Azile
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ] AZILE. BY MRS. JANE, T. H. CROSS. "There was a time, when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness." COLERIDGEO NASHVILLE, TENN.: f 7? I fS J iEIS F9;R THE AUT II PBY jA. z1.}EtFOdRI), F A 4WET. iT 1868. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by MRS. JANE T. E. CROSS, in the District Court of the United States for the Middle District of Tennessee. B. CULLIN, STEREOTYER, SOUTHERN METHODIST PUBLISHNG HOUSE, NASH7ILLE, TENNESSEE. page: 0[View Page 0] A Z I L E. CHAPTER I. WHAT is the matter with me? A feeling of desolateness comes over me this evening, which I in vain endeavor to shake off. It seems as if there were not a morsel of comfort within ten miles of me. I am but nineteen-but nineteen; that is not old, and yet it appears that the Theseus, the buoyancy of my youth, has deserted me; and, with tearful ! eyes; I see him sailing far over the blue main, while I must stay upon .this barren rock; and who knows whether any heaven-born Bacchus will ever come to crown my temples with autumnal grapes.? Does not this myth shadow forth the thought that the joys of early youth are not so divine as those of maturer life? I cannot- say. All existence to-night seems solemn, nor flowers nor grapes cluster about it. Every sound comes like a funereal-note. The very cur- tain about my window looks like a shroud for the ghostly moonlight. Poor Undine! how heartily can one sympathize with thee in thy apprehensive words: "Very heavily must the soul weigh, very heavily! for even its approach overshadows me page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] 6 i ZILE-. with terrorand anguish. A soul must be a precious, but yet most fearful I h ing IIu the name of God, reverend man, were it not better never tc become possessed of one?" And yet, when she has grown accustomed to this tearftl consoler, does she not say: "All is blessed to one in whom there lives a true soul"? Thou love:.y water-spirit! How many of us, like thee, leave the rea-m of imagination-our Mediter- ranean--with its golden palaces, and crystal domes, its glittering coral, and rose-lipped shells, and come to this working-day world, in earcl of a true heart that can understand our own; and how often, alas! does a harsh word. drive us back again to our Mediterranean! I will leave :this chi:.d of the ocean; she is too triste for me to-night; I will leave her, with her bright arms encircling the body of ler dead knight, and will turn to the sober old monk, Thomas 3 Kempis, who serves life as Nature does the treesI " strips it of its leaves, that it may battle with the winter's storm." He says: "Dispose thy- self for patience, rather than for consolation." He advises: "Leave desire." But, my dear old father, if we leave desire, what have ee elie in the world? Often, every thing but that is taken from s. That clings to us like the robe of Medea. . And vet, in truth, iould I say to-night what I desire? In truth, no. If, as I sit here by my window, and view only the dome of the Frauenkirche, and the star-spangled heavens, if I could set a meteor dart suddenly across the sky, and could then fcjrm a wish-which wish, by the- way, is always granted-- what should it be? I know not, except AZILE. I 7 that I would have some heart nearer to me-my dear mother's, fop instance. O, if I could breathe life into the tomb! If I could fill those eyes- again with love! If I could put back again those sunny, twining ringlets under her widow's cap, and hear her say, "My poor, little Azile!" If I could lay my head upon her bosom, and listen to the beating of her heart-that soft joy-bell of my life; or if I could press her thin, pale hand upon my own restless heart, just for one short half-hour! oBut no, that -would be too much happiness. Years have passed away since she commenced her-still, and, to me, tedious sleep, amid the magnolias. Those years have certainly not beeni short ones, and yet, so vivid is her image upon my heart, that it seems but yesterday that the colors were dashed on. Now, I have found it--the cause of my dreary feeling this evening. I have struck against it, as one suddenly strikes the foot against a sharp stone. I have been to the picture-gallery, gazing for hours upon that wonderful Madonna--not the Madonna of Raphael-that is a revela- tion of beauty, they say of divine beauty, to the world-- but the Madonna of Holbein, which is a revelation to me- just to my own heart-of all that is womanly in woman, of all that is true and tender in the nature of a mother. Nothing can be more touching than her having displaced her own child, the Christ-child, from her glad arms, that she may take therein the poor little suffering child of humanity-the languid, pain-exhausted infant of the brawny burgomaster of Basle. The face is an outheaming pity and love. It is evident that the young Christ has stirred page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 AZILE. the deepest fountains of that pure woman's heart; he has unlocked the springs of otherly affection, whose source is unfathomable; and streaas flow forth to revive the fainting floweret, brought from the banks of the Rhine. -Yes, now I see the occasion of my disquietude. It is that impersonation of tie mother; it is- her resemblance to my own silent one, thAt makes me sad. I feel what I have lost. There is the came gentle dignity, the same fair hair, the same blue eyes, not of earth; the same expressive sweetness about the lips. Surely, my mother, this heavenly conception was a foreshadowing of thee centuries before thou wast born. I will make a copy of that wonderful Virgin; and every day I will learn of her, and through her, of the great, good m n from whose heart she sprung. As I trace the lineaments I will learn what helknew of my sex, of which men take sc little trouble to know any thing; and yet, the mystery of womanhood, of an exalted woman- hood, is worth knowing--s worth even some study. AZILE. 9 CHAPTER II, YESTERDAY evening a mist hung about my soul, such as I have seen arise from the Elbe, veiling the beauty of the palaces upon its banks; but this morning a real trouble comes, like a cold, beating rain. Madame Schonbrun tells me that the prospects for her magnificent school, in which I was to have been the teacher of English, have come to nothing; and thus, I find that this professor's chair of mine has suddenly slipped from under me, and I am left quite on the ground-quite on the ground, indeed; for that was my whole dependence. The small property which my mother left barely serves to edu- cate Spiridion, my poor brother! He is four years younger than I, and I must take care of him. When I left America, I placed him at college, and made every arrange- ment for him. From teaching I had saved enough money to bring me to Germany, scarcely more. I wished to obtain some situation here, as teacher or governess, while I pur- sued my studies and improved my drawing. This would enable me to command aoetter position as teacher at home. Such a situation a friend of mine in America thought he had obtained for me, with this Madame Schonbrun. Now page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 AZILE. she tells me she has nothing for me. It was a hard message certainly, yet I felt so sorry for her, because of her " chateau d'Espaglne" which had so suddenly sailed away, with its golden cupolas, in the mcrning light, that I tried only to comfort her, and begged h1.r not to mention my loss, assur- ing her that it made no diiference to me whatever. I could not help laughing heartily afterward, at the absurdity of all I had said. Any one would have supposed that I had a hundred thousand dollars at command, or that I carried the purse of Fortunatus. It seems unaccountable now, that in the excess of my sympathy for Madame, I had not proffered her some gener:us loan; but the fact is, when money is mentioned, I know not what I say--I grow pain- fully nervous. I dislike th touch the subject; I feel as if I were becoming contaminated by it; as if I were being con- verted into a gnome, who exists only under ground, in dark- ness, in the bowels of mountains, and whose dreary business it is to heap up ingots of Wold and silver. Heaven defend me! Yet, alas! one mu t have money, or the result is, you go under ground eqully with the gnome, only with no business; none, but "to lie in cold obstruction and to rot." Well, I have not come to that yet--not quite. Madame proposes, until I can procure a situation, to board me, in consideration of some needle-work that I am to do for her- how much, it is very difficult to say, for Madame is smooth, and cold, and glittering, like Parian marble. She is mar- ried to a good-natured old German, who is some sort of a half-pay officer-from him I hope more; more of kindness in word, in manner; as to pecuniary obligation, that I AZILE. . 1 must not rest under; I must seek another situation as soon as possible. Look out! here is the great broad world before-us, with surely something for me to do, and surely I have a heart brave enough to do it! As I write, I glance toward the wall, and there is a drawing made for me by a friend when she was in Rome. It is taken from a fresco painting in the Vatican. The picture was designed by Raphael, but painted, I think, by one of his pupils-Giulio, perhaps. It is the last battle between Constantine and Maxentius. The bridge over the Tiber is broken. The army of Maxentius, horses and riders, are being swallowed up in the turbid flood. Dismay is scattering the host. Constantine, serene as a "son of the morning," on his white charger, is bearing down, lance in rest, upon the struggling Maxentius, whose horse paws the flood frantically--you can alm6st hear him snort, as his head rises above the wave! But the grandest point in all the story is the face of Maxentius: it gleams up from the dark river with a beautiful, undying--I had almost said divine-courage. You fancy a joyous light about him, as his glance meets that of Constantine. It seems to bear a last message of defiance to his foe: "I fear nor you, nor death!" I have studied that picture until it has melted, line by line, into my very nature, and become a strength to my weakness. Again, this morning, the face of Maxentius says- to me: "Victory is the destiny of the sozl!" * * * * My contemplation of the picture was broken by little Gabrielle, who brought my needle-work. Gabrielle is very s page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 * AZILE. like her mother, and just as eld. I love children: they seem the things in this world nearest to heaven; but I have the greatest dislike to a miniature woman-a being who claims the privileges of childhood, Xnd who is yet as artificial and designing as if she had served an apprenticeship of thirty years. It is a curious and interesting fact, that there are some souls which are never natural, even from their birth. Like the bodies in "the dream of the dead Christ,' they seem to have their hearts outside of them, and hold with them an imperfect communication, as with some badly-arranged electric battery. But I am writing spitefully now, because I am still chafing under Gabrielle's manner. She brought me the work, a beautiful ard elaborate pattern, and said: "Here is your work; you will have but little time to take your long walks now. I hope you know how to do it, for mamma is very particular about her work." I answered dryly: a"Is she?" She replied: "Yes, she is; and I advise you to commence it immediately." - . I looked at her, and said: "I thank you for your advice; but I advise you to put the needle-work down, and leave the room," which she did. I was instantly ashamed of having permitted myself to be ruffled by this child, who perhaps only reflects the nature of her mother. I took -up nmy work, and felt for some minutes too keen a pain at my situations--my fingers trem- bled as I placed the stitches; notwithstanding, I worked on very steadily for some time, then I arose and walked into the front hall, that I miget fill my lungs, for I was not AZILE. .1 breathing easily. I went to the front window'and looked out. On the opposite side of the street was a balcony, -filled with flowers, and in the midst a fair young creature, looking gay and happy, as she passed her jeweled hands carelessly over the geraniums. One single ring upon her finger would have made me comfortable for I know not how long a time. When I contrasted my lot with hers, I was filled with dissatisfaction. I felt as if God had somehow overlooked me, in his dispensations-as if my lot had been appointed me by some mistake. Gabrielle was in one corner of the room, reading aloud the lesson which her mother had given her for her morning task. It was a sermon of Bossuet that she read, and- my attention was arrested by the following words, as she hastily ran over them: "But, understand, Christians, that an all-powerful God, has in the treasures of his bounty a sovereign good which can never become evil-this is eternal felicity; and that he has in the trea- sures of his justice certain extreme evils which can never be turned into good to those who suffer them-those are the punishments of the wicked. The law of his justice does not permit that the wicked should ever taste of this sove- reign good, nor that the righteous should be tormented by the extreme evils. This is why there shall be a day of judgment. But as it regards gifts of mixed good and evil, they are bestowed indifferently upon his enemies and his friends." I was ashamed of my unworthy thoughts. I said to myself: " You have made amiends, Gabrielle, for the little brier which you pushed into my heart this morning." page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " AZILE. I went backl to my work, and sewred industriously, while in thought I wandered almid the flowers of Louisiana. Again and again I took the walks that I had taken beside my dear mother, and Spirr) ran before, skimm ing/stones over the lake. AZILE. 15 CHAPTER III. ALTOGETHER, the morning had seemed short, when I was called to our dinner, which consisted of beef stewed with chopped carrots, parsnips, and a sort of vegetable something between a turnip and a cabbage-stalk. Then we had beans cooked with parsley, and this was followed by a really delicious dessert of pears, which grow in Madame's garden. When she is absent, and Monsieur presides at the table, we have an abundance of these pears, but Madame studies economy more. After dinner, I worked for three hours, and was then putting on my bonnet for a walk, when Gabrielle came into the room, and said: I / "You are not going to walk, Miss, this afternoon, are you?" I replied: "I believe so." "And mamma's work-what is to become of that?" I answered: "I presume it can take care of itself until I come back," and went down stairs. I passed along the street with a joyous feeling, as if I had never been in the open air before. I saw an old woman selling cherries. I stopped to buy some. Her hair was so \ page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 AZILE. white! As I paid her, I lcoked at my purse-it was pain- fully lean, and I could not help mentally exclaiming: "Would it were fatter!"Nevertheless, I was not troubled. I strolled along between t-e rows of delicious shade-trees, which are so common in te streets of Dresden. I stopped at a door to look at some daguerreotypes of the broad, honest, kindly German faces; then I strolled on farther, and took my seat upon a bench in the shade, to eat my cherries. A fat German child, with a bright yellow dress, and a linen cap on its head, toddled up to me. I filled its hands with cherries, whic it crammed into its mouth, and with which it stained its c ubby fingers and round face. I watched it, as it pursued its way down the walk, and I wondered what paths those careless little feet were to tread in after-life, and whether in the whole course of our exist- ence our roads would eve again touch. Asnit turned a corner, and I had the last glimpse of its cherry-stained face, I murmured: -"HeadQn guard thee, poor one!" When I returned to my room it was already twilight. i took, alone, the plate of thin soup with the slice of bread which forms our evening meal. I then sat down beside the lamp to finish that portion of needle-work which I had assigned myself for the day. I had been thus occupied but a few moments, when-some one tapped at my door, and Madame entered. She came in smiling, and said: "I hope you have had a pleasant walk this afternoon?" I replied that I had, and asked her to be seated. As she was seating herself, she carelessly, apparently, almost inadvertently, took the wor from my hand. She exclaimed; AZILE. 17 "Ah, Miss, you work charmingly, truly charmingly, and so rapidly too! To think of your doing all that to-day, and having time also for a long, refreshing walk! You will be able to finish that this week, will you not?" I replied: "I think I shall;" although I knew it would occupy much the greater part of my time, and allow me no leisure at all for reading or study, if I took my walk in the afternoon. "And," she pursued, "perhaps you might manage, be- sides, to work me a little border-just a mere trifle, you know, my dear." I said to her: "I shall do what I can." Having accomplished her object, she soon left me to my reflections and to my work. page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 A . AZIL +. CHAPTER IV. Two afternoons in he week, namely, the afternoons 'in which the painting- allery is open, I now walk only so far as that place, since I can spare but two hours from my needle-work, and those I spend in making my copy of the Madonna. I have worked upon it now several afternoons, but find m yelf altogether dissatisfied with my labor. After my short walk, when I arrive at this magnifi- cent receptacle of Art, ,a all hopefulness. I enter the open court of this palce; I pass among formal orange- trees in boxes set in ;traight rows-Ipw much prettier would be the effect if there were groups of indigenous trees, that might fearle ly toss their arms amidst the cold winds of Germany!--I ascend the beautiful marble stair- way-that is a continu d joy to me; and passing rapidly through rooms where rms of loveliness surround me as if by a sort of ma ic, I find myself in the presence of my labor of love. I commence the task, but, I feel every moment that it is above me. I sketch and I erase, and I sketch ag in, and again I erase. I become impatient and nervous. I get up and walkabout the room to dissipate my irritability; then I take my seat and con- AZILE. 19 template the original. Some trait, unseen before, perhaps, attracts me, and as I gaze upon it my soul floats away into an illimitable world of beauty, where I dream such blissful dreams that it is with a sigh I awake to continue my work. A few more efforts and my two hours have elapsed.. I pass over again the steps of the beautiful stair-case-this time descending-and go out by the front door that leads toward the river. On each side of the door, in a little enclosed plat, the heliotrope grows so luxuriantly that it is a constant temptation to one to reach forth the hand and break off a spray. The purple .petals are filling the air with fragrance; and with this intoxication, added to all the others of the gallery, I feel, as I move onward, that life has still things for which one must be devoutly thank- ful. I would fain linger by the side of the Elbe to gaze upon its pale green waters-but O, that needle-work!-not this evening! The last time that I visited the gallery, as I was still engaged with my picture, Mr. Shultz, the artist, came up, and in his kind, German way, began to instruct and assist me, by making suggestions. Then, with an interest full , of sympathy, not impertinence, he inquired about the pros- pects of the school., I told him they had all fallen through; Madame had leen altogether disappointed. "And you," he said, "what does she for you?" "Alas!"I answered, she can do nothing for herself. She ' still boards me for the needle-work that I can do for her, but she can do nothing more." "No doubt," he replied, "no doubt, an abundance of page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 AZILE. needle-work! But this will not do. You are growing thin and pale, and the lightI is fading out of your eyes., You do not seem, Miss, to ha ve that acuteness in discerning the true path to success that distinguishes so many of your country-people. However, these things cannot be helped. I, myself, pass a beautiful life of Endeavor. But you must not stay with Madame Schonbrun; you will work yourself to death. W2 are poor. We had one child, and the good God has given us another; nevertheless, it is always the poor who help the poor, and if you will accept a home with us until you can get a better situation, you will oblige us. I occupy my atelier in the day-time, but at night I can let yotu have it as your bed-room. There is a comfortable sofa on which you can sleep. You wi-ill slumber in an atmosphere of art. My wife is a good woman, and she will make you comfortable. Come to us to-morrow. I will have your baggage moved for you." I thanked him for his kindly offer, which accorded so well with the spirit of the whole German people, but told him that I had some prospect of procuring a situation as governess to the children of a lady in Leipzig.: He said, "Well, shculd that fail, remember my house is open to you," and bowing, left me-left me wondering at the curious fact that he angel of poverty so often clears out the rubbish from the way to the heart, and leaves it open, bordered with lwly "forget-me-nots,"' and "immor- telles," and sweet-smelling pinks! AZILE. 21 CHAPTER V. MY life of lte has been very monotonous-my needle- work, and my walk in the afternoon-my needle-work, and my drawing at the gallery. Such a life seems calculated to make one mope, and yet, while I sit beside my window, and mechanically put the needle in and draw it out, a pleasant flow of emotion passes through my heart, making a low, gurgling music, like some sequestered rivulet that runs through the dark shades of a South American forest. If I lift my eyes a moment from my work, they rest upon the green ivy vine which is planted in a jar in my room, and has clambered along the margin of the window in search of light; or if my glance wanders beyond this, it falls upon the dome of the Frauenkirche, and there it rests, while I muse pleasantly upon the old church, which seems to belong especially to us, and to be intended expressly to bring us helpless ones nearer to God. To-day, however, the monotony of my life was broken by an invitation to dine at the "Victoria," with the lady from Leipzig. I found her very polite, and) very much disposed to speak English, which she can do quite tolerably. All the time of dinner, she was descanting to me on the merits page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 AZILE. of Dickens, whom she calls "Botz." I tried to appear to listen, though in reality I was so childishly engrossed with the appearance of the room, that I could attend to nothing else. The form of it-a crescent-charmed me; the bas- reliefs on the wall in white plaster, constantly divided lmy attention with the literary friend beside me; and "Oliver Twist asking for mo'e soup," was in my mind merged ill the little Bacchus astride of a cask, waving aloft a bunch of grapes, and ';old aunt-Betsy Trotwood" was twining her arms with the three Graces, that met our eyes every- where, and joining in their mystic dance. After dinner the lady came to business. She wished to employ a governess, and, so far, the arrangement suited me; but when she came to define the duties she should require of one, my heart shrunk from the task. Foi' the labor of instruction I was prepared, but to wash and dress the children, 'lhen it was not convenient for the mother to do so, seemed to me quite below the province of a governess. If I alp to do the offices of a nurse, I prefer being employed as one, and not filling two departments at once; nevertheless, I did not positively decline, for I know not what else to do. The needle-work for Madame would certainly more than pay for my board, if I were compensated at the usual rate; yet she seems, or I fancv she seems, a little restless that I am in the house, a little anxious in her inquiries as to my prospects, for a situation. Each week, too, as I pay my washer-woman, a few more groschen go, and I am left still poorer. This state of things cannot last; I must do something, even if I undertake AZILE. 23 the task of governess, children's-maid, house-maid, and all. * * * * It has been many days since I have written any thing. I waited in vain for a message from the Leipzig lady. At length I learned that she had determined for the present to do without a governess. One day Gabrielle brought to my room a nice lunch-a tea-cup of "bouillon" and a slice of delicate bread. I was enjoying it, wondering at the unwonted attention, when Madame entered, with a face full of sympathy, and her manner all blandishment. She "was dying of regret, but 'circumstances forced them to go to the country. Of course the town establishment must be broken up; of course Mademoiselle would understand- so many disagreeable things one meets in life." Here Madame left me. I certainly was not disposed to dispute her last proposition. I sat and thought to myself, "In the great turn of the world, what will come up next?" If there is any Micawher faculty in me, I shall have to rely upon that. I revolved one impracticable scheme after another over and over in my mind. At length I grew so restless that I put on my hat and, although it was noon and the sun excessively hot, went forth in haste, as if I expected to find Fortune groping her way along the streets, dispensing her gifts to whomsoever would ask them. At first I proceeded very rapidly, then more slowly; and then I fell into a day-dream, in which I -became possessed of an immense amount of wealth, of which I was disposing in the most munificent spirit. I was just page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 AZILE. perplexing myself to know whether I should give Spirro a million when he was of age, or whether I should reserve half of it until his steady habits were confirmed, when I suddenly ran up against some one, and my fortune flew:r off like a frightened b rd-truly, the clock had struck, and the every-day sound hid brought Cinderella from her glass slippers to her bare feeV again. I looked around a d found the person against whom I had run was Mr. ShI ltz. As I turned, he said: "Pardon me, Miss Damaron, I d id not perceive you." I replied: "The faulk was mutual, if it was not entirely my own." "But where," he asked, "are you going at this hot time of the day? Certainly you do not walk for pleasure at this hour?" I answered: "I real do not know where I was going. I have been disappointe in my place at Leipzig; Madame goes to the country; and I know not what I shall do, unless," I added, laugh'ig, "I take a leap from the 'Yung- fern-sprung,'. and thus a-, once put an end to my perplexi- ties, and entwine my name in one of your beautiful German legends." "My dear Miss," he rejoined seriously, "you do not treat us with the frankness of friends. Why have you not come immediately to us? The heart, you know, makes the house ample. I will arrange eyery thing instantly." I begged that he woald not. I said: "I would not oppose you, if I thought [ should ever be able to pay you, but I never may." AZILE. 25 "And if you are not," he replied, "the heavens probably will not fall. Assuredly you shall go to my house, and some blessed day you shall procure me something to do in America." I could not resist the kindly offers of this poor artist. In a few hours my trunk and hat-box were moved, and I was seated with his quiet, working, ever-working little wife. page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 AZILE. CHAPTER VI. B DURING my first day at the house of Mr. Shultz, I knew not what to do with myself. From having been inces- santly occupied, I had suddenly passed to a state where I found myself absolutely )without employment. Madame Shultz was as busy as a bee, and I looked around the rooms to see what I could do, but I could find nothing-the house was in perfect order, and the tidy creature was every momelt making the order more orderly. I begged her for some work. "No, poor child," she said, "you must rest now." I persisted in my request. "Well," she said at length, "can you do this piece of crochet-work for me?" Unfortunately, I could r-ot do crochet-wtork. She laughed. "Ah, I thought so! You helpless Americans!" "All Americans,"' I rejoined, "are not so helpless as I; many of them can do croChet-work." "No," she added, kindy, "neither are you helpless. I only jested. Here is something that you can do, this piece of tatting." I was mortified to be obliged, the second time, to acknow- AZILE. 27 ledge my ignorance. Suddenly a bright idea struck me: "I will tell you, Madame Shultz, what I can do-I can knit." "What! a veritable stocking?" "Yes, a veritable stocking." "Then I can easily accommodate you." I was soon seated, making the knitting-needles fly through the stitches, urged forward as I was by the nimble fingers of Madame Shultz, and by the ticking of the clock on the table beside me, which ever seemed to be saying, "Make haste! make haste!" Madame prepared the dinner. It was soon done. I tried to help her, but only hindered her, and she begged me to desist. The meal was placed upon the table; the fire in -the kitchen-stove instantly extinguished; every cooking utensil had been cleaned and hung in its place as its use ceased. The artist was called from his room, and we par- took of our simple meal quietly, cheerfully. My heart was resting with these good people-it had been chafing so long under the cool, critical eye of Madame Schonbrun. After dinner, my little German friend said: "You have been at that tiresome knitting long enough. Now, if you choose, you may help me split these green beans, which I am going to put up for winter use." I was quite au fait in that accomplishment, and we com- menced our work gaily. "How many," I asked, "of these do you put up?" "Oh, bushels," she answered: "we Germans like beans." After we had finished our task, she insisted that I should page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 AZILE. do nothing more, and I gladly put on my hat for a walk. Our house was beside th3 Elbe, and I wandered along its bank, until I found myself near the Briihl Terrace, the steps of which I ascended, and was soon on the bridge which leads to the VilI -neuf. I stopped on the middle , of it, to look at the th ermometer which is placed there. Then I looked into the yellowish-green water, and watched the shadows, which moved here and there, like phantoms. under its surface. While I stood there, and thought after thought floated down the waves like drifting leaves, a car- riage came rolling across the bridge. It stopped near me; the door was opened, an'i Lucy Grey fluttered out like a bird. "Azile," she said, "I al so glad to see you! What have s you been doing with yourself? I have quite lost sight - of you!" "It is very easy, Lucy," I replied, "to lose sight of so small an individual as m yself, in the immense gay crowd in which you live. As to what I have been doing with my- self, I have been making an attempt to become a teacher of English. In that I failed. I next attempted needle- work. In that J succeeded. But failure and success bring i about the same result. One has been as far as the other : from securing me a com petency. For the present, I am at the house of the artist, 3 r. Shultz-and where do you think I am to sleep, Lucy? :n the atelier, in the midst of his paintings." "Azile, you jest!" "No, I assure you!" AZILE. 29 "Why, I sh6uld be afraid that the pictures would walk out of the canvas, and haunt me. You will never be able to sleep with their eyes gazing down upon you all night. That is too bad, Azile; you must not do it. I have a beautiful suite of rooms at the hotel, where I some- times almost die of ennui, because I have no one to talk to. Papa is absent half the time on business, and brother Charles on pleasure. Do come, and share my rooms with me-why will you not? I have asked you so often." "Why will I not?"I replied, looking down into the river. "Well, I will candidly tell you why I will not, Lucy, and then we will say nothing more about it. A compact of very free social intercourse cannot be made between the poor and the rich. When they walk together in the pursuit of pleasure, or even of information, expenses are incurred which must be equally shared, and this em-r barrasses the poor; or they must be met entirely by the ich, and this humiliates the poor; so, my dear Lucy, ilthough I love you very much, and have since our school- ,irlhood, yet I must not place myself in a false position." "But, Azile, I was reading a German author the other lay, who says that we should receive a favor as simply, nd with as little hesitation, as we would confer one-do' ou not think he is correct?" "Perhaps, were all men as God made Adam in paradise; ut, constituted as we now are, the fact that 'the hand f the giver is ever above that of the receiver,' makes self painfully felt. You may say that this painful sense ? obligation is in itself a want of nobleness; yet I do not page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 -CZILTE. 