and physical suffering, too intense to be wholly
conquered, yet half subdued by the strong power of a thoughtful will.
Such depictings of sorrow must be exaggerated, there cannot be so much
of grief in a world where hope still liveth. . . . . I have been
amusing myself this morning by scribbling verses, and as I gradually
became absorbed in my employment, I felt I would willingly relinquish
half the future in store for me, could I win a poet's fame. I have
been endeavoring to determine which is the most desirable, the
celebrity of a poet or a painter. Perhaps the distinction an artist
obtains satisfies the mind more wholly, and it must be a more
universal thing, than that of a writer. He appeals to the senses; his
work is the visible presence of what is immaterial, the palpable
creation of a thought. He gazes on his production, until his being
revels in the witchery of his own reality; and the ideal that had
haunted his spirit so long, smiles and blesses him from that glowing
canvas. But the poet, he who from the well of thought hath drawn forth
such golden truths; who heareth within his heart the echo of whatever
is beautiful around him; he who is the interpreter of nature, and
translateth into burning words whatsoever things are pure and lovely,
ah! he liveth alone with his glorious images, and from his brilliant
world of dream and vision, he walks abroad uncomprehended, a solitary
being. Yet he, too, has his reward, though seldom the present one of
popular approval; time is requisite for the appreciation of his
imaginings; he would not, if he could, profane them by the breath of
popular criticism. _His_ place is far away from common sight--a
dwelling in pleasant thoughts; he is enthroned amid happy memories and
early hopes; he is associated in our minds with forms of grace, and
faces of beauty--with the light of stars, and the fragrance of
flowers; with the pale hours of gloom his enchantments have chased
away, and the green graves his heavenward words have hallowed. Which
fame would I choose? Alas! for my craving nature, neither--but both!"

Two years had glided by, and Theresa had returned to us. Her studies
were completed, and she seemed to our fond hearts more than we ever
hoped for, or dared to anticipate. She had certainly improved to the
utmost the period of her absence; she was an admirable linguist, a
good musician, and her talent for painting was pronounced by
_connoisseurs_ to be extraordinary. She possessed in a rare degree
perfect consciousness of her powers, without a tinge of vanity; and
she spoke of her acquirements and performances simply and candidly, as
she would have dwelt on those of a stranger. Gerald was evidently
surprised at her mental progress, and perhaps he felt it almost
painfully, for he certainly was not in her presence as natural and
familiar as of yore. He would gaze on her long and fixedly, as if in
being forced to admire, he hesitated how to love. I do not know
whether Theresa perceived this change, and allowed it to influence her
manner, or whether the natural timidity of one "on the eve of
womanhood," rendered her also gentler and quieter than of old, but
certain it is, that while to others they were the same as ever, for
each other, they felt something they knew was not friendship, yet
dared not think was love.

In the meantime Amy had grown into girlhood, and was, in truth, as
beautiful as a poet's dream. She was timid, gentle, and silent; no
strength of mind was enshrined in that faultless casket; and her
transparent, maidenly brow, was never shadowed by the conflict of
thought. Her words were few and commonplace, but they were spoken by a
voice exquisitely musical, and her surpassing personal loveliness
disarmed mental criticism. Theresa would regard her in unutterable
admiration, blending a sister's tenderness with all an artist's
ecstasy. There was no repaying enthusiasm; Amy's affections were not
impulsive, and she shared nothing of her sister's spontaneous,
effervescing warmth. She was, however, kind and graceful, with that
charm of manner common even in childhood to those on whom the gods
have smiled, and who, from the consciousness of beauty, possess the
certainty of pleasing. Like all visionaries, Theresa had many fancies,
and strongest among them was her boundless admiration for loveliness.
Living as she did in perpetual study of the beautiful, it appealed to
her with that enchantment it only wears for the painter and the poet;
and for her, who, in her dangerously endowed being, blended both,
there was inexpressible fascination in all that reflected externally
her radiant ideal. Gerald was a constant visiter at the cottage, and
his undisguised admiration for Theresa's gifts deepened into lasting
sentiment, what had hitherto been vague emotion. He sought her
approval, solicited her opinions, and there was a tone of romantic
reverence in his conduct toward her, which could not fail to interest
one so young and sensitive. In many respects his character was far
from equaling hers; ill-health had given peculiar fastidiousness to
his tastes, and selfishness to his temper; but he was invested with
the charms of pleasant memories, and that drapery which ever surrounds
with grace those the heart loves first. I believe he never for an
instant reflected on the effect his devoted attentions might produce,
and, absorbed in the magic of his own rapturous thoughts, he had no
time for calmer reasoning. Love is proverbially credulous; and
although neither promise nor protestation had been spoken, Theresa
never doubled what she hoped, and, perhaps, in her girlish faith,
believed his feelings the deeper from their silence.

Thus the days wended on, and I had woven in my lonely simplicity many
a bright tissue for future years to wear, when already the "cloud no
bigger than a man's hand" had gathered on my favorite's horizon.
Gerald and herself had walked one evening to the parsonage, and were
seated on one of the shaded seats in the old-fashioned garden attached
to my home.

"Theresa, you have always been to me a sympathizing listener, and I
have something to tell you now of more than ordinary interest--will
you hear me patiently?" and as Gerald spoke, he looked up smilingly
into his companion's face.

Why did Theresa's cheek flush at these simple words? I know not; I
only know that it grew pale and ashy as Gerald proceeded to relate the
story whose hearing he had solicited, and in the impassioned words of
love to paint his devotion--not to her who sat beside him, but to the
sister whose outward beauty had won more than all _her_ gifts. He
spoke of time to come, of being to her as a brother, of a home in
common, and then he dwelt with a lover's rapture on the attractions of
his promised bride, those charms she had often extolled to him with a
poet's appreciation, and now heard praised in breathless agony. The
bitterness, not of jealousy, but of despair, was in her soul--a pang
for which there was no expression and no relief. Never more might she
return to the hope his words had shattered, the trust she had indulged
too long. All that had scattered her path with flowers, and thrown
around her life's sweetest illusions was lost to her now; the
confessions she had heard, raised a barrier not to be passed between
herself and those she held dearest, and the sister for whom she would
have laid down her life, claimed a sadder sacrifice, and glided a
rival between her heart and its reliance. But to all his confidings
she listened silently, and when he ceased to speak, she answered him
kindly and gently. Love is selfish, and in the egotism of his own
feelings, Gerald heeded not that his companion's voice faltered; and
they parted without a suspicion in his mind of the suffering he had
occasioned. Alas! such brief tragedies are acting every day in our
household circles, and we note them not; bright eyes become tranquil,
glowing cheeks look pale, and young hearts, once high with hope and
energy, grow weary and listless; and we talk of illness, and call in
science to name the disease, which is nothing but sorrow. There are,
without doubt, solitary hours in human experience which do the work of
years, forcing suspicion to dawn, and tempting despondency to deepen.
Life should be measured by such hours, and they who feel most keenly
are the ones who, in truth, live longest.

Certain it is that Theresa passed in those few moments to a new
existence--to a being wholly different from her former self. The
rainbow tints had faded from her sky, and the stars in her futurity
had ceased to shine. What to her were all her mental gifts, when they
had failed to win the love she valued? And now the nature so impulsive
and ingenuous was impelled by the instinct of woman's pride to assume
the mantle of concealment, to learn its task of suffering and silence.
She could not, without betraying her true feelings, seem depressed,
when all about her was happier than ever, and not a shadow rested on
the hearts around her. Her mother was constitutionally tranquil; and
Amy, in the relying gladness of her early youth, saw nothing to fear,
and all things to hope. It was a trying effort for Theresa to bury the
conflict of her impetuous emotions in the stillness of her own
bosom--the more trying because she had never before known cause for
reserve; but the power of endurance in womanhood is mighty, and she
did conceal even from my watchful eyes, the triumph of certainty over
hope. I knew not then that the silver chord was already severed, and
the veil lifted from the pale face of grief, never again in mercy to
lend its secrecy.

The extreme youth of Amy alone delayed her marriage, and the following
year was appointed as the time of its celebration. In the meanwhile
the lovers would meet almost daily, and there seemed nothing but
happiness before them. And she, the highly endowed, the richly gifted,
what was to be her lot? Even now the mists were gathering around her;
her faith in the hereafter was lessened; disappointment haunted her
onward steps, and memory darkened to regret. Poor Theresa! there was
many a pang in her experience then proudly hidden from all human gaze;
and her suffering was not the less because she felt that it arose in
part from self-deception, and from its very character was beyond the
solace of sympathy.

A few evenings afterward, I was sitting alone, when, with her light
and eager step, Theresa entered my little study at the parsonage. Her
cheek was flushed by her rapid walk, and her eyes sparkled as she laid
before me a letter she had just received. I did not then comprehend
the eagerness with which she grasped the refuge of excitement and
change, but my heart sunk within me as I read the lines before me, for
too well I foresaw the endless links of perplexity and misconstruction
which would drag themselves, a dreary chain through the years to come.
The letter was from the painter with whom she had studied his art, and
was written with the kind feeling of one who, from the memory of his
own aspirations, could sympathize with hers. He reminded her of a wish
she had often expressed to practice her powers as a painter, and he
said if that desire still continued, he could offer her a home in his
household, and promise her success. His own professional attainments
were great and popular, but his health was failing; and he declared it
would be a pleasure and pride to him to direct her talents if she
still wished to brave the perplexities of an artist's life. He dwelt
on the subject with the fervor of a mind whose best faculties had been
spent in the service of his art; but while he extolled its attractions
and rewards, he concealed nothing of its cares and penalties. He
concluded thus: "For me, the exercise of my glorious profession has
been in all respects singularly fortunate; and in addition to the
inexpressible gratifications attending its pursuit, it has won for me
both popularity and wealth. But I would not mislead you, Theresa, nor
conceal the difficulties which must inevitably, in such an attempt,
harass a young and an enthusiastic woman. It is an unusual thing for
womanhood to worship art; you will have ignorance and prejudice
against you, and I need not remind you that these are the most
perplexing of obstacles. But still there are rewards they cannot
touch, pleasures beyond their influence--and these I proffer you. The
artist bears within his own soul the recompense for many sorrows; and
if you can summon the moral fortitude to wait in patience, and toil in
hope, I candidly believe that, with your endowments, success will be a
certainty. You will be to us as a daughter; and our childless old age
will be gladdened by the presence in our home of your bright young
face." Theresa had scanned my countenance eagerly while I perused this
letter, as if to gather my impressions of the scheme; and she looked
not a little disappointed when I gravely and silently refolded and
returned the paper.

"I can divine your opinion," she said at last; "you disapprove of my
plan."

"I do," was my reply. "I can discern no reason for your forsaking a
tranquil home to brave so many certain annoyances."

"But, my friend," she answered, "you forget now the lesson you have
often taught me, that we have no right to bury our talents, nor to
shrink from the exercise of powers which were doubtless bestowed to be
improved and employed. You will, perhaps, deem that my duty to my
mother demands my presence here; but she has grown accustomed to my
absence, and depends on me for none of her social comforts. Amy is far
better fitted to be her companion, and I am sure that if I were to
remain here, with the desponding conviction that my resources were
useless, my acquirements thrown away; that knowledge would render me
unhappy and throw a shadow over my home. Let me try this experiment
for one year; if I fail, I will return satisfied that I have done my
utmost; if I succeed, I can win for myself fame, and it may be peace."

She had spoken rapidly and earnestly, though I now know that her most
powerful reasons for wishing to leave us, were left unuttered, and as
she concluded her voice was tremulous. She impatiently awaited my
answer; and I, with the folly of a fond old man, could not bear to
dash away the cup that foamed so temptingly to her lips. Though
fearful and unconvinced, I ceased to remonstrate. Many times since
have I marveled at my own weakness, and lamented that I did not more
decidedly condemn the young enthusiast's views; and yet what could I
do? Had I more strenuously and successfully opposed the scheme, could
I have borne to see my darling pine in the weariness of powers buried,
and endowments wasted? Could I have recklessly sullied in their purple
light the day-dreams of her yearning youth, have watched her,
dispirited and dejected, ever turning from the gloom of the present to
ponder on the radiant, haunting mystery of what she might have been?

To my surprise, Mrs. Germaine evinced none of the repugnance to the
removal which I had anticipated; and, won over by Theresa's eagerness,
and accustomed to be separated from her, she exerted no parental
authority in the case. Her acquiescence, of course, silenced my
objections, and I could only grieve where I would have counseled.
Gerald alone violently opposed her departure; but she replied to him
with a firmness I did not expect, and which surprised me not a little.
But the decision was made, and even while tenderly and anxiously
beloved, the wayward and gifted one went forth alone into the world.


CHAPTER IV.

    Pale Disappointment! on whose anxious brow
    Expectancy has deepened into pain;
    Thou who hast pressed upon so many hearts
    The burning anguish of those words--_in vain_;
    Thy gloom is here; thy shadowy presence lies
    Within the glory-light of those sad eyes!

Two years more had gone by since we glanced at Theresa last--years
fraught to her with the fulfillment of ambition, and golden with the
gifts of praise. Her name had become a familiar one to the lovers of
art, and her society was eagerly sought for by the most intellectual
men in one of our most refined cities. In the home of her artist
friend she had been as a daughter, and cordially welcomed into the
circles of talent and acquirement. It would have been well with her
had that measure of success satisfied her, could she have returned
then, without one hope turned into bitterness, to her early and
tranquil home--but it was not so to be; and on the death of her
friend, a year previous to this time, Theresa decided still to remain
in the city, and follow alone the exciting glories of her art. In the
meantime Amy's marriage had taken place; the cottage was deserted, and
Mrs. Germaine found a home with her younger daughter. It was Gerald's
wish that Theresa also should reside with them; but she had declined,
affectionately, though positively; and she was now an exile from those
who loved her best. Her engagements had proved profitable, she had
acquired much more than was necessary for her simple wants; and all
her surplus gainings were scrupulously sent to her mother. I, too, was
frequently remembered in her generous deeds, and many a valuable book,
far beyond my power to purchase, came with sweet words from the
cheerer of my old age.

But this state of things was too prosperous to last always--the crowd
does not permit without a struggle the continuance of such prosperity.
Gradually the tide of public approval changed; rivals spoke
slightingly of one who surpassed them; her impetuous words--and she
was frank almost to a fault--were misrepresented, and envying lips
whispered of the impropriety of her independent mode of life.
Flatterers grew more cautious, professing friends looked coldly, and,
one by one, her female acquaintances found various pretexts for
withdrawing their attentions. Theresa was not suspicious; it was long
before these changes were apparent to her, and even then she
attributed them to accident. Confident in her own purity of motive,
and occupied with her own engrossing pursuits, she had neither time
nor inclination for disagreeable speculations. She felt her refuge was
incessant employment; she dared not even yet allow herself leisure for
contemplation and memory. A volume of her poems had just been
published--its destiny filled her thoughts--for who cannot imagine the
trembling, fearing solicitude with which the young poet would send
forth her visions to the world? Her engagements in her profession,
too, were ceaseless, and her health began to fail under the effects of
a mode of life so constant in its labors, and so apart from the
refreshing influences usually surrounding girlhood. And was she happy?
Alas! she had often asked herself that question, and answered it with
tears; ambition has no recompense for tenderness, womanhood may not
lay aside its yearnings. Her letters to us contained no word of
despondency; she spoke more of what she thought than of what she felt.
Her heart had learned to veil itself; and yet, as I read her notes to
me, the suspicion would sometimes involuntarily come over me that she
was not tranquil, that her future looked to her more shadowy; and I
longed to clasp her once more to the bosom that had pillowed her head
in childhood, and bid her bring there her hoard of trial and care. She
was, by her own peculiar feelings banished from our midst; how could
she return, to dwell in Gerald's home, she who for years had striven
in solitude and silence to still memories of which _he_ made the
grief? But she was no pining, love-sick girl; the high and rare tone
of her nature gave her many resources, and imparted strength to battle
with gentler impulses. But it was a painful and unnatural conflict
between an ingenuous character and a taunting pride--a war between
thought and tenderness. Wo to the heart that dares such a struggle!
Aspiration may bring a temporary solace, excitement a momentary balm;
but never yet, in all the tear-chronicled records of genius, has woman
found peace in praise, or compensation in applause. It is enough for
her to obtain, in the dangerous arena of competition, a brief refuge,
a transient forgetfulness; love once branded with those words--_in
vain_, may win nothing more enduring this side of heaven.

It was the twilight of a whiter evening; the lamps were just beginning
to brighten the city streets, and the fire burned cheerfully in
Theresa's apartment. Various paintings, sketches, and books, were
scattered around, and on the table lay a miniature of Amy, painted
from memory. It depicted her, not in the flush of her early womanhood,
not in the gladness of her hope-tinted love, but as she was, years
ago, in her idolized infancy. The lamp-light shone full upon that
young, faultless face, brightening almost like life those smiling
lips, and the white brow gleaming beneath childhood's coronet of
golden hair.

The young artist was seated now in silent and profound
abstraction--for twilight is the time the past claims from the
present, and memory is summoned by silence. Theresa's feet rested on a
low footstool, her hands were clasped lightly together on her lap, and
she leaned back in the cushioned chair, in an attitude of perfect and
unstudied grace she would have delightedly sketched in another. Have
ever I described my favorite's appearance? I believe not; and yet
there was much in her face and figure to arrest and enchant younger
eyes than mine. I could not, if I would, delineate her features, for
I only recall their charm of emotion, their attractive variety of
sentiment. Her eyes were gray, with dark lashes, and their expression
was at once brilliant and melancholy, and the most spiritual I have
ever seen. Her hair was long and fair, with a tinge of gold glancing
through its pale-brown masses, as if sunbeams were woven in its
tresses. She was not above the average height, but the proportions of
her figure were peculiarly beautiful, and her movements and attitudes
had the indescribable gracefulness whose harmony was a portion of her
being. She looked even younger than she really was, and her dress,
though simple, was always tasteful and attractive, for her reverence
for the beautiful extended even to common trifles, and all about her
bespoke the elevating presence of intellectual ascendency. The glance
that once dwelt on her returned to her face instinctively--so much of
thought and feeling, of womanhood in its faculty to love and hope, of
affection in its power to endure and triumph, so much of genius in the
glory of its untested youth, lay written in lines of light on that
pale, maidenly brow. Ah, me! that I should remember her thus! As
Theresa sat there, she idly took a newspaper from the table to refold
it, and as she did so, her own name attracted her attention. It headed
a brief notice of her poems, which was doubtless written by some one
her success had offended--there are minds that cannot forgive a
fortunate rival. It was a cold, sarcastic, sneering review of her
book, penned in that tone of contemptuous irony, the most profaning to
talent, the most desecrating to beauty. There was neither justice nor
gentleness in the paragraph, but it briefly condemned the work, and
promised at some future period, a more detailed notice of its defects.
It was the first time that Theresa had felt the fickleness of popular
favor; and who does not know the morbid sensitiveness with which the
poet shrinks from censure? To have her fair imaginings thus degraded,
her glowing theories prostrated, the golden pinions of her fancy
dragged to the dust--were these things the compensation for thought,
and toil, and sacrifice? It was a dark wisdom to learn, one that would
cast a shade over all future effort--and disappointed and mortified,
Theresa threw down the paper, and wept those bitter tears which
failure teaches youth to shed.

An hour of painful reverie had passed, when the door of the apartment
was noiselessly opened, and with silent steps, the dark-robed figure
of a woman entered and approached Theresa.

"I have intruded on you most unceremoniously," said the stranger, in a
voice singularly soft and melodious, "and I have no apology to plead
but the interest I feel in youth and genius, and this privileged
garb;" and as Theresa glanced at her dress, she saw it was that of a
Sister of Charity. It was an attire she had grown familiar with,
during her abode at the convent, and the winning kindness usually
distinguishing its wearers, had invested it in her mind with pleasant
associations.

"You are welcome, nevertheless," replied Theresa, "for I know that in
admitting your sisterhood we often entertain angels unawares."

The new comer seated herself, and the young artist strove in vain to
recall her features; they were those of a stranger.

"You are personally unknown to me, Theresa," said the lady, after a
brief silence, "but your father was one of my earliest friends.
Nay--it matters not to ask my name; the one I then bore, is parted
with now, and I would not willingly speak it again; under a different
appellation I have been lowlier and happier."

"You knew my father, then," rejoined Theresa, eagerly, "in his younger
and more prosperous days. His loss I feel more keenly as my experience
increases; for I was too young at his death to appreciate in reality,
as I now do in memory, all his character's high, and generous, and
spiritual beauty."

"We met often in the gay world," replied the guest--and her words were
uttered less to Theresa than to herself--"and our acquaintance was
formed under circumstances which ripened into intimacy what might
otherwise have proved only one of those commonplace associations that
lightly link society together; but it is of yourself I would speak. I
have opportunities in the fulfillment of my duties of hearing and
seeing much that passes in the busy world about me; and I have been
prompted by the old memories still clinging around me, to proffer you
the counsel of a friend. Will you forgive me, if I address you
candidly and unreservedly?"

And then, as Theresa wonderingly granted the desired permission, she
proceeded gently to detail some of the efforts of malice, and to utter
words of kind warning to one who, enfolded within her own illusions,
saw nothing of the shadows gathering about her path.

"You are not happy, Theresa!" continued the sister; "I know too much
of woman's life to believe you are. I am aware of the motives from
which you act; and while I reverence your purity of heart, and the
pride which has tempted you to work out your own destiny, I easily
trace the weariness your spirit feels. I, too, have had my visions;
they are God's gift to youth, but I have lived sadly and patiently to
watch dream after dream fade away. I see you have forgotten me,
although I saw you frequently at the convent of ----; but I am not
surprised at your forgetfulness, for the nun's sombre veil shuts her
out alike from hearts and memories."

"Are you, too, then unhappy?" asked Theresa, as the low and musical
voice beside her trembled in its tone; "you, whose footsteps are
followed by blessings, whose life is hallowed by doing good? I have
long ago learned to doubt the peace of the cloister, but I have ever
loved to believe there was recompense in your more active career, and
that if happiness exists on earth, the Sisters of Charity deserve and
win it."

"In part, you are right," answered the nun, "but you have yet to
realize that the penalties of humanity are beyond mortal control; that
we cannot, by any mode of life, pass beyond their influence. All we
_can_ do, is prayerfully to acquire patient forbearance and upward
hope; many a heavy heart beats beneath a veil like this, and carries
its own woes silently within, while it whispers to others of promise
and rest." The visiter paused, and Theresa interrupted a silence that
began to be painful to both.

"I feel," she said, "that I have acted injudiciously in braving
remark, and in proudly dreaming I could shape out my own course. But
you, who seem to have divined my thoughts so truly, doubtless read
also the _one_ reason which renders my return home most depressing."

"I know it well," was the reply; and the speaker pressed Theresa's
trembling hand within her own, "but your prolonged stay here will be
fraught with continually increasing evils; and if you expect repose,
it cannot be here, where envy and detraction are rising against you.
We cannot sway the prejudices of society, Theresa; and in some
respects even the most gifted must submit to their decrees. And now,"
she said, as she rose to take leave, "I must bid you farewell. I have
followed an impulse of kindness in undertaking the dangerous task to
warn and counsel. If you will listen to one fatally versed in the
world's ways, you will cease to defy public opinion, and amid the more
tranquil scenes of your home, you will acquire a truer repose than
ever fame bestowed. In all probability we shall meet no more, yet I
would fain carry with me the consolation of having rescued from
confirmed bitterness of spirit, the child of a faithful friend, and
pointed a yearning heart to its only rest." And before Theresa could
reply, the door had closed, and the visiter was gone.


THERESA'S LETTER.

     "My friend! the credulity is ended, the illusion is
     over, and I shall return to you again. There are
     reasons I need not mention now, which would render a
     residence with my sister painful, and with my old
     waywardness I would come to you, the kind sharer of my
     young impulses, and to your home, the quiet scene of
     my happiest days. I am listless and sick at heart; and
     the hopes that once made my future radiant, appear
     false and idle to my gaze. Success has bestowed but
     momentary satisfaction, while failure has produced
     permanent pain; and I would fain cease my restless
     strivings, and be tranquil once more. This is no hasty
     resolve; several weeks have elapsed since I was
     prompted to it first; and I believe it is wiser to
     submit than to struggle--to learn endurance, than to
     strive for reward. In a few days more I shall be with
     you, saddened and disheartened, and changed in all
     things but in love and gratitude."