80 think the conclu n wo d be altogether just. We may think the conclusion in like ^ ^ accept a favor, or many fvors, fro one in like condition ith ourselves, and the el oaion excited is a pleasant grat- may be returned; but wht n we ar loaded with bent one so far above us that we ca n er, by any probable turn of fortune, reach o him a helping hand, there is turn of fortune, reah:'b d ,tlat still a consciousness, o g it may not be dfinite,at a return .o some sort ou ht to be made; and this return is made by our becomnig the slave-in some sense the slave--of the benefacto For instance; if I had been lBacon, do ou suppose hat I would ever have appeared Bacon, do Tou Suppose I8n I, against Essex, if he h been doubly guilty? ot I, in truth! I have ev thought that if I had been David, I could never hae instructed Solomon to have my old general, Joab, put t death, unlessit had been by the express command of Go. No, dear Lucy, it is better not to. receive oppressive fators, if it can be avoided. In the words of Shelley- 'I would be wise, and just, and free.' But 'who is that we se coming on horseback? Is it not your admirer, Mr. Ogle ie?" "My admirer, Azile? He"fain would "Yes, friend of mie, your admirer. e n would climb, but that he fears to fall.' Nevertheless, e is lib- ing a little-slolyntleman re up Before had time t say more, the geneman rode up, and paused beside us. Ilis face lighted with pleasure as he AZILE. 31 saw Lucy, and her own eyelids drooped a little to conceal the mixed pleasure and embarrassment in her soft, gray eyes. He talked to us a few moments well, even spark- lingly, and then bowed, and said: "Excuse me, ladies, I have an engagement to dine with Lady D--, and am rather late." "And no doubt," I murmured, as he rode off, "if he were to divide a second into sixty parts, and disappoint Lady D- by one-sixtieth part, she would be heart- broken." "O Azile," Lucy said, "how can you talk so! He did not intend to convey any such idea. You do him injustice. Was it not very natural that he should have mentioned his engagement?" "Certainly," I rejoined, "very natural; much more natural than if he had been engaged to dine with some cobbler, even if that cobbler had been Hans Sachs himself, when he was alive; though if Hans Sachs were to arise from the grave now, with his poetic halo about his brow,-he would be quite a reputable companion. Yes, Lucy, his remark was natural. Perhaps I myself would be more flat- tered to be invited to dine with Lady D-- than with some untitled woman who is bettey; nevertheless, when I detect such a disposition in myself, I despise myself for it, and would scourge it out of myself. We ought to hunt out snobbishness as they do snakes in the swamps of Lou- isiana, and strike at its head wherever'we find it. We can- not, I know, here reach the ideal which God has placed before us, but let us, at least, reach toward it our longing, page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 AZILE. never-tiring arms. Do not think, Lucy, that I spealk as a censor. I speak as one conscious of her own weakness, while observing the wealness of others around her, feeling for herself and them a-l immeasurable pity-feeling for herself and them, also, a just contempt. Of all persons whom I know, you have probably the least snobbishness. I wish I could say as muchl for the gay cavalier who has just passed." "Do you really think, Azile, that he has so very much of it?" "Yes, I really think t at he has so very much of it. There is some excuse for him, such as it is. He loves you. He wishes to marry you. -e will thereby gratify his affection and his desire for position in society. He thinks he will attain that position by affecting it beforehand. He does not understand your nature, nor know by what class of motives you are influen ed." "No," she said, almost sadly, as we left the bridge; "he does not understand me if he supposes that I would love him for any thing but himself; nor would I marry any man who would think so." Nevertheless, he wanbs the position which her wealth will give him as much as he desires the priceless heart which she will bestow upon him, for doubtless she will bestow it, although she knows this lamentable weakness of his, which enfeebles his very virtus. AZILE. 33 CHAPTER VII. I tlETURNED home, thinking of Lucy, the pure-hearted Lucy, and her lover-his dainty riding and his exquisite kid gloves. He is taking lessons, if I am not mistaken, in riding. I retired to rest at night, smiling at Lucy's notion of the pictures haunting me, and yet-I must confess it-'wh I found myself alone with them, an indescribable awe for a few moments crept over me. "What!"I mentally exclaimed, "have I become so childishly nervous that I am actually afraid of the few coats of paint which this poor artist has so laboriously laid upon the canvas? No, it is not the paint; it is the soul which has been created by the artist, and which is now looking at me through the paint. How strange it is--this painting a thought, a feeling, a something so impalpable and subtile that no one sense can say: 'I hold it;' and yet we know that it is there-this imprisoning a ray of immortality-it is marvelous!" ' I sat on the sofa thinking of these things, my eyes i resting upon three pictures, alike, and yet utterly unlike. " The first w as an Italian peasant-girl returning from the 2 I, page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] 84 -AZILE- vineyard. The grapes and leaves which filled the basket upon her head, and hung quite over, even down upon her shoulder, were supported by a rounded arm, and a hand half hidden among the fruit. Her face, shaded by her dark hair, was turned with that half coquettish, trustful grace, that is seen among the Italian women. Her red boddice threw over hr neck and face a glow that was mingled with the golden glow of the sunset. Her dark eyes were large and liquid, and delicious dreams were floating through them. Life was an absolute joy to that girl, and you smiled in sympathy as you looked at her. The second picture as the portrait of an English lady, but with eyes and hair so intensely black that one wondered how, in that norther climate, they could have gathered so many rays of color. The complexion was fair, with the hue of health concentrated in the cheek; and in the whole expression there was such promptitude and vigor, that one felt no misgivings as to her future. The face was cheerful, not with the joyousLess of the grape-gatherer, but with a comfortable look, as of one whose resources are sure. She intends to occupy, in her own quiet, decisive way, her place in life, and not ;o be crowded either. The third was the picture of a man. You could not well determine to what nation he belonged. The face indicated, at least in some degree, a French origin, but it was not French. The complexion was a pure, pale brown, polished and soft; the nose, Grecian; the wavy, dark hair was brushed aside, and revealed a brow, broad rather than high. Tihe eyes were dark and thoughtful. rather than h igh lsru AZILE. 85 Whether such a person would be agreeable as an acquaint- ance, as a friend, would depend entirely upon the expression that those eyes were most apt to take in changing from that state of calm thoughtfulness. You might imagine them becoming stern almost to cruelty; you might imagine them flashing with sudden anger; you might imagine them melting in tenderness. I wonder what is the expression they usually wear! Those flexile muscles about the face show that it is one of varying emotion, but what is pre- dominant I cannot determine. The mouth, shaded by the slight moustache-and by the way, the moustache looks decidedly French--appears as if it might say very kind words, but it looks as if it might also say pungent ones. That about the face which is not French is a certain fresh- ness, which savors of the other side of the water. An Italian monk once said to a friend of mine: "The Ameri- can wears his soul in his face." So it is in this portrait, but the depths of the soul I cannot sound. Those three faces with the dark hair and the dark eyes, are utterly unlike, so great is the transforming power of that inner essence. I had mused myself quite out of my nervous fancies; so I extinguished my lamp, but I did not yet lie down. I was wide awake. I sat beside the window and contemplated a while the effect of the moonlight as it fell upon the unfinished painting which the artist had left upon his easel. The face of a gypsy woman, that had as yet scarcely assumed form, looked out from the canvas as from chaos --there was "no speculation in those eyes." There were 1stM El page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 36 AZILE. other dim lines and figures, but all ghostly, and all seemed to shiver in the moolliglt. I turned away from the painting and looked out upon the Elbe. Its waters Dwere also trembling in the moonlight, ,but not in a ghostly imanner-rather with a warm, palpi- tating life, such as loved Genevieve when she listened to her lover's story of the "Ancient Knighlt." Its low murmurs, which are drowned by the noisy world in the day-time, were now being breathed out to the air. The soft light of the night shone through it like a soul. The whole expression of the river, if I may so say, was that of love and sympathy. Witl an indescribable yearning, I reached forth my arms, as if to embrace it and the sloping hills beyond, and the bolcer mountains in the distance. I con- templated the scene until I was surrounded by a new atmosphere, and lifted quite above the world--personalities were forgotten, anno ances obliterated; and I was conscious only of a continued inflowing of beauty and of bliss. Surely, so must Eve have felt, as she stood for the first time in the garden of Eden, and Adam-still slept--con- scious as yet of no want, but standing alone in the midst of that wondrous world which God had created around her, being baptized with! joy, as his living, intelligent creature. At length, with i sigh in which there was no sorrow, I arose and prepared myself for repose. As I threw myself upon the sofa, I tho ght of that line of Goldsmith: "A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day." Not that the two u s of my couch were quite so dissimilar, AZILE. but certainly, it did not look like a thing to pass the night uponl, except in emergency; nor did the room look like a lady's sleeping-room; nevertheless, it was with rather a pleasant, interested feeling of novelty, that I lay there, until after a while my thoughts came irregularly, and one- half of tlhem seemed lost in darkness, and then they grew dimmer, like phantoms of thought, and the darkness surged around thepn as a sea, and rose ever higher and higher, until all wlashidden, and the sea prevailed. I awoke the next morning from a dream, in which the pictures in the room, 'and the landscape without, were all intermingled. The peasant-girl, with her basket of grapes, had fallen into the river; the French-looking gentleman had plunged in after her, and was trying to rescue her; but he constantly became entangled in the grapes and grape-vines in the basket, while the English lady stood quietly Upon the shore and looked at them. Istrove to go to their assistance, but the moonbeams flashed so upon the water that I could not see them dlistinctly. As the light continued to shine and flash with a painful radiance, I awoke, and found the sun shining in my face my face. srs:^ -".s ^ ^ -.*^rr2 =^^:is,.r.,"i-" page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 AZI'LE. CHAPTER VIII. IT was Sabbath morning. I arose and dressed myself, attended to my morning devotions, and then walked into the breakfast-room. T here sat Madame Shultz, with a Sabbath-looking spirit on her face, but sewing as indus- triously as if it were he middle of a very working-week. She arose when she saw me, gave me a cup of coffee, and took one herself. After drinking it she resumed her work. I sat for some time iJle, regarding her, and wondering at the universal forgetfulness of the Sabbath among the Germans. The men make it a day of pleasure; the women, a day of labor. Madame Shultz looked up, and seeing me so quiet and without work, said: ' 'Are you not well tlhis morning, Miss Damaron?" "Perfectly so, I thank you," I replied. "But you are fatigued; you do not care to exert your- self." "No, I am not fatigued; and I shall get ready in a short time for church, but I do not care to employ myself with work, because I think God has given us this as a day of rest, and absolutely requires that on it we should do no work-at least, none but works of necessity." AZILE. 39 "But, Miss Damaron, I thought you had no superstition?" "I do not think I have much; nor do I consider it a superstition to believe the word of God. Permit me to call your attention to the fourth commandment. I think it very explicit." I opened the Bible, and pointed out to her the commandment. She 'read it attentively, and said: "I will think of that. Meantime, I believe I will go to church myself this morning-it is an age since I was there." W5hile I was preparing for church, there was a slight tap at the door of the atelier, and, to my great surprise, Gabri- elle entered. She came up to me, seeming to be agitated by some strong emotion. Her utterance was interrupted by sobs and tears. "Mademoiselle," she said, "I am,to beo confirmed this morning. I come to ask that- you will pardon every unkind word I have said, and every unkind action I have done to you." I assured her that they were all blotted out, and expressed many kind wishes for her, which were quite sincere. She threw her arms around me, kissed me, and then left me, being still in tears. I met her the next week-the same self-possessed, artifi- cial, supercilious being that I had known before. After she left my room, I finished the adjustment of my bonnet-strings, took my parasol, and started out. On the steps I met Madame Shultz. We proceeded down the street together for some distance, and then we parted, she to go to the German, and I to the English church. I went into the church, and knelt in the midst of stran- I, page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 AZILE. gers. I arose to look Lpon faces all unfamiliar. The old sad feeling was creeping over me- "Alone, unfriended, melancholy, slow," ran through my mind like a never-ending rivulet. I looked around with a sort of sickening longing for some face that I might recognize. All were unknown, and so still and cold. At last my eye fell upon the chancel, and there was Carlo Dolci's picture of the blessed Saviour in the act, of breaking bread. The face is turned upward, full of the love of heaven and the sorrow of earth. One can almost see the tears i back of the eyelids," ready to start and fill the eyes with drops of pity. My own were filled from. sympathy, the more because I then thought of my brother Spirro-so far from me-and I said: "Yes, he, too, is alone; but we are both held together in the heart of Christ," and my tears flowed faster, but not bitterly. A delightful sense of security and repose filled my soul- it was a Sabbath! The sermon almost wore out the feeling that possessed me at its commencement. It was a dry, critical disquisi- tion on the inscription which was placed above the cross; rather, I should say, it was meant to show the difference between the construction of the Hebrew, the Greek, and the Latin languages. The minister appeared to be learned -probably he was. There was compensation, however, in the English service, which is always grand and impressive. i; As I was leaving t e church, I heard some one behind me whisper, "Azile!" and turning, I saw Lucy Grey, 1 AZILE. T 41 moving along like a child of the Sabbath, as she is. The very atmosphere about her seems restful, and full of love. By her side, with a magnificent prayer-book in his hand, walked the ambitious, worldly, Robert Oglevie. The heart, which is as fragrant as the heart of a lily, already begins to bow before this "clay idol." The strangest part of the story is, that she knows the clay is there, and yet, in spite of herself, she is charmed. She pressed my hand warmly in both of hers, and as we came down the steps of the church, she whispered: "Aile, you must like him." "Certainly," I answered, and, smiled, though I felt sad to see such treasures thrown away. It is better, however, to throw one's self away than to be sold. page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 AZILE. CH APTER IX. THS week, I have acdressed myself, with renewed ardor, to my copy of the Mad )nna. I think it is because I have had a letter from Spi ro, full of boyish gaiety, and that I like. No care sits teavy on his heart. His nature is like a landscape of AlDani, full of sunshine. It is true, he complains of the weak coffee and the stale bread, but he would not be a true sc[ ool-boy unless he did this. When I read his letter, it seemed to me that I could just put on my hat, and in five minu es run -through the gate and down the walk of our old g rden, and -find him among the fruit- trees. Alas! strange feet tread those walks now, and strange hands pluck the fruit; but it is with a feeling of relief I remember that the place is rented, not sold; and some time in the future, Spirro and I may yet live there together, and an idst those walks we may recall the image of my mother and may even think back to my father, who appears di, like a demigod, before me. When- ever I read of any ting heroic, I think of my father- poor Spirro cannot have the faintest recollection of him. The last day that I was in the picture-gallery, very much absorbed with my pa inting, and doing the work more to AZILE. 43 my satisfaction than I had been, I was aroused by a voice near me, saying: "I think in the expression of the copy there is some departure from the original." The voice was wonderfully melodious, but the words grated upon my ear, and as I looked up, half angry at the abrupt and apparently impertinent interruption, I encoun- tered two dark eyes, so friendly and serious in their expres- sion, that my anger faded before them. "Do you not think," continued the owner of the eyes, as quietly as if he were ,alking to a friend of many years "that your Madonna has a certain expression which is not found in Holbein's?" Though to say the least of it, his address was strange, it was impossible to resent any thing that was said so kindly; so I merely answered: "I do not know-it may be." "Do you copy this," he continued, "because you prefer it to the Madonna del Sisto, or because you consider Raphael's beyond your imitative art?" "I might answer," I replied, "that I consider it beyond my art, and it would be true; so is this beyond my art, as you have just intimated," I continued, smiling; "but with equal truth I might say, though it be heretical, that to e my eye this is the more pleasant picture." "I do not think," he replied, 'that there is any thing in this picture, admirable as it is, which rivals the ethereal grace of that poetic dream, or vision, if you will, of the great Italian--for the whole seems like a revelation of beauty from a brighter world, rather than the conception page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " 1ZILE. of it by a mortal mind. It seems quite natural that the Virgin should float in the atmosphere as she does. And one can imagine that, i touching the gross earth, she would fade away like a vapor. Those mild eyes, in which the innocence of childhood is blending with the purity of womanhood, are inimitable. The serenity with which she rests, with the Christ-cElild' in her arms, amidst clouds of angel-faces, presents one with the most poetic ideal of your sex. The grouping, too, of the picture is exquisite --o-the kneeling, reverential figure of the Pope on one side, the bending ,grace of Santa Barbara on the -other, the upturned faces of the angels below, glowing with rapture and devotion. The harm ony of the coloring is also beyond the hope of the copyist." "What you say," I replied, quite forgetful that I was speaking to a stranger, "may be true, but my eye has not yet been sufficiently tutored to enable me to appreciate all these beauties. In the f rst place, I cannot learn to like the coloring of Raphael.' "You perhaps prefer Titian," he responded. I answered: "I believe I do;" yet, I scarcely knew whom I preferred; I only knew that I did not prefer Raphael. "Well," he said, "your second objection?" "I will scarcely dare," I continued, "call these objections -only questionings. It occurs to me that there is a cer- tain helpless, amazed, half-frightened air in the expression of the Virgin's face. The face of the Christ-child, also, to my mind, resembles too much that of a man-full of power, it * AZILE. 45 is true, but human power. The cherubs appear to be happy and careless, rather than devotional. As graceful as the posture of Santa Barbara is, it still seems not entirely without affectation. And last-for I will mention no more-I am not sure that clouds composed of the faces of angels please me-a few faces of the higher order of intelligence breaking through the clouds, here and there, would have pleased me, but that large assortment of doll- faces does not strike me as being the most poetic." He smiled and said: "Though a modest, you are a very unsparing critic; you have left nothing untouched in the picture but the figure of the old Pope." I think I blushed as I said: "I did not intend my remarks as criticism." "And now, can you tell me," he pursued, "why you have altered the face of this Madonna in copying it?" "I do not know," I answered, "except that I fancied a resemblance to my mother; and in painting it, I have perhaps, unconsciously, made it more like her than the picture." "Ah, yes," he said, "I see, you are right;" and laying down his card beside me, he turned and left the gallery. On the card was-written, "Eugene Beauvais, La." As I looked at it, I turned involuntarily as if to recall him, for the name was, in reality, with us, a household word. Our little place at home adjoined the Jarge plantation of Mr. Beauvais, who was a French gentleman married to an American .lady. Mrs. Beauvais was the intimate friend of my mother, and though I had never seen Eugene, for he page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " AZILE. was -sent off to school wher. I was small, and the months of vacation were spent by the family in the North, yet I had played with his younger brother, Edward, and had con- stantly heard his name. After the death of my mother, Mrs. Beauvais wished to ake me to her own house, but I preferred not to be dependent. When I left the neigh- borhood, she asked me to write to her, I never had the courage to do so. I heard of the death of her husband, but as all connection bet een the families had ceased, I' knew nothing more. Nlo-,v, however, when I met one of them, in a strange land, he seemed to be a friend, though I had never seen him before. As I walked home, and pondered this strange meeting, I began to wonder at the fnamiliarity of his face. "Surely," I said to myself, "I have never seen him before. I cannot recollect, even in early childhood, to have seen him. He is not like his brother Edward, nor strikingly like either of his parents-the family resemblance, which actually exists, would not make the face so familiar to me. Oh, now I know! It is the picture in the atelier; I am sure it is his!" At this thought I quickened my pace, and was soon running up the steps at the house of Mr. Shultz. I knocked at the door of his atelier, and scarcely gave him time to say, "Come in," before I entered, and at the same moment said: "Mr. Shultz, whose portrait is that?" He looked at me in some surprise, and said: "Why, Mademoiselle, have you taken a fancy to it, or to the original?" "No," I replied, "but I think it is a friend of ours-at AZILE. 47 least our families are friends. Is it not an-American gen- tleman?" "Yes, a Creole. I think his name is Beauvais." 6 "I was sure of it," I answered; "I met him this morning in the gallery, and though I have never seen him before, I know his family, and feel as if I had met a friend." "Then you spoke with him?" "He made some remarks to me about the painting I was copying, but as a stranger, for, of course, neither of us recognized the other, and it was only when he left his card that I knew who he was." page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 AZILE. CHAPTER X. 'ALL the afternoon I was possessed with a pleasant rest- less es. I had met some one from home, and it had awakened a thousand delightful recollections. My heart was like a shining lake, into which a pebble had been thrown, and the wavelets were running off in every direc- tion until they reached she shore. For a while I would knit furiously, as if my fingers were filled with electricity; then I would wander quietly about the room, from the stove to the window, from the window to the little clock that was always saying "Make haste," and then back again to the stove, and there I would stand passing my hand over its smooth white surface-no, I was not there! I was at home in Louisiana; Mr. and Mrs; Beauvais were walking with my mother in the garden, while Edward, and Spirro, and I, were upon the gallery, and Edward threw rose-petals all over my hair and white dress. Mrs. Beauvais said to me, as they returned to the, house: "Why, Azile, you look like a flower-queen!" But Mr. Beauvais said: "No, the little mignonette is a flov er herself;" and he put his hand kindly upon my head, ind I looked timidly up into his face, and thought what a fine gentleman he was. Mrs. AZILE. 4- Beauvais's voice was remarkably soft, and it seemed a nice thing to me to be grown, and have such a sweet voice, and wear a lace mantle. Then Spirro and I stood again together on the gallery after taking our breakfast of figs, and Edward came riding up on a milk-white pony. His eyes were shining like violets in the morning light, and his chestnut curls fell upon his collar. "Azile, will you take a ride upon my pony?" he said, and I was transported at the idea. Little Spirro cried out: "Let me ride the pony, Edward;" but he answered: "Not until Azile has had her ride." I mounted Edward's saddle, and was very much delighted. with my own bravery; yet, whenever the animal moved his small ears, I could feel the coward-blood rushing to my brow for fear of some vicious trick. Then it was Spirro's turn to ride, and though so much younger than I, he was much more at home on horseback. I was following him in his course over the lawn, when some one said: "Your clothes, Miss!" and a sight of the German washer-woman brought me to a painful sense of things around me. I took out my purse to pay her, and found that a very few weeks more of washing only would exhaust my funds. When she left me, the course of my reflection; was- quite changed. I was thinking of the present, overshadowed as- it was by the dark, uncertain future, I had: not been idle since I had been at the house of Mr. Shultz. I had had some prospect of being a governess to the children of a Russian gentleman, who resided near, the Black Sea; I had page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 AZILE. had some prospect of being engaged in a school at Stras- burg; I had had some rospect of being engaged to read to an eccentric old English lady, who had left England in disgust, and lived in Germany to abuse it; but all these plans had faded away, as the clouds had faded, evening after evening, over the mountains. "Now," I said to myself, "what is to be done?"I thought of Stilling, and his faith in the All-giver.- I thought of him -when he sat on the wayside, without a penny in his pocket, and said: "I am now about to drink the last dregs of wVetshedness; I have no alternative--I must either beg or starve. This is the first noon in my life in which no table is spread for me! Yes, the hour is come, in which that great promise of the great Redeemer is to be fulfilled in m;: 'The hairs of your head are all numbered.' If this '3e true, help must soon appear." "Yes," I repeated, " help must soon appear, if all Birnam wood move to bring it. Does not Jean Paul say to his mother: 'God has taken care of the world for six thousand years, and can he not take care of you for a life-time?' I have no confidence i9 myself, but unlimited confidence in God. He will not forsake my mother's child." And before I was aware of lt, I had relapsed into the past, and was sailing over the lake with Spirro and Edward. My dream was again interrupted by a ring of the door-bell, and a moment after in came the blooming face of Lucy Grey, like a June rose that pushes itself through an open window. She scarcely gave?e time to greet her before she said: AZILE. 51 {"I come to ask a favor of you, Azile, a v6ry great one. Now, please do not refuse me; it will make me so happy if you will consent." I replied: "Why, Lucy, you seem to consider it a matter of great importance. I should think that the King of, Saxony had concluded to abdicate, and had deputized you to ask me if I would condescend to accept his crown; but if it be that, you must really give me time to consider: it would be a serious matter to give up my rights as an American citizen." Lucy laughed, and said: "It is not quite so serious as that, Azile; but I wish to know if you will go with me to the bird-shooting to-morrow?" "The bird-shooting! that is irresistible! Of course I must see that!" "Now you are a dear, good girl for once," Lucy said; and the matter was considered settled. [ page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 AZILE. CHAPTER XI. EARLY in the afternoon of the next day, Lucy and her brother Charles were ir-their carriage, at the ddor, waiting for me. As I entered the-carriage, Lucy said: "We shall have a delightful time, Azile; nothing could be nearer per- fection than the temperature this afternoon. It is one of the few days that one meets in life of which you can say: ' I would have it neither warmer nor colder, nor wetter nor drier.' There is just breeze enough and just sunshine enough. It is what one might imagine to have been the climate of Eden." "Now Lucy is launching out into sentimentalism," said Charles. "I will tell you, though, where you do find a climate like that of Eden-in the church of St. Peter, at Rome- ' There everlasting spring abides; And never-withering flowers,' too, for they are artificial. Ah, those old priests know lhow to fix up every thing!" "Well, Charles," Lucy replied, "as neither Azile nor I have had the good fortune to see Rome, or St. Peter's, you will permit us to enjoy our German summer!" "Permit you " said harles, with a laugh, "why, I'll be AZILE. 53 hanged if you would not enjoy a Siberian winter! If there is a particle of comfort in any thing, you get at it-that's certain! I quite agreed with what Eugene Beauvais said this morning, though I should not have said it in a voice like a flute, as he did. Let me see! how was it? Some- thing very elegant, of course, just as those Creoles study to say things, you know. What was it, Lucy?" "You would not suspect me, Charles, of treasuring a compliment-ladies, you are aware, never do." "Oh no, of course not! never! 'llll bet you what you please that she has it written down in a morocco-bound volume, kept under three locks. It was something about sunshine--now I have it! He said: 'The sunshine from Miss Lucy's heart makes the shadiest prospectsbright.' Was not that a neat remark? I should just have said: "Lucy is always in a good humor with every thing.' :I ], Eugene made another observation, which sister Lucy did not like so well. He said: ' Miss Lucy, have you ever read I Japhet in Search of a Wife?--oh no, I mean in search of a Father; but whenever I am with my friend, Mr. Oglevie, here, I always think of being in search of a wife!' Lucy blushed-I tell you she did!" Lucy said: "Why, Charles, it would have been absurd for me to have felt any emotion at so harmless a jest." "But you did, though," continued Charles. "However, I can tell you one thing about Eugene that will console you. He went up to Minnesota last summer, to buy land, and the way he let those Yankees cheat him would make a woman laugh." -ofi page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] " AZILE. Lucy replied: "I do rot see, Charles, that it argues any want of keenness of inteliect in a man to be overreached by falsehood." "Yes, but sister minK, I tell you, when you deal with sharpers you have to leagn to be sharp. It is the funniest thing to see Southerners go up North-west to speculate-just to see them among those blue-eyed, clear-headed Yankees; those fellows that write a good hand, and cast up accounts' like Colburn's Arithmetics. The Southerner goes up there,- stops at some hotel, and before long the Yankees drop in- accidentally, of course. Then they begin to talk, without noticing the Southerner; and such stories as they tell about the value of lan -there! Hispaniola, when Colum- bus discovered it, was a mere circumstance to it! After a while they order champagne, and ply the Southerner with it as long as they can get him to take it; but he does n't notice that they are only pretending to drink. Then he goes up stairs, tumbles nto a soft feather-bed, and the next morning gets up, his senses all gone wool-gathering. The Yankee sleeps on a ha rd shuck mattress, rises early, takes a walk before breakfast, comes back, douses his head in cold water, and then i1 is as clear as a bell, and the South- erner is done for." "But I am sure, said Lucy, "that they never induced Eugene to take more champagne than he should have done!" "Oh no," said Chares, laughing, "they did not think it worth while to waste champagne on him-they could cheat him without." vIF ' AZILE. 55 CHAPTER XII. BY this time we had arrived at, the grounds of the bird- shooting-an extensive open field, just outside the city of Dresden. As we alighted, and sauntered to a seat at a little dis- tance, Lucy said to me: "Azile, do you remember the scene of the bird-shooting in the 'Thorn, Fruit, and Flower pieces' "? "I was just thinking of it," I replied: "the description seemed admirable: so graphic that one could never forget it; though perhaps your sympathy for poor Siebenkas, your anxiety for his success, serves to fix the picture indelibly upon the mind. Nothing makes the impression of a scene so lasting as the association of some passion or deep emotion with it. For years we remember the quivering of a leaf, if our heart has been quivering with anguish while looking upon it; for years we remember every graceful turn of a clinging vine, if our eyes have rested upon it while listening to words of tenderness or love." Lucy said, a little archly: "Azile, you speak with so much feeling, that I could fancy some lover's words were still echoing in your heart." page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 AZILE. "Your fancy would be wrong, then, Lucy: I was think- ing of the last evening I spent at our dear home, when Spirro and I wandered i to the magnolia-grove to the tomb of our parents, and thence down beside the lake. I was thinking of the moment when Spirro held my hand, and spoke such tender words, beyond his years. Just before us stood a large oak, with a creeper twining among its branches. I can now almost count every bright red, trumpet-shaped flower; I can see the little humming-birds pushing their bills into the golden honey-cups; I can recall the lines of Longfellow which then occurred to me, where in Evangeline. he compares the vine to the ladder of Jacob: 'And humming-birds were the angels that ascended and descended.' As to lovers, Lucy, I have now and then met men who have thought they lovid me, but none ever have; they have loved a few traits of my character, combined with other traits, which owe their existence to their own imagina- tion; and this creature they have loved and called it me. Men seldom understand women, or know whether they cer- tainly love them- or not Have you never-you who are a woman-have- you never, in pursuing some favorite path with what appeared to be a congenial mind, found your- self suddenly alone in the midst of an enchanted forest? Have you never sighed: 'What a beautiful world,. but what a profound solitude!' " "Do you then think,; Azile, that men are incapable of understanding us?" "Not exactly incapable, but they are uninterested--they AZILE, 57 do not care to take the trouble to understand us. If Adam had been talking to his wife, if he had been watching every variation of emotion on 'lip and cheek, if he had been gazing into her eyes, and trying to sound the depths of those fountains, of love; if he had been turning over carefully, leaf by leaf, her heart of poetry, and learning from her a language which his own tongue could never frame without teaching, she never would have wandered off to hold a con- versation with the devil." "And do you suppose that we take more pains to under- stand men?" "Incalculably more we clamber over rugged rocks and roots to attain the path which they tread. We ponder look and gesture, even of indifferent persons, that we may dis- cover whatever is divine in them; -;and, moreover, with less study we comprehend them better-our instincts are finer." "And what do you suppose, Azile, is the reason of this difference between the sexes?" "Principally, perhaps, because woman, until lately, has occupied the position of a slave. The world became con- firmed in the habit of overlooking her, and even the Saviour's blessed example has not yet quite broken it. But he knew all the lights and shadows in her heart-world. He understood the nicest shades of difference between Martha and Mary. He knew the worth of a Magdalene's tears; the value of a box of ointment: none so well as he knew how the word 'Mary' would thrill that sad woman's heart with "HN ecstasy, and how the heart of every woman to the end of time would be electrified at the repetition, He never g page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 AZILE. put the faith and devotion of any man to such a test as that by which he tried the Syro-Phcenician woman. He knew hers could bear it. Even when suffering that myste- rious weight of agony, rpon which hung the redemption of a world, forgetful of hi, self, and, for the moment perhaps, of the world, he tenderly turns aside to endeavor to fill his own place, growing vacant, in the heart of his .mother- 'Woman, behold thy son!' But his followers have hardly yet learned of him in this. "The defective delineation which we find of woman in books, the portraiture vhich we feel to be false, is all owing to the careless study vhich man has made of his subject. He gets an outline of the coast, and thinks he knows the whole face of the coun try. Thus, there are but few shades in the women of B lwer or of Thackeray; and these authors, with all their talents, fail to interest you in their female characters. Wilkie Collins, however, understands all the cunning turns of woman's heart; and Dickens knows more of her t an most women know of themselves. How often does he, in depicting her, startle you into tears! I once spoke to a gentleman of a passage in one of Dickens's books, in which he represents a poor woman as devoured by anxiety all the while she is absent from home, lest her child should suck the steam from the spout of the tea-kettle. The gentleman saw /othing in it, and thought it silly. I said to him: 'That is because you are not a woman.' Dick- ens saw deeper, and (knew that these very absurdities and impossibilities are what seize upon her apprehlensive heart. He understands hoi she is a self-torturer. How he has AZILE. 59 a- painted her fidelity in the character of 'Nancy,' in Oliver Twist! As you read the sad story of her life, you say: 'That has all happened.' And in Little Dorritt, what touching glimpses does he give us of the not violent but life-long and desolate wretchedness of poor 'Pet,' who mar- ried the unworthy artist! In a single page, in describing the death of Mrs. Dombey, he lays before you ,such years of dreariness that the heart grows sick and faint over it. Even in the flimsy and- selfish character of Little Dorritt's sister, it is all woman. First, she wishes she were dead; and then, growing more violent, she wishes she were dead and buried. The prototype of that foolish, passionate girl, is found everywhere. I need not remind you how many fathers have written from the backwoods of America, say- ing that in 'Little Nell' they saw revived some darling child which had been lost. 'Old Aunt Betsy Trotwood' is every inch a woman, striding through life, holding the hand of her mythical niece, David Copperfield's 'sister Betsy.' But it is useless to begin to enumerate the women that one finds in those charming books of Dickens--women that grow up under his hand as they do in nature--living, breathing creatures, full of thought and feeling--I will not say full of passion, for I know but one complete picture of woman mastered by passion-that is 'Corinne;' and it seems as if Madame De Stael were purposely created to give to the world this fearless revelation of a woman's heart: other women might have done it, but no woman would have done it but a French woman. The curious part of it is, that although she has thrown open the very page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 AZILE. freemasonry of our n4ture, men read it without under- standing it or us. The music of woman's nature is on a minor key, and its more delicate tones are lost in the 'rever- berating bass' of the masculine mind. In her soul there is always a sort of indefnite self-reproach, an echo of the Eden lost through her, a pathos which mingles with her fiercest passions, and if the midst of anger melts her to tears." "Yes," said Lucy, ' Madame De Stael has certainly a wonderful knowledge of woman's nature. She seems. to count her very heart-throbs, and understand every pulsa- tion of her soul. How, amidst the artificiality which is thought to gather arour-d one in society, especially in French society, she could have retained so vivid a sense of all that -is true and natural ir. the heart of woman, seems most astonishing. In a few instances, however, you see the out- cropping of her French nature from beneath her universal nature-for example, i zile, that last scene in Florence, in the church of San Lolenzo, has too much the appearance of a spectacle; there is too much studied effect in it to be natural, especially as Corinne was so very near death- quietude and home, I think, would have been the more natural wish." "That thought, Lugy, has also crossed my own mind, but I am inclined to believe that it is not nature, but our American education, which suggests it. We are taught to avoid notoriety, to avoid scenes, and to conceal the deeper feelings. 'Hid our education' been that of an Italian improvisatrice, we should have seen no impropriety AZILE. 61 in the spectacle. We must learn to distinguish between what is natural to the heart, and what has been taught it by the maxims of the world, or that little portion of the world by which we have been surrounded. No, even in that, we must confess Madame He Stael the true artist. There is a longing in the heart of every woman, whether at the hearth-stone of England, or by thewild streams of our Western World, or in the great temple in Italy, to prove her power to her lover, particularly if that lover have grown indifferent; to show him the richness of her resources; to let him see, by the fluttering of her golden pinions, that she is allied to the angels- 'For thee alone, for thee, May this last gift, this farewell triumph be, Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrined Something immortal of my heart and mind, That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone Of lost affection-something that may prove What she hath been, whose melancholy love On thee was lavished.' Yes, Lucy, Madame De Stael has not failed in that. She is still the immortal artist." "Do you think," said Lucy, "that any other French writer besides Madame De Stael has given a true delinea- tion of woman?" I replied: "I am not extensively acquainted with French writers; but it seems to me that the French have very incongruous ideas with regard to the nature and require- - 1;l page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] " 62 AZILE. Ad ments of woman. In their fine-spun theories, they speak of her as a delicate cry tal toy, which ought to be laid away in rose-colored cotton; but before the theory is finished, you find her at some drudgery which better becomes a domestic. It seems to me that they are par- ticularly fond of making her learned in the art of compos- ing savory stews for hey husband-a creature, to minister to his love of art by her grace, and to his love of eating by her culinary accomplishmnents. That is well enough, but I think there is something better in us-- " W "ell, Miss Azile," s dd the voice of Charles behind us, "you are considerable of a stump-speaker. I have had time to give directions to the carriage-driver, to overtake you, and to stand here behind you a full half-hour, listen- ing to your oration, tc which I say, 'Bravo!' or, by an. Italian refinement, 'Brava!' Suppose we erect a tent here, and have you deliver a ecture on the 'Aights of Woman?' " "In the first place, Master Charles," I replied, "I think you are mistaken when you say that you have been listen- ing to me half an hour; in the second place, we do not claim it as a right that we should be understood. If man does not find the stuiy of woman's character its own reward, there is nothing more to be said-let him go to astronomy and mathematics." 'Seriously, Miss Azile," said Charles, "that is all flum- mery. You would have us believe that women are Egyp- tian sphynxes, covere, up in the sand, and would have us toil away amidst the sand, under an Egyptian sun, to learn how wonderful you are; but I can tell you, for AZILE. 63 your consolation, that we know a great deal more of you than you suppose; and the more I know of you, for one, the less wonderful I find you to be." "We bow to your superior wisdom and experience," I answered, laughing; "and now, let us go and look at those children racing around so merrily on their wooden horses- perhaps you will understand them as well as you do us." "There is about as much in them to understand, I pre- sume, said he. page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " AZILE. CHAPTER 'XII. A CIRCULAR, open tent, with a gay, striped top, was whirling around rapidly, carrying with it the platform, with its two rows of wooden horses, on which were seated little boys and girls, full of delight with the sport. "I say, Lucy," cr:ed Charles, "look at that blue-eyed, roguish, little thing 1n the spotted horse-there! the one that has just passed -is, with chubby arms and brown hair. Does n't she hold herself grandly? She's a regular brick! She looks like little sister Bet, too, does n't she?" "Yes," said Lucy, "I see more resemblance to little sister Bettie than to a brick, Charles, however 'regular' it may be." "Hypercritical, M'-ss Grey! But look at her eyes, how blue and flashing they are! I love blue eyes in a woman! They don't make a manl so much afraid of domestic thunder-storms." "Permit me," I r'marked, "to take that as a personal compliment, and make my best courtesy. One has to be thankful for very small favors from you, Charles." "You seem very rjady, Azile, to appropriate the compli ment. The fact is, I was not thinking of your eyes at all AZILE. 65 though, to be quite honest, they are pretty--?you are not pretty, you -only look so sometimes; but your eyes really are pretty; especially When you are saying something very kind, and you look earnestly up into one's face until the heart begins to melt, and to trickle down, drop by drop. It would all soon be gone, if it were the heart of anly man that did not know you as well as I do; but 'you don't catch old birds with chaff.' As blue as your eyes are, I have occasionally seen a quiet devil, that looks like the very devil of resistance, lurking in them; and once or twice in my life, I have seen another little fellow, whom I should call ',Scorn,' perched, with arms akimbo, upon your upper lip; and let me tell you now, Azile, scorn does not become your lips; they were not cut out for it." "Seriously, I am glad, Charles, that you have mentioned it, if it is true that my face ever wears an expression of scorn, for I think, with you, that it does not-become my lips; and, perhaps, there are few men or women who are entitled to look with scorn upon any fellow-creature. I know there is a certain school who please themselves with the fancy that there is no sympathy between them and the rest of the creation around them. They are delighted with the idea that they are true, and honest, and earnest, and- seem to consider it something quite new introduced into the world. To hear them, one would suppose that it was but lately that God .had made man in his own image, but that now you night find such speci- mens of humanity, such 'exaltados,' every once in a while, seated upon some elevated mound, and looking down upon page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " AZILE. the rest of mankin with scornful indifference. I love better the other feat re that we find in some of our late iterature-the recog ition of universal brotherhood-and like to see this rec gnition made in a spirit of humility; we see it in children and Christ has given them to us as models-for instanc , look at those little things in their miniature cars, wheeling round and round upon their mimic (railroad; they are partakers of a universal joy, and there is no thought of comparison." i "Azile," said Ch rles, "you have a wonderful trick iof moralizing. iWhr don't you stop it? I vow you will never marry unless you do. What man, do you suppose, would risk marryin a woman who has such a turn for lectures?" Lucy said: "Oh (harles, why are you so rude?" But I laughed and replie : "That is worth thinking of; I must try and correct mys lf." "I am in earnest,' Charles replied; "men do not admire such serious women. Come, let us go into this tent before us, and see the circus-may be that will put some life into you and Lucy; you are both so lackadaisical and mopish." "Into a circus?" cy said; "oh no, Charles." "But I say yes,' Charles replied; "I want you to see every thing in Ger many." So, hurrying us through the door of the tent, 1e soon had us seated among the spec- tators of the riding and tumbling. AZILE. 67 CHAPTER XIV. I HAD not been at a circus since my childhood, and it was with a strange feeling that I sat looking at the track of saw-dust, and the moving about of men and boys in their fantastic garb. I said to Charles: "How is it that all these appendages have been added to the 'bird-shooting?' I do not see that they have any connection with it." "Why, Miss Damaron," replied Charles, "do you sup- pose that any thing, in these days of progress and refine- ment, is precisely what it professes to be? That idea would be excessively primitive-but look! there comes the clown; it is difficult to distinguish the fellow, for they all look clownish enough." The company appeared to be rather an inferior one; the feats of horsemanship were not very wonderful, or my childish days had borne away with them the couleur de rose veil which used to overhang circus-men and circus-women. One poor boy, of some fourteen years, had a tumble from his horse upon the saw-dust, and being ordered out of the ring by the master, went off, glancing back ruefully, suffering from the experience of present, and the anticipa- tion of future pain. page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 AZILE. My face no doubt was looking very serious for such a place, for I was thinin g what the real life of the poor boy must be, when a shout from the audience aroused me. I looked to the ring. Tlhere were two white horses, and a little girl not more than five years old, stood with a foot upon each. She was dressed in tissue, and stars and span- gles. The master cradred his whip, and the horses started around the track. The child held the reins in her tiny hands, changing herl Position, and performing a number of feats-with consider-ble-address, as the horses flew with ever-accelerated pace; but she had a timid, shrinking air, and- looked like a bircling, that ought to have nestled on her mother's bosom. TWhen the horses stopped, and she was taken down, it seemed that I could almost see the fluttering of her heart; and while the air was rent with the alpplauses of the people, I could scarcely keep back the tears. At the same time, Lucy turned to me, and said: " O this is cruel! Let us go!" I answered: "Yes, let us go; the place is detestable." 1F Charles said: (Ladies, I am very sorry you are so difficult, and that I lave so completely failed to amuse you; but I hope that you have derived instruction, if not pleasure, from the scene." He then cleared the way for .us among the laughing, good-humored Germars, who, with their wives and children, sat enjoying every thing. Wheni we were out in the open air again, Charles said: "I wonder what has become of Beauvais and Oglevie? 7 AZILE. 69 They were to have met us here this afternoon; and as I have an engagement in half an hour, I wish to consign you ladies to their care. Ah, yonder they come "- "Parlez-moi de 1' ane, et vous voyez les oreilles," which being interpreted is, "Speak of an angel, and you see his wings." The gentlemen approached and saluted our party. Charles introduced Mr. Beauvais to me, but added: "By the Way, Eugene, you and Miss Damaron must be already acquainted, for she was a nearer neighbor to you than to ourselves. Do you not remember little Azile Damaron?" "I believe," replied Mr: Beauvais, "that I was never so fortunate as to meet Miss Damaron in our own country, though I have heard our family speak of her very often. "If I mistake not," he added, turning to me, "I met you yesterday morning in the gallery." I bowed. He added some kind and complimentary things about the pleasure of meeting me, but he wore more the air of a man of society than he had the day before, and there was, I know not why, a sense of disappointment in this second meeting. I should have remembered that his friends were perhaps many, and mine were few; his life was varied, and mine monotonous; therefore, our meeting must have had a much greater significance to me than to him. "But where, Charles," said Mr. Oglevie, " have you been , with the ladies? We have been looking for you everr- where." ,.. E j - page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 AZILE. "We have been," sail Charles, "to witness the sur- prising feats of horsemanship, and to listen to the exquisite wit of the clown in this tent, which is a circus." R" ather singular that uch a place should prove attract- ive to you," said Mr. Oglevie. Not at all," rejoined Charles, with perfect gravity; "I consider the circus, Mr. Cglevie, as one of the most refined and elevating amusements of the age; and it is there," he added, while a scarcely perceptible smile played over his face, "that one meet; the aristocracy of Dresden, the elite of German society." "Were you entertained?" said Mr. Beauvais to me; and there was a glance of Lome in his eye and smile as lhe said it. I answered: "No, sir, I was not, though some of the feats of horsemanship might interest me, if I could forget the previous training, which makes it all disgustful." "Do not believe it,"' aid Charles, "she and Lucy were perfectly delighted. I have no doubt they have worn out their gloves clapping their hands--I could scarcely drag them away, I assure you!" AZILE. 71 CHAPTER XV. As Charles was rattling on, we were approaching another tent, which was used as a menagerie. The monkeys were peeping out through the curtains, and Charles saying, "Here's metal more attractive still," led the way in. While regarding a fine elephant, we were thrown near an American party. The old lady wore a yellow silk dress, and a red crape shawl, while her two daughters were dressed in bright-colored muslins, with heavy gold chains about their necks, massive bracelets upon their arms, and a quantity of artificial flowers in their bonnets. The old gentleman stood before the elephant, with his hands behind him holding his hat. "Look, old woman," he said, " at this animalcule! is n't it monstrous?" "Oh papa," said one of the young ladies, "I do not see how you can be interested in the elephant when we have that fine specimen of an African lion. Does it not, mamma, remind you of the two lions in St. Peter's --the sleeping and the waking lion of Canova?" "Well," said the father, "I never thought much of that fellow Canover,-that youl are always raving about; I thinkr -- this works want expression. They are not to be compared page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 AZILE. to the Moses by Michel Ingola, nor to them fine expres- sive statutes by Berliner--they are just right down, living- looking creatures. Why, you can stand before that old Moses until you think he is going to speak, and from his looks you could tell that the children of Israel would have to move when he did speak." Mr. Oglevie said in a low voice to Lucy: "Those are country-people of yours, are they not, Miss Grey?" "I suppose they are," she said, with perfect simplicity. "They look as if they were from Louisiana," he returned, with what was intended to be a teasing smile. But Lucy was not teased. She merely answered: "It is very possible they are." "Do you not," said he, "admire their style of dress?" She answered quietly: "No, I do not; but I suppose it is the style to which they have been accustomed, and which does not appear to them peculiar." Just then the old lady dropped her pocket-handkerchief. Lucy stepped forward, pi eked it up, and handed it to her. She said: "Thank yol, Miss! Bless your sweet face! It is like an angel's!" A little rose-color sprmad over Lucy's face as she spoke, and I thought every one must agree with the old lady. As we turned to go, we found that Charles had already 1i' : left us. Mr. Oglevie, of course, was by Lucy's side, and Eugene Beauvais tas thrown with me. I had been so eager since yesterday morning to see him; I had thought of a thousand things tc say to him, a thousand questions to ask him about Louisiana, about my old home, about ,- ,? ,AZILE. 78 Edward and his mother But now I could think of nothing; I was chilled; he seemed more of a stranger to me than if I had never heard of him. As we were passing a tent, he said: "Let us go in here; perhaps we shall find Charles," and turning to the man at the door, he took out his purse to payr for our entrance. I said: "Mr. Beauvais!" "Madam!" he rejoined, and turned upon me such serious, inquiring eyes, that I was filled with confusion. If he had only said "Miss," it would not have been so terrible, but the "Madam" seemed to place me upon a pedestal, and the self-possessed face before me appeared to be waiting for some communication of wisdom and impor- tance. The blood arose to my neck and brow, and in embarrassment, I stammered out: "If you please-I would prefer to pay for myself." He answered almost peremptorily, "That is not permis- sible," and passed on with me into the tent. His tone seemed to say to me: "What an egregious simpleton you are!" I felt as if I had made myself ridiculous; as if, in our very short acquaintance, I had already for- feited his respect. I was ready to cry. I wished most heartily that I was back with Madame Shultz, knitting stockings; or in the gallery, painting; or walking alone, or anywhere in the world but just where I was. I was vexed that I had not insisted upon having my own way, and vexed that I had mentioned the subject at all. At last I said to myself: "Well, I do not care. It is no great matter, after all. Charles paying for my entrance to page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 AZILE. the circus and to the menagerie was of no consequence, but if I did not choose that this superb stranger, whom I have not known a haLf hour, should pay for me, what was there wrong or ridiculous in it? I do not know what the rules of society are on such occasions, nor do I care; the feeling at least was right, and I ought to be satisfied with myself. There was no reason why he should have assumed a tone toward Ine as if I were a child." After all my reasoning, I was not satisfied with myself, and was much more than half indignant with him. I was so thoroughly uncomfortable, that I dia not observe what was going on in the tent. I was thinking to myself: "I can now see how the calm thoughtfulness of the eyes in the picture can be changed. I have already seen the look of sternness which I imagined they might wear." A silvery laugh from Lucy, and "Bravo! bravo!" from the gentleman, drew me from my unpleasant abstraction. I then perceived, for -he first time, that the tent was g fitted up as a theater; but what was my surprise to see Charles upon the stage, figuring as a German lover, and saying the most pathetic things in broken German. I turned to Lucy and said: "What is the meaning of this? Is not that Charles?" She could scarcely arswer me for laughing, but replied: "Yes, that is Charles." "How does it happen," I asked, "that he is among the actors? I do not understand it." "This theater," Mr. Beauvais answered, "is conducted on peculiar principles. Any one who pays for a seat W. ?:v AZILE. 75 in the first rank, may take a part in the play, and it seems that Charles has availed himself of the privilege; nor is he the only one-you see there two of the finest per- formers in Dresden, the one who takes the part of the father, and him who has that of the servant. They have entered upon the performance to add to the amusement of the bird-shooting." The play was conducted with great spirit, and as Charles bowed to the audience in retiring, there was something, irresistibly comic in the application of the bow to our- selves; yet I had not enjoyed it; a sense of discomfort was mingling with all my feelings. - 31 page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 AZILE. CHAPTER XVI. WE were soon joined by Charles, who came up laughing, and saying: "Did I perform the part as if 'Cupid had clapped me on the shoulder?" It was then proposed that the gentlemen should go and take a shot at the bird. We passed large tents filled with fancy wares, with confectionery, with all that could please the popular taste. After walking some distance, we came to the painted wooden b'rd, elevated upon a high pole, with outspread wings and tail, waiting to be shot at. It seemed, however, that little interest clustered about this object, which gives name to the whole week of amusement. Charles laid down the few cents that were required as a fee, selected an arrow, and sent it flying at the bird. It ; brought down one featl-er. He said: "Oh, I am nervous, thinking of the pretty!German girl, to whom I have just been making love in the theater. Let me try that over!" j He sent another arrow, which did not touch the bird. We all laughed; and he, exclaiming, "Worse and worse!" caught the third arrow and brought down several feathers. "That will do," he sai ;-"I shall not risk my reputation any more. Here, Mr. Oglevie, take the bow." Mr. Ogle- P AZILE. 77 vie took it; but I noticed that there was, in truth, a slight }R tremor as he raised his hand. He feared failure in the smallest matter while in the presence of Lucy. He made a very creditable shot, however; and after him Mr. Beau- l vais sent up an arrow, which brought down three feathers. i "Ah, Eugene!" said Charles, "I know you have been secretly practicing for the last week. That is not fair. You shall shoot no more." The sun was already setting, and the gay tents looked stillI gayer in his golden light. I said to Lucy' "Is it not growing late? Hadw we not better return?" - "Return!" said Charles, " by no means! Why, this is the day that the King and Royal Family visit the bird-shooting, and in a short time you will see these tents flashing with a thousand lights. I would not have you miss that for any consideration. Besides, the young princesses are worth looking at." Mr. Oglevie said: "You may be disappointed in seeing them, Mr. Grey. While I was playing billiards this morn- ing with Prince George, he told me it was doubtful whether his sisters would be out this evening." "i Well," Charles replied, "if the princesses are not here, Prince George will be, and the young ladies will have a chance to see him. If either of them should be so fortu- nate-as to captivate him, she might even have a glimpse of the Saxon throne. The little Carola, too, is very well worth looking at, if she is married; so I decide we shall remain, and see the royal party." I . * ' ^ 1l page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 AZILE. Lucy said: "But, Charles, perhaps Azile would prefer returning-she looks veary. / "Weary!" he said, "no wonder! She is hungry-so am I; half famished. We will go into this long tent, wreathed with oak-leaves, and its name written in 'immortelles' above the door. I will vouch foi it, we shall find 'something in the way of refreshment' there, worthy of Olympus-saur- kraut, ale, and sausages, for instance." Charles was always too good-humored to be resisted, so our whole party yielded to his suggestion. We took our seats by a round table. The Germans about us were smoking, and drinking ale, and eating all / manner of viands. i "And now, ladies,': said Charles, "what shall I order you? Azile, what will you take?" A waiter was just passing with some cups of coffee. I said: "Thank you, Charles, I will just take a cup of coffee." And quietly laying down the money as I took the coffee, flattered myself that I had at once escaped embarrassment ! and observation; bu; as I raised my eyes, I saw that Eugene Beauvais was looking at me, while a smile, like a ; ray of sunlight, seemed to glance from his brow and eye to his lip. My confusior returned. It seemed as if I were to experience nothing bu- vexation from this man, from whom I had hoped the sympathy of a friend. Yet, in spite of my annoyance, I was forced to confess that the face was exceed- ingly handsome when lighted by a smile-far more so than it appeared in the pictire, with its calm thoughtfulness. By the time we had finished taking our refreshment the \.2 Ani AZILE. -79 whole encampment was glowing with the illumination; and i soon we heard the shout that welcomed the royal family. Hastening out, we saw them approach in open carriages. 'fli The king, with his decided features, looked as if his face were conveniently made for a medallion. The gentle-look- ing queen, and her gentle-looking daughters, accompanied i; him. lehind them came the old, stately ex-queen, bowing i every moment to the people; and the Princess Carola beide her was more than pretty-the face was lovely. The ij princes were on horseback, and, altogether, they seemed to ?i excite quite as much enthusiasm as one could expect. As they passed, a German near us exclaimed: "Ah, our king is a wonderful man! he speaks nine languages!" Just as the cortege went by, I heard a sigh behind us. I turned, and saw an old man sitting beside the tent. The torches threw their red light over his pale brow and thin j white hair; the ploughshare of care had made deep furrows on his cheeks, and his eyeballs were sightless. He held in his hand a flute, for he was a beggar, and it was with melody that he sought to awaken the sympathy of the more fortunate. The sudden contrast, from the king to the beggar, touched my heart. I said to myself: "The few cents in my purse can be of little use to me; they may be of more to him-let them go!"So, unnoticed, I poured them into the tin plate before him. He exclaimed: "Ah, thou good God, I thank thee!" Lucy's ear, quick to catch any tone of sorrow, heard him, and stepping to me, she said: "What did that poor man { say? Is he a beggar?" ; ' - @l page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 AZILE. I replied: "I believe so;" and she silently placed several thalers upon his plat 9. It was more, perhaps, than he had ever received at one time before, and the tears meandered down the creases in \ is pale cheek. The gentlemen of our party did not see us. All the world was shouting for -the king; yet perhaps th3 poor blind beggar went to bed hap- pier than he. As to myself, I felt better satisfied. I knew not where my next money was to come from; yet I was strangely unconcerned. I felt as if those few cents had been left in my purse pqyposely, that God might allow me the blessed privilege of giving to one still more needy than myself. I felt more independent of the opinion of this stranger-- Eugene Beauvais; and as our carriage inll returning passed along- beneath the rols of trees in the sIdy streets, the moonbeams seemed to fall quite into my heartland to fill it with their tranquil light. As Charles handec me out of the carriage, the other gentlemen, who had accompanied us on horseback, alighted and approached to say "Good-night" to me. In parting, Mr. Beauvais handed me a bunch of "forget- me-nots," and said: "Will' you put these in water, and keep them, Miss Damaron? I found them at the stand of a little flower-girl." AZILE. 