She had, indeed, changed since I saw her last, nearly three years
before. The world had wrought its work, hope had been crushed by
reality. Her health was evidently fatally affected, and her voice,
once so gay and joyous, was low and subdued. It was mournful to my
loving eyes to mark the contrast between the sisters now; Amy, in the
noiseless routine of domestic duties, found all her wishes satisfied;
she was rendered happy by trifles, and her nature demanded nothing
they could not offer. Without one rare mental endowment, or a single
lofty trait, she had followed her appointed path, a serene and
contented woman. A glance at the household circles around us, will
prove this contrast a common one; the most gifted are not the most
blessed--and the earth has no fulfillment for the aspirations that
rise above it.

And what of Theresa, the richly and fatally endowed, she who, with all
the faculties for feeling and bestowing gladness, yet wasted her youth
away; she who sadly tested the beautiful combination of genius with
womanhood, yet lavished her powers in vain--why need I trace the
passing away of one beloved so well? My task is finished; and I
willingly lay aside a record, written through tears. Wouldst thou know
more? There is a grave in yonder church-yard that can tell thee all!




SONNETS.

BY JAMES LAWSON.


I.--HOPE.

        I mark, as April days serenely smile,
      Clouds heaped on clouds in mountain-like array,
      While radiant sunbeams with their summits play,
        Gilding with gorgeous tints the mighty pile;
        And earth partakes of every hue the while!
      Oft have I felt on such a day as this,
        The sudden shower down-pouring on my head,
      Though in the distance all is loveliness.
        Thither, in vain, with rapid step I've sped.
      I liken this to Hope: although with sorrow
        The heart is overcast, and dim the eye;
        Delusive Hope--not present, ever nigh,
      Presages gladness on a coming morrow,
    And lures us onward, till our latest sigh.


II.--A PREDICTION.

      The day approaches, when a mystic power,
        Shall summon mute Antiquity, to tell
      The buried glories of the long lost hour;
        And she will answer the enchanter's spell--
        Then shall we hear what wondrous things befell
      When the young world existed in its prime.
        The truths revealed will turn the wisest pale,
      That ignorance so long abused their time.
        Vainly may Error blessed Truth assail
      With specious argument, and looking wise
        Exult, as millions worship at her shrine;
      Yet, in the time ordained, shall Truth arise
      And walk in beauty over earth and skies,
    While man in reverence bows before her power divine!




PHANTASMAGORIA.

BY JOHN NEAL.


I don't believe in night-caps. That is, I don't believe in stopping
the ears, in shutting the eyes, in sealing up the senses, nor in going
to sleep in the midst of God's everyday wonders. We are put here to
look about us. We are apprentices to Him whose workshop is the
universe. And if we mean to be useful, or happy, or to make others
happy, which, after all, is the only way of being happy ourselves, we
must do nothing blindfold. Our eyes and our ears must be always open.
We must be always up and doing, or, in the language of the day, _wide
awake_. We must have our wits about us. We must learn to use, not our
eyes and our ears only, but our understandings--our _thinkers_.

There is a diviner alchemy wanted, and there is room for a bolder and
a more patient spirit of investigation, amid the drudgery and bustle
of common life, than was ever yet employed, or ever needed, in
ransacking the earth for gems and gold, or the deep sea for pearls.
Would you shovel diamonds and rubies, or turn up "as it were fire,"
you have but to dig into and sift the rubbish that lies heaped up in
your very streets--or to drive the ploughshare through the busiest
places ever trodden by the multitude. You need not blast the
mountains, nor turn up the foundations of the sea, nor smelt the
constellations. You have but to open your eyes, and to look about you
with a thankful heart; and you will find no such thing as worthless
ore--no baseness unallied with something precious; with hidden virtue,
or with unchangeable splendor.

The golden air you breathe toward evening, after a bright, rattling
summer-shower--the golden motes you may see playing in the sunshine
with clouds of common dust, if you but take the trouble to lift your
eyes, when you are lying half asleep in your easy-chair, just after
dinner--are part and parcel of the atmosphere and the earth; and yet
have they fellowship with the stars, and with the light that trembleth
forever upon the wing of the cherubim. Be ye of the towering and the
steadfast upon earth, and these will be to you in the darkness of
midnight as revelations from the sky; as unforetold glimpses of the
Imperishable and the Pure that inhabit the Empyrean.

But, being one of those who go about the world for three score years
and ten, with their night-caps pulled over their eyes--and ears--you
don't believe a word of this. And when you are told with all
seriousness that there is room for more wonderful and comforting
transmutations, of the baser earth just under your window, or just
round the corner, than was ever dreamed of by the wisest of those who
have grown old among furnaces and crucibles and retorts; wearing their
lives away in a search after perpetual youth, and their substance in
that which sooner and more surely than "riotous living" impoverisheth
a man--the transmutation of the baser metals into gold--you fall a
whistling maybe--or beg leave to suggest the word _fudge_. If so, take
my word for it, like a pretty woman with the small-pox, the
probability is, you are very much to be _pitted_.

All stuff and nonsense! you say--downright rigmarole--can't for the
life of you understand what the fellow's driving at.

Indeed.

As sure as you are sitting there.

Well, then, we must try to convince you. One of the pleasantest things
for a man who _does_ believe in night-caps, you will grant me, though,
at the best, he may be nothing more than a bachelor, is to lie out in
the open air, on a smooth sloping hill-side, when the earth is
fragrant, and the wind south, on a long drowsy summer afternoon--with
his great-coat under him if the earth is damp--and with the long rich
grass bending over him, and the blossoming clover swinging between him
and a clear blue sky, starred all over with golden dandelions,
buttercups and white-weed--

Faugh!

One moment if you please--with golden dandelions, buttercups and
white-weed--

Poh!--pish!--Why don't you say with the dent-de-lion, the ranunculus
and the crysanthimum?

Simply because I prefer bumble-bees to humble-bees, and even to
honey-bees, notwithstanding the dictionaries, and never lie down in
the long rich grass, with a great-coat under me; and am not afraid of
catching cold though I may sit upon damp roses, or tread upon the
sweet-scented earth, or tumble about in the newly-mown hay----with my
children about me.

Children!----oh!----ah!--might have known you were not one of us--only
half a man therefore.

How so?

That you had a better-half somewhere, to which you belong when you are
at home.

In other words you might have known that I was no bachelor.

Precisely.

Sir! you are very obliging. And now, perhaps, I may be allowed to
finish the demonstration. I undertook to convince you, if you
remember, that every human being, with his eyes about him, has, under
all circumstances, and at all times, within his reach, and subject to
his order, a heap of amusement, a whole treasury of unappropriated
wisdom. And all I have asked of you thus far is to admit, that if a
man will but go forth into the solitary place and lie down, and
stretch himself out, and look up into the sky, and watch the flowers
and leaves pictured and playing there--provided he be not more than
half asleep, and has a duffel great-coat under him, water-proof shoes
and a snug umbrella within reach, and no fear of the rheumatism; he
may find it one of the pleasantest things in the world; though it may
happen that he has no idea of poetry, and cares for nothing on earth
beyond a pair of embroidered slippers, a warm, padded, comfortable
dressing-gown, or a snuff-colored cigar if at home; or a fishing-rod,
a doubtful sky, and a bit of a brook, all to himself, when he is out
in the open air. And in short, for I love to come to the point, (in
these matters,) all I ask of you, being a bachelor, is to admit--

I'll admit any thing, if you'll stop there.

Agreed. You admit, then, that an old bachelor, wedded to trout-fishing
and tobacco-smoke; familiar with nothing but whist, yarn stockings,
flannels and shooting-jackets; without the least possible relish for
landscape or color, for the twittering of birds, or the swarming of
bumble-bees and forest-leaves; with no sense of poetry, and a mortal
hatred of rigmarole, may nevertheless and notwithstanding--

Better take breath, sir.

May notwithstanding and nevertheless, I say, find something worth
looking at, on a warm summer afternoon, though he be lying half asleep
on his back, with the clover-blossoms and buttercups nodding over him;
to say nothing of thistle-tops, dandelions or white-weed--

I do--I do!--I'll admit any thing, as I told you before.

Well, then--in that case--I do not see what difficulty there would be
in supposing that _any_ man might find something to be good-natured
with _anywhere_.

Not so fast, if you please. Would you have it inferred, because an old
bachelor, whose comforts are few--and _far_ between!--and whose
habits--and opinions--are fixed forever, could put up with Nature for
a short summer afternoon, under the circumstances you mention--with a
great-coat under him, and a reasonable share of other comforts within
reach, that, _therefore_, anybody on earth, a married man, for
example, should find it a very easy thing to be happy _any_ where,
under _any_ circumstances?--even at home now, for instance, with his
wife and children about him?

Precisely. And now, sir, to convince you. If you will but place
yourself at an open window in the "leafy month of June," and watch the
play of her green leaves upon the busy countenances of men, as you may
in some of our eastern cities, and in most of our villages all over
the country, where the trees and the houses, and the boys and the
girls have grown up together, playfellows from the
beginning--playfellows with every thing that lives and breathes in the
neighborhood; or if you will but stand where you are, and look up into
the blue sky, and watch the clouds that are _now_ drifting, as before
a strong wind, over the driest and busiest thoroughfares of your
crowded city; changing from shadow to sunshine, and from sunshine to
shadow, every uplifted countenance over which they pass, you will
find yourself at the very next breath a wiser, a better, and a happier
man. You will undergo a transfiguration upon the spot? You will see a
mighty angel sitting in the sun. You will hear the rush of wings
overshadowing the whole firmament. And, take my word for it, you will
be _so_ much better satisfied with yourself! But mind though--never do
this in company.

Beware lest you are caught in the fact. They will set you down for a
lunatic, a contributor to the magazines, or a star-gazer--if you
permit them to believe that you can see a single hairsbreadth beyond
your nose, or a single inch further by lifting your eyes to Heaven
than by fixing them steadfastly upon the earth. One might as well be
overheard talking to himself; or be caught peeping into a letter just
handed him by a sweet girl he has been dying to flirt with; but, for
reasons best known to himself--and his wife--durst not, although
perfectly satisfied in his own mind, from her way of looking at him,
when she handed him the letter, that she would give the world to have
him see it without her knowledge; and that either she did not know he
was a married man--or was willing to overlook that objection.

Tut, tut! my boy--you will never coax me into the trap, though I admit
your cleverness, by contriving to let me understand, as it were by
chance, what are regarded everywhere as the privileges of the married.

Permit me to finish, will you?

With all my heart!

But pleasant as all these things are--the green fields and the blue
sky, the ripple of bright water, and the changeable glories of a
landscape in mid-summer; or the upturned countenances of men, looking
for signs in the heavens, when they have ships at sea--or wives and
children getting ready for a drive--or new hats and no umbrellas--or
houses afire, which may not happen to be over-insured--a pleasanter
thing by far it is to sit by the same window, when the summer is over,
and the clouds have lost their transparency, and go wandering heavily
athwart the sky, and the green leaves are no more, and the songs of
the water are changed, and the very birds have departed, and watch by
the hour together whatever may happen to be overlooked by all the rest
of the world; the bushels of dry leaves that eddy and whirl about your
large empty squares, or huddle together in heaps at every sheltered
corner, as if to get away from the wind; the changed livery of the
shops--the golden tissues of summer, the delicately-tinted shawls, and
gossamer ribbons, and flaunting muslins, woven of nobody knows
what--whether of "mist and moonlight mingling fitfully," or of sunset
shadows overshot with gold, giving way to gorgeous velvet, and fur,
and sumptuous drapery glowing and burning with the tints of autumn,
and, like distant fires seen through a fall of snow in mid-winter,
full of comfort and warmth; and all the other preparations of
double-windows and heavy curtains, and newly invented stoves, that
find their own fuel for the season and leave something for next year;
and porticoes that come and go with the cold weather, blocking up
your path and besetting your eyes at every turn, with signs and hints
of "dreadful preparation."