81 Sii CHAPTER XVII. WHEN I reached my bed-room, the atelier, I scarcely knew whether I was pleased or not with the excursion of the evening. The bird-shooting was a somewhat different thing from the bird-shooting described by Jean Paul. I had expected to see eager German faces about the bird, and had almost fancied that I should recognize Siebenkais at once; while I could see poor Lenette at home, struggling with poverty, yet determining that the black-striped calico should not go. As I sat beside the window, my mind wandered off into this sad, true heart-history, and I quite forgot the bird- shooting that I had seen myself. I was with Siebenkas, as he went back home with his prize, that kept them a little longer from starvation. I saw him again, as he sat by his table writing, on-on-passionately-stormily. I saw Len- ette, the patient cap-maker, sitting by the table, too, to snuff the candle for him. I saw how she forgot to snuff it, while trimming the cap. I heard his impatient reproof, that came out almost like an oath; and I felt the blood as it ran to the tips of her fingers, making them tremble, not with anger, nor with fear, but with a constrained pain, a half- page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] AZILE. terror, to know that lips which loved her could speak words of harshness. I saw her snuffing the candle now every moment, lest she should prove again delinquent; and I saw how he was worried by this incessant interruption and torture while he wrote. Lenette could not see it. She knew only that he s'oke again harshly, and the bitter tears are welling up, higher and higher, in her heart. I could see his efforts to elevate her thoughts to the standard of his; to raise her nature to the higher ether in which he floated, while he gazed upon the sun; but she, poor bird, could not rise so high! She only felt the space that was between theEm, and he felt it, and neither could help it. I saw him take her pocket-handkerchief from the window- sill in her room, wet with her tears, and cold; I saw him rush from the room So clasp her to his heart-too late, Siebenkas, too late! Love is too timid to live in the midst of conflicts. Sympathy is the silken band that keeps him fettered. But Lenette, the little cap-maker, passes away; and Natalie comes, tEie true morning-light. Yes, at last, Siebenkas comes to the true morning-light, but he has blun- dered into it through a wrong path-so much must be con- fessed-a path decidedly wrong; and yet, it is just such a one as we should expect him to fall into, with his great, generous, passionate, pitiful heart, commiserating Lenette more than he grieves for himself, yet unable to help her, but by pursuing the road which his whimsical nature suggests. And is Jean Paul, "the Only," to be blamed that he has painted this stream as it runs, with its frettings and mur- murings, its whirlpools and rapids, and at last, its tremen- dous plunge over the precipice, instead of making it meander for ever between green and flowery banks? He wrote as an artist, and left the moralizing to the reader;. and in whatever light you may turn the story, your heart still bleeds for Siebenkais, and no less for Lenette; and you cannot help wishing the empty coffin were legitimate. The very air of Germany seems filled with the spirit of Jean Paul. From the "Thorn, Fruit, and Flower pieces," my mind wandered on, until it found itself amidst the glorious creation of "The Titans," and Liana floated before me in the moonlight--floated through her whole touching story-in the confessional, with "her heart like a sunbeam, shining with greater beauty from being disparted;" in the old church with her lover, gentle, suffering-suffering most of all because she has found him, "not tender and pious, as she had imagined, but very coarse, harsh, and man- like;" at the hour of death, when her brother cries, "Tear away the veil !" "And she rests beneath," says the author, "peaceful and smiling, but dead-her blue eyes opened heavenward-her rapturous mouth still breathing love- her youthful lily-brow, entwined with its drooping, flowery garland; and pale and glorified by the reflected radiance of a higher world, shone the wondrous form of her who had left the petty life of mortals for the higher being of the dead- " A neighboring clock aroused me; I arose to prepare for rest, and the "forget-me-nots" fell from my lap to the floor. page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 AZILcE. I stooped to pick then: up, thinking of the beautifulJlegend of Flora passing through the garden and naming all the flowers, quite forgetful of this one, until stepping over it, she heard it softly whisper, "Forget-me-not l"So it seemed to say to me to-night' "Forget-me-not!" I gathered them up carefully, and go ng to the dining-room, procured a little white saucer, in which I placed them. I poured the water on them, and then stood contemplating them. They were vei'y pretty. As I stood, arranging them and rearralnging them, and looking at their peculiar blue, I happened to lift my eyes, and they rested upon :he portrait of the donor. Calm and contemplative, he sat before me. I said to myself: "There i is something strange about him. There was something ; peculiar in his very lmanner of presenting me this bunch of flowers-it was neither ceremonious, nor sentimental, nor ! friendly; it was just s if he were tired of them, and would feel obliged to me if! would take them, and rid him of the trouble of them. Som etimes I should guess for a single second that he has warm, gushing sympathies, that are ready to burst up through all the restraints thrown around , him by society; and then I think-I have mistaken for feel- - ing what is the- mere effect of cultivation and refinement. :- The remarkable melody of his voice, perhaps, also gives undue effect to his words. Yet, how sensibly do I feel that he is a stranger! A1t this afternoon I should have been so glad to ask him something about home, but he always seemed at such a distance from me, I could not. It is very plain that we shall never be friends-yet his face, in an - x Fs AZILE. 85 artistic view, is interesting: it would make an excellent study." I looked at it again attentively: "An excellent study! But although Mr. Shultz paints so well, I do not think he has done justice to his subject. There is soul there, undoubtedly; but as little as I have seen of him, there are moments when I have seen more in his expression, and I can imagine there are molments when that face would seem transfigured. Perhaps I am wrong; yet at any rate a good artist could take those features and make them the medium of wonderful power and expression." By this time I was beginning to feel weary; so preparing myself for rest, I extinguished my lamp, and throwing myself upon the sofa, I experienced an indistinct feeling of down-sinking and ever down, until sleep closed over me. page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 \ AZILE. CHALPTER XVIII. THE next morning, at breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Shultz wished to know if I had enjoyed the bird-shooting. I answered: "Yes, it was very pleasant." "Ah, Miss," exclaimed the little German woman, clasping her hands, "you d:l not speak with enthusiasm! It was charming! magnificent!" "Were you therel?"I asked. "Yes," she replied, "we were there, and looked for you, but could not see you. In such a crowd, however, it is impossible to find any one." "But, Miss Damaron," said Mr. Shultz, "yesterday after- noon an English lady came here to see you. She wishes to purchase the copy you are making of the Madonna, and offers you one hunCred thalers for it." "One hundred tlalers!"I exclaimed, in surprise; "I am no artist. That is more than the picture is worth." "No, Miss," he answered, with great simplicity, "not if she chooses to give it. There is no end to the wealth of the English, and they lavish their money in the most extraordinary manner; very probably she would give you five hundred thalers if you should ask it: they will pay any AZILE. 87 price for a whim. Besides, Miss, the piece is really very good-very creditable." "It may be tolerable," I replied; "but I know it is not worth a hundred thalers.- I had not thought of selling it; but the offer is so opportune that it would be wrong for me to refuse it. A hundred thalers, however, is more than I ought to take--I feel that it would be wrong and dishonest for me to ask more than seventy thalers for it." Mr. Shultz shrugged his shoulders. "As you please, Miss. I presume the lady knows what she offers. Shall I tell her that you will sell it to her?" "Yes, for seventy thalers." "Very well." I walked to the window, and the tears came into my eyes as I stood, with clasped hands, and thanked God for his mindfulness of me. After breakfast, I went forth with a light step to finish my work. I crossed the flower-market, and the broad faces of the flower-women looked happy as they wove their gar- lands, and anchors, and crosses of flowers. It seemed to me that every thing was enjoying the gifts of God, and that all were praising him. I felt so rich that I was about stop- ping to buy a bouquet, when I remembered that, as yet, I had not a single groschen in my purse. Having arrived at the picture-gallery, as I was ascending the steps I saw before me a trim figure in a gray silk dress and straw hat. The soft pattering of her feet, as she went up the stairs, brought to my mind the old English verse, which I repeated as I ran forward and put my arm through hers: page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 AZILE. "Her feet; beneath her petticoat Like little mice peep in and out, As if they feared the light." Of course it could be but one person, and Lucy Grey turned as I placed my arm in hers, exclaiming: "Why, Azile, youl look as bright as a May morning! and I am glad to see yoii looking so, for I fancied you were a little out of spirits yesterday evening; yet I am sure you must have been entertained. Did you not like our friend Eugene?" "Well-I don't know; I suppose so. Oh, yes, of course." Lucy smiled, and said: "You do not speak very enthusi- astically; but I know you will like him. I like him ever so much, and I have known him a long, long time. Oh, he is a most noble man, Azile! I do not know a man so noble!"' "Not even Mr. Oglevie, Lucy?" She at once became thoughtful. At length she said: "No, not even M. Oglevie, Azile; but Mr. Oglevie is a man of great ability! Sometimes I think he is like Cardinal Wolsey: he likes show, perhaps, more for the effect it has on the common mind than for any importance which he attaches to it himself." By this time we were among the pictures. As we passed E through the saloon of the Madonna del Sisto, we both invo- luntarily stopped tc look at that embodiment of grace and beauty. Lucy said: "Look, Azile, at the disposition of the scarf about the head-is it not graceful?" I ' I,-,: AZILE. 89 I answered, "Yes, the whole picture is wonderful." We passed on into the next room, and stopped before the Magdalen of Correggio. "Is she not beautiful?" said Lucy, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to disturb her reading. "Yes," I rejoined, "I can never pass that face without stopping to look at it. But, Lucy, does it meet your idea of what a Magdalen ought to be?" She looked at it for some moments, and then said: "No, it does not. I have never thought of it before, but ,there is too much quiet happiness in the face, as it rests upon the hand, partly hidden in the luxuriant hair-not only present happiness, but there are no marks of previous strug- gle and suffering. It is not, as Willis says, 'the exquisite quiet Of one by suffering made pale and meek,' but it is a face that has known no sorrow. I should think a Magdalen ought to be a splendid creature, with a counte- nance full of quick sensibilities, yet subdued, as the ocean is subdued at the close of a storm; with fawn-like eyes, look- ing out upon you with a tearful beauty; a cheek, pale from excessive emotion; a brow, beaming with divine love. That face, on the contrary, looks like a happy girl, who had been brought up within the precincts of home, ever leading a virtuous, cheerful, even life." "So it has struck me; but forget it is a Magdalen. Think, for instance, that it is the sister of Martha, whom I page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 AZILE. take to have been C different person from the Magdalen, and you may look upon it with untiring pleasure." As we were moving onward, Lucy caught my arm, and said: "Stop, Azile, iet us look at the 'Cupid Sharpening his Arrow,' by Correggio-is it not lovely?" V "Lovely, Lucy!"I exclaimed, "why it is perfectly beau- i tiful-it is radiant! Not all divine, perhaps; but the most charming child--hlf earthly, born amid the flowers of -.; Paphos, nursed by the most beautiful woman! Look at those flesh-tints, how pearly and healthful they are! If aou :: were to stick a pin Into that arm, the blood would spin out. Do you not see that those limbs have grown and thriven in an atmosphere of foy? The saucy little fellow has been wandering over Parnassus-his curls are still heavy with the dews of the mountain; see how they fall upon his neck, and twist themselves into tendrils about the brow! See how he looks over his s loulder at you, as he sharpens his arrow, and seems to say: 'Beware!' You had better hasten along, Lucy, or the arrow may come whizzing." Lucy laughed, and we did hasten along, till we came to -the saloon where my work was. As I sat down to give the finishing touches to the piece, I X said: "Do you know, Lucy, that I have sold this Ma- : donna?" She answered: l'No: I hope you have received a good price for it." "I have not," I rejoined, "received any thing for it yet. I have been offere I a hundred thalers for it, but I do not think it worth more than seventy." AZILE. 91 "I do not know," she rejoined, "what it is worth; but I suppose whoever has offered the price knows its worth. I think you paint beautifully, Azile. By the way, do you know that Virgin's hair is exactly the color of your own?" "I did not," I answered with a sigh; "but I know it is just the color that my mother's was. But, Lucy," I con- tinued, "do not let me detain you; you can be looking through the gallery; and I cannot talk to you while I paint." Lucy wandered into another room, and I put the last work upon the picture which had afforded me so much interest. I could not keep the tears from my eyes as I was laying on the parting tints. While working industriously and tenderly upon it, I heard some persons approaching, but did not look up. As they passed me, I heard a voice which I could not mistake. It was Eugene Beauvais! He said: "We must return to the hotel. When a wife is in question one must be punctual." I gave the last touches to the face of the Virgin; I kissed the brow and lips, and left her. page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92- AZILE. CHAPTER XIX. As I was leaving the gallery, Lucy joined me, and asked if I had finished. "Yes," I said, "quite finished." "' How I should like to see it now!' "I would propose to turn back with you," I replied, "and show it to you, but-it is selfish in me-but I painted it becau e it looked like my mother, and now it makes me too sad to look upon it, and think I have to part from it." "Then I would not sell it at all." I burst into a laugh. "Why do you laugh?" she said. "To see how impossible it is to convince a person who has never had ar want ungratified, that there is any such thing as absolute necessity." Lucy said: "Forgive me, Azile, I did not think. 'I i do wish you had a million of dollars!" ! "So do I, dear Lucy, but no doubt it is best just as it is. I have many pleasures of my own, and I abide by the law of compensation. In reference to the picture, however, Lucy, if you really wishl to see it again, you will have an oppor- AZILE. 93 tunity the next time the gallery is open, as I believe the owner will not remove it for some days." "h, then I shall see it," she said, "and I shall bring Charles to see it, too." "By the way, how is it that you are alone to-day? Charles, I know, often deserts you; but where is Mr. Oglevie?" A mischievous smile played over her face-she could not resist the temptation, but replied: "Playing billiards with Prince George, I suppose." Then suddenly checking her- self, she said: "Oh, that was wrong; I ought not to have said it, but it is a pity, is it not Azile, that a man with so many fine qualities should have that- oh well, it is 'a mere trifle; every one has faults. But I must say 'Good- morning' here-will you walk with me to-morrow after- noon?" "Nothing will be more pleasant," I replied. As I walked home alone, I could but wonder at the clear-sightedness of this girl, whom one would suppose blinded by affection; nevertheless, if the heart cannot succeed in blind-folding the judgment, it will then adopt the last resort, and refuse to be governed by its decisions. Before I reached home, I met Mr. Shultz, who still held in his hand the money paid for my picture. He handed me seventy thalers, and said: "The lady still thinks it worth one hundred, but as you refuse .to take it, she sends you this on condition that you permit her to order from you copies of two other paintings-' The Chocolate Girl,' and 'The Children of Rubens."' page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " AZILE. "Certainly, I sl all be glad to execute her commands, though. I cannot divine why'she likes my painting, which is undoubtedly inferior to that of many others, whom she might employt" "She likes your style," he replied, "and moreover, I think she has a fancy for your pieces because you are an American and a woman." "Whatever be the reason," I rejoined, "it conies as a I signal blessing to me. And now, Mr. Shultz, permit me to pay that part of my indebtedness to you which may be paid; the kindness of the action is beyond price, and can - be rewarded only where all other noble deeds are, which are beyond the range of the money-marts of this world." At first he insisted that I should not think of paying for my board until I had finished the other paintings, and had been paid for thea; but/when I urged the matter, he said: "Then fifteen thlers a month is what the board is worth." I paid it joyfully, and felt as if I were " rich beyond the : dream of avarice." The artist and his wife had finished their dinner. It had been an uncommonly sumptuous one, for a friend had sent them a present o' some Leipzig larks, which were exceed- j ingly delicate. A couple they had saved for me, which, with a slice of lread, a glass of Rhine wine, and a slice of cake, made a very refreshing meal for me after my walk. ! Mrs. Shultz, seeing I looked somewhat surprised, said: I "This is little Grstchen's birthday; when you have finished your dinner, you must come into the other room and see her table." AZILE. 95 In Madame Shultz's room was a small table, overspread with a white cover. In the middle of the table was a crown of flowers, intended for Gretchen's brow; around it were placed three blue wax candles, for the three years of, Gretchen's life, and farther in front, a large red one, for the coming year. There was a very small toy-basket with two hickory-nuts and some candies in it; a plate with grapes and grape-leaves; one with cake; a china hen - sitting upon a nest too full of eggs to be covered; and I various other toys, all intermingled with flowers. I remem- bered that there lay in my trunk a pair of coral bracelets, :X which I had worn when a child, and I hastened to bring them, and place them upon the 'table. I kissed the little 1 Gretchen, too, after the German fashion, and wished her many returns of the happy day. Of course, if she thought at all, she expected many returns, expected it always to return, for death comes not into the account of very young persons: life is entered with the immortal paradise before them, and it is not until the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil has been eaten, that they hear the sentence of death. ' page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 AZILE. CHAPT ER XX. ! FEELING weary after my morning work, and knowing that Mr. Shultz wis absent from his atelier for the after- noon, I took posseksion of it' and of the sofa. Throwincgr myself lazily down, I permitted my eyes to wander from picture to picture, in a state of delicious dreaminess. At length they passed ' the peasant-girl," and rested upon the face of the dark - eyed English woman. Just beside her was the portrait of Eugene Beauvais, and it occurred to me that she might be his wife, to whom I had heard him allude in the morning. I wondered that I had not heard Lucy speak of her. Then I began to weave, in my own mind, a ;. history for them. X here' had he first met her? In England or America? She Was'certainly English, there could be no X mistake in that, yel she might have visited America pre- vious to her marriage; but I preferred to think that he had first seen her in her father's house-a tasteful residence X in England, einboomed in green trees, and surrounded with green lawns. I fancied his introduction to the self- possessed English girl, so full of intellect and spirit, the beaming of her da'k eye as it first fell upon him. I fan- cied her leading him through the conservatoriumn, and X AZILE. 97 stooping down to pluck some rare rose for him, the dark curls brushing his hand as she lifted her head. I could see the air of courteous dignity with which she presented the flower, and the calmness with which she moved from the colnservatoriztm, as 'if she had only given a rose to the gardener. But 'she does not always remain so unmoved. His visit is prolonged for days, and they discuss books, and scenery, and art. He leaves her, goes to London, wanders from place to place, but never content- "For far from her in crowds unblest His anxiousheart but ill can rest." He returns to her side, and he imagines the color deepens in her cheek when she sees him. Again they are together, riding, walking, wandering through the greenwood; and as they stroll along the grand avenue, words are spoken to which it would be treason to listen. They part at the door of the hall, and now the color is unmistakably deeper in her cheek, and has spread even over her brow. She flies to the room of her mother, and amid tears and blushes, confesses that she is willing to leave that mother to whom she is still clinging, her sisters, brothers, father, "merrie England," and all, to cross the ocean with this stranger- , A knock at the door startled me out of the romance, and caused me to spring from the sofa. I said, "Come in," with my heart fluttering as if on the eve of some alarming event. 4 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 AZILE, My embarrassment was not lessened, when the very gen- tleman of whom I had been dreaming stepped in. He seemed surprised, but not confused, when he saw me stand- ing in the middle of the room. "Pardon me, Miss Damaron," he said, "I supposed Mr. Shultz was in, and called a moment to request him to make an alteration in a portrait that he has painted for me." I said I was sorry that Mr. Shultz was not at home. "If you will be so kknd as to convey to him my message," he remarked, "I will -explain to you the alteration I wish to be ma'de." I, of course, consented. He took a seat and commenced his explanation of wltat he wished to have done. From that he wandered off into a conversation on Art and artists. Gradually his eye gloved, and his face flushed with enthusi- asm. It seemed to me that, for the first time, I began to comprehend how great and exalted Art was. I quite forgot the feeling of strangeness and constraint that had been thrown over me. His mind was expatiating in higher regions of thought than those to which I had been accus- tomed, but I was borne onward and upward by his eloquence until I felt as if treading the margin of a mountain preci- pice, where every step demanded my entire attention, lest I should lose my foot-hold. Whether my utter absorption attracted his attentio . I know not, but suddenly pausing, he looked at me as if lie really saw me for the first time. After a moment le said: "Miss Azile, your face is precisely what I had fancied it."' "What you had fa .cied it?"I said, in some surprise. AZILE. 99- "Yes," he replied, "just as I had fancied it. I remember to have heard my father relate an incident concerning you, which left your portrait on my mind. Having called to see your mother, and finding her absent from home, he took the liberty of walking in the garden. There he found you crying bitterly over a broken rose-bush. He stepped up behind you, and said: (What is the matter with my little girl?' You looked up, with your eyes full of tears, and ; said: 'My rose-bush is spoiled.' He led you into an arbor I near by, and to amuse you, told you the story of 'Beauty and the Beast.' I heard him tell that some years ago, and so vividly did he describe you--your sorrow for the rose- bush, and your intense interest in the story, that whenever j I have thought of you since, it has been as that tearful, but not inconsolable child. Just now, some thought in our conversation awakened an expression which brought back the picture to my mind, and I think at that moment I 1 should have known you anywhere, without an introduction. That, however, is only one of the many stories that I have I heard of you at home. My mother speaks of you often, and Edward has given me interminable accounts of gathering pecans with you and Spirro, and of sailing with you on the lake. There is one story that Edward used to think very thrilling when he was a boy--a story of your being nearly drowned in attempting to gather water-lilies." "And did Edward tell you that I owed my life, on that occasion, to his courage and presence of mind?" "No doubt he made the most of it, as boys always fully appreciate their own bravery; though, to do him justice, I I, i page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 AZ ILE. do not, remember that he dwelt particularly upon that part of the story. I only remember that he always closed by saying you looked like a water-nymph as he drew you up with your golden hair glittering with water-drops." "I presume Edward's imagination made that, in after years, a more poetic picture than it was. I remember that I felt very woeful at the time, and we were very much afraid that our parents would scold us. But tell me something more of Edward-where is he now?" i He is practicing law in New Orleans. A very eloquent advocate Ned makes too, I assure you. He is particularly fond of criminal cases, and always proves his client to be as spotless as a lamb." 'And your mother, how is she?" "Thank you, she is well. She remains on the plantation this summer; indeed, she has never gone North since the death of my father, but occ'ipies herself at home with her books, and music, and flowers." I ventured to ask him if he ever went to our old home, "Roseglade," and, with the utmost kindness, he told me of every change that had taken place- of, the rose-bushes having clambered quite over the arbor; of the China-tree that had blown down in the yard; of the night-bloom- ing jasmine, that grew beside the gallery; of the orange- trees, whose branches now interlaced over the walk in the garden, and of a hundred li'tle things, so full of interest to me, that I am sure I listened with attention as absorbed as when his father told me, for the first time, the story of "Beauty and the Beast." AZILE. 101 How long he talked, I cannot say. Life flashed around me with a thousand delightful hues. It was no longer the scene of hard trial that I had so often found it; but it had suddenly spread out into a great holiday and place of festivity, and I wandered in its midst, like an inexperienced child, filling my hands and apron with flowers. Rising to leave, he said: "Pardon me; I am making too large demands upon your time, but the afternoon glided away so pleasantly that I quite forgot myself. I hope, however, to see you often, while I am in Dresden, and that we shall know each other better, Azile-may I call you so? I never hear you called any thing else at home." "Certainly," I said; "your father's family has always seemed next to our own; formality between any of the member; would be out of place." "And we shall be very good friends?" he said, inquiringly, as one of those smiles, like sudden sunlight, fell upon his face. "Oh yes," I replied, "I trust so." "But you did not trust so yesterday; this morning you did, not even desire it." "How do you know?"I asked, "you did not see me this morning." "No," he answered, " but -I saw to what the feeling was growing. Farewell," he added, as he kindly took my hand; "I see you did not go quite so far as to throw my 'forget- me-nots ' out of the window." He was gone. The English girl stood justified. I no longer wondered that she could forget home and country- page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 AZILE. O, how he talked!"Love," it is said, " enters at a man's eyes, and at a woman's ears," and if he is so eloquent when speaking on an indifferent subject, and to an indifferent person, how irresistible mus- have been his words when they were of love! AZILE. 103 CHAPTER XXI. THE next morning I had a long letter from Spirro. It always gladdens my whole existence when I receive one of his letters. His nature is so buoyant, that his joyous- ness seems to run over, and fill the heart of every one around him. I thought, however, in reading the letter, that there was more of politics in it than was quite suitable for a boy, who has no vote. He says there are now in the United States four candidates for the Presidency-one of them a Mr. Lincoln, I think, from Illinois, or Michigan, or some of those Western States, a "Black Republican," whose election Spirro seems to consider too certain; and, as a con- sequence of it, he predicts a great deal of trouble and dissatisfaction in the Southern States, and perhaps a dissolu- tion of the Union. This I suppose to be mere school-boy speculation: he has arrived at the age now to think, that in order to assume the gravity of a man, he must talk apprehensively of our future. Ambitious school-boys are very apt to -enter the world with a Lord Burleigh shake of the head. For my own part, I have always found poli- tics very tiresome; their "Amendments to an Act entitled an Act," etc., was always the most tedious jargon to me. I page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 AZLE. hope we shall not have a Black Republican President; and, farther than that, I care little about it. I should be sorry to see our Union dissolved-ri-ot because there is any affinity between us and the North-I-in fact, we are two different peoples, as much as the French and the English are; but we are one of the great powers of the earth, and simply for the sake of interest we must cling together. I think we feel this, and there will be no division. Spirro's letter did not occupy me all the morning. Little Gretchen had taken a fancy th some worked pantalettes, and I had promised to make them for her; so I commenced drawing the pattern, and was soon very busy with the work, while she stood by and wajched my progress with great delight. At length, from being still for so great a time, her eyelids began to droop; then she sat down upon the tesselated polished floor, and as she grew more weary, she lay fairly down, and was soon soundly asleep. I stepped to Madame Shultz's room, took one of Her pillows, with its pink-lined pillow-case, and its crochet trimming, and put it under the child's head. She made a very pretty picture as she lay there sleeping, and I sketcLed her with a pencil, on the back of the pattern by which I was working. Madame Shultz was eng ied in the kitchen; and, as I sat alone in the dining-room, my mind went back to the conversation of the day before. It had brought up so many pleasant memories of home! I was not entirely forgotten, either, it seemed, with the kind family at L'Esperance; and even Eugene had expressed a wish that we should be friends. Of course, he could not fee the same interest in me that AZILE* 105 Edward or his mother would; but it was very pleasant to feel that, at any rate, I had in him a friend in this strange country. I could not help wondering that he had not spoken to me of his wife. It certainly would have been natural for him to have made some allusion to her-to have promised to bring her to see me; but, except the morning in the gallery, I have never heard him, at any time, mention her. Perhaps, after all, the marriage between an English woman and an American has not proved felicitous-but no, that is impossible; although his temper may, at times, be peremptory--in fact, the bird-shooting teaches me that it is so-yet there is such, an indefinable charm about his manner, he is so unlike everybody else, there is such a graceful and gracious dignity about him, that I cannot imagine his wife being unhappy; and then he is too noble and generous, I am sure, not to take special pains to make her happy, when she has left her family and her country for his sake; but why did he not speak of bringing her to see me? I cannot tell--it is all inexplicalble to me. Madame Shultz came in to arrange the table, and scolded good-humoredly that I lhad taken her clean pillow, and put it upon the floor. The floor, nevertheless, was as clean as the pillow. When I showed her the sketch on the back of the pattern, the mother gained the victory over the housewife, and her accustomed smiles came back. Gretchen was awakened, and the dinner served, In the afternoon, Lucy called for me to take the promised walk. As she saw me doing the needle-work, she said: "By the way, Azile, there is a concert in the garden of the page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 AZILE. Japanese palace this afternoon--suppose we go there? Take your needle-work, and give me some, also; and let us, for once, be true German women." "Certainly; but can we go without a gentleman?" "Oh yes, that does not make the least difference. One of the attendants will conduct us to a table, where we can be seated, with some refreshments and our work, and- we will enjoy the music' just as if we had been born here amid the Saxon Alps." AZILE. 107 CHAPTER XXII. A PLEASANT walk brought us to the gate of the garden. We were admitted for a few cents, and found a great number of persons already collected. Officers, in white kid gloves, were leaning down to catch the glance of some blue-eyed German girl-; others were walking about the grounds, smoking; parties were seated around tables, drinking beer or coffee, or eating pies and confectionery. We were conducted to a table at some distance from the platform, and scarcely were we seated, with glasses of lemon- ade and a plate of cake, when the music commenced. This did not interrupt the other enjoyments of the people, for they ate and drank, the women worked, and the men pro- menaded about the grounds as before. Lucy and I drank our lemonade, but the plate of cake was untouched, and our work lay on the table beside us, for we had not been born in an atmosphere of music, that- we could so make it an every-day matter. The first piece was finished. It was something from "The Magic Flute." Lucy exclaimed: "Was that not exqui- site?" "Oh yes," I replied; "it intoxicates one to live in this page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 A ZILE. German atmosphere, where there is perpetual melody: it enervates the soul, and makes you think only of enjoyment; life appears to you no lgnger a place of duty, but of plea- sure; and of all music,-lhat of 'The Magic Flute' seems most to produce this effect. It comes over the soul like a flood of melody from another sphere, and the dancing waves of this ocean of music bear you onward amidst scenes of enchantment, where Love, and Joy, and Merriment, with radiant faces, stretch their arms toward you; indeed--" I suddenly stopped-I had forgotten what I was saying. Lucy looked up, and said: "What is the matter, Azile? Why do you not proceed?" "Nothing," I replied; "only my attention was attracted for the moment, and I lost the thread of my remarks. It makes no difference: I suppose I was not going to say any thing very wise." I made a desperate effort to recover myself, but the thought was gone. I had been surprised out of it. At a little distance from us, the dark-eyed English woman sat before me-living, breathing, laughing; and showing the most beautiful teeth w^en she did laugh. Sitting before her, holding a skein of silk for her to wind, was Eugene Beauvais. They were so situated that Lucy could not see them, and his face was turned from us, so that he did not perceive us; but my eye fell full upon the face of his wife, who, all unconscious of my observation, laughed and chatted with him, apparently in the gayest humor. She was not unhappy-that was certain. Not the slightest cloud crossed her brow. I could not see his face, but judging from his AZILE. 109 manner, as he bent forward to speak to her, he was equally well satisfied. I should have said that both were secure and content. I was glad to find that they were happy. I, too, ought to have been happy. -Had I not, just that morning, received a letter from Spirro? In pecuniary mat- ters, was I not much more comfortable than I had been some weeks before? Was I not enjoying the most delight- ful music, with the gentle, loving heart of Lucy beside me? Yes, but I could not keep my spirits up. As the afternoon wore on, they sank down, down to zero--I could not tell why. I took up my needle-work, and sewed industriously, amidst the music, and whenever I lifted my eyes they fell upon the face of the English lady-the happy face! That happiness should have been contagious, but it was not. As the sunshine out-of-doors makes a dark room seem darker, so the very brilliancy of her joy made my heart more deso- late-perhaps such feelings come across me because I have been so much alone in the world. At last, the concert was over. I saw Eugene Beauvais adjusting the mantle of the lady beside him; and Lucy and I moved away with the crowd. As we returned home, Lucy said I was thoughtful and silent; but I was only weary. Our supper was waiting when I arrived at home. I took two or three spoonfuls of the thin soup, but was too tired to eat any thing more. Taking a lamp, I went into the atelier, but instead of throwing myself upon the sofa, I set the lamp down, and commenced walking to and fro in the page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O t AZILE. room. There, just before me, again, were the faces of Eugene Beauvais and his Engl'sh wife. "I will quit thinking of those people," I said to myself; "it fatigues me." So I took a volume of Winckleman on Art, and for three hours I read it without stopping a moment. ,1 AZILE. ll CHAPTER XXIII. I COMMENCED my coy of "The Chocolate Girl." I ought to have commenced it before; indeed, I had gone to the gallery several days to undertake it, but I could not arouse any interest in it. It was not for want of attractive- ness in the subject, for there is exquisite sweetness in the face, as she trips along, with her modest cap, revealing but a portion of her fine hair, her white apron tied around "her waist sae jimp," her white kerchief crossed upon her bosom, her neat foot and ankle, her rounded arm, and her hand so fair and finely moulded, supporting the waiter with the little cup of chocolate and plate of cake. It is no wonder that the Viennese nobleman forgot the degrees of rank that lay between them, and sought that fair hand, and the heart that was revealed by the still fairer face. It is no %wonder that Liotard delighted to paint that form and face, and no wonder that every day finds copyists reproducing the picture; but the wonder is that I could not excite within myself any desire to paint it. Morning after morn- ing I took my seat before it, and arose without making a line. In fact, I had grown idle; I did nothing; after reading a few lines, books disgusted me; I was tired of page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 AZILE. sewing and of knitting. I took long rambles about Dres- den, walking sometimes several squares out of my way, to avoid meeting an acquaintance. Sometimes I stood upon the bank of the'Elbe, watching the flowing, softly-murmur- ing waters, trying to think of nothing. Sometimes I wan- dered through the "Grosse Garten," turning from one walk into another, without any object, only to continue walking. As I returned home from these long walks, when the whole sky was dyed gold and purple with the setting sun, I seemed to walk side by side with the evening--her arm thrown around me, and my heart beating softly in sympathy with hers. Then the restless feverishness of the day was over, and I listened to wLat the evening said to me, as to the words of a sister. One morning I arose in a different temper. The sun was shining on the Elbe, the little boats were crossing and recrossing, and a small steamer was puffing gaily up the stream. I felt full of energy; my fingers were restless for work; the life-force within me had thrown off the torpid sentimentalism. When tie hour arrived for me to go to the gallery, I hastened along, not with such buoyancy as had sometimes possessed ms, but with a feeling not uncheer- ful, and with an inward assurance that this morning I could paint. I arranged my material, and seated myself before "The Chocolate Girl." Her face looked as full of sunshine as the morning; you could r-ot fancy that clouds or vapors ever obscured the heart-light that was beaming through. As I -sat before the painting, trying to take in the full AZILE. 113 spirit of it before commencing the copy, a gay party entered. I could distinguish the tones of Lucy's voice before she arrived at the door near which I sat-these always came over me like " the song of the bell." Soon her happy face appeared. She stopped an instant to kiss me. Her father and Charles were with her, Mr. Oglevie, Mr. Beauvais, and several others, ladies and gentlemen. The gentlemen whom I knew merely bowed and passed on. I was glad, for I did not wish the spell to be broken, which the painting was weaving around me. They passed by, as if I had seen them in a dream, and the bright party only added to the joyousness of my contemplation of "The Chocolate Girl." I began to discern more plainly the soul through the body; I began to enter into her very existence, and to comprehend how, surrounded by an atmosphere of purity, she walked among -the vicious and the vile, and no unholy thing touched her. I could almost hear the innocent lips breathing a Sabbath-hymn-a hymn of quie- tude and contentment-as she passed about with her cup of chocolate and her plate of cake. I caught up my pencil and worked away--sketching, pausing, dreaming over the beautiful creation. In moving, I brushed my pocket-handkerchief from the stand before me. It was lifted from the floor, and laid back in its place. I turned and saw Eugene Beauvais standing behind me. ( How are you this morning?" he said. I replied: 1"I am well, I thank you; but how long have you been standing there?" "A half hour, I suppose." page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 IAZILE. "You must have founld it dull business, to watch the first sketchings of this ccpy." "On the contrary, I like very much to see your fitful sketching. I have never seen any one draw more emphatic- ally from the heart than you do. I should suppose that you could have sympathized most fully with Leonardo da Vinci, when he was co nmanded to draw the ugly face of the Grand Duke of Milan." "O do not mention it! It was the cruelest martyrdom." He smiled and said: "You are very much alive to the influences of beauty; that is the reason, I suppose, you make such a study of the scenery about Dresden, in your long, solitary walks. A Lover, if he were of so sensitive a temperament as Louis Bonaparte, might be jealous of your devotion to nature." "I have no- lover to be uneasy about it; but why do you say I take long, solitary walks?" "Oh, I have seen you occasionally. You are not happy, Azile, not always! You must remember that I claim the right of speaking to you as if I had known you all my life, for indeed I have, You have said you trusted we should be friends, and you must permit me to speak as a friend, plainly., But reslme your drafwing; I will not interrupt you." I did not know what to say to this, and was glad to seek shelter in my sketch. I worked on without speaking; neither did he speak, but he did not move from his place. Several times I thought I would ask him about his wife, but whenever I thought of it, my heart began to beat AZILE. 115 so rapidly, and my hand became so tremulous, that I was afraid to trust my voice. His careful avoidance of the subject made me feel as if some mystery hung about it, and as if it were altogether forbidden; so I worked on in silence. After some time, he said: "Do you know. the history of that Chocolate Girl?" "Nothing, except that it is said she was a chocolate girl in a restaurant in Vienna, and was married to an Austrian nobleman who fell in love with her." "Do you credit the story?" "It seems not impossible, and not altogether improbable, when one considers her face." "And what do you fancy her life to have been as the wife of a-nobleman?" "One can scarcely imagine that face ever to have become sad; yet much must have depended upon the character of her husband, and quite apart from that, there was some- thing in the inequality of their fortunes, which must have had a tendency to mar her happiness: she never could have lost sight, entirely, of the sacrifice he had made for her, nor ceased to fear that he might regret it." "That thought could have its origin only in a morbid nature. What sacrifice did he, in fact, make for her? She was young, beautiful, lovely in temper and character, per- haps, as in person." "Yet these gifts do not counterbalance, in the estimation of the world, the want of wealth and rank." "That is a mere vulgar prejudice, which no noble mind page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 AZILE. would entertain for a moment; and if the Austrian noble- man ever conceived the idea of laying his rank and wealth in the scale against attractions, such as that woman must have possessed, he did not deserve her." As he finished the sentence, his party passed through the room on their return. Charles said to him: "Beauvais, you seem very much taken with that Chocolate Girl; we have missed you for the last hour-will you go now?" Mr. Beauvais replied: "Yes, sir, I am at you service." "Then come," said Charles, "and let me take you under my protection; you need some one of experience to guide you. You have been falling in love with that picture for the last month, and I am afraid that you may, in despera- tion, throw yourself into the Elbe." Then coming nearer to me, he said in a low voice: "And take care of your heart, Azile." I replied, laughing: "I know of no one to whom I could lose it, but to you, Clarles." i"Oh, that is a hopeless case," he replied; " do not think of it; you will die of disappointed affection. I should be afraid to marry you; for I should dissolve in your day- dreams, and become a mere mythical personage." "Very well," I replied, "forewarned, forearmed." AZILE. 117 CHAPTER XXIV. THE next day that the gallery was opened I went very early; but when I arrived, I found Mr. Beauvais already there. As I entered the room where my subject was, he stood contemplating a face said to have been painted by a sister of Raphael Mengs. Without pausing to say "Good-morning," he remarked: "Here is a face that pleases me-it is so home-like; the very frill of the linen cap has an expression of honesty in it. But come--there is a painting in another room that I wish to look at with you. I have just been waiting for you to come in." We walked forward, and as we passed through the saloon of the Raphael Madonna we stopped, as every one must; but he said, smiling: "Ah, do not look upon this lady, blessed Virgin; she is a heretic in beauty, as in religion!" "Buit, if I am not mistaken," I replied, "you are a heretic in religion yourself." "Oh yes, that could not be helped, for I come of a protest- ing race, my family on the French side having been Hugue- nots. But I think this Virgin will forgive my other heresy, in consideration of my devotion to her beauty. I hope in time to convert you to my faith in this respect." page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 AZILE. "It is quite probable you may. I recognize the beauty of the thought in the pictire; yet I cannot help feeling that I have seen, in nature, more beautiful faces than that before us-have you not als3?" "I have seen a face in nature which I prefer to that, though it is not, artistically considered, so beautiful." I thought of his wife--eautiful, yet so very different from the Madonna. We passed on, and soon came to the painting which he wished me to look at. It was the celebrated "La Notte," by Correggio. "Now," he said, "tell ire what impression that makes upon you." I stood and looked at it without saying a word. After some time, he said: "I am satisfied. You like it." I answered: "It is something to think of, for a long time." "I am glad," he rejoinec. "I could not have forgiven you if you had not liked this. One can imagine Correggio falling into a gentle sleep, 2nd this heavenly dream of the nativity appearing before him. Look at it! The Godhead pent up in that little bit of humanity which cannot contain it! It pours out in every direction in streams of light--light insufferable to the attendants, who shrink back, and shade their eyes, overpowered. The pale, joyous face of the mother alone is bathed in the radiance without suffering inconvenience: she gazes with tender, unblenching eyes upon the Christ-child-her own! Her enraptured counte- nance seems transfigured il the glory of her son. I have AZILE. 119 never before seen that thought embodied in art-surely it was an inspiration!" His dark-brown eyes grew moist and darker as he spoke, and a light, like the light of inspiration, filled his own face. It was always so when he spoke on a subject that interested him. "You do not reply," he added; "but your face says enough ;" and taking my hand, he drew it through his arm, and we walked on until we came to a painting by Rubens. It was a scene where birds and game of various sorts lay scat- tered around. You would have called it a scene of still life, but for the very busy, bustling life, that was observable in the face of a fair, fat rosy German woman, who stood in the midst, full of preparation. Her sleeves were rolled -above the elbows, and the arms were so round and plump, and seemed so competent to any work, that it gave one a sense of comfort to look at them. "That woman," he observed, "is supposed to be the wife of Rubens. The picture is full of wholesome life and spirit, but you will never copy it-you cannot enter with sympathy into the scene. Rubens dealt with men and women of flesh and blood-with existence as he saw it around him; and most of his pictures are imbued with the spirit of 'every-day life. He was a great master; but he was not what you call fanciful. There is a story illustrative of this connected with the life of Vandyke. Vandyke, you remember, was a pupil of his. Rubens, at one time, furnished him with what money he could, and started him to Rome to pursue the study of Art. After some time, Rubens heard that page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 A ZILE. Vandyke had stopped at a little inn on the roadside, where he was dallying away his time, painting 'Virgins,' for which the innkeeper's daughter served as the model. Rubens immediately followed him, rated him unmercifully for his idleness, and, quite untouched by the grief of the model of 'Madonnas,' sent him forthwith on his journey. I have seen an exceedingly clever picture of this, by an American artist. Rubens stands at the bottom of a flight of stairs, with lowering brow, and Vandyke stands before him twirl- ing his hat in much confusion. The innkeeper's wife, who had hoped to marry her daughter to the clever artist, is in a fury, while the daughter has sunk upon a chair, weeping piteously." "I do not know," I said, "why you suppose I cannot sym- pathize with homely scenes. Paul Potter is a special favor- ite of mine. In one of the' smaller rooms through which we passed there is a picture by him of which I never tire. It is a landscape, with his peculiar, cold, gray sky, and the very atmosphere you are sure is fall of humidity. Two cows are in the foreground, one rubbing her neck against a pole; and the whole has a surprising air of reality--it is delightful!" He smiled, and said: "No doubt the cows are very fine in their way; but such are lot the subjects that you would choose to copy. And non , let us look at something by Vandyke. There is a St. Cecilia here, painted by him- there it is! What do you think of it?" "The countenance has beauty and dignity, but rather that of a fine- lady than of a saintt." AZILE. 121 "You are right. Vandyke was the painter of fashion- able -life. He never had the force or genius of his master. There hangs his portrait of Charles I.-do you like it?" "Yes, there is a melancholy beauty about the face that never loses its interest. There is, also, a painting in the gallery, of the children of Charles, that I like; particularly the quaint, old-fashioned figure of the little girl, who stands with folded hands. But I must not forget my work, Mr. Beauvais. It is much more pleasant to hear you talk of Art than to pursue it, in my helpless, awkward way; nevertheless, my task is imperative." He answered: "I do not wish to keep you from your painting; but I do not see that it is imperative, as you paint, I suppose, merely for your own amusement." "No. It is certainly strange. that, painting no better than I do, I should be employed as an artist; but I am painting those pieces for an English lady." "Indeed!" he replied. "If I had known that I would not have consumed so much of your time." "I have sufficient time," I said, and proceeded to my work. As I left the gallery, I met him again on the stairs, and he walked with me to the door of Mr. Shultz's house. page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 AZILE. CHAPTER XXV. IN our walk home, Eugene's manner had been more gentle than I had ever s-en it; and at the moment of part- ing a kindly sympathy, such as might have beamed from the face of a brother, fell upon me, and enveloped me in a rosy mist, through which every thing was seen for the rest of the day. The next day I remained at home, and worked quietly. The forenoon I spent in the atelier, painting. Mr. Shultz was in the room, painting also, but neither of us spoke, and I was glad that he was pot in the humor to talk. It was a delicious silence. I painted, but the road over which I had passed the day before I &gain retraced: the Bruhl Terrace- the flight of steps at its ,ermination--a few yards more, and another flight-and then, the road beside the Elbe where -I had walked, looking at its waves as they passed me, tinged with green, the color of hope, listening to the voice which I ought to have heard in childhood, and which, it seemed to me, I had heard from fmong the trees and flowers. That friendly voice had coma back, and a kindly presence now surrounded me, and seemed to shelter me from the cold breath of the world. Lucy loved me, and I appreciated her affection, AZILE. 123 but there were many passages of my life into which she could not enter; nor would I have had her. What would she have done, poor thing! struggling with the fierce present, or walking amidst the dark shadows and phantoms of the future! Charles was all kindness; but life to him was, as yet, a gay frolic. Spirro loved me dearly, and I could not have loved him better; but he was a mere boy. I must appear to him, not the weak woman, but the firm, heroic, elder sister, who could sustain him. Eugene Beauvais comprehended me, and more than comprehended me. With him, I never was alone. He might have been sometimes alone; I cannot say--but I, never. With his eye of sym- pathy, he looked through the intricacies of my nature. Whatever gave me delight, he understood better than myself. If I was pained, his- glance spoke more than the words of others. It seemed as if God had found the trials of life too much for me, and had sent this friend to advise me and to give me courage. I felt that I ought to be happy and thankful, and I was. In the evening, as I sat with Mrs. Shultz, sewing, we heard the door-bell; and a moment after Mr. Shultz came in to say that Mr. Beauvais had left a book for me-it was a work of Hogarth, on Beauty. I translated many passages of it for Mr. Shultz. It was almost too intangible for me, abut it suited the German taste of the artist. At length, I said "Good-night" to the quiet couple, and passed into the atelier. The dark eyes of the English woman's portrait met mine as I entered. My spirit was troubled. The'waters of joy that had been bubbling up all page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 AZILE. day, grew murky. Then I suddenly asked myself: "Why is this? There can be no rivalry between us. I seek to make no claim upon his affections, Even if he were- unmarried, his large fortune makes a great gulf between him and me-a gulf Woo wide for Cupid to cross, and if he should, Hymen could not, for he has no wings. Eugene Beauvais could never be to me more than a friend, a friend to counsel. Then the sight of his wife need not disturb me." And then I fell to pondering again upon the strange- ness of his never men;ioning her. I could no longer think they were unhappy; I had seen them together, evidently happy; and so, my perplexity could not be solved. Every day my enthusiasm for the "Chocolate Girl" became greater. I wMrked upon it with a passion. Every day that the gallery was open I was there. Eugene often came in while I was working, stood beside me sometimes for an hour, discussing different points in the painting, or suggesting some improvement. At first, this embarrassed nme; but after a while, I found that I never worked so well as when he -was presenit. The last day came-the last always comes-my painting was nearly done. I sat down determined to finish it. I worked and worked. Eugene came in and watched me for some minutes, then hIn went off, and wandered through the gallery; again he came back; he watched the progress of the painting, as if his immortality or mine depended upon it. Often he left me during the morning, but as often returned. At length he said: "Azile, it is near your dinner-time. Mr. Shultz dines early, does he not?" AZILE. 125 "Yes," I replied, "at one." "Then it is time for you to leave your work." "Impossible! I cannot leave it now! I must finish it! I do not care for dinner." "Nevertheless," he said very gently, " you must not per- mit the soul to wear out the body. You are too young to die yet; and besides, we cannot spare you," and taking my brush from my fingers, he laid it down. I looked up into his face to tell him that I must proceed. He smiled. I know not how it was, but I had no power to go on with my work. I commenced putting on my gloves. As we walked down the steps together, he said: "This afternoon, Mayline and I will come and see you finish it." As he said "Mayline," my heart leaped. At last I was to be introduced to his wife. I ate my dinner in feverish haste, almost ran back to the gallery, and had been working for an hour, with tremulous hand, I confess, when he came in, and with him--Lucy Grey. I now remembered that "Mayline " had been a pet name ,for Lucy when a child, because of her birth-day coming in May. She said: "Azile, I told Mr. Beauvais that we should disturb you, but he insisted upon my coming, and you do really seem glad to see me." "O, I am delighted!"I exclaimed. Her gray eyes and brown hair had never looked to me so beautiful. Lucy occupied herself for two hours with the other paint- ings in the room; but Eugene stood constantly by me, and followed every movement of my brush. When I had page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 1t26 AZILE. finished, my fingers we:re almost paralyzed with fatigue, but, I was rewarded when I heard him clap his hands with delight. "And now," he said, ' you will come and walk with Lucy and me, -will you not? We will go to one of the public gardens." We started forth in the brightest humor. In passing down the street, we wire joined by Mr. Oglevie, who, by some chance, was thrown with me, instead of Lucy, with whom no doubt he would have chosen to be. Whether it was that, or something else, I know not, but he seemed sad; indeed, I think there is a tendency to sad- ness in his temper, for he -seldom laughs aloud, and his smile is half melancholy. As we passed the house of Jenny Lind, I observed: "There is the cage of the Swedish night- ingale." "Did you ever hear her sing?" he inquired. "Yes," I replied, "once." "What did you think of her singing?" "I did not think at all; I could only say, in the words of Shelley- 'My life is ad enchanted boat, Which like a sleeping swan doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.' " "What a pleasure," he rejoined, "it must be to her to have achieved such celebrity!" "I do not know whether that is much pleasure to her or not-I doubt whether it is; but it must be an exquisite AZILE. ]27 pleasure to her to have such a voice-such a gift from God! I always fancy her high up in the air, like Ariel, singing for the same reason that he sang, or that the birds sing, because it is a delight in itself, to employ and develop the talent which God bestows upon us." "Do you think, then, that one should never strive for distinction, Miss Damaron?" "For distinction? If you mean for distinction alone, I think that an unworthy ambition, though to a man of high intellectual and moral endowments, distinction in some form must come. Such a man cannot live without leaving his mark upon the world. Let every one strive to work up to his ideal, not for the sake of distinction, but for the love of beauty, which God has made imperious in the high-born soul." "But men do not appreciate merit, unless there are some extraneous circumstances to commend it--some gilding and tinsel. The world requires to be befooled." "Then let worldlings befool it, Mr. Oglevie. If we can- not elevate the world, let us, at least, not help to degrade it." "Your thoughts, perhaps, are just, Miss Damaron, but they are Utopian: a man must often become a slave to be the master." His voice grew very sad. I merely replied: "I trust, Mr. Oglevie, that association with a very pure and unworldly spirit will change your opinions." His cheek flushed slightly; he smiled; and the conversa- tion was changed to Some passing object. page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 AZILE. CHAPTER XXVI. ONE day Mr. Shultz came into the room smiling, and said: "Ladies, I have just sold my 'gypsy scene,' and I propose that we celebrate it by making an expedition to the Bastei. You will be ready at one o'clock, when we will take the cars and go, re urning by the boat in the evening." Mrs. Shultz and I gladly acceded to the proposition. We took dinner earlier than usual, and soon after were flying along beside the Elbe, 'vith that bird-like feeling that one always experiences on first starting in the cars. The mountains rose on every side of us; the quiet waters flowed between them, lighted by the sunshine. Mr. Shultz threw himself back in the car with all the abandon of an artist, and with immense satisfaction watched the smoke from his cigar, as it was borne away upon the passing breeze. It was not a time for conversation, but for silent enjoyment and reverie. I looked up at the castle of Sonnenstein, and was thinking of poor Patkul, of the weary days and nights he had spent there, wondering if he were in a room where he could look out, through the narrow slits in the wall, upon the Elbe, and upon the opposite mountains. I could fancy him in his cell, gazing uXpn some far-off, unconscious human AZILE. 129 being, and claiming an unacknowledged kindred. I was wondering if any eye from the valley below had ever looked up in return, and longed to penetrate his prison-if any heart had been there, invisible, in loving, faithful attendance in his dungeon. I was thinking of this, when the cars stopped, the voice of the conductor at the door said: "Potscha!" and Patkul and his fortunes were borne away upon the wind, like the smoke of Mr. Shultz's cigar. We hastened down to the river to enter the long, pointed boat, painted red, and black, and yellow, that was to bear us to the opposite bank. There we landed in the village of Wehlen, and just before us saw a large party that had come up by the boat. It formed a very picturesque scene, the ladies on ponies, and the gentlemen on foot, winding up through the gorge of the mountains. In turning a sudden angle in the road, I caught a glimpse of the face of Lucy Grey, and of Mr. Oglevie walking beside her, his hand resting upon the neck of her pony. Then came Charles with a -lady whom I did not recognize. Immediately behind them was the dark-eyed English woman, her black curls giving additional luster to her complexion. As I saw her, she was leaning down to take a wild flower from the hand of Eugene Beauvais. His face, which was raised toward hers, was radiant. A sharp pang passed through my heart. It was useless to deny it to myself. I felt my neck and brow crimson; the tears came to my eyes. I said to myself: "I will see him no more! If the sight of his wife gives me such pain, my interest in him is greater than I supposed-I will see him no more." 5 page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 . AZILE. Just then he turned, anl seeing us, left his party and hastened back to us. We twere all walking, for both Mrs. Shultz and I considered po lies an unnecessary luxury. He greeted us with a cheerful "Good afternoon," and then turning to me, said: "Azile, this is all unexpected pleasure! Why did you not tell me you were coming?" "I was not aware, Mr. Beauvais, that I was coming until a few hours before we started." I felt that my voice was constrained, and full of tears. He also observed it, and laid in a low tone: "Something pains you to-day." "( No, nothing at all," I replied, making a brave effort to resume my cheerfulness; "this is a day that we have especially devoted to care ess gaiety and happiness. If I was thoughtful, or rather Weary, perhaps, for the moment, I must throw it off, for the day must not be marred." "If you are weary, let Irre assist you up this rough path." "No, I thank you!"I replied, " the weariness was only momentary; besides, Mr. 3eauvais, you are losing yourself from your party." "Oh, it makes no difference about my party," he rejoined; "I was de trop there, at any rate." I replied coldly: "I db not see, Mr. Beauvais, how a gentleman can ever be de trop, where his wife forms one of the party." "His wife!" he exclaimred, turning to me in surprise; "what do you mean?" "If am not mistaken, that very handsome lady on the dun pony is your wife." AZILE. 