Go to the window, if you are troubled in spirit; if the wind is the
wrong way; if you have been jilted or hen-pecked--no matter which--or
if you find yourself growing poorer every hour, and all your wisest
plans, and best-considered projects for getting rich in a hurry turned
topsy-turvy by a change in the market-value of bubbles warranted never
to burst; or if you have a note to pay for a man you never saw but
once in your life, and hope never to see again--to the window with
you! and lean back in your chair with a disposition to be pleased, and
watch the different systems of progression--or, in plain English, the
_walk_ of the people going by. A single quarter of an hour so spent
will put you in spirits for the day, and furnish you with materials
for thought, which, well-husbanded, may last you for a twelvemonth;
yea, abide with you for life, like that wisdom which is better than
fine gold, and more precious than rubies.

Well, you have taken my advice; you are at the window. Now catch up
your pen and describe what you see, _as you see it;_ or take your
pencil if you are good for any thing in that way, and let us see what
you can do. A free, bold, happy and _faithful_ sketch of that which in
itself would be worthless, or even loathsome, shall make your fortune.
Morland's pigs and pig-styes, on paper or canvas, were always worth
half a hundred of the originals. One of Tenier's inside-out pictures
of a village feast, with drunken boors--not worth a groat apiece when
alive--would now fetch its weight in gold three times over.

Look you now. There goes a man with a large bundle under his arm, tied
up in a yellow bandanna handkerchief, faded and weather-worn, and
looking as if ready to burst--the bundle I mean. What would you give
to know the history of that bundle and what there is in it? Observe
the man's eye, the swing of his right arm--the carriage of his
body--the dip of his hat. You would swear, or might if your
conscience, or your habits as a gentleman, would let you, that he was
a proud and a happy fellow, though you never saw his face before in
all your life. The tread of his foot is enough--the very swing of his
coat-tail as he clears the corner. It is Saturday night, and he is
carrying the bundle home to his own house--of that you may be sure.
And you may be equally sure that whatever else there may be in it,
there is nothing for him to be ashamed of, and _therefore_ nothing for
the man himself. My notion is, that he has bought a ready-made cloak
for his wife, without her knowledge, or got a friend to choose the
cloth and be measured for it, who will be found at his fire-side when
he gets home, holding forth upon the comfort of such an outside
garment in our dreadful winters, with a perseverance which leads the
good woman of the house to suspect her neighbor of being better off
than herself, in one particular at least, for the coming Sabbath. But
just now the door opens--the gossiping neighbor springs up with a
laugh--the bundle is untied--the children scream, and the wife jumps
about her husband's neck as if he had been absent a twelvemonth.

Where!--where!

Can't you see them for yourself! Can't you see the fire-light flash
over the newly-papered walls! can't you hear the children laugh as
mother swings round with her new cloak--scattering the ashes, and
almost puffing out their only lamp, which she has set upon the floor
to see how the garment hangs! and now she drops into a chair. Take my
word for it, sir, that is a very worthy woman--and the man himself is
a Washingtonian.

What man?

What man! Why the man that just turned the corner, with a great yellow
bundle under his arm.

Indeed! you know him then?

Never saw his face in all my life. But stay--what have we here? Get
your paper ready! Here comes a thick-set fellow, in a blue
round-about, with his hat pulled over his eyes, and one hand in his
trowsers' pocket--poor fellow! There he goes! But why one hand? He had
his reasons for it, I'll warrant ye, if the truth were known. He
walked by with bent knees, you observed, and with a most unpromising
stoop. He was feeling for his last four-pence; and found a hole in his
pocket. Can't you read the whole story in the man's gait?--in the
slow, sullen footfall--in the clutch of his fingers--in the stiffened
elbow, and the bent knees?

Another Washingtonian, perhaps?

No indeed! nothing of the sort. Had he been a Washingtonian, he would
have found something more than a hole in his pocket when he had got
through his week's work, and was beginning to find his way back to his
little ones.

Well, well, have it so, if you like; but what say you to the couple
you see there?

Stop!--that large woman, leading a child with a green veil--and the
other passing her in a hurry without lifting her eyes, and the moment
she has got by turning and looking after her, as if there were
something monstrous in the cast of that bonnet--a very proper bonnet
of itself--or in the color of that shawl--of gold and purple and
scarlet and green--both were but just entering upon the field of
vision as you spoke, and now both have vanished forever! And lo! a
tall man of a majestic presence, with a little black dog at his
heels--the veriest cur you ever saw! What must be the nature of such
companionship? Look! look! there goes another--a fashionably dressed
young man--followed by two or three more--intermixed with women and
children--and now they go trooping past by dozens! leaving you as
little time to note their peculiarities as you would have before the
table of a camera obscura, set up in the middle of Broadway at the
busiest season of the year. Let us breathe a little. And now the
current changes--the groups are smaller--the intervals longer--and if
we can do nothing else, we may watch their step and carriage, the play
of colors, and the whimsical motion of their arms and legs while they
go hurrying by, these phantoms of the hour. And then, what a world of
enjoyment just for the mere trouble of looking out of a window! Can
it be a matter of surprise that, in countries where it is not
permitted to women to look at the show in this way, or even to appear
at the window, a substitute should be found by so arranging mirrors as
to represent within their very bed-chambers whatever happens in the
street below?

But the business of the day is nearly over. The chief thoroughfare is
well nigh deserted and we may now begin to dwell upon the
peculiarities of here and there one, as the laggards go loitering by,
some nearer and some further off, but all with a look of independence
and leisure not to be mistaken. And why? They have money in their
purses--the happy dogs--or what is better than money, character and
credit, or experience, or health and strength, and a willingness to
oblige.

Not so fast, if you please. What say you to that man with the pale
face and coal-black hair?

Let me see. What do I say of that man? Do you observe that slouched
hat, and old coat buttoned up to the chin?--the dangling of that old
beaver glove, and the huge twisted club--the slow and stately pace,
and the close fitting trowsers carefully strapped down over a pair of
well blacked shoes without heels, and therefore incapable of being
mistaken for boots.

There is no mistaking that man. He has seen better days; the world has
gone hard with him of late, and he is a--Ah! that lifting of the head
as he turns the corner! that gleam of sunshine, as he recovers and
touches his hat, after bowing to that fine woman who just brushed him
in passing, shows that he is still a gentleman; and, of course, can
have nothing to fear, whatever may happen to the rest of the world.
Fifty to one, if you dare, that he has just bethought himself of the
bankrupt law, of a bad debt which he begins to have some hope of, or
of the possibility of making up by his knowledge of the world for what
he wants in youth, should he think it worth his while to follow up the
acquaintance. Ah!--gone! He disappeared, adjusting his neckcloth, and
smiling and looking after the handsome widow, as if debating within
himself whether the advantage he had obtained by that one look were
really worth pursuing.

What ho! another! A vulgar phantom this--a fellow that has nothing to
do. After hurrying past a couple of women, hideously wrapped up, and
beyond all doubt, therefore, uglier than the witches of Macbeth, he
stops and leers after them--not stopping altogether, but just enough
to keep his head turned over his right shoulder--and then walks away,
muttering to himself so as to be heard by that ragged boy there, who
stands staring after him with both hands grasping his knees, and with
_such_ a look!

Another yet--and yet another shape! and both walking with their legs
bent; both taking long strides, and both finding their way, with the
instinct of a blood-hound, never looking up, nor turning to the right
or left in their course. Are they partners in trade, or rivals? Do
they follow the same business, or were they school-fellows together,
some fifty years ago; and are they still running against each other
for a purse they will never find till they have reached the grave
together. See! they have cleared that corner, side by side; and now
they are stretching away at the same killing pace, neck and neck,
toward the Exchange. Of course, they live in the same neighborhood;
they are fellow-craftsmen, they have reputations at stake, and are
determined never to yield an inch--whatever may happen. But why
wouldn't they look up? Was there nothing above worth minding--nothing
on the right hand nor on the left of their course, worthy a passing
thought? _Whither are they going?_ And what will they have learnt or
enjoyed, and what will they have to say for themselves when they reach
the end of their course?

And that other man, with arms akimbo, a dollar's worth of flour in a
bag, flung over his shoulder--why need he strut so--and why doesn't he
walk faster? Has he no sympathy for the rest of the world, not he; or
does he only mean to say, in so many words, _that_ for such weather!
and _that_ for every fellow I see, who isn't able to carry home a
dollar's worth of flour to his family every Saturday night! Does he
believe that nobody else understands the worth and sweetness of a
home-baked loaf?

And that strange looking woman there, with her muff and parasol, her
claret-colored cloak, with a huge cape, and that everlasting green
veil! What business, now, has such a woman above ground--at this
season of the year? Would she set your teeth chattering before the
winter sets in? And what on earth does she carry that sun-shade for,
toward nightfall, about the last of October--is the woman beside
herself?

But she is gone; and in her stead appear three boys, who, but for the
season of the year, might be suspected of birdnesting. They are all of
a size--all of an age, or thereabouts--and all dressed alike, save
that one wears a cloth cap, and the others fur. Yet, like as they are
in age and size, and general appearance, anybody may see at a glance
that one is a well-educated boy, and a bit of a gentleman--perhaps
with spending money for the holydays, while the other two are clumsy
scapegraces. Watch them. Observe how the two always keep together, and
how, as they go by the windows of that confectionary-shop, first one
lags a little in the rear, and then the other, till they have stopped
and wheedled their companion into a brief display of his pocket-money.
The rogues!--how well they understand his character! See! he has
determined to have it his own way, in spite of their well-managed
remonstrances and suggestions; and now they all enter the shop
together--he foremost, of course, with a swagger not to be
misunderstood for a moment. And now they have sprung the trap! and the
poor boy is a beggar!

But who are they? Judge for yourself? Do they not belong, of course,
to the same neighborhood? Have they not an air of good-fellowship,
which cannot be counterfeited--a something which explains why they are
always together, and why they are all dressed alike? How they loiter
along, now that they have squeezed him as dry as an orange, as if
they were just returning from a long summer-day's tramp in the
wilderness after flowers and birds-nests--the flowers to tear to
pieces, and the birds-nests to set up in the school for other boys to
have a _shy_ at. By to-morrow, they will be asunder for months--he at
school afar off, and they at leap-frog or marbles. And after a few
years, they will be forgotten by him, and he remembered by them--such
being the difference in their early education--as the boy they were
allowed to associate with, and to fleece at pleasure when he was
nobody but Tom, Dick, or Harry, and thought himself no better than
other folks.

But enough--let us leave the window. It is growing dark; and if you
are not already satisfied, nothing ever will satisfy you, that the
great mass of mankind have ears, but they hear not; and eyes, but
they see not--and go through the world with their night-caps pulled
over both. Poor simpletons!--what would they think of a man who should
run for a wager with both feet in one shoe. Are you satisfied?

I am--of one thing.

And what is that?

Why, that a magazine-writer may coin gold out of any thing--out of the
golden atmosphere of a summer-evening--or the golden motes he sees
playing in the sunshine, on the best possible terms, with the common
dust of the trampled highway--or the golden blossoms that fill the
hedges--in a word, that with him it should be mere child's play to
"extract sunshine from cucumbers."




THE OAK-TREE.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.


I.

    Beautiful oak-tree! near my father's dwelling,
      Alone thou standest on the sloping green;
    In size, in strength, all other trees excelling--
      The noblest feature of the rural scene.

    Whether with foliage crowned in Summer's glory,
      Or stripped of leaves in winter's icy reign,
    Grandly thou speakest an unchanging story
      Of power and beauty, not bestowed in vain.

    I looked upon thee with deep veneration,
      When first my soul acknowledged the sublime,
    And felt the might and grandeur of creation,
      In all that longest braves the shock of Time.

    Centuries ago, an acorn, chance-directed,
      Fell on the spot, and then a sapling sprung,
    From driving winds and beating storms protected
      By that kind Heaven which guards the frail and young.

    And prouder height with greater age acquiring,
      Fair as when suns on thy first verdure smiled,
    Thou standest now, a forest lord, aspiring
      O'er all thy peers from whom thou art exiled.

    Beautiful oak-tree! my most pleasant gambols
      Were, with my dear companions, always played
    Beneath thy branches, and from farthest rambles
      Wearied, we came and rested in thy shade.

    Morning and evening, Falls, and Springs, and Summers,
      Here was our Freedom, here we romped and sported;
    And here by moonlight, happiest of all comers,
      In thy dark shadow lovers sat and courted.

    And here, when snow in frozen billows bound thee,
      Like a white ocean deluging the land,
    And smaller trunks, or near or far, were round thee
      Like masts of vessels sunken on the strand,

    We climbed high up thy naked boughs, enchanted,
      Shaking whole sheets of spotless canvas down,
    And, by keen frosts and breezes nothing daunted,
      Hailed the slow sledges from the neighboring town.

    Ah! flown delights! ah! happiness departed!
      What have I known like you, since, light and free,
    And undefiled, and bold and merry-hearted,
      I used to frolic by the old oak-tree!


II.

    Long years ago I left my father's mansion,
      Through many realms, in various climates roamed,
    Speeding away o'er all Earth's wide expansion,
      Where icebergs glittered, and where torrents foamed.

    From pole to pole, across the hot Equator,
      Restless as sea-gulls whirling o'er the deep;
    From Snowden's crown to Ætna's fiery crater,
      From Indian valley to Caucasian steep;

    From Chimborazo, loftiest of all mountains
      Trod by man's foot, to Nova Zembla's shore;
    From Iceland Hecla's ever-boiling fountains,
      To where Cape Horn's incessant surges roar;

    From France's vineyards to Antarctic regions,
      From England's pastures to Arabia's sands,
    From the rude North, with her unnumbered legions,
      To the sweet South's depopulated lands;

    O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid,
      Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see,
    I roved at will--but all my journeys ended,
      Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree.

    But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches,
      What other forms, what different feet had strayed,
    Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chances
      Which adverse Fortune in my path had laid.

    Past my meridian, sinking toward the season
      When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,
    When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,
      I came and questioned the remembered Past.

    I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,
      Forgetting all the intervening years,
    Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,
      And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.

    I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,
      Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide--
    Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling
      That all I left behind and loved had died.

    Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,
      As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,
    As when I saw their early glow adorning
      The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.




PAULINE GREY.

OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER.

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

(_Concluded from page_ 233.)


The result of Mr. Grey's investigations _was_ decidedly unfavorable.
He had much difficulty, in the first place, in obtaining any distinct
information at all, most people hating to commit themselves in such a
matter. He was generally answered evasively, and one or two merely
said, "they knew no good of him."

A friend, however, undertook to make the inquiries, and with much
better success than Mr. Grey could do; and he learnt "that young
Wentworth was wild, very wild--much in debt, with no business habits;
and, in short, that there was not a father in town who would be
willing to give his daughter to him."

Mr. Grey, of course, considered this information as decisive, and
communicated it to his wife. She received it with mingled feelings of
relief and apprehension. There was no danger now of Pauline's having
him, but she dreaded telling her so; not that she for a moment doubted
Pauline's acquiescence in the decision, about which she herself
supposed there could be no two opinions, but only the burst of grief
with which she would receive it.

But never was Mrs. Grey more mistaken. Pauline saw nothing in the
information that her father had received to change her opinions or
feelings at all; "that he was wild--she knew that--he had told her so
himself. He had been very wild before he knew her--and in debt--yes,
he had told her that too. He had never had any motive to apply himself
to business before," and Pauline seemed to think his not having done
so as a matter of choice or taste, only showed his superior
refinement. In short, she adhered as resolutely to her determination
as ever.

What ideas did she, poor girl, attach to the word "wild;" something
very vague, and not disgraceful at all. Perhaps a few supper parties,
and a little more champagne than was quite proper. She did not know,
could not know, the bearing of the term; and as to being in debt, that
conveyed little more to her mind. If he owed money it could easily be
paid. She knew no more of the petty meanness of small sums borrowed,
and little debts contracted every where, than she knew of the low
tastes involved in the word "wild."

Mrs. Grey was in despair. But here Mr. Grey interposed. He had never
exerted his authority before, but never doubted he had the power when
he had the will. He forbade Pauline to think of him.

He might as well have forbade the winds to blow. Pauline vehemently
declared she would marry him, and wept passionately; and finally
exhausted by the violence of her emotions, went to bed sick.

She kept her room for the next week, wept incessantly, refused to eat,
except when absolutely forced to, and gave way to such uncontrolled
passion, as soon told upon her slight frame, always delicate.

Mrs. Grey was alarmed; but Mr. Grey, not having seen Pauline since his
decision had been communicated to her, was very firm.

"After the first burst was over, Pauline," he said, "would return to
her senses."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Grey, "go up stairs and see her yourself;
perhaps you can induce her to listen to reason."

And Mr. Grey went to Pauline. He had been prepared to see her looking
pale and sad, but he was not prepared for the change that a week's
strong excitement had wrought in Pauline's appearance. Her large,
black eyes looked larger, and her face smaller from the deadly
paleness of her fair skin. Mr. Grey was, indeed, shocked; and either a
slight cold, or the nervousness induced by weakness, had brought on
the little hacking cough they always so dreaded to hear.

He was much moved. He could not see his child die before his eyes; and
it ended in Pauline's tears prevailing, and bringing him to listen to
her views, instead of his inducing her to listen to reason. He
promised he would do what he could--and once having been brought to
hesitate, the natural impatience and decision of his character led him
to the very point Pauline desired, of settling the matter as fast as
possible; for "if it was to be, let it be done at once," he said.

Mr. Wentworth was recalled. He was all protestations and promises; and
Mr. Grey, with a heavy heart, "hoped it might turn out better than
they anticipated."

Pauline, at any rate, was restored to present happiness, and her
doating parents had the immediate satisfaction of seeing her once
again her radiant self, full of joy and gratitude, and confident of
the future as secure of the present.

The gay world in which they lived were very much surprised at the
announcement of the engagement; at Mr. and Mrs. Grey's consenting to
it; and even confounded at hearing that a day--and an early day,
too--was actually named for the marriage.

"Is not that extraordinary?" said Mrs. Livingston. "One would really
think they were afraid the young man would slip through their fingers.
How anxious some people are to marry their daughters!"

"How absurd!" said another; "for I am told they don't like it, as, of
course, they cannot. And she is so young, that if they delayed it a
little while, another season, with the admirers she is sure to have,
would put it out of her head."

Lookers on are very wise; and it's a pity actors cannot be equally so.
No doubt this would have been the right, and probably the successful
course. But Mrs. Grey had no longer any spirit to oppose Pauline, and
Mr. Grey, in his impatient agony, seemed to think the sooner it was
over the better.

Foolish, unhappy father. He was only riveting his own misery.

But Pauline was radiant. Deep in the excitement of wedding
preparations and invitations--for her parents listlessly acquiesced in
every thing she asked; and she meant to be married "in pomp, in
triumph, and in revelry."

The mornings were spent in shopping, and one could scarcely go into a
store where they did not meet Mrs. Grey and Pauline looking over
delicate laces, exquisite embroidery, and expensive silks, Pauline's
bright face looking brighter than ever, and her youthful voice musical
in its gay happiness; and Mrs. Grey looking so dejected, and speaking
in the lifeless tones of one who has a heavy sorrow settled on her
heart.

Two short months were rapidly consumed in all the arrangements usually
made on such occasions--and the wedding day arrived.

Never had Pauline looked so beautiful. The emotions called up by the
occasion softened without dimming the brilliancy of her usual beauty.
The veil of finest lace, the wreath of fresh and rare exotics, the
jeweled arms, all lent their aid to render her surpassingly lovely.

"Pray God it turn out better than we can hope!" was all Mr. Grey could
say, to which his wife replied by a sigh, which seemed the fitting
response to a prayer uttered with so little hope.


CHAPTER III.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey had made it a condition with Mr. Wentworth that they
were not to lose Pauline, and consequently it was arranged that the
young couple were to live at home.

Scarcely were the wedding festivities over before Mrs. Grey remarked
that Pauline was nervous when her husband was alone with her father
and herself; and that when he entered into conversation, she always
joined in hastily, and contrived to engross the greater part of it
herself. She evidently did not want him to talk more than could be
helped. But much as she shielded him, the truth could not be
concealed. Little as Mr. and Mrs. Grey had expected from Wentworth, he
fell painfully below their expectations. He was both weak and
ignorant--ignorant to a remarkable degree, for one occupying his
position in society. It only showed how he had turned from every
advantage offered him by education. His sentiments, too, were common;
every thing stamped him as a low-minded, coarse-feeling young man--at
least they feared so. He might improve. Pauline's influence might do
something.

But was Pauline beginning to be at all alive to the truth as it was?

Mrs. Grey feared so; but she could not ascertain. Pauline was
affectionate and tender, but not frank with her mother. Mrs. Grey,
like most mothers, who, to tell the truth, are not very judicious on
this point, would have led Pauline to talk of her husband; but here,
she knew not how, Pauline baffled her. She always spoke, and spoke
cheerfully and respectfully, of Mr. Wentworth, but in such a general
manner, that Mrs. Grey could come to no satisfactory conclusion either
way.

The truth was that though Pauline was very young, her character was
developing fast. Her heart and her mind were now speaking to her
trumpet-tongued--and their voice was appalling.

Her husband was daily revealing himself in his true character to her;
and the idol of her imagination was fast coming forth as an idol of
clay. But though Pauline was willful, she had other and great and
noble qualities. An instinct told her at once that no complaint of her
husband must pass her lips. Pride whispered that she had chosen her
own lot, and must bear it, and love still murmured, "Hope on--all is
not yet lost." But she grew pale and thin, and though she was
animated, and talked, perhaps, more than ever, Mrs. Grey imagined, for
she could not tell to a certainty, that her animation was forced, and
her conversation nervous.

Mr. Wentworth seemed soon to weary of the calm quiet of the domestic
circle, for of an evening he was beginning to take his hat and go to
the club, staying at first but for an hour or so, and gradually later
and later.

"I am not going up stairs yet, mamma," said Pauline, "I will sit up
for Mr. Wentworth."

"Robert will let him in, Pauline," replied Mrs. Grey, anxiously. "You
are looking pale, my child--you had better go up."

"Very well," answered Pauline, quietly; and her mother satisfied,
retired to her own room, supposing Pauline had done the same. But
Pauline had let the man sit up for her husband the night before; and
she had heard her mother, as she happened to be passing in the hall
when Mrs. Grey did not see her, finding fault with him for being late
in the morning; to which the servant answered, in extenuation, that he
had been up so late for Mr. Wentworth that he had over-slept himself.

"How late was it, Robert?" asked Mrs. Grey, in a low voice.

"Near two, ma'am," replied the man.

"Near two!" repeated Mrs. Grey, as if to herself--and a heavy sigh
told Pauline better than any comments could have done what was passing
in her mother's mind. She determined that henceforth no servant should
have her husband in his power again. So when she had heard her
mother's door close for the night, she rang for the man and said,

"Robert, you can go to bed now, I will sit up for Mr. Wentworth."

"My child, how thin and pale you grow," Mrs. Grey would say,
anxiously; "and that little cough of yours, too, Pauline--how it
distresses me. What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, mother," Pauline would reply, cheerfully; "I always cough a
little, you know, if I am not well. And if I am looking paler and
thinner than usual, that is to be expected--is it not?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Grey would reply, half satisfied for the present
that perhaps Pauline had truly accounted for her wan looks.

Ah! little did she know of the late hours of harassing watching that,
night after night, Pauline spent waiting the coming in of her truant
husband; and less did she know of the agonized feelings of the young
wife, as she read in the glassy eye and flushed brow of her husband,
the meaning of that once insignificant word "wild," which now she was
beginning to apprehend in all its disgusting reality.

Pauline's spirit sometimes rose, and she remonstrated with Wentworth;
but his loud tones subdued her at once. Not that she yet feared him,
but dreaded lest those tones should reach her mother's ear. The one
absorbing feeling, next to bitter disappointment, was concealment.

"Mother," she said, one day, "I want you to listen to what I have to
say--and do not reject my proposition until you have fully considered
it. Mr. Wentworth wants to go to housekeeping."

"To housekeeping, Pauline!" exclaimed Mrs. Grey. "Why, Pauline, Mr.
Wentworth promised to remain with us--"

"Yes, mother," interrupted Pauline, "and will keep his promise if you
say so. But what I wish is, that you should not oppose it."

"What is there, my child," said Mrs. Grey, "that he has not, or that
you have not here, that you can have in your own house. Only say it,
Pauline, and any thing, every thing either you or he wish, shall be
done."

Pauline was affected to tears by her mother's tone and manner, and she
said,

"Dearest mother, there is nothing that love and tenderness can do,
that you and my father have not done. Do not think that I am
insensible or ungrateful. Oh, no! never was your love so important to
me as now--" she here checked herself. "But, mother, what I would
say--what I think, is, that Mr. Wentworth, that no man can feel
perfectly at ease in another's house; and that a young man, perhaps,
hardly feels his responsibility as the head of a family, while living
at home; that his respectability before the world--in short, I think,
I _feel_, that it would be better for Mr. Wentworth if he were in his
own house."