131 He burst into a merry, ringing laugh, that echoed through the mountains. "No, Azile, she is not my wife. I like her very much, but I do not think I shall ever marry her, as that would involve the death of my particular friend, Col. Lawton, whom you see walking beside her; and that I should deprecate. He had so much trouble to secure his beautiful English bride, that I trust he may have a long life of happiness with her." "He is not an Englishman?" "No, he is a Marylander. I must introduce him to you. I hope you will like him." "I am sure I shall. But did I not hear you speak of your wife one day in the gallery?" "I should think not--when was it?" "When I was painting the Holbein Madonna, you passed me, with some gentleman, and I heard you say: 'It is necessary to be punctual when one's wife is in question."' "Did I? Let me recollect. Ah, yes; that was Col. Lawton himself; but it was his wife, Azile, and not mine, of whom I spoke. No, my gentle friend, I have no such pleasant entanglement. If one had asked me two months ago, I should have said that I had not yet awakened from my dream of romance, my Adam's sleep, to find my ideal before me. Now, the slumber is passed; the ideal has become the real, but whether she is to be my Eve, my Life, or my Azrael, my Angel of Death, I cannot determine--you must do that for me." At that moment Mrs. Lawton's pony, becoming fright- ened at something on the road, suddenly whirled, and page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 AZILE. before Col. Lawton could catch the reins, he was rushing down toward us. Mr. Beauvais stepped forward and stopped him. Mrs. Lawton laughed and said: "He must have missed you, and come sack in search of you." He answered: "I can hardly flatter myself that I have been missed at all, even by the pony. As you were so well attended, I have ventured to desert your service, and attach myself to some friends with whom I fell in coming up the gorge. Let me introduce you to Miss Damaron, of whom you have heard me speak, as a friend and neighbor of ours at home." Though the English lady had looked toward me in a cold and stately manner at first as soon as she was introduced, the constraint was replaced by a genial warmth. Leaning down, she took my hand and pressed it, saying: "I am very glad to have met you, Miss Damaron." Then nodding merrily to Mr. Beauvais, she said: "I see you have very pleasant friends and neighbors at home," and galloped back until she reached the side of her husband. We passed on amidst 1he wildest and most wonderful scenes, the mountains being broken up in all directions, as by the stroke of some Ti-nic hammer. Narrow chasms penetrated the very heart of the mass of rock about us. Here and there we had glinpses into little secluded valleys. Our path led always upward, sometimes beneath overhang- ing crags, draped with green vines, and flowers, and berries, and then out again into the sunshine. Upon a high and rugged point of rock, a tuft of the most beautiful wild flowers was growing. Inadvertently I exclaimed: "I wish I had those flowers!" AZILE. 133 Eugene said: "Do you? I will get them for you," and sprang forward up the rock. "No!"I cried with vehemence, "no, I do not want them! Please do not attempt it!" But he clambered on, regardless of my remonstrance. I trembled every moment, lest I should see him fall, crushed, to the ground. I was vexed beyond measure at my own imprudence, and half vexed with him that he would persist in getting the flowers. At length they were reached and grasped. He descended by a less precipitous path, and placed them in my hand. "I hardly know," I said, "whether to thank you or not. It was so foolish to attempt getting them." He replied very quietly: "A man who loves foolishly is apt to do foolish things." "Who loves foolishly?" "Yes, it is foolish for as man to stake every thing, life, happiness, all upon the turn of a single event; and yet, that is what I am doing. My heart is in your hand, Azile, to cherish, or to crush and throw aside, as you might those useless wild flowers." I did not reply. We walked on in silence, but I knew that he loved me, and the Past and the Future: were merged into one illimitable and blissful Now. page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 AZILE. CHAPTER XXVII. Two weeks had passed since our visit to the Bastei. Every thing about me bega -to bear the impress of the coming winter-every thing but my heart, and in that bloomed a perpetual spring. i The morning after the visit, Eugene had; been suddenly called away to Russia; but his presence constantly sur- rounded me. When I walked the streets, I saw him a hundred times. . He always changed to some other person as he approached me, but again he appeared; and thus my eye delighted constantly to cheat itself. I sat in the gallery and worked joyfully upon the copy of "The Children of Rubens," but I dashed off the figure of the younger boy, who holes the bird by a string, almost without being conscious of wh1at I was doing; and although the serious, thinking face of the elder brother interested me more, yet I soon began to wo:lk mechanically, looking quite through the picture to anotLer-to the Saxon Alps, to the jutting rock, and the tuft of flowers, to him who bore the flowers to me, and whose voice of music had created a paradise around me. O that wonderful voice! It was for ever breathing through my heart, as the soft winds breathe AZILE. 135 through the convolutions of the sea-shell. Again I heard it uttering the words: "You hold my heart in your hand." Then we stood silent, on the top of the mountain, and looked down into the valley, that was shut up almost as the valley of Rasselas. We looked down upon its wall of living rock; upon its tall, isolated columns, that had been rent from the mass around. We loitered on across to the Bastei; we rejoined our party-his party, and mine-but we were still alone. We stood upon the Bastei, six hundred feet above the Elbe, and looked down upon the gentle waters- looked forth upon the K6nigstein and Lilienstein. I assented to the raptures of Mr. Shultz, and answered, with a smile, the exclamations of the rest of the party; and when Eugene said, "Azile, is it not beautiful?"I answered, "Exceedingly beautiful!" ,but I answered as one that dreamed. Then we hurried down to the steamer. Eugene held my hand, as we almost ran down the steep bank. Seated upon the boat, we moved gently down the stream, through the lilac glow of the evening. The beams of the setting sun trembled in the waters; peaceful cottages, veiled in vines, reposed along the shore beneath the shadow of the mountains. We glided into the city. The street-lamps flashed over the waters as we landed. Eugene 'was still beside me in our short walk home along the Elbe. At the door, he held my hand a moment, and then said: "Till to-morrow!" That closed my dream. On the morrow I had seen him, barely seen him, in the hurry of departure. But he had not left me-nor ever could again. ,. page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 AZILE. So passed away the two weeks in reverie, and yet I had nevt worked more busily: my heart was full of life, and my fingers of will. One evening when I cane in, feeling that every thing was glowing under the- influence of a "vivifying soul," I found Madame Shultz looking very serious, holding in her hands a large, beautiful wreath, made of autumn flowers. She was just in the act of attaching to it two streamers of white satin ribbon. As I advanced toward her, I exclaimed: "How beautiful! For what is that intended?" "It is intended," she answered, "as a token of sympathy for the family of a young musician who has just died. It will decorate his coffin." I felt the blood curdle about my heart. I had forgotten that there was any such thing as death in the world. The next day was the Sablath. The young musician was to be buried in the afternoor. I wandered out alone, sub- dued by the thought of his early death. I saw the train pass- ing down the street, the black hearse, the woman (who always walks at the heads of the hors s) in her black dress and white ribbons, the other mourners fallowing in black cloaks. I followed pensively in the distance. When I arrived at the cemetery, the coffin had been taken from the hearse and deposited in a building within the enclosure. I drew near to the open and as yet vacant grave. A great multi- tude was about me, and every heart seemed touched by the fate of this young man, so full of genius and of hope. I stood, thinking of those, sad words of Scott: &.F A z I AZILE. 137 "The autumn wind rushing Takes the leaves that are serest; But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest." A plaintive strain of music filled the air. It came at first like a sigh, and then gradually swelled into the most melodious wail. The finest musicians in Dresden were say- ing "Farewell!" to their departed brother. It was answered by the tears and sobs of the people. The crowd fell back to give way to the procession that came, bearing palms, and harps, and other devices curiously wrought of flowers-rose-buds and violets, resting upon white satin cushions embroidered with gold. Borne upon the shoulders of young men, came the coffin. The pall was glowing with flowers, woven into anchors, and crosses, and crowns. These tributes of affection almost concealed the thought of death, and made the grave attractive. The coffin was lowered into its narrow resting-place-the dark earth and the bright flowers were thrown in together-the- funeral-services were ended. The people were dispersing, and I turned to walk away, when some one took my hand. It was Eugene. He had returned, and, as he spoke, the thought of death was once more swallowed up in the feeling of immortality. We walked on together, not into the street, but into an adjoining cemetery. Our conversation was not gay, but not altogether uncheerful. We passed between the graves, and read the epitaphs-those links which still bind the living to the dead, and remind us of the reunion which is coming. page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 138 AZILE. We paused under an evergreen, andc stood silent. The sun burst from beneath a 3assing cloud; and a little bird, overhead, sent forth a flood of melody upon the air. As the bird ceased its song, Eugene said: "Azile, I am going home next month-will you go with me? May I write to my mother to make -room in her heart for a daughter?" Suddenly I felt a sharp pang, such as had passed through my heart when I thought I saw his wife amidst the Saxon Alps--nay, sharper, deeper-the faintness of death passed over me. I could not speak. "Azile," he cried, "what is the matter? Why do you not answer me?" Through my scarcely-op ened lips words almost inaudible came forth--came forth, X ot as if by my own will, but by some powerful compulsion. "I cannot, Eugene--I cannot go with you." "Then," he said, "you have determined. It is not Eve, but Azrael." I tried to smile. "O1 no," I rejoined, "there is much life and promise before yeu." "None," he replied, "none! If you knew the history of my inner life, you cotld not say so. If you kntew how the thought of you, like a continual presence, has been around me from my boyhood; how I have seen you in every walk of our greenwood, how every murmur of the lake, and every breath of the flowers, has spoken to me of you; if you knew -how I met you, only to find this dream realized, and more than realized; to recognize, for the first AZILE. 139 I time, the soul with whom my own was placed in perfect sympathy, you could not bid me look to other hopes and aspirations. No, there is nothing farther! And happiness seemed so near!" "Perhaps, Eugene, the fulfillment of your wishes would not bring the expected happiness. You know what I think of unequal matches." "'Unequal!" he said; "how, unequal?" I answered: "In fortune." "Azile," he rejoined, very earnestly, "do you intend to let your pride separate us?" I never could argue with him. There was that about him which was irresistible. I merely exclaimed, in great distress: "O Eugene, why did you mention the future at all? Why not let us enjoy this one month, without looking at that which is to come?" Hie paused a moment, and then the pain passed from his face, as the cloud had passed from the sun. He looked down upon me, with a world of love in his eyes, and he spoke gently, as one might speak to a child: "Very well, dear Azile; let it be as you wish! Only let me see you every day, walk with you, talk with you, stand beside you when ,you draw as I have done, and we will say nothing of the future." page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O' AZILE. CHIAPTER XXVIII. ONE morning I received a note from Lucy, asking me to come immediately to her room, as there was some one there who wished to see me. I put on my hat and mantle, and hastened along, with that pleasant curiosity which one feels when one knows that something is going to happen, yet cannot conjecture as to its nature. Having arrived at the hotel, I ascended the stairs, and tapped at the door of Lucy's sitting-room. My heart flut- tered a little for a moment; then the door was opened, and I saw, sitting beside the stove, and holding her hands up, as if to warm them, a lady entirely unknown to me. Her complexion was fair, her nose pointed, yet slightly retrousse; her lips thin, and expressive of determination. Her hair was arranged in bunches of short curls on each side of her face. Lucy introduced her as Madame Wohlenstein, the prin- cipal of a large female school in Dresden. The lady untied her bonnet, as if she intended to take it off; then pulled her gloves more firmly on her hands- but- toned them at the wrist, held her hands again- to the stove as if to warm them, but all without any air of embarrass- ment, and turning to me, said: Ig- . AZILE. 141 i! "Miss Damaron, your friend here, Miss Grey, thinks alj your accomplishments are such as would fit you for the position of teacher of English in our school-do you think -you could venture to undertake it?" ?: answered: "I presume, Madame, that I can teach X, English as well as I can teach any thing." "I do not know that," she said, taking off her gloves, ,gi and twining her curls around her first finger, "I do not know that; Americans do not usually speak very pure English." Her own knowledge of English did not extend beyond a dozen words. I merely smiled without replying. "Are you quite sure," she rejoined, "that your accent is not provincial?" "Not at all sure," I answered, " since I have always lived in Louisiana, and my language must, in some respects, I suppose, differ from that of Washington City, or New York, whichever you may consider the purest type of American English." "The true type, of course, is at Washington City, where oyour court is, and where the English minister resides." "I have never," I said, "had the advantage of a resi- dence at our court, or -near the English minister-once only, I spoke with the President, Mr. Buchanan, though I cannot positively assert that that made any essential improvement in my accent or mode of speech." "Well, you can come, if you are disposed, and make the trial. Your duties will be quite light. I wish you to page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 AZILE. teach two classes in English, which will consume but two hours in the day. Besides that, there is really nothing for you to do-there may be a mere nominal supervision of the pupils, but nothing more. With that, of course, you could not expect a high salary. Your board and one hundred thalers a year is as much as we can give to a teacher for that position." My ideas of business were not very well defined, but the salary seemed small, and Lucy ventured to say: "Why, Madame Wohlenstein, that would scarcely pur- chase gloves and shoes for Miss Damaron." "Pardon me, Miss Grey," she replied; "'a teacher must learn to be economical ; and then the duties of the place amount to so little." "Yes," I answered, "that must be taken into considera- tion, Lucy; two hours make but a small portion of the day. So little work could not be expected to command a large salary. In the meantime, I shall be enabled to continue my painting and German." "That is true," Lucy replied; " and besides, your board will be paid, and you will have a comfortable room, instead of the atelier and the sofa, Azile." I had been thinking of the atelier and the sofa all the while, of the, paintings around the room--no, let me be candid-of one painting, of the happy days since I had first seen it. I had told Eugene that I could not go with him to America; I was entirely sincere in my determina- tion; yet I shrunk from making an engagement that would deprive me of the power of going. I felt this weakness, L AZILE. 143 and to chastise myself, I hastily consented to Madame Wohlenstein's proposition. "You may come to-morrow then," the lady said, examin- ing the various articles on the etagere as she spoke. When she had left, Lucy said: "Do you think you will be happy with her, Azile?" "Yes," I replied, "it is the best thing for me. I have now finished the paintings ordered by the English lady, and have nothing else to engage me. I shall by the present arrangement, at least, accomplish the object for which I came to Germany," "You are right, Azile, and upon the whole, I think it will be exceedingly pleasant." "What will be exceedingly pleasant?" said Charles, as he walked into the room, with his father and Eugene Beauvais. "An engagement that Azile has just entered into with Madame Wohlenstein, to teach English in her school." "And I will bet my repeater to that ribbon around your neck," said Charles, "that she has let Madame Wohlenstein cheat her." Lucy answered in rather a subdued tone: "The salary ,is not very large." "What is it?"Charles said; "come, let us hear what it is." "One hundred thalers," Lucy replied. "What!" he rejoined,'" one hundred thalers a month?" "No," she answered, "a year." page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 AZILE.! Charles burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. Vhen he had a little recovered, he exclaimed: "Well! that is the finest Yankee trick I have heard of! A magnificent salary-would you not say so, father? A very gratifying compliment to the talents of Miss Azile, Damaron." - "I cannot say, my son," replied his father, "that the salary is a good one; but perhaps the duties are light." "Yes," I said, "I have only to teach English two hours a day." "You trust to that!" replied Charles. "I tell you she will keep you at work from morning till- night. What do you say, Beauvais?" Eugene, who had looked very grave from the time they had entered, now said: "If you wish my opinion, Charles, I must say that I think the whole arrangement very ill- judged." Lucy was really distressed, and said: "Oh, I am sorry now, Azile, that we made it." Her father said: "Young ladies, daughter, who spend their time amidst poetry, and novels, and painting, seldom know much about real life." Lucy answered: "But, papa, neither Azile nor I read half-a-dozen novels in a year." He replied: "My daughter, I never read but one novel in my life-that was 'Paul and Virginia;' and that so disgusted me, that I immediately went off and bought Hume's History of England." AZILE. 145 :;i ",But, papa," she said, "you will not also turn against Azile and me?" "No, my daughter," he replied, putting his arm around her, and kissing her brow, "you and Azile are both clever, excellent girls; and either of you will no doubt do more j good in the world than both of these boys put together." h I 8 * ^- g'O page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 AZILE. CHAPTER XXIX. WHEN I arose to leave, Charles took his hat to accom- pany me; but Eugene, who had spoken little during the morning, said: "I will go with Miss Damaron, Charles." Charles turned, as if to make some laughing reply, but suddenly became serious, and said: "As you like, Eugene." We walked along the street for some time, in silence. At- length, we came to one of those shaded alleys that are com- mon in Dresden, when Eugene said: :'Azile, you have made no absolute engagement with that lady, have you?" I answered: "I so consider it." "And for what length of time?" "A year." "A year?" "Yes, the engagement is made for a year." "Azile, are you serious? You know I leave here in a few weeks, and if you are capable of trifling, I have misun- derstood your character." "No, I do not trifle. You forget, however, it was a part AZILE. 147 of our compact that no mention should be made of the future." "That is impossible. The future grows so essentially out of the-present that they cannot be separated." "Well, Eugene, if you will frighten the halcyon from the. waves, I will venture to remind you of what I have already said to you of unequal matches." "And permit me to remind you of what I told you then- that th ought had its origin in a morbid nature." "That may be; nevertheless, the majority of unequal matches in the world would, I presume, justify the thought." "Azile," he said, in a very soft voice, but in the tone of one who had almost the right to command, " it is useless to play about the subject. Admitting, for the sake of argu- ment, that there is inequality, will you not brave the conse- quences by marrying me?" "Never!" I spoke in anger, for I was offended by hiis tone, but the word "never!" fell back upon my heart with a dull, heavy sound, like the reverberations through the cqve of an ancient priestess, when her doom, determined by a god, is pronounced with her own lips. "I thank you," he replied, "for your candor, though it comes late." I might have reminded him that I had said, virtually, the same thing several weeks before, but I was too much wounded and grieved to speak. I drew my mantle around me and walked on in silence. When we reached the door of Mr. Shultz's house, he i page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 AZILE. touched his hat, and said ," Good-morning!' I bowed, without being able to speak. O, how often since, as I have sat alone-all alone in the world-have I heard upon the pavement the ringing sound of the rapid footsteps which bore him from ue'. [ t \ - - - j AZILE. - 149 D e' CHAPTER XXX. I AsCENDED the stairs. As- I entered the dining-room, where Madame Shultz sat at her work, she arose, and taking my hand, from which I had just drawn the, glove, how cold your hand is! It must be colder out-of-doors tian I had supposed." "Yes," I answered, carelessly, "it is quite chilly." is, "Fortunately, she replied, "I thave some nice hot soup, which is ready to be served, for it is already our dinner- The soup was put upon the table. We took our places. The mind of Mr. Shultz was engrossed with a painting which he had justcommenced. Mrs. Shultz could not Ylaughed, and replied: "You judge-from my appetite, I suppose." cNomln she answered; i aem glad yoe seem to lie i th page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 .. a- soup. But there is a burning spot upon each check, and the rest of your face is excessively pale." Mr. Shultz looked up a moment, and observed: '"That is the effect of coming from the cold air into a warm room." Tihe dinner over, I took some sewing, and sat down with Madame Shultz. I spoke to her of indifferent things. The color passed from my cheeks, the feverishness from my system, and my heart felt as if a heavy stone were upon it, paiing it every instant. It seemed that there was nothing for the remainder of my life but for me to sit stil and endure. The heavy hours wore on; the time came for our even- ing meal; but my appetite was quite gone then. Madame Shultz said, with anxiety: "Miss Damaron, I am sure you are ill." I answered: "No, I am not ill-only disquieted. I am trying to gather courage to tell you that I must leave you to-morrow." "Leave us to-morrow!" they both exclaimed at once. "Yes, I must go. I shall never be so happy, I am sure, as I have been with you; but it is necessary for me to do something, and the situation which I have procured will suit me very well." These good people, though appearing extremely sorry to part from me, were unselfish enough to rejoice in what seemed to them my good fortune. I was glad when the hour came for me to retire. When alone, I commenced packing my trunk. It looked to me AZuhLti. - 101 like a coffin; and as I placed each article smoothly in it, I felt as if the joys of the past all lay there enshrouded. When all was finished, I extinguished my lamp, and sat down beside the window. I remembered how I had sat there the first night that I had occupied the room; I remembered the blissful feeling with which my soul had gone forth into the moonlight; I remembered the supreme contentedness of that hour; and I remembered that then, for the first time, I had seen a copy of that face. My lot seemed hard, very hard. I laid my head upon my arms, as they rested on the window-sill. Gradually a tear gathered in my eyes, and fell upon my cheeks; then another, and another; and ever faster they flowed, until I wept as if the very fountains of the great deep of my heart had been broken up. I murmured to myself: "O that I might weep my life away-that my whole existence might dissolve in tears!" But we are not thus easily disengaged from life and its cares. When I was exhausted, I slept. The morning I found me weary and quiet. The dark eyes looked out from the portrait upon me, as if they looked across a great ocean which separated us. I went in to take my last cup of coffee with Madame Shultz. I was hoarse, and she said: "You have taken cold." But I had no cold. Mr. Shultz ordered a drosky for me: my trunk was taken down, and my hat-box. I was at the front door with i the two kind Germans. All was ready for my departure. Suddenly I said: "Excuse me; wait a moment." I ran to ;i" if } page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 AZILE. the atelier, and stood one instant to look at the portrait; then I turned, and went forth again, alone, into the bleak world. Madame Shultz wept when I left, but I could not weep. I pressed her hand, and stepped into the drosky. As we drove along the street, the gustful wind blew the yellow leaves into the carriage. They fell upon my dress and mantle. AZILE. 153 CHAPTER XXXI. MADAME WOHLENSTEIN lived in the Ville-neuf, across the river from Dresden. As we passed over the bridge, I thought I had never seen the waters look so cheerless, overhung as they were by a leaden sky. It made one shiver to look at the little wooden bathing-houses, floating in the stream. As gloomy, however, as every thing seemed out-of-doors, I was sorry when I arrived at my place of destination. I would have driven- on all day alone, quiet, unhopeful, amidst the falling leaves of autumn. The husband ofMadame Wohlenstein met me at the door. He was like so many other people, that it is useless to describe him. He attended to my baggage, while I walked up stairs, and at the head of the steps met his wife, She welcomed me most graciously, while, with a rapid glance of her rather large dark eyes, she seemed to look quite through me. She led me into the parlor, adjusting her cuff as she went. A moment after I was seated, she rang the bell; and a stupid-looking servant appeared, of whom she inquired if my room was ready. The servant did not know, and was sent to see. page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 AZILE. As the girl left the room, Madame Wohlenstei com- menced arranging some books on a small table, at the same time saying to me: "You will take charge of a couple of young ladies in your room, Miss Damaron; it will be pleasant to you to have company." I bowed. Some one came to the door for her. She left the room. I sat in the parlor alone, wondering if I should be nearer to any of the inmates of that house at the end of the year. A brown-eyed German girl, with an open, friendly face, came into the room. She walked up to me, and said: Are you going tolive here?" 1 " I answered "I suppose so; for time, at least." She replied: "I am glad of it, because you look as if you would not scold; but you will grow very tired of this place." "Do you think so?" 'a :?^ Tkm:^ I a fraid Madame will "Yes; but I must go, because I am afraid Madame will come." "And if she come-what?" "I do-not know what; it is not positively against rule to come into the parlor, but we never come; and I am afraid of her, but I do not know of what in her I am afraid." So the little thing glided from the room. Just in time she made her escape, for Madame Wohlenstein came in Immediately after. She said to me: "Yo u room is now ready. This servant will show you the way to it. ou cn lay aside your hat and wrappings, and I ll wait here I AZILE. 155 to conduct you to the room, where I wish you to remain with lthe pupils, while our French teacher gives his lesson." In a few minutes I was on the threshold of my duties, standing at the door of the room where the French teacher was engaged with his class. I am, by nature, shy of strangers, and I shrunk from coming into the presence even of this class of girls; but they all looked up with such genial faces, that I lost my timidity, and went forward. The teacher bowed; I took my seat; Madame Wohlenstein left the room; and the lesson proceeded. While the pupils were lost in the intricacies of French verbs, I was thinking how strange my life had beeni. Nurtured so tenderly at home during my earlier years, I had been suddenly thrown out upon the world of which I know so little, and left to be sustained by my own efforts. I was like a feeble eaglet, forced from its warm nest into the regions of thin, cold air: its wings are too weak to support it, and every moment it finds itself sinking nearer to the earth. The signal came for the change of classes. Then came my hour for instruction in English. That was succeeded by another hour of English to a younger class, after which I hoped to find a few moments' solitude in my own room; but as soon as my instruction in English was finished, I was expected to take my position in the room where the drawing- master was giving his lesson. In fine, I discovered that no moment of the day would be at my own disposal; for even after the regular hours of the school were over, my presence with the pupils was thought necessary, and not until nine o'clock at night were my duties of supervision ended. Then, page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 AZILE. I retired to my room, with the two pupils who had been assigned me as room-mates. How I longed to be alone with my sorrow! Life never had been to me so utterly dreary. Instead of grappling vith the dark Fate before me, and overcoming or being overcome at once, I was obliged to expend my strength in bringing myself under the constraint that is imposed by the eye of others. The two good, heavy girls were very kind in their proffers of assistance, and I felt that I ought to be grateful. I kneeled at my bedside, and without opening my lips, prayed silently and earnestly to God. Then only did I feel the blessed relief of being alone-alone with that Being who understood all my sorrows and comprehended all my motives. AZILE. 157 CHAPTER XXXII. ONE day at this school was so like another that it was almost impossible to tell them apart. From seven o'clock in the morning until nine at night, I was never alone, and never free. If the pupils found my supervision irksome, it was no less so to me. The house would have had the monotony of a prison, but for that joyous spirit of girl- hood which bursts through all restraints,and makes the saddest heart bright with reflected sunshine. I was disappointed in my hope of improving much in German, for the pupils were forbidden to speak to me, except in English, that all my conversation with them might be a protracted lesson. Madame Wohlenstein frequently said kind and flattering things to her teachers; but occasionally she indulged in remarks that obliterated all the pleasant impression pre- viously made. This caused a sense of alienation between her and them, and but little home-feeling seemed to exist in the establishment. She was emphatically "monarch of all she surveyed." She often spoke in a confidential tone; yet she really never made a confidant of any one. She informed herself of every thing that was passing in her house; and "1 page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 AZILE. when she 'found that a teacher did not answer her purpose, she always managed to dismiss him or her with the blandest she. 61"S ^ manage I::ratitude to the ey smile; and it almost brought tears of gand,ratitude to the eyes of the dismissed, to feel the gentle pressure of er hand, witness the graciouness of her final conge. Her character might have intereste me had I not been so much preaccupied. Sometimes I was made to feel how selfiAsh this predcupation was, when the little girls would gather around me, and arrange y h ir in mny f antastic forms, decorating it with evergreens, ad sometimes with a chance flower of autumn. Then I would arouse myself, and strive to find happiness in making others happy but the efforts were spasmodic, and I always fell back to that dreary state in which the soul feels as if it had n future. founI One morning ta gleam of sunshine fell upon me. foun on my plate, at breakfast, a letter from apirro. It was gladsome as usual, but it told me that Lincoln was certainl elected President of the United States, and tat fears we becoming very prevalent that the Inion would be dissolve Spirro did not seem at all despondent, however, in cone: plation of such an event. The information did not make my spirits more buoya I grew nervous and restless to an intolerable degree. became impatient of the misery that pressed upon me, felt as if I must be rid of it, I knew not how. At length the day arrived that had been appointed ugens departure. I looked at the clock in the every fifteen minutes, until I knew the last train had AZILE. 159 Then I said: "Now he is gone, and I can be more quiet." I . But it was not so; on the contrary, I grew more restless; and as night came on, I felt as if I must walk forth into the fresh air, or I should die. The hours moved heavily. b sHow leaden-footed they were! Half-past nine o'clock came. -All the inmates of the house slept-all, but myself. I could not sleep; I could not bring myself to prepare for bed; I could not, no, I could not remain in the house. I threw my cloak around me, and a scarf over my head. I knew that ladies walked as late even as that, alone, in Dresden. I went down stairs, not stealthily, for I was too unhappy to care for what others thought. I unlocked the front door, then closed it after me as I stepped upon the pavement. I walked on, unquestioned and unnoticed. The Briihl Terrace was still lighted, and numbers of persons were on it, as cold as the weather was. I passed it, and proceeded down between the Catholic Church and the Royal Palace. I wandered on, I knew not and cared not whither. At last, I was startled by finding myself alone in an unfrequented street. A single person was approaching. I feared to go forward, and was equally afraid to turn back. I turned, however, and walked rapidly; but the steps behind me approached more nearly. I would have run, but was afraid to do so. My heart and every pulse in my body was beating with the violence of alarm. The person was in the act of passing me, when he exclaimed: "Azile, Miss Damaron, is that you?" I could never mistake that voice. I turned, and with as page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] ! :? 160 AZILE. :i: much calmness as I could assume, said: "Good-evening sMr. Beauvais." "Are you alone?" he inquired. :,Or * I replied: "Yes." "That should not be," he said; "I will go home witl ,2 you. I answered: "I thank you, sir; but that is unnecessary I am not at all afraid." He heard me, but without replying to me, said: "Yot ffi - will please take my arm, that I may assist you." I took it-that inexplicable power controlling me. After 1 - a moment, I said: "I thought you had left Dresden." ,! "No," he replied; "I havie been delayed; now, however - my arrangements are completed, or so nearly so, that ] leave at three o'clock in the morning. Will you do me the favor of saying to Mr. Grey, that the article which I wam to have copied for him will be sent to him from London' I commenced copying it to-night; but finding myself toe restless to proceed, or to do any thing, had started forth t( take a last ramble about Dresden." :! I answered: "I will let him know." We spoke no more, until we arrived at the Brfihl Ter race. He commenced ascending the steps. I then said "My way is over the bridge." He answered quietly: "Yes, I know;" but continued ur the steps. When on the terrace, he led me to the railing l where we had the most beautiful view of the river flowing below, of the hills beyond, and the white country-houses scattered here and there, peaceful in the moonlight. 1 d .AZILE. We stood some minutes looking upon the lovely land- I:i! scape. Then we turned, as silent as we came; and passing ll-vt ree oandpassing - X: over the bridge, were soon at the door of Madame Wohlen- stein's. He took my hand, raised it to his lips, and turning, walked away slowly, without speaking a word. I 'i:" tsi! i esW. "iX page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 AdAZILE. CHAPTER XXXIII. THEn next morning I lay in my bed half awake, wonder- ing if my ramble of the night before had bee n a reality or a dream. The rising-bell sounded; and as I sprang up, my feet came in contact with the cold, polished floor. This brought me to full consciousness, and my recollection of the evening before was too vivid to allow a doubt of its reality. UJpon a chair, too, lay the cloak and scarf that I alid w orn. Always at the dead point in one's existence, additional life-force is thrown upon the machinery. We may some times almost despair of this, when we feel the hee moving so very tardily; but we may be sure that th hidden fly-wheel is somewhere gathering the motive power. Yesterday, I felt as if mly nature was exhausted-I coul do no more, I could suffer no more. To-day, I was n nearer to Eugene than I had been, I never could be an nearer; physically, I was farther off; yet the gloom w1 'measurably dissipated, and life was no longer intolerable. ly duties during the day followed each other in suW i quick succession, that it was impossible to reflect; but AZILE. 163 ! tlthe evening, Madame Wohlenstein announced her intention of taking one division of her pupils to the theater. For- tunately, it was the division of which I had charge. She excused my attendance, and I was left in my room alone. I there sat down and began to think over the curious adventure of the last evening. It seemed unaccountable, and to have happened without reason, as things happen in a dream. I had never before walked out alone at night. This tirme I had done so, one may say, without motive, impelled only by an irresistible inquietude. I had taken the road which I had pursued, without any object, without noticing even where I was going. That I should have met Eugene there, at that hour, when there were numberless other streets in which he might have walked, or in which I might have walked, appeared very strange. I could not i lunderstand the philosophy of it, if there were any philoso- phy in it. Was it one of those casualties in life which seem to have no explanation? I remembered that he had said he was too restless to write, or to do any thing but walk abroad. Were we obeying a law which neither of us comprehended or acknowledged? Were his soul and mine seeking relief without making even consciousness a con- fidant? It is said that "the lion is led by a chain of sunshine "-can it be that at such moments the soul is led by a chain still more subtile-altogether invisible? I now called up a dim recollection of a similar incident in the life of Goethe. He is in love with some lady. One evening he returns to the city too late to call upon her. lHe cannot, however, remain at home. He starts forth, page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 AZILE. with an indefinite feeling that he may meet her somewhere; and though it was late at night, this very improbable presentiment was fulfilled. In some remote part of the city he met her, wandering, also, if I remember ,aright, with the vague impression that she might meet him. He refers it to -mesmeric influence. The cases were almost precisely similar, only I supposed Eugene gone, and he could hardly have thought it possible that he should meet me. There are certainly some mysterious laws controlling the mind, of which I have as yet seen no explanation, or attempt at explanation. Mutual attractions and repulsions come, in some way, under these laws. The soul seems, at times, to ascend to her upper chamber, where she deals in hidden sciences; and when she comes forth, she locks the door behind her, that none may penetrate therein. She seeks her own highest good in her own way, and keeps her counsel. She confers not with flesh and blood. She pursues her own solitary road to reach the crowning point of her wishes, without the exercise of consciousness or of will as directed to that point. Another incident, which seems to have some relation to these hidden laws, came to mind. A lady, who lived in the suburbs of a village, designed one evening taking a stroll in the -woods. In looking for her gloves, preparatory to starting, she found several pieces of money in a box. These she took up, and kept in her hand, without any object. They were troublesome in the hand; and could be of no use in a walk through the woods; yet she kept them, AZILE. 165 she knew not why. While walking, however, she changed her first intention, and determined toreturn through the village. As she passed down one of the streets, an od man, in clean but very coarse clothes, sat beide the way I He looked up appealingly, without speaking a word. She dropped the money into his hand; and his exclama- tions of gratitude taught her that the money had reached its destination. In the life of Bishop Bascoe, it is related that while sittilg under a tree one evening, reading, a spirit of restless- ness and vague alarm came over him. He arose, and walked to the house. A few minutes afterward his host, returning from the woods, shot a panther in the tree under . which he had sat . ? These things may be called providential---so are all things; but God , in his providence, usually leads us to I duty or to happiness, by some tangible motive placed before s. iHere he seems to depart from that law, and the 1soul walks in a state of somnambulism. I arose, and went to the window. I looked down upon the path over which we had passed the night before. It hurrying across the sky. I sighed to myself: "Where is his journey. H e must be somewhere between Weimer and i Frankfort. How delightful it would be to ramble with him over those places, to hear him talkof Goethe, and Schiller, a nd -I erder! But our paths now lie in such different direc. A t ions-- yet, not altogetherso, either. The outw ard c ircum ctkd cir:um., ** .1 ' IJ page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 AZILE. stances in which we move will be very different, but our souls will tread the same path. He has awAened me to a higher being; and perhaps, at some far-off time, in that Vision City-the City of the Blest--I may meet hi, as I met him last night in the streets of Dresden." - AZILE. 167 CHAPTER XXXIV. - - MANY days passed-days so like one another, that they reminded you of a flock of sheep passing before you, when there is nothing to identify them, but each seems a repeti- tion of that which preceded it. The same sound of the rising-bell in the morning, the same chilly room to dress in, :, the same breakfast of coffee and crescent-shaped bread, the same washing of the tableware by the pupils-for this was 'd a part of their scholastic duties-the same drawing-lesson, i the same French, the same ,English, the same analysis of poetry, the same every thing; and everywhere, and at all times, some of the pupils, at least, were to be kept under 1 my immediate inspection. If they had known how often my eye rested upon them without seeing them, how the sound of their words entered my ear without conveying any P! sense to my mind, they, no doubt, would have taken ad- i: vantage of it; and perhaps they did, for the perception I of school-girls is very quick. When my attention was aroused, I listened to their girlish prattle with a smile often, when they, I am sure, expected a frown; for the freshness of a young girl's feeling, and the brightness of her anticipa- i tions, always awaken my sympathy. I feel that I am doing good in "letting her alone." * ! page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 AZILE. The playfulness of the girls produced ripples upon the surface only of my heart: its depths were dark and silent, as I imagine the depths of the sea. The past came before me like a strain of melody that had suddenly ended in dis- cords; the future-I dared not think of it! Sometimes it seemed to me that I had rejected happiness for a mere shadowy caprice. Then I said: "No, it was not a caprice. I have been poor enough to learn how much weight riches have in the world. There was nothing that I possessed which could have been a counterpoise to his fortune. His family might have felt that they had a right to expect him to form a more brilliant alliance. I should have felt that his generosity had made him bestow every thing upon me, while I could do nothing for him-nothing but devote my life to him, and that any woman would do who had the happiness to be loved by him-the wealthiest, the most beautiful, the most accomplished, would do it equally with myself. No, no; my very love for him would have made me feel more sensitively the sacrifice which his generosity had made for me. He will forget me, I hope-no, let me not act the hypocrite with myself; I do not hope so; I do not know what I hope-alas! I hope nothing." So my heart went on, growing colder, like the winter. One day, I had an opportunity to walk alone. It was Madame's birth-day, and we had a half-holiday. I rambled far from the city, out among the trees; but they were bare, and the winds seemed singing a dirge through them. There was snow upon the ground-just enough to make the scene more dreary, for here and there were patches of the bare AZILE. earth. My walk was so long that I was almost benumbed with the cold. I moved more rapidly, to try and create some warmth in my system; but I felt as if particles of ice were creeping sluggishly along my veins. I never had been so glad to see Madame Wohlenstein's door. I ran upstairs, and into the parlor to warm. One of the girls came to tell me that, in my absence, a lady had called to see me, and had left a note for me. It had been put among the presents on the table that had been sent in honor of Madame's birth-day. After a little search, we found it. It was from Lucy Grey, and ran thus: "DEAR AZILE :-I am disappointed and provoked at not finding you at home. We have papers from America. South Carolina is out of the Union-are you glad or sorry? Papa says we must leave for home. Do come around very soon, or I may miss seeing you altogether. "Ever your friend, LUCY." This note was more efficacious than the German stove in warming me. The blood ran briskly through my veins. I was thrown into a new state of feeling, and could not quite determine my standing. I could not have answered Lucy's question: "Are you glad or sorry?"The disruption of our old Union created a half regret, through which was burst- ing up an almost unacknowledged joy, caused by the fitness of the thing. There seemed to be good philosophy in it. It appeared natural and right that we should be separate, and that we of the South should have a national character- and a government of our own. --r I II page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170 AZILEo I felt as if I must see Lucy immediately; so, without' taking off my hat, I ran to Madame's room, and asked her to excuse me for the evening. She was in an unusually gracious humor, and, rather to my surprise, granted my request without demur. I was no longer cold! I hastened along the snowy path, and over the bridge, then down the narrow sidewalk, some- times running against others, and sometimes pushed'off quite into the street myself, without being disturbed in my onward movement. - I entered the hall-door at the hotel, passed through a parterre of flowers; ascended the stairs, and tapped at Lucy's door. At the instant it was opened by her own hand. She said: "I knew your step and your knock. Comein! You must be cold." ' No," I replied, "I have been chilled to death, but your note has put me into a glow." "What do you think of it?" she asked. "I do not know. It seems a pity that our great Union should be destroyed; but, Lucy, to be quite candid, I be- lieve that deep down in my heart a little spring of joy is bubbling up." So I feel,' responded Lucy. "Perhaps I ought to be sorry, but I cannot; and yet, it would be dreadful, Azile, if it should involve us in a war." "But why should it involve us in a war, Lucy? I suppose we have not taken our Yankee friends for better, for worse. A State has the right to secede, if it choose, I suppose." AZILE. 171 "I believe there are two opinions upon that subject, Miss Azile," said the voice of Mr. Grey, from the next room. -He and Charles came into the room. ("But, papa," said Lucy, "do you not think the Southern : States have a right to secede?" "Oh yes, my daughter, I think so; I am a States' rights man. But the North, in this case, will certainly take the I opposite side of the argument; and I very much fear that I she will force a war upon us." ; "Well," I rejoined, "she will remember that we dare die for our rights." "Yes," said Charles, "but we will manage to kill a few of them first. If they force a war upon us; we will pitch i into them like fury, and before the matter is ended we shall [ give them some new ideas upon the subject of States' rights." A knock at the door interrupted us. Mr. Oglevie entered. As he came, he exclaimed: "Farewell to the land of Goethe I and Schiller? Every true Southerner must now hasten " home. I have just been reading Faust, as an adieu to -a Germany." ii: Charles replied: "Well, Qglevie, if we do not have Faust ! in America, we shall doubtless manage to raise his com- panion before this universal confusion is over." I remarked: "Goethe and Schiller, I believe, are con- j sidered the greatest German authors; but I must confess : that I see Germany through the brilliant mantle of ima- jj gination which Jean Paul has thrown over it." ii Charles sprang up, ran across the room, and shook my , * ]^ page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 AZILE. hand. "Azile," he cried, "you are a girl after my own heart. Jean Paul is emphatically 'the Only.' Goethe was certainly an old heathen, believing in the old heathens' i gods, and fancying himself to be one of them. The only impression that his masterpiece, Faust, left upon me was, an indefinite idea of a big, black dog running about. But, i Oglevie, when will you be ready to start? We must get home, now, as soon as possible." "I am ready at any time," replied Mr. Oglevie. "True, we must hasten. One might stand a chance of being Presi- dent of the South." "All, Mr. Robert Oglevie," said Charles, "in one respect you are likt the Patriarch Jacob, at Bethel, always dream- ing of a ladder." Mr. Oglevie said, in a low voice: "Would I had reached its topmost round!" and looked at Lucy. She blushed. No doubt the round which Cupid had twined with roses seemed to him at that moment the topmost. That reached, will he not find others above it? Charles, without hearing him, said to me: "Azile, I wish you were going with us. Do you intend to remain here, while we are turning the world upside down on the other side of the Atlantic? Do go over with us." "Would that I could, Charles!"I answered; " but you know my engagement with Madame Wohlenstein forbids it." "Confound all such engagements!" he said; and then, coming near to me, added, in a whisper: "Why did you not make an engagement with Eugene, Azile?" AZILE. 173 I answered: "I thought it better to wait until he had proposed it." "Bah! I know he did propose it." t "Who told you?" "Nobody; but I know he loved you-every action showed it. And then, after you went to Madam Wohlen- stein's, he was as gloomy and abstracted as if he intended :, to run for the lunatic asylum. I think you were a great goose, begging your pardon, not to accept him. I cannot i think to what you are looking, except it be to an alliance ! with Prince George; perhaps that is the reason you are i: staying in Dresden?" : "Perhaps." ' ' "What shall I tell Eugene?" - I will not trouble you with messages." ,i; Ii M page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 AZILE. CHAPTER XXXV. CHARLES accompanied me home. He would talk of nothing but Eugene, and I was too well pleased in listening. He told me one incident which interested me very much. He said that one evening, when he was with Eugene, a young boy, who occasionally waited about the room, came in. He was in great distress, and begged Eugene to go with him to his mother's house, saying that his sister's child was dying. They both went with him into a lonely street, and, after stumbling up various flights of stairs, they came, at length, at the very top of a large house, to a miserable little room, lighted by the feeblest lamp. A rickety table was in one corner, a broken chair in another, and a kind of chest served as a second seat. In the midst of a very mean bed, an angel was sitting, dressed in silver tissue. Her gauze wings were still flutter- ing from her shoulders; her fair curls shaded her youthful face; and the tears were running down her painted cheeks, and falling upon the face of a dying babe that lay upon her lap. The poor thing was a ballet-dancer, who had just come from the theater, where she was earning the means of prolong- AZILE. 175 ing a sorrowful existence by ministering to the amusement of others. She had come just in time to see her child die. Charles did not fail to expatiate upon the promptitude of Eugene in sending for a physician, and upon his kind- ness in relieving the family and placing them in more comfortable circumstances. He said it was amusing to see, afterward, the gratitude of the boy, who seemed never to tire of waiting upon Eugene. The tears were in my eyes, but Charles could not see them; and when he had finished, I said: "Yes, I have no doubt your friend is noble and gene- rous; but is not his temper a little imperious sometimes, Charles?" I "Well, I don't know. There is something about him ' which makes people afraid to offend him-he seems born to control others; but he is never ill-tempered, Azile, i never!" "Oh no, I suppose not." "'Oh no, I suppose not!' Pshaw! what is the use of such affectation of indifference? You know, Azile, you do not feel it. I want to give you a talk on that subject. Will i you spend to-morrow evening with Lucy? I will come ! for you if you will." "No, Charles, I cannot. I have to remain with the girls until it is time for them to retire." "And at what time do the plaguey things go to bed?" "That is not very gallant, Charles." "Well, Miss Damaron, at what hour do these fair crea- tures ,;ti " page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] 176 AZILE. ' go to rest, Like birds by slumber's honey-dew opprest?' Does that suit your taste better?'" "Oh, decidedly!" "Very well, then, I am coming for you soon; and I will bear you off in spite of Madame Wohlenstein and the whole inf--interesting conclave within there. Good- night!" AZILE. 1" CHAPTER XXXVI. A FEW days after my visit to Lucy, I had a long letter ;: from Spirro. It was filled with politics "frae end to end." He and two or three of his classmates had been to Charles-(a ton. When they were looking for news from the Presidential f election, he happened to be in the office of the Courier. Several gentlemen were present. The dispatch came. Lin- coln was certainly elected. A general shout arose: "Hurrah for the Southern Confederacy!" When I read that passage, a thrill ran through my veins. I could not sit still, but finished reading the letter walking backward and forward in the room. Yet Spirro says at the; close, that compromises will be offered by the South. Many i' cling fondly to a Union which has been so illustrious-to a i government that has been looked upon as a refuge to the ia oppressed. "The stars and stripes" he says, "are signs of incantation which bewitch the hearts of men. Senseless symbols that they have become, why should we respect them?" I could not exactly feel so. I remembered, when I crossed the ocean in an English ship, that, as we were approaching the British coast, and so many glad glances were greeting ; their native country, and I felt desolate in my strangeness,ji -:itl page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 AZILE. l I lifted my eyes and saw the stars and stripes floating above . our ship, along with the English colors. My heart warmed. - I loved that American flag, as if it had been a thing full . of life and feeling. And now, I cannot help looking half- If regretfully back to it; I cannot help rather hoping that the fi North, in a frank and generous spirit, may meet our offers of compromise with promptness and with open heart. Then , may we continue a great and prosperous nation. : When night came, and I had gone to bed, I could not ! sleep. I turned from side 'to side, constantly throwing off the little feather-bed which covered me, thinking of the I United States, wondering what would really be done there, knowing not what to pray for. The tariff had been a terri- ble black-mail upon us, there was no denying that. The North had never acted toward us nobly, or even justly: she had never ceased to worry us on the subject of our peculiar form of slavery; she had already established nullification by the "Personal Liberty Bills;" but for all that, the sha- dow of the stars and stripes fell upon my heart like a great : superstition, and I was paralyzed by it; so that I could not think. Spirro had said, in his letter: "Some men think if the Union is dissolved, no more cotton will grow in the . Southern States, the sugar-cane will dry up, the rice be = blasted, the grass all turn yellow, and we shall have no more red sunsets." At some moments I almost felt so myself; and then I said: "No, we have been too dependent upon the North. We have been like the children of Israel, when every-man took his ax, and his saw, and his plow- share, to the Gentiles, to be sharpened." ,AZIL E.. L1799 Sometimes I felt anxious for compromise, and then I felt as if it would be better at once to dissolve a Union where the chains that bound us were always clanking. Then the bare possibility of war was appalling. Eugene, would certainly go into the army; and whenever I thought, of this, a passage from "Vanity Fair " always came unbid- den to my mind: "And George lay on the field of battle-' dead, with a bullet through his heart." I could do nothing but pray that God would dispose of the whole matter in his ' own way, which is always the best. V I lay, hour after hour, wide awake. I could have arisen, lighted the lamp, and read till day; but it was too cold, and there I lay, thinking-thinking, the live-long night; and in : my beloved country great and terrible events were rolling on, without being at all affected by my thoughts. . ] if os page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] 180 AZILE. CHAPTER XXXVII. I NEVER have been so much oppressed as most persons are by a monotonous life; nevertheless, the constant recurrence, of the same duties, unmingled with sympathy or geniality, could not fail at length to have'a depressing influence upon my spirits. Charles, as he had promised, or threatened, came for me to spend an evening with Lucy, before they left. When he applied to Madame Wohlenstein for leave of absence for me, she, with a great deal of courtesy and blandness, regretted that my duties were so pressing that evening that it would be impossible to spare me, but assured him that it would give her great pleasure to let me go one day the next -week. Charles replied with equal blandness: "I am extremely obliged to you, Madame; but, unfortunately, next week we shall be gone." "That is unfortunate," she answered. "Yes, Madame," rejoined Charles, "I anticipate you: in view of that state of things, you consent that she shall go this evening-thank you!" and seeing a servant pass, he called to her and said: "Go to Miss Damaron's room, and AZILE. 181 tell her to put on her bonnet and cloak and come down-I am waiting for her." But Madame Wohlenstein was not to be so overreached. She said: "Pardon me, Mr. Grey, but you misapprehend me." "Very probably, Madame," Charles replied; " very probably, for I speak German abominably; but just speak to me in English, for you can do that to admira- tion. Nevertheless," he continued, "I think I quite under- stand you on the present occasion: you only wish to add that you expect Miss Danaaron home before twelve; and- it will give me great pleasure, I assure you, my dear Madame, to see that your wishes are fulfilled entirely to your satisfaction." For some reason, Madame opposed him no farther; and when I came down-stairs, I found her all smiles and suavity, hoping I might spend a very pleasant evening. UWhen we left the house, Charles burst into a laugh, and exclaimed: "Isn't -she a gentle old dragon?" "Charles," I replied, "you are losing your politeness since you came to Europe." "No, Azile," he said, "I never was polite, but you con- trast me now with Eugene, and that makes me appear more rude. It was only yesterday that Lucy was quite out of patience with me, because, when I was introduced to an American lady who was designated as 'Miss Sophonisba Johnson, dauglhter of the Rev. Dr. Johnson, author of Midnight Meditations,' I bowed with what I conceived to be elegant courtesy, and said: 'How are you, Miss Sopho- page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 AZILE. nisba Johnson, daughter of Dr. Johnson, author of Mid. night Meditations?' I thought it was the quintessence of politeness, but Lucy said it was rude; so you see I am rude without knowing it." During the evening, there was a constant disposition in my heart to be sad. It was the last time I should be with Lucy. I seemed to be in the position of which Mrs. Norton speaks, when she says we "Stand on the shore and weep for those Whom time's receding tide is bearing from us," Yet Charles would not give me time to think or feel. His gaiety was irrepressible. He spoke of the future prospects of the South with such certainty as to inspire even Lucy and myself with courage. The parting moment at length came. Lucy and Charles walked with me to Madame Wohlenstein's. As we said farewell, Lucy and I wept, but Charles said: "Come on, Lucy; I will tell Eugene, Azile, that I left you crying because you did not go to America with him. Against you return, we shall be another nation, and I will welcome you to the land of Panola with a band of music. Now good- bye, Azile," he said, running back and seizing both my hands; "be a good girl, cut old Madame Wohlenstein's throat some night, and then come home." So they went off, and I stood looking at them until I could see them no more. My heart was heavier than ever, as I walked up the steps. Every one was in bed; and AZILE. 183 shivering and stumbling through the dark, I went to my room. The next day, Madame Wohlenstein found fault, in rather a sharp spirit, with several things that I did; and I knew she was haunted by a remembrance of the night before. :i , *.,! - ' ' elIS * j,1.l!$ j page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] 184 AZILEo CHAPTER' XXXVIII. ABOUT a week after the departure of the Grey family, I was sent for to the parlor. When I reached the door, I started back with surprise; for there I saw my former fan- cied rival, Mrs. Lawton, the dark-eyed English woman. She came forward and greeted me with much cordiality, then introduced me to Mrs. De Vere. The latter proved to be the person for whom I had copied the paintings in the gallery. There was something in her expression and manner which .attracted me to her at once. Her countenance was gentle, and almost sad. Her eyes were blue and bright; her cheek tinged with a hectic hue; and although she looked young, the beautiful soft curls which shaded her face were white like silver. She had come to pay me for the last two paintings which I had done for her. She apologized for not having come before, saying she had been ill, and ended by putting one hundred thalers into my hand. I said: "I did not expect so much; I ought not to t take it." , She replied, with earnestness: "You will pain me if you do not. I felt that I ought tq have paid you more for the other." i. A ^ 1ilXX. - 185 I saw that what she said was true, and kept the money without making farther objection. I then expected them to leave, but Mrs. De Vere looked at Mrs. Lawton, who, after a little hesitation, said to me: "Miss Damaron, our business is not quite finished. Mrs. De Vere has two young daughters, for whom she wishes to procure a governess; and if you are willing to accept the situation, she thinks she can make it not disagreeable to fl you." - "Oh," I exclaimed hastily, "I should be too happy to do so; but unfortunately, my engagement here prevents." j Mrs. Lawton laughed, and said: "I know Madame Wohlenstein; and if you are willing to go, I think I can ' manage the matter with her." I assured her that I should be delighted. I loved the serene face of Mrs. De Vere. I felt as if it would be a rest i to my heart to be near her. Mrs. Lawton hastened to Madame Wohlenstein's room, and in fifteen minutes returned to say that she consented for me to leave, provided I demanded no pay for the time I had been with her. To this I acceeded the more readily, f as Mrs. De Vere had offered me a very liberal salary. In three days after this visit I had said farewell to Madame Wohlenstein and the members of her household. l Stepping into a carriage which Mrs. De Vere had sent for * me, I was soon rolling rapidly over the bridge that spans ? the Elbe. The Catholic church was a little to my right, looking like a great steam-boat stranded; beyond it was the - gray palace of the king, connected with it by a closed page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 AZILE. * gallery; and near by, the gallery of paintings, where I had j spent so many happy hours. Being winter, it was now ! closed; and even if it had not been, I had never had an hour of leisure to spend in it since I had been with Madame Wohlenstein. I looked up the river to my left. There was : the Bruhl Terrace. I could identify the very spot where I had stood with Eugene on that last memorable night, and C; had looked with him over that fair landscape. Farther along the river was the house of Mr. Shultz. I had been i there but once since I had left it. Then I went into the atelier, where I saw still the pictures of the Italian peasant and the English lady, but the other was gone. I now looked at the house through the cold rain that was darken- ing the atmosphere. What an influence my going to that house had had upon my destiny I How it had wreathed my heart with a garland of mingled thorns and flowers! The carriage passed on, and the house was lost to sight; but as I sank back amidst the luxurious cushions, and drew around me the warm, soft wrappings that Mrs. De Vere had supplied, I was still running over in my memory the hours I had spent there, when I slept in the little atelier, the pleasant walks to the picture-gallery, the long conversations with Eugene. Suddenly a field of battle, all in confusion, strewn with the dead and dying, passed before me. I was disturbed and shocked. I said to myself: "What could have brought up that uncalled-thought at such a moment?" Then I tried to satisfy myself by thinking that it was recent events at home, on which I had been pondering much of late, that had introduced this picture of conflict and AZILE. 187 bloodshed. No doubt this was the true solution of the problem; yet it troubled me, and I wished heartily that I were on my way back to America. The current of my thoughts was changed by the carriage stopping before a handsome house. I alighted, and found a servant at the door to conduct me at once to my room. As I ascended the carpeted stairs, every thing wore an air of comfort to which I had been a stranger for a long time. My room was large and light. The carpet which covered the floor was of a warm, brown ground, besprinkled with A, bunches of "heart's-ease." The windows were shaded by hangings of green, like the soft green of spring. On the white stove was a plaster statue, or rather, statuette-a per- sonification of the Morning-star. It was a female figure, I of such grace that she seemed almost to float in the air; a light drapery hung about her limbs, and a star was on her ! brow. I think the design was by Bartholomew. Upon an .j oval table of white marble was a well-known group, done in marble-the Cupid and Psyche, kissing. Psyche's hand rests tenderly upon the back of Cupid's head, amidst the M curls. In one corner of the room was a little book-case, filled with rare books. My bed, with its " comfort" of lilac satin ] and its green curtains, a handsome wardrobe, wash-stand, chairs, and sofa, completed the furniture. A little basket was suspended from the ceiling, and the green vines trailing from it added yet more to the cheerful aspect of the room. The servant came with warm and with cold water. She poured into the wash-bowl the warm water, mingled with page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 AZILE. the perfume of orange flowers. I bathed my hands and face in this, brushed my hair, and then, taking a seat by the warm stove, felt as if I had been transported there by some benevolent fairy. Scarcely was I seated, when some one tapped at the door. I opened it, and a bright face, with large, laughing black eyes, and jetty hair, presented itself. "I am Maud De Vere," said the little girl. "i Mamma says, will you come to her room?" As I was getting a pocket-handkerchief, the young girl stood beside me, looking at me with a kind of restrained curiosity. After a little while, she said: "You are coming to teach us, are you not, Miss?" "Yes, I came for that purpose." "I hope I shall like you." "I hope so too." "Yes, for if I do not, you will see a hard time, I can tell you. I used to tease our last governess nearly to death." And the merry creature burst into a laugh that was like the song of the mocking-bird. "And do you not think it wrong to tease others?" "Oh yes: I do very wrong sometimes; but the governess was such a crabbed old thing, she was always 'rowing' us up, and calling us 'cheeky,' so that we could not help teas- ing her. I can be persuaded to do any thing, but I cannot be driven." There was one fact to be noticed. AZILE. 180 CHAPTER XXXIX. I FOUND Mrs. De Vere lying upon a couch. She apolo- gized for not having welcomed me herself, but said she was not able, at present, to leave her room. She had taken cold the day she had come to see me, and had not been out since. Her hand, as it lay upon the couch beside her, looked almost transparent; her lips were like a carnation pink; her cheeks were flushed, and h eyes were unnaturally brilliant. She begged me to take a seat beside her, and said: "I hope you will be happy with us, Miss Damaron." "I feel that I shall be," I replied; " but I should be glad if you will call me Azile. 'Miss Damaron' places me at too great a distance from you." "Very well," she said, " it shall be Azile." She raised her voice a little, and called, "Edith!" when her other daughter came from behind the chocolate hang- ings which shaded the window. She had a book in her hand, which she had been reading. Altogether, she was a contrast to her sister Maud, who was a year younger than herself. Edith had flnely-moulded features, decidedly i uEnglish. Her complexion, however, was unlike the English page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 AZILE. complexion, being colorless. Her eyes were large and blue, her hair flaxen, with a slight tinge of gold. In her whole bearing and expression there was something haughty and composed, very unlike the merry, warm, enthusiastic man- ner of Maud. She came forward gracefully, and saluted me with the air of a princess. Maud stood by, arranging her mother's silvery curls about the face which looked already half angelic. Mrs. De Vere asked me if I found my room agreeable; and when I said how much I was pleased with it, she seemed gratified, and remarked: "I had it arranged pur- posely to make it look cheerful, that you might be contented in it." In a short time tea was announced. She requested me to go with her daughters, while she took her evening meal in her own room, as she was afraid to leave it. As I entered the dining-room, I saw upon the wall my copy of the "Children of Rubens." The other pictures which I had copied were not there, but I -thought I should perhaps see them in some other room in the house. AZILrE. 191 CHAPTER XL. THE next morning I was anxious to commence my duties as a governess, and yet I scarcely knew how to begin. I was so unaccustomed to English life, that I wras afraid my American mode of acting and thinking would be unsuited to their natures; but Mrs. De Vere begged me to proceed just as I would with children at home. Edith and Maud had, perhaps, been a little spoiled, con- sidering they were English children. Their father had been an officer in the army, and had been killed while fighting bravely in the Crimean war. Theirmother was disposed to indulgence from the fact of their having been thus left fatherless, and also from her having lost all her older children-these two remaining as the ast objects around which her affections might cling. With as m uch composure as I could command, I took my seat in our school-room. ' Mau ad said "O Miss Damaron, do not begin teaching i us this morning! I have the most amusing story here that you ever saw. Let me read this to-day; it will be as improving as those dry old studies; besides, we ought not to have any lessons so near C hristmas. I wonder what will s Inerwhtil page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 AZILE. be on our Christmas-tree? We could have lots of fun, could we not Edie, if it were not for this nasty weather? Do you not wish the sun would come out? I don't believe, though, the sun ever shines in Germany." "Does it shine often in England?"I asked. "No," she returned, "it does not shine very often in England; but we have such beautiful green fields and parks in England; and the greatest quantity of flowers." "You cannot complain of the want of flowers in Ger- many." "No, but they are not so pretty as the English flowers. Then, this tiresome leaden sky, that is always over your head, will never let you feel in a bright humor." "But you confess that you are not accustomed to a bright sky at home." "No, not in England; but when we were in Italy--O the brightest skies, the prettiest flowers! Italy is charming, it is a perfect paradise! And then the old shepherds with their sheep-skin breeches are so funny! They are just like the pictures of the satyrs." "How long," I asked her, "were you in Italy?" "Several years; but that was when papa was living. I was a little thing then. I wish mamma would go back; but she cannot bear it now, because she would be constantly reminded of papa, and be made too sad by it." "And now," I said, " let us take up our lessons." "Yes," she continued, "but tell me one thing, Miss Damaron-have you fine sunsets in America? Is it warm there?" AZILE. 193 "Yes; we have the most gorgeoussunsets, and it is quite warm where I live, in Louisiana." "Do you live in Louisiana?" she rejoined quickly; " then you know Mr. Beauvais, do you not?" "Yes," I answered, "I knowhim, but you forget our lessons." "No, I do not forget them, but I am so glad you know {r. Beauvais! I like him vastly. lie came here with Col. Lawton. ie is such a nice man! as nice as if he had been born in England; and he speaks as good English too. And now tell me if you know one other American who is an acquaintance of ours--Mr. Goldsborough. He is from -Massachusetts; that is near to Louisiana, is it not?" , b ut I d ouis an iot lit not ?y "Not very, b I replied, "and that reminds me that we ought to be Studying our Geography, and after the lessons are over, I wil answer all your questions." Edith, f ho had been listlessly turning over the pages of "Thomrson's Seasons," no said to me: "I shall not study Gramm ar, Miss Damaron. " "No?"' I asked, cc why not?' "Because I do-not like it." "But your mother said you must learn whatever I thought best for you." "I shall not learn that." c "Have you ever parsed in Thomson's Seasons?"1 "Yes, but I do not like it." I took the book carelesslyin my hand, and looking over th e first page, said: , What a fresh and beautiful idea this gives you of th e grace and loveliness of the Countess of I/ertlord! I page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 AZILE. 'O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts, With unaffected grace, or walk the plain With innocence and meditation joined In soft assemblage, listen to my song, Which thine own season paints, when nature all Is blooming and benevolent like thee.'" Edith took the book from my hand, saying: "It is -singular I never noticed that before. The com- pliment is very nicely introduced too, is it not, Miss Damaron?" "I think so; but what does he mean are 'joined '?" "Innocence and meditation." "Joined to each other?" Yes. "Do you think so?" She looked more attentively. "Oh no, the Countess is joined with innocence and meditation-is it not so?" "Yes, Innocence and Meditation are personified. Then you see how beautiful the thought is. As three sisters walking the plain, they are invited to listen to his song. If Innocence and Meditation had been printed with capi- tals, I think the idea would have been plainer." From one line we proceeded to another, and Edith was soon earnestly engaged in discussing the structure of the sentences. I permitted her to proceed for some time, and then I said to her: "After all, you do not seem utterly devoid of interest in Grammar." "But this is not Grammar. I was not parsing." AZILE. 195 I smiled, and said: , Well, to-morrow morning w will continue our examination of that poem." SLme smled also, and asked: "How many lines shall I study?" I marked the lesson, and from that day had no trouble with her. - . v 11i page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 AZILE. ; CHAPTER XLI. IMY position was as pleasant as it could be made. My pupils were apt, and though sometimes a little willful, of quick sensibilities, and consequently they were easily managed. Nothing is more pleasant than to be able to approach one through the affections. When you are tread- ing amidst violets and primroses, even a rough road becomes agreeable. Maud's temper was impetuous, warm, and frank; and though Edith was more reserved, her temper was not so haughty as her manner at first betokened; indeed, she often yielded to the humor of her mirth-loving sister; and after you had once established a hold upon her affections, she was invariably amiable-sometimes serious and thoughtful, but never sullen or perverse. Mrs. De Vere was one of those lovely characters that one is seldom permitted to meet. A subdued enthusiasm gave a warm tint to all her thoughts. Her heart had originally, perhaps, been -like the sunny, blooming heart of her younger daughter; but a covering was over it-a veil that spoke of the departed, like the veil of Proserpine over the flowers of Enna. All my evenings were spent with her, and but one shadow fell upon the unruffled current of our intercourse--that was AZILE. e[97 the hectic cheek, the frequent cough. A Christmas was approaching, ,ve spent the aternoons in preparing for the Christmas-twee Of thes e p reparations Edith and Maud were, of course, supposed to be profoundly ignont; so rs. DeVere and I gild' trl PDe ere and I gilded the nuts and the apples ourselves, procured the olored wax tapers, and the long strings of glittering glass beads, attached invisible ord s to the little waxen angels, and to the sugar-plums, which were to hang aThe Chistmas-eve came. Our wind were ith border of moss. The house was made to lookas gay as ie with evergreens and hOt-house owers. D Se pVere /heft the arrangement of every thing 'to Mer found myself, ill the disposition of the flowers, involuntarily conforming my taste to that of him who wlas separated f ro Me by an ocean that seemed dark, and terrible, and bound- less. n, w as ready. irs. De Vere ventured to leave her room . She approached the parlor with mysterious step, and d osed thedoor . Som e moments of intense anxiety elapsed, wh the doors were thrown open, and a flood of light came from the Christmas-tree. rtaste The " angels," with ngs, fluttered amidst the b ranc hes; t glitering bead the gilded fiuits and nuts, the colored b on-bo ns, mad e it look as fa iryik e a sone could desire. M rs. D e V er e stood b eside the tree, amidst the blaze d of light. per d ress, as usual, m ourning though not the deepest, and she wore no widow's cap , ut et r g ray hair curl as it would about her face . gray page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 AZILE. We received our presents. Edith's was a Venetian chain, a silver basket of Genoese work, and Washington Irving's "Tales of the Alhambra ;"Maud's was a golden net for the hair, a necklace of coral, and an illustrated copy of "St. Agnes's Eve ;' mine was a beautiful pocket Bible, an opal ring, and a breast-pin, with the heads of Edith and Maud painted on china. Mrs. De Vere was surprised to find for herself an ivory card-case, with the two little angels copied from Raphael's great picture. Other little tokens of love for the mother peeped out here and there from among the green branches, and the mother accused me of plotting on both sides. The evening was finished, and I sat down alone in my own room to think of home. What events were transpir- ing? What had they done? Had bthe South gone off alto- gether? or had the States asserted every one its own inde- pendence? Or rather, had they not compromised, and all come together again as one people? I was inclined to be- r lieve the last. Tle dissolution of the Union seemed a thing impossible. I thought of it, as I had sometimes thought of being murdered, when I had said to myself: "No, that can never happen; it is something too much out of the common course of events to take place in my history." So, now, I thought of the United States-the "tenor of her way" had been too even for such a sudden catastrophe. Then, if it should take place, would there be any war? I thought not. But if there should be? Spirro was rather too young to fight. He would remain at college, I suppose. Yet there are others who would fight--O me! how dreadful AZILrE. 199 the thought of war! For hours I could not sleep. No personal matter had ever kept me awake so much as this national one. I was now surrounded by the most pleasant circumstances, but I was feverish to be back in my own country; and if a war should occur, and if the worst should come, and the South be overwhelmed, I desired not to mourn for her from afar, but to be among "her dead children," who should "sleep with her," enfolded in her rigid arms. :o * . j page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] "W AZ I. ., CHAPTER XLII. As I have said before, my evenings were generally spent in Mrs. De Vere's room. Sometimes I played for her on the piano; sometimes she was even able to play herself, and this she did with exquisite taste. Her touch was smooth and gentle, her selections almost invariably cheerful, and the music seemed so like her own character, that, after having once heard her, she was never disassociated from the melody. Sometimes I used to read to her; and whether it were sermons, or history, or novels, or poetry, she entered into every thing with an astonishing zest, and would often laugh over some creation of Shakspeare, or some conceit of Dickens, until she brought on a severe fit of coughing. Of Shakspeare's plays, she seemed to prefer his comedies, and never tired of hearing me read "The Merchant of Venice," and "As you Like it;" indeed, she seemed to turn away from every thing that was gloomy, although her face when in repose always wore a certain expression of sadness. She reminded me of a sunset scene by Claude Lorraine- the light was sinking, yet throwing a softened glory on every thing around it. Once when I remarked to her what an fit AZILE. 201i admirable cheerfulness she always preserved, she answered: "Yes, they used to say that I was born with sunny eyes; and now I wish the close of my life to be enveloped in light, that my children may have no sad thought connected with me. In that volume of Douglas Jerrold, that lies beside you on the table, is a thought which I alighted upon to-day, that pleases me very much. Do read it!" She pointed out the passage to me, and I read aloud: Let me not be whipped and scourged by long, long suffering, to death-be dragged a shrieking victim down- ward to the grave; but let my last hour be solemn, tranquil, that so with unblenched eyes I may look at coming death, and feel upon my cheek his kiss of peace." As I closed the book, I said: "Yes, that is a pleasant thought; but let me go to my room, and bring you a volume of Jean Paul, where there is a passage still more applicable, I think, to you." When I returned, she laughed, and said: "Azile, you are such an admirer of Jean Paul, I think it Yell you were not contemporaries, for I fear you would have haed the fate of the oor girl who drowned herself for ave of him." "No," I replied, "I love him in his writings, but I do not now that he is precisely the sort of man in real life whichS should have loved." "What kind of man," she asked, "would you love? ut no, that is not a very fair question. Read the passage." I read: "O how different are the sufferings of the sinner )m those of the saint! The first are an eclipse of the -*-' - - - a. ---B ^ l^ ^ ta a A 6 *o t,a-fy t^ & i .. ,- ' S ^ ^ page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 AZILE. moon, through which the black night grows blcker still se,. o+h tu n. wh ich cols and milder; the last are an eclipse of the sun, which and romantically overshadows the hot day, and in hicl the nigltingales begin to warble." She clasped her hands, and closed her eyes, repeating several times to herself:"In which the nightingales begin to warble." remark, but took up I did not disturb her by any other remark , but took up my needle-work, and sewed. After a long silence, she That was an impertinent question I asked you a while ago, Azile, but it ws not dictated by idle curiosity. Since I first siaw you copying ' The Madonna,' I have been strangely interested in you. I thoughtp could read your home-history in your face; and since you have been with e, I hve felt stre that you have loved, or love, some one. times even dared to conjecture the pers on. Why do you suppose so?"I asked, without looin g ,A, Because there is a depth of sentiment about you, which never causee in a untouched hert Yours has been stirred e nevern to t sadness hih lies at the bottom of ever woman's nature . Tvhen there has been, evidently, an idea f y ourself presented before your imagination by (I noble-minded lover's thought! Thisidealyou constantl triveXo reach in all things." May not this ideal have occurred to my own ain without the aid of a lover? And may it, impelled by my own sense of beutyd,? ......... a to your own mind, AZ-ILE. 203 you might try to reach it from, as you say, your own sense of beauty, but not with such loving earnestness in your efforts." I smiled, and said: "You are wonderfully quick-sighted." '"You need not laugh," she rejoined; "I am quiclk-sighted, the more so as my health fails the more. I do not try to read the thoughts of others, but I know them by intuition." "That may be true; I think it is; but whether I have loved or not, I promise no reward to myself for trying to reach an ideal, other than the pleasure of making the effort." "That cannot be. When God makes a bird, he puts it in a greenwood, and among flowers." "Not always. Some birds spend their whole lives in a cage." "So they do. And yet, Azile, one thing is blissfully certain--a time comes when we shall all be uncaged; and it is curious to think in what inexplicable way every ungrati- fied wish of the heart that is pure, and lovely, and loving, shall be gratified hereafter." \e' hI I page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 AZILE. CHAPTER XLIII. SOMETIMES Edith and Maud were permitted to join us in the evening, and then the mother was always particu- larly bright. Edith played remarkably well; Maud not so well, but she knew a number of old Scotch songs, which gave delight to us all. One evening when they were present, I received a package of papers and letters from America. I had spoken so much of our home affairs, that the family had become quite interested in them. The young girls left the piano, and came to the table to hear the news. It had seemed long since we had heard any thing. They both exclaimed: "What is the news, Miss Damaron? What are they doing?" I replied: "Seven of the States have left the Union,.and President Davis--" "Who is President Davis?" said Maud. "Is he your President? The President of South America?" Edith laughed, and said: "Maud, why do you always make that mistake? Miss Damaron does not live in South America-it is the Southern part ofthe United States." AZILE. 205 "I know that," rejoined Maud, "but it makes no differ- ence, she does not live in any part of the United States now." "You do not know," replied Edith; "they may recon- struct the Union, and I should think it would be much better to have a large, powerful empire, and a strong gov- ernment, than to be cut up into little principalities." "Will the Southern Confederacy be so little, Miss Dam- aron?" said Maud. "How large are the seven States that have gone out?" "Altogether," I replied, "about as large as France, Spain, Portugal, and Great Britain." "Now," exclaimed Maud triumphantly, "is not that an empire? But who is the President, Miss Damaron? Is not Da is the man you told us of the other day, who stood with hisbrave Mississippians to receive the charge of the Mexi- can lancers, at the battle of Buena Vista? Don't you remember you said, 'They stood as if they had been made of marble'? Is he not the same man? Is he not Jeff. Davis?" "The same," I replied. "Then hurrah for him!" cried Maud: "I love a brave man! My father was an officer, and I love a man that fights the battles of his country-a man that stands like marble when the enemy are pouring down upon him. Is not that jolly? That is the kind of man that I will marry when I am grown." "Why, Maud," said her mother, "what an inveterate little rebel you are! I am afraid Miss Damaron is a dan- gerous teacher." page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 206 AZILE. "Oh no, mamma," replied Maud; "I am not a rebel, because you know that is not our own country. I would not like any one who should fight against 'our lady, the Queen Victoria ;' but you know that is a different thing. They have no king or queen in the United States, and the States have a right to leave the Union-Miss Damaron says so; and I know the Northern President, whoever he is, can never conquer that Davis. If I were the South, I would never reconstruct the Union unless they would make Davis the President of the whole. But read some of your papers, Miss Damaron, and let us hear what they say." "What will you have?"I asked, as I looked over the papers. "Here is the message of Gov. Harris, of Tennes- see; but that, perhaps, will be too long." "Oh no," Edith exclaimed; -" let us hear something from one of your Governors; I always like to hear what a great man thinks." "Very well, Edith, I will read it; but we must not take it for granted, that because a man is a Governor, he is a great man." The young girls were very attentive as I read, and as I finished, Maud cried out: "There now, he is a great man though! Is he not, Miss Damaron? Do you not think so, mamma?" Her mother smiled at her enthusiasm, and said: "That is certainly a very powerful and eloquent address, and con- tains a bold and vivid picture of the wrongs suffered by the South. It is very evident, Azile, that your people come from the same dauntless race with ourselves." AZILE. 207- I did not feel now so much concern as I had at the beginning of the difficulty. Every time I heard of another State having left the Union, my hopes and spirits rose. Spirro, too, spoke very cheeringly, and said they hoped the whole matter would now be settled without any bloodshed. That would certainly be the wisest and most reasonable course. The next day, Edith and Maud reminded me of a prom- ise I had made them of visiting the "Green Vault" with them. Mrs. De Vere did not go with us; indeed, her health was now so feeble that she never left the house. As we proceeded through the rooms containing the immense collection of jewels, the two young girls were in ecstasies. Maud said: "Miss Damaron, I do believe this is the enchanted garden of Aladdin; I am afraid to touch any thing lest I should be turned to stone." She was satisfied merely to look at the glittering display, but Edith was curious to know the history of each piece, where it came from, and who had made it, or worn it. She liked the basket that was formed with so much skill of the crumbs of bread, and was much pleased with the egg that is considered so curious. Upon touching a spring this egg parts, showing a golden yolk, which, in its turn, opens, displaying a hen. Within the bosom of the hen a crown is found which conceals a precious ring. Maud, on the contrary, liked the enormous breastpin of diamonds and emeralds, and laughed heartily at the page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] 208 AZILE. idea of wearing it, saying: 'I think any woman who should put it on would share the fate of Tarpeia. I wonder if death would be the pleasanter for coming in such a brilliant array?"She was also charmed with the cups and saucers of amber. AZIpHE. 209 CHAPTE . CHAPTER XLIV. THE spring was approaching with tardy steps, and my lovely friend, (by this time I could say, my very dear friend,) Mrs. De Vere, seemed each day to grow more ethereal, until she appeared like a beautiful vision, which might at any moment fade into air. Her daughters and I remained constantly beside her; and now the sad expression, which had formerly lingered about her features, was gradually swallowed up in the soul- light that beamed out. So have I seen the gray mists of morning twilight float away in rosy clouds. One morning I sat beside her at sunrise. She turned to me, and said: "Have you ever read 'Butler's Analogy?'" I answered: "Yes." "Open the window," she said, "and let me see the analogy." I opened it, and the light of the morning sun shone through. "That is as it should be," she remarked. Her face seemed suffused with a blessed radiance. She repeated, as if to herself: "Shall the Sun of righteousness arise, with healing in his wings;" and then, looking to me, continued: page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 AZILE. "How apt is the illustration! The sun is always shining, but half the time we are turned away from him-turned away into the dark night-and then we say that he has descended below our horizon, and has left us-that he no longer shines; so our souls turn away amidst the dark, cold shades of unbelief, and we begin to think that the heavenly light has gone out; that it shines no longer for us nor for others; and it is only when wearied, and sore, and heart-sick, that we turn again to Christ, our true Light, and find him still shining, the same, always the same! We turn from the imperfections of the world, which have disgusted us, and find in him all that can satisfy the soul; we turn from our own weakness, which appalls us, and placing our- selves in his powerful arms, cling to him, as a child clings to the neck of its father in the storm. Now, Azile, while the waters are rising higher, higher, every moment, I dare not look down to the turbid flood. I look steadily up to his blessed face, and say to him: 'Thou, O Christ, art my only hope! Save me! Am I not thine? Hast thou not pur- chased me with thine own blood?' and the glory of his face beams upon me, as it beams from the midst of the disciples in Leonardo's 'Last Supper,' only more blessed, more beau- tiful, more divine-- inexpressibly more divine! All is luminous, Azile! luminous! The light comes from the cross! Around it cluster all that we have loved and lost- the dear ones who have gone before! He awaits me there- my husband!" For some moments she was silent, and then said: "Now read me some verses from the last chapter of ' the Revelation. " , AZILE. 2" Edith sat on one side of the bed, and Maud on the other, each holding her hand. I commenced: "And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. "In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. "And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him. "And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. "And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the- sun, for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign for ever and ever." "There," she said, "that will do. Now let me sleep." I arose to adjust the covering about her. She drew my head down and kissed me. "And now," she said, "let me kiss my two good girls." As they hastened to kiss her, she said: "God bless my children!" and closing her eyes, soon sunk into a gentle sleep. Her daughters still sat, holding her hands. A half- hour passed, and Edith said, in a low, startled tone: "Maud!" Maud sprang up, and exclaimed : "Mamma! O mamma!" The lips had closed for ever with the blessing. Her serene soul had passed forth into the morning light. She lay, page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 AZILE. smiling, with her white hair in waving bands about her brow, like a coronet of silver. How dark was that home without her! I went into my own room. I remembered what she had said the first day I came there: "I had it arranged to look cheerful purposely, that you might be contented with us ;" and from that day, until her last words that morning, how every tone had been a message of love to my heart! I wept as I had wept only for my mother. The little girls came and clung to me, ter- rified by-this dreadful grief. Mrs. De Vere's banker, who was her friend, came and made preparations for having the body taken to England. The children were also to go, and live with a cousin of their father. I felt as if I had suffered every thing, but when the parting with them came, I found I had not. Amidst sad embraces and tears, and many promises of writing, they tore themselves away, and I was left once more alone in Dresden. AZILE. 2i1 CHAPTER XLV. SINCE I had come to live with Mrs. De Vere, I had very often visited my friends, Mr, and Mrs. Shultz. I now went to them again. I took boarding near them, and every day I was with the people who had been kind to me in my utmost need. I felt as if all my sad history had only bound me more closely to them. But I was more anxious than ever to go to my own country. While I was making arrangements to do so, Mrs. De Vere's banker returned from London. He brought me loving notes from the children, and, to my surprise, told me that my kind friend had left me a legacy of five hundred pounds. The banker offered to place me under the care of a gen- tleman going to Liverpool, whence I could sail in a steamer to New York; or, if I preferred it, go to Southampton, and' take the steamer for Havana, and thence to New Orleans. This latter route I preferred. Lincoln was already inau- gurated in the North. I had heard, of late, but little news from home, and knew not what course would be pursued toward the South; and I was heart-sick to see Louisiana. With a sad heart I parted from my kind German friends. r a+: page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 214 AZILE. The country through which we traveled looked still bleak and dreary. Winter was retiring northward, surly and reluctant. I passed through England without being able to see my beloved pupils. I could only write them a long farewell letter, blotted with my tears. Then I was on the steamer, looking at the -receding green around Southampton. Then we were plowing amidst the Atlantic waves, stupefied with sea-sickness, but every hour saying: "One hour nearer home!" After a boisterous and long passage, we found ourselves in the harbor of St Thomas, whence we were transferred to the steamer for Havana, and after four days' pleasant sail amongst the West India Islands, came in sight of the Moro Castle. As we steamed into the harbor, I went on deck, and hailed the red fortifications of the "cabanas," that crowned the hill on our left, and the quaint