And beyond this last intimation Pauline could not be drawn, although
Mrs. Grey did her best to pursue the theme and draw her out. She only
said, "Well, mother, think it over, and talk to father about it."

And Mrs. Grey did talk to her husband, and found, to her surprise,
that he agreed with Pauline.

"I believe she is right," he said. "Wentworth and ourselves cannot
live much longer together. I believe it will be for our mutual
happiness that we be partially separated."

"If I were only satisfied that she is satisfied," urged Mrs. Grey.
"But Pauline is so reserved about her husband."

"And Pauline is right, my dear," replied Mr. Grey, with deep emotion.
"I honor her for it. My poor child has drawn a sad lot, and nobly is
she bearing it. We must aid her and comfort her as we can, Alice; and
if she wills that we be deaf and blind, deaf and blind we must be. God
bless her!" he added, fervently. "My angel daughter."

And so arrangements on the most liberal scale were made for Pauline's
separate establishment; for, to tell the truth, it was rather
Pauline's wish than her husband's. She thought that if they were
alone, she could exert some influence over him, which now she was
afraid of attempting lest it might bring exposure with it. Pauline had
borne much, but not from fear. She had a brave, high spirit. She did
not tremble before Wentworth; but both pride and love--yes, love even
for him, and deep, surpassing love for her parents, led her to adopt
her present course.

Poor child! she did not know she was only withdrawing herself from
their protection.

    *    *    *    *    *

Pauline had not been long at housekeeping before she found it involved
with it a source of domestic unhappiness she had not anticipated; and
that was in the character and manners of the associates who her
husband now brought home with him, and who at her father's house she
had been protected from seeing.

Wentworth had the outward appearance and manner of a gentleman,
whatever he might be in point of fact; but there were those among his
friends, and one in particular, a Mr. Strickland, from whom Pauline
instinctively shrank, as being neither a gentleman nor a man of
principle. She looked upon him, too, as leading Wentworth astray; and
at any rate felt he was a person her husband had no right to bring
into her presence. She remonstrated with him more than once on the
subject, and he warmly defended his friend, and said her suspicions
were as unfounded as unwarrantable, and finally got in a passion, and
declared he would bring whom he chose to his own house. Pauline firmly
declared that he might do that, but that _she_ was equally mistress of
her own actions, and would _not_ receive Mr. Strickland as an
acquaintance. If he chose to ask him there, she would retire as he
entered.

Wentworth was very angry--quite violent in fact; but Pauline remained
unshaken--and he left the house in great displeasure.

He did not return until late. Pauline had given him up, and just
ordered dinner when he entered. As he came in he said loudly, "Walk
in, Strickland;" and there was something in the eye of both, as they
entered, that told Pauline that their quarrel had been communicated by
her husband to his friend, for Strickland's expression was both
foolish and insolent; and Wentworth evidently had been put up to brave
it out.

Pauline colored deeply, and rose to leave the room just as the
folding-doors of the dining-room were thrown open. Wentworth hastily
stepped forward, and taking her arm with a grasp, the firmness of
which he himself was unaware at the time, said,

"Take your place at the table."

The print of his fingers was left on her delicate wrist as he withdrew
his hand; but Pauline was too proud to subject herself to further
indignity in the presence of a stranger; and though she read triumph
in his insolent eye, she took her place silently at the head of the
table.

Wentworth drank freely of wine, for he was evidently laboring under
both embarrassment and excitement. The conversation was such as to
cause the blood to mount to Pauline's temples more than once, but she
firmly kept her seat until the cloth was removed and the servants
withdrew, and then she rose.

Wentworth said, "You are not going yet!" but there was a look in her
eye, as she turned it on him, that silenced all further remonstrance
on his part. A coarse laugh she heard as she closed the door, whether
of derision or triumph she could not tell; but she went to her own
room, and double-locked the doors, and paced the floor in great
excitement until she heard the offending stranger leave.

Then she descended to the parlor, looking pale, but her bright eye
clear, and resolve in every lineament. Wentworth was alone, standing
on the rug, with his back to the fire as she entered.

He evidently quailed as he encountered her full glance, but instantly
made an effort, and attempted to bluster it out.

She approached close up to him before she spoke, and then said in a
clear, low voice.

"I am not come to reproach or to listen to recriminations, but to tell
you I never will submit to such insult again." And baring her delicate
wrist where the mark of his fingers was now turning black, said,
"Should my father see that, you well know the consequence. I have
nothing more to say, but remember it," and passing through the room,
she left him speechless with contending feelings, shame predominating
perhaps over the others, and retired once more to her room.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey dined with Pauline the next day, and Wentworth did
his best to behave himself well. He was attentive and respectful to
them, affectionate to Pauline.

She looked very pale, however, though she made an effort to be
cheerful and animated. At dinner the loose sleeve of her dress falling
back as she raised her hand, her mother exclaimed, "Oh, Pauline, what
is the matter with your wrist?"

Glancing slightly at her husband, who obviously changed color and
looked uneasy, she said quietly, as she drew her bracelet over the
dark stains, "I struck it and bruised it." Wentworth's brow cleared,
and there was a look of grateful affection in his eye which Pauline
had not seen for many a day.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey returned home better satisfied with their son-in-law
than they had been almost since his marriage. So little often do the
nearest friends know of what is going on in the hearts of those
dearest to them.

We will not trace Mr. Wentworth's career more closely. It is a common
one--that of a "wild" young man settling into a dissipated one. Mr.
Grey heard occasionally who his associates were; and he knew them to
be men without character, a kind of gentlemen "blacklegs." He heard
intimations, too, of his habits, and intemperance was leaving its
traces in his once rather handsome countenance.

But from Pauline came no murmur. And soon the birth of a daughter
seemed to absorb all her feelings, and opened, they trusted, an
independent source of happiness for their unhappy child.

Pauline had hoped that the birth of her infant might effect some
favorable change in her husband's conduct. But here again she was open
to a new disappointment. "He hated girls," he said. "If it had been a
fine boy, it would not have been so bad."

Pauline sighed, and as she pressed her darling to her heart, thanked
God in silence that it was not a son, who might by a possibility
resemble his father.

The child was a delicate infant from its birth; and whether it was the
constant sound of its little wailing cries, or that Wentworth was
jealous of the mother's passionate devotion to the little creature, or
perhaps something of both, but he fairly seemed to hate it as the
months went on. But rude and even brutal though he might be, he could
not rob Pauline of the happiness of her deep love. She turned
resolutely from her husband to her child. What comfort earth had left
for her, she would take there.

The long summer months and the infant pined away, and the beautiful
mother seemed wasting with it. Mr. and Mrs. Grey were out of town for
a few weeks, during which the child became alarmingly low. The
physician gave Pauline little hope. It was too weak to be removed for
change of air. Nature might rally, but nothing more could be done for
it. Pauline attempted to detain her husband by her side, but he shook
her rudely off, saying, "Nonsense, you are always fancying the brat
ill!" and the young mother was left desolate by the little bed of her
dying baby.

We will pass over those hours of agony, for there are no words that
can describe them; but by midnight its young spirit had winged its
flight to Heaven, and the heart-broken mother wept over it in an
anguish few even of parents ever knew.

"That's Mr. Wentworth's step," said the nurse in a low voice to her,
as he passed the nursery door. "Shall I go to him, ma'am?"

"No," said Pauline, "I will go. Do you stay here." And rising firmly,
she went to her husband's room.

He was lying dressed on the bed as she approached. She laid her hand
on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked stupidly at her. She
told him their child was dead--and he laughed a stupid, brutal
laugh--the laugh of intoxication.

Pauline shuddered from head to foot, and returned to the bed of her
dead child; and when Mr. and Mrs. Grey, who had been sent for, arrived
in the morning; they found her as she had lain all night, her arms
clasped round the infant, and moaning wildly, as one who has no hope
on earth.

"Take me--take me home!" she said, as she threw herself into her
mother's arms.

"Never, my child, to be parted from us again," said her father, as he
pressed her passionately to his heart.

They understood each other, and when the funeral was over, without one
word to "Wentworth--for Pauline could bear nothing more--Mr. Grey took
Pauline home.

That night she was in a high fever, and for two or three days she
continued alarmingly ill--but at the end of that time she was enabled
to sit up.

Mr. Grey had, meanwhile, seen Wentworth; but the nature of their
conversation he did not repeat to his daughter.

One afternoon, however, he came into her sick room, and said,

"Pauline, are you strong enough to see your husband. He entreats to
see you, if but for a few minutes." Pauline murmured an acquiescence.

"My dear," said Mr. Grey, "you must leave them--I have promised it;
but Mrs. Granger (the nurse) will remain."

Wentworth presently entered. He seemed calm, for the nurse's eye was
upon him; asked her how she was, and talked for a few minutes, and
then getting up, as if to take Pauline's hand for farewell, he
approached his lips close to her ear, said some low muttered words,
and left the room.

Pauline did not speak for some time after he had withdrawn, and the
nurse receiving no answer to some question she had asked her, went up
to her, and found she had fainted.

Shivering succeeded to fainting fits--faintings to shivering; they
thought that night that she was dying.

A few days after she said, in a quick, low, frightened voice to her
mother,

"Lock the doors mother, quick!"

Much startled, Mrs. Grey did instantly as Pauline requested, and then
her ear, less fine than the sensitive organ of her unhappy daughter,
caught the sound of Wentworth's voice in the hall below.

"Fear not, my Pauline," she said, as she took her in her arms, "your
father will protect you;" but no sound escaped Pauline's lips. She was
evidently intently listening. Soon loud voices were heard, doors
shutting--and then the street door with a bang. Presently Mr. Grey's
measured tread was heard coming up stairs, and next his hand was on
the lock.

"Is he alone?" were the first words Pauline had uttered since she had
heard her husband's voice.

"He is, my child."

"Pauline, fear not, you shall never see him again," were the words of
her father, uttered in a calm but deep voice.

That night Pauline slept tranquilly, for the first time almost since
she had known Wentworth.

She seemed revived in the morning, and Mrs. Grey's hopes rose again,
but only to be dashed once more forever.

The iron had eaten too deeply in her soul. Pauline's slight frame had
no power of renovation. The spirit seemed to grow brighter and
brighter as she wasted away. Unutterable love and gratitude looked out
from her eyes, as she turned them from her father and mother,
alternately; but she was too weak to say much, and gently thus she
faded away to fall asleep upon earth, awakening a purified and
regenerated spirit in heaven.

Her's was "a broken and a contrite heart," and of such is the kingdom
of heaven.

    *    *    *    *    *

Could mortal agony such as Mr. Grey's be added to, as he followed his
idolized child to the grave?

Yes--even there something was to be added--for Wentworth, as chief
mourner, stepped forward and offered his arm to the unhappy father,
which, even at that moment, and in that presence, Mr. Grey could not
help shaking off.

    *    *    *    *    *

And what have this childless, broken-hearted couple left of their
beautiful daughter?

A picture--delicate and lovely in its lineaments, but

    "To those who see thee not, my words are weak,
     To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak."

The canvas must fail in the life-speaking eye; and exquisite though
the pictured image be, oh! how cold to those who knew and idolized the
beautiful original.

Heaven help you, unhappy parents! Your all was wrecked in that one
frail bark. Though friends may sympathize at first, yet they will grow
weary of your grief--for such is human nature. God comfort you! for
there is no earthly hope for those who have lost their only child.




SONNET.--TO A MINIATURE.

    Image of loveliness! in thee I view
      The bright, the fair, the perfect counterpart,
      Of that which love hath graven on my heart.
    In every lineament, to nature true,
    Methinks I can discern _her_ spirit through
      Each feature gleaming; soft, serene and mild,
      And gentle as when on me first she smiled,
    Stirring my heart with passions strange and new.
    Would that my tongue could celebrate the praise
      Of thy divine original, or swell
    The general chorus, or in lofty lays
      Of her celestial grace and beauty tell,
    But fancy flutters on her unplumed wing,
    None but an angel's harp, an angel's praise should sing.

                                                    C. E. T.




WHORTLEBERRYING.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.


About the middle of August, the village was honored by repeated visits
from the little ragged population of "Barlow's Settlement," on the
"Barrens," with quantities of whortleberries for sale. "Want any
huckleberries to-day?" was heard all over. You couldn't stir abroad
without some urchin with a smirched face--a tattered coat, whose
skirts swept the dust, showing, evidently, its paternal descent, and
pantaloons patched in the most conspicuous places, more picturesque
than decent--thrusting a basket of the rich fruit into your very face,
with an impudent yell of "huckleberries, sir?" or some little girl,
the edges of whose scanty frock were irregularly scalloped, making a
timid courtesy, saying meekly, "Don't you want some berries to-day,
sir? nice berries, sir, just picked!"

At length Bill Brattle, who is a resident of the settlement, came into
the village, and said in Wilson's bar-room, "that he'd lived on the
Barrens nigh on six years, and he'd _never_ in all that 'ere time seed
sich an allfired grist of huckleberries. Why there was acres on acres
on 'em, and he didn't tell no lie when he said that the airth was
parfectly blue with 'em."

This soon got about, and the consequence was a whortleberry party the
very next day. A number of the young people, of both sexes, started in
several conveyances, and about noon found themselves, after rumbling
through the covered bridge on the Neversink River, climbing slowly up
the steep winding hill that ascends from the east bank of the stream,
and whence was a beautiful view of the valley below.

Now there are many fine views in Sullivan. It is an exceedingly
picturesque county. It has all the charms of precipitous hills,
winding valleys, dark wooded gorges, lovely river-flats, and
meandering streams. It is sufficiently cultivated to have the beauty
of rural landscape softening the forest scenery, without disturbing to
any great degree its wildness and grandeur.

This Neversink valley river, although not among the finest, is
nevertheless a very lovely one--

Beneath--the clear placid stream comes coursing from the north,
through narrow but beautiful flats, in all the pomp of rural wealth,
wrinkled with corn-fields, bearded with rye, and whitened with
buckwheat, imaging old age rejoicing amongst its blessings. Opposite,
rise steep hills in all the stages of cultivation--the black
logging--the grain waving amidst stumps--and the smooth grassy
meadow--whilst at the south, where the little river makes a bold turn,
the sweet landscape is lost in the deep mantle of the aboriginal
forest.

Mastering the hill, the whole cavalcade was soon turning into a stony,
root-tangled, miry road, leading from the turnpike into the heart of
the "Barrens," the territory of the desired fruit. After sinking and
jolting for some little distance, we came to a part of the track which
had been laid over with small parallel logs, close to each other, and
forming what is called in country parlance "a corduroy road". We
"bumped along" (as Jim Stokes, one of our party, a plain young farmer,
expressed it) over this railway of the woods, until our bones seemed
so loose we thought we could hear them rattle at every jolt; and at
last stopped at a large log cabin which had been fitted up as a
tavern.

A fierce eagle, with his head nearly all eye, one striped claw
grasping a bundle of arrows, and the other the American flag, served
for the sign, and was elevated upon a tall hickory sapling, with the
ambitious legend of "Eagle Hotel; by A. Pritchard," flaunting in a
scroll from the ferocious bird's mouth.

A smaller log structure, with one large door, and a square opening
over it, through which a haymow seemed thrusting its brown head, as if
to look abroad, with a warm glow of sunshine upon it, told plainly
that our horses at all events would not suffer.

In a short time we scattered ourselves over the ground in the
vicinity, in search of our fruit. The appearance of things around was
quite characteristic of the region generally. The principal growth
were a dwarf species of oak, called in the language of the country
"scrub-oak"--low shaggy spruces--stunted gnarled pines, and here and
there, particularly in low places, tall hemlocks. The earth was
perfectly bestrewed with loose stones, between which, however, the
moss showed itself, thick and green, with immense quantities of that
beautiful creeping plant called the "ground pine," winding and twining
its rich emerald branching fingers in every direction. Scores of
cattle-paths were twisting and interlacing all around us, giving, in
fact, to the scene, notwithstanding its barrenness, a picturesque
appearance. There were stone-fences also intersecting each other every
where, erected for no earthly purpose, as I could perceive, but to
make way with some part of the vast quantities of stone scattered
about; for as to cultivating the lots, that was entirely out of the
question.

There was some little pasturage, however, and the bells of the
browsing cows were heard tinkling in a pleasing manner, and giving
somewhat of a social character to the desolate landscape.

We were all soon immersed in our search. The bushes were crouching all
around us, bearing their rich clusters of misty blue berries, covered
with the soft beautiful down that vanished at the touch leaving the
berry dark and glittering as the eye of a squirrel. How like is the
down of the fruit to the first gossamer down of the heart--and ah! how
soon the latter also vanishes at the rude touch of the world. The
pure virgin innocence with which God robes the creature when fresh
from His holy hand! why cannot it stay! why, oh why, does it so soon
depart and leave the soul disrobed of its charm and loveliness. Harsh
world, bad world! it destroys all it touches.

Ahem! we'll return.

Merry laughter breaks out from the girls, and playful scrambles occur
amongst them as to who should secure the most fruit. The berries pour
in handfuls in the baskets, which show in some cases signs of
plethora. I tell you what it is, reader, there is sport in picking
whortleberries. Strawberries pout their rich mouths so low that it
gives a sore temptation to the blood to make an assault upon the head,
causing you, when you lift it, to look darkly upon various green spots
dancing about your eyes. Raspberries again, and blackberries, sting
like the dev--I beg pardon, making your hands twitch up like a fit of
St. Vitus' dance. But picking whortleberries is all plain sailing.
Here are the berries and there are your baskets; no getting on your
knees, (although it must be confessed the bushes are somewhat low,)
and no pricking your fingers to the verge of swearing.

We all hunt in couples--a lover and his sweet-heart--and take
different paths. My companion was a tall black-eyed girl, the sight of
whom always made my heart beat quicker, in those unsophisticated days.
Rare sport we had, and so, doubtless, had the rest. Pick, pick, pick
went the fingers--and ruttle, ruttle, ruttle in the baskets ran the
berries. Glorious sport! glorious times! We talked, too, as we
picked--indeed why should we not--we had the whole English language to
ourselves, and no one to disturb us in it--and I tell you what it
is--if people can't talk they had better sell their tongue to the
surgeons and live only through their eyes. What's the use of existing
without talk--ay, and small talk too. Small talk is (as somebody I
believe says, although I am not certain, but no matter) the small
change of society, and who hasn't the small change, ten chances to one
hasn't the large. However, we'll change the theme.

We hear in the distance the hum of male voices, and the light silvery
tones of female, broken in upon by frequent laughter and the music of
the cow-bells, tingle lingle, tink clink--here--there--far off and
near.

All of a sudden, as I part a large thick cluster of whortleberry
bushes, I hear an indescribably quick rattle, amounting to a hum as it
were--fearful and thrilling in the extreme. I start back, but as I do
so I see in the gloom of the bushes two keen blazing orbs, and a long
scarlet tongue quivering and dancing like a curl of fire. "A
rattlesnake--a rattlesnake," I cry involuntarily--my companion gives a
little shriek, and in a moment several of our company, of both sexes,
are hastening toward us. It is a peculiarity or want of ability in the
reptile to dart only its length, and my first recoil had placed me, I
knew, beyond its reach. But there stood the leafy den, studded all
over with a profusion of beautiful gems, and although the rattle had
ceased, there to a certainty was the enraged monster, swelling
doubtless in his yellow venom; for it is another trait of the
crawling, poisonous demons never to desert their post, (rather a good
trait, by the way, not always possessed by those erect rattlesnakes,
men,) and we must get rid of the dragon before we could come at the
fruit. Well! what was to be done! We couldn't think of leaving the
field--that would be too bad--to be driven off by a snake, and before
the eyes of our Dulcineas too--it couldn't be thought of! So one of us
cuts a pole with a crotch at the end--the rest of us arm ourselves
with stones and sticks, and then the poleman commences his attack upon
the bush. Ha! that was a thrust, well aimed! hear him rattle,
hum-m-m--how the bush flutters! he sprang then! That was a good
thrust! Jupiter, how he rattles! see, see, see, there are his eyes!
ugh! there's his tongue! now he darts out his head and neck! Heavens!
what malignant rage and ferocity. Keep back, girls! don't be too
curious to see! Thrust him again! How he makes the bush flutter! how
his eyes shoot around! how his tongue darts in and out--and
whir-r-r-r-r-r--how his rattles shake. Now he comes out, head up,
tongue out, eyes like coals of fire--give him the stones now--a full
battery of them! Halloo! what's Sloan about there with his crotched
pole. Well planted, by Jupiter! right around his neck. Ha! ha! ha! how
he twists and turns and writhes about--how he would like to bite! how
he would like to strike some of that tawny poison of his into our
veins! Yes, yes, your snake-ship! but it wont do! "you can't come it,"
as Loafing Jim says, "no how you can fix it."

He's a tremendous snake though--full four feet! u-g-h! only think of
his crawling around and catching hold of the calf of your leg! Not so
pleasant as picking whortleberries, to say the least of it. See his
gray mottled skin! though it looks beautiful, flashing in the rays of
the sun--and then the ribbed white of his undershape! However, what
shall we do with him! Sloan, hold him tight now, and I'll aim at his
head. Good sharp stone this--whew--well aimed, although I say it--I
think he must have felt it this time. Halloo! another stone--from
Wescott. I fancy that made his head ache! And that one has crushed it
as flat as a--griddle-cake.

We again, after this terrific battle, (a dozen against one though I
must confess,) scatter among the bushes. Awful onslaughts are again
made amongst the berries, and our baskets (those at all events in
sight) are plumping up with the delicious, ripe, azure balls. I have
forgotten to mention, though, that it is a very warm day. The sky is
of a pale tint, as if the bright, pure, deep blue had been blanched
out by the heat; and all around the horizon are wan thunder-caps
thrusting up their peaks and summits. It looks decidedly thunderish.

What's that again! another alarm? How that girl does scream out there!
What on earth is the matter! We rush around a sand-bank, looking warm
and yellow in the sun, and we see the cause of the outbreak. There is
Caroline G. shrinking back as if she would like to evaporate into thin
air, and executing a series of shrieks, with her open mouth, of the
most thrilling character. Young Mason is a little in front, with a
knotted stick, doubtless just picked up, whilst some ten or twelve
rods in advance is a great shaggy black bear, very coolly helping
himself to the contents of the two baskets hitherto borne by the
couple, giving himself time, however, every now and then to look out
of his little black eyes at the rightful owners, with rather a
spiteful expression, but protruding at the same time his red tongue,
like a clown at the circus, as if enjoying the joke of their picking
and he eating. Afterward I learned that they had deposited their
baskets on the ground under a loaded bush, for greater facility in
securing the fruit, when suddenly they heard a blow and a snort, and
looking where the queer sounds came from, they saw his Bruinship's
white teeth and black phiz within a foot or two of them, directly over
the bush. Abandoning their baskets, they retreated in double quick
time, and while Mason sought and found a club for defence, Caroline
made haste to clear her voice for the most piercing efforts, and
succeeded in performing a succession of sustained vocal flights, that
a steam whistle couldn't much more than match. The sight as we came up
was in truth somewhat alarming, but Bruin didn't seem disposed to be
hostile except against the whortleberries, which he certainly made
disappear in the most summary manner; so we, after hushing with
difficulty Caroline's steam whistle, (I beg her pardon,) stood and
watched him. After he had discussed the contents of the baskets, he
again looked at us, and, rearing himself upon his hind legs, with his
fore paws hanging down like a dancing Shaker, made two or three
awkward movements, as if dancing an extempore hornpipe, either in
triumph or to thank us for his dinner; he next opened his great jaws
in resemblance to a laugh, again thrust out his tongue, saying plainly
by it, "hadn't you better pick some more whortleberries," then
deliberately fell upon his fore feet and stalked gravely and solemnly
away. As for ourselves, we went where he didn't.

It wanted now about an hour to sundown, and this was the time agreed
upon by all of us to reunite at Pritchard's and start for home. The
beautiful charm of light and shade cast by the slanting rays already
began to rest upon the scene. The small oaks were glowing through and
through--the thick spruces were kindled up in their outer edges--the
patches of moss looked like carpets of gold spread by the little genii
of the woods--the whortleberry bushes were drenched in rich radiance,
the fruit seeming like the concentrated radiance in the act of
dropping--whilst the straggling, tall, surly grenadiers of hemlocks
had put on high-pointed yellow caps, with rays streaking through their
branches like muskets. The cow-bells were now tinkling everywhere,
striking in an odd jumble of tones--tingle ling, tingle ling ting
tingle--as their owners collected together to eat their way to their
respective milking places--and all told us that the day was drawing to
a close. Independently of this, a dark crag of cloud was lifting
itself in the southwest, with a pale glance of lightning shooting out
of it occasionally, hinting very strongly of an approaching
thunder-storm.

In about half an hour we were all re-assembled at Pritchard's. I
believe I have not described the scenery around this little log
tavern. There was a ravine at some little distance from it, densely
clothed with forest. Through it a stream found its way. Directly
opposite the side porch, the ravine spread widely on each side,
shaping a broad basin of water, and then, contracting again, left a
narrow throat across which a dam had been thrown. Over this dam the
stream poured in a fall of glittering silver, of about ten feet, and
then, pursuing its way through the "Barrens," fell into the Sheldrake
Brook several miles below. Here, at the fall, Pritchard had erected a
saw-mill.

Now people don't generally think there is any thing very picturesque
about saw-mills, but I do. The weather-beaten boards of the low
structure, some hanging awry, some with great knot-holes, as if they
were gifted with orbs of vision, or were placed there for the mill to
breathe through, some fractured, as if the saw had at times become
outrageous at being always shut up and made to work there for other
people, and had dashed against them, determined to gain its
liberty--whilst some seem as if they had become so tantalized by the
continual jar of the machinery, that they had loosened their nails,
and had set up a clatter and shake themselves in opposition--these are
quite picturesque. Then the broad opening in front, exposing the
glittering saw bobbing up and down, and pushing its sharp teeth right
through the bowels of the great peeled log fastened with iron claws to
the sliding platform beneath--the gallows-like frame in which the saw
works--the great strap belonging to the machinery issuing out of one
corner and gliding into another--the sawyer himself, in a red shirt,
now wheeling the log into its place with his handspike and fastening
it--and now lifting the gate by the handle protruding near him--the
axe leaning at one side and the rifle at the other--the loose floor
covered with saw-dust--the stained rafters above with boards laid
across for a loft--the dark sloping slab-roof--the great black wheel
continually at war with the water, which, dashing bravely against it,
finds itself carried off its feet into the buckets, and whirled half
around, and then coolly dismissed into the stream below--the long
flume through which the water rushes to the unequal fray, and--what
next!

Then the pond, too, is not to be overlooked. There are generally some
twenty or thirty logs floating in one corner, close to each other, and
breaking out into great commotion every time the gate is hoisted--the
otter is now and then seen gliding in the farther nooks--and a quick
eye may catch, particularly about the dam, where he generally burrows,
a glimpse of the musk-rat as he dives down. Now and then too the wild
duck will push his beautiful shape with his bright feet through
it--the snipe will alight and "teter," as the children say, along the
banks--the woodcock will show his brownish red bosom amongst the reeds
as he comes to stick his long bill into the black ooze for sucking, as
dock-boys stick straws into molasses hogsheads--and once in a great
while, the sawyer, if he's wide awake, will see, in the Spring or
Fall, the wild goose leaving his migrating wedge overhead, and diving
and fluttering about in it, as a momentary bathing place, and to rest
for a time his throat, hoarse with uttering his laughably wise and
solemn "honk, honk." Nor must the ragged and smirched-faced boys be
forgotten, eternally on the logs, or the banks, or in the leaky scow,
with their twine and pin-hooks catching "spawney-cooks," and
"bull-heads" as worthless as themselves, and as if that were their
only business in life. And then the streak of saw-dust running along
in the midst of the brook below, and forming yellow nooks to imprison
bubbles and sticks and leaves and what not, every now and then making
a jet outward and joining the main body--and lastly the saw-mill yard,
with its boards, white, dark and golden, piled up in great masses,
with narrow lanes running through--and gray glistening logs, with
their bark coats off, waiting their turn to be "boarded."

The cloud had now risen higher, with its ragged pointed edges, and
murky bosom--sharper lightning flashed athwart it, sometimes in
trickling streaks, and sometimes in broad glances, whilst low growls
of thunder were every now and then heard. The sun was already
swallowed up--and a strange, unnatural, ghastly glare was upon every
object. The atmosphere was motionless--not a stir in the thickets
around, not a movement in the forest at the ravine. Through the solemn
silence the crash of the falling water came upon the ear, and its
gleam was caught against the black background of the cloud. It really
seemed as if Nature held her breath in anticipating terror. Higher and
higher rose the cloud--fiercer and fiercer flashed the lightning,
sterner and sterner came the peals of the solemn thunder. Still Nature
held her breath, still fear deep and brooding reigned. The wild tint
still was spread over all things--the pines and hemlocks near at hand
seeming blanched with affright beneath it. Suddenly a darkness smote
the air--a mighty rush was heard--the trees seemed falling upon their
faces in convulsions, and with a shock as if the atmosphere had been
turned into a precipitated mountain, amidst a blinding flash and
tearing, splitting roar, onward swept the blast. Another
flash--another roar--then tumbled the great sheeted rain. Like blows
of the hammer on the anvil beat it on the water--like the smitings of
a mounted host trampled it upon the roof--like the spray flying from
the cataract smoked it upon the earth. The fierce elements of fire
and air and water were now at the climax of their strife--the dark
blended shadow of the banners under which they fought almost blotting
out the view. Occasionally glimpses of writhing branches could be
seen, but only for a moment--all again was dim and obscure, with the
tremendous sights and sounds of the storm dazzling the eye and
stunning the ear. The lightning would flash with intolerable
brilliancy, and immediately would follow the thunder with a rattling
leap as if springing from its lair, and then with a deafening, awful
weight, as if it had fallen and been splintered into pieces in the
sky. Then would re-open the steady deep boom of the rain, and the
stern rushing of the chainless wind. At length the air became
clearer--the lightning glared at less frequent intervals--the thunder
became more rolling and distant, and the tramp of the rain upon the
roof less violent. The watery streaks in the atmosphere waxed
finer--outlines of objects began to be defined--till suddenly, as a
growl of thunder died away in the east, a rich thread of light ran
along the landscape, that looked out smiling through its tears; and
thronging out into the damp fresh, sweet air, where the delicate
gauze-like rain was glittering and trembling, we saw on one hand the
great sun looking from a space of glowing sky upon the scene, and
dashing upon the parting clouds the most superb and gorgeous
hues--whilst on the other smiled the lovely rainbow, the Ariel of the
tempest, spanning the black cloud and soaring over the illuminated
earth, like Hope spreading her brilliant halo over the Christian's
brow, and brightening with her beautiful presence his impending death.

We all concluded to wait for the moon to rise before we started for
home, and in the meanwhile another cloud arose and made demonstration.
This storm, however, was neither so long nor so violent as the first,
and we found attraction in viewing the lightning striking into ghastly
convulsions the landscape--so that the falling rain--the bowed
trees--the drenched earth--the streaked mill, and the gleaming
water-fall were opened to our view for an instant, and then dropped as
it were again into the blackness. But after a while the sky cleared
its forehead of all its frowns--the broad moon wheeled up--and in her
rich glory we again moved slowly along the rough road, until we came
to the smooth turnpike, where we dashed along homeward, with the cool,
scented air in our faces, and the sweet smile of the sun's gentle and
lovely sister resting all about us, making the magnificent Night
appear like Day with a veil of softening silver over his dazzling
brow.




STANZAS.

    Be firm, and be cheerful. The creature who lightens
      The natural burdens of life when he may,
    Who smiles at small evils, enhances and brightens
      The pleasures which Heaven has spread in his way.

    Then why yield your spirits to care and to sorrow?
      Rejoice in the present, and smile while you may;
    Nor, by thinking of woes which _may_ spring up to-morrow,
      Lose the blessings which Heaven _has_ granted to-day.




EURYDICE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

      With heart that thrilled to every earnest line,
        I had been reading o'er that antique story,
      Wherein the youth half human, half divine,
        Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory,
      Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell,
    In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell!

      And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced,
        My own heart's history unfolded seemed:--
      Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel graced
        With homage pure as ever woman dreamed,
      Too fondly worshiped, since such fate befell,
    Was it not sweet to die--because beloved too well?

      The scene is round me!--Throned amid the gloom,
        As a flower smiles on Ætna's fatal breast,
      Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom;
        And near--of Orpheus' soul, oh! idol blest!--
      While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light,
    I see _thy_ meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!

      I see the glorious boy--his dark locks wreathing
        Wildly the wan and spiritual brow,
      His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing;
        His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow;
      I see him bend on _thee_ that eloquent glance,
    The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance!

      I see his face, with more than mortal beauty
        Kindling, as armed with that sweet lyre alone,
      Pledged to a holy and heroic duty,
        He stands serene before the awful throne,
      And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eyes,
    Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh!

      Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings,
        As if a prisoned angel--pleading there
      For life and love--were fettered 'neath the strings,
        And poured his passionate soul upon the air!
      Anon, it clangs with wild, exultant swell,
    Till the full pæan peals triumphantly through Hell!

      And thou--thy pale hands meekly locked before thee--
        Thy sad eyes drinking _life_ from _his_ dear gaze--
      Thy lips apart--thy hair a halo o'er thee,
        Trailing around thy throat its golden maze--
      Thus--with all words in passionate silence dying--
    Within thy _soul_ I hear Love's eager voice replying--

        "Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing,
        Charmed into statues by thy God-taught strain,
      I--I alone, to thy dear face upraising
        My tearful glance, the life of life regain!
      For every tone that steals into my heart
    Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart.

      Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats
        Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,
      See, dear one! how the chain of linked notes
        Has fettered every spirit in its place!
      Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies;
    And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes.

      Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre!
        Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine,
      With claspèd hands, and eyes whose azore fire
        Gleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean
      Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast,
    Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest?

      Play my proud minstrel! strike the chords again!
        Lo! Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill!
      For Pluto turns relenting to the strain--
        He waves his hand--he speaks his awful will!
      My glorious Greek! lead on; but ah! _still_ lend
    Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend!

      Think not of me! Think rather of the time,
        When moved by thy resistless melody,
      To the strange magic of a song sublime,
        Thy argo grandly glided to the sea!
      And in the majesty Minerva gave,
    The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave!

      Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees,
        Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound,
      Swayed by a tuneful and enchanted breeze,
        March to slow music o'er th' astonished ground--
      Grove after grove descending from the hills,
    While round thee weave their dance the glad, harmonious rills.

      Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire,
        My lord, my king! recall the dread behest!
      Turn not--ah! turn not back those eyes of fire!
        Oh! lost, forever lost! undone! unblest!
      I faint, I die!--the serpent's fang once more
    Is here!--nay, grieve not thus! Life but _not Love_ is o'er!




THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT WIND.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

    When the day-king is descending
      On the blue hill's breast to lie,
    And some spirit-artist blending
      On the flushed and bending sky
    All the rainbow's hues, I listen
      To the breeze, while in my eye
    Tears of bitter anguish glisten,
      As I think of days gone by.

    Change, relentless change is lighting
      On the brow of young and fair,
    And with iron hand is writing
      Tales of grief and sorrow there.
    On life's journey friends have faltered,
      And beside its pathway lie,
    But that breeze, with voice unaltered,
      Sings as in the days gone by.

    Sings old songs to soothe the anguish
      Of a heart whose hopes are flown;
    Cheering one condemned to languish
      In this weary world alone;
    Tells old tales of loved ones o'er me,
      Dearest ones, remembered well,
    That have passed away before me,
      In a brighter land to dwell.




MAJOR-GENERAL WORTH.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES," ETC.


All persons naturally exhibit a great desire to become acquainted with
the events of the lives of those individuals who have made themselves
or their country illustrious. It is very pleasant to inquire into the
nature of the studies which matured their minds, to examine the
incidents of their early career, and follow them through the obscurer
portions of their lives for the purpose of ascertaining if the man
corresponds with the idea we have formed of him.

Gen. Worth has recently attracted so much attention, and the events of
his whole life have been so stirring, that this is peculiarly the case
with him. No one can think without interest of one who, while a boy
almost, opposed the British v

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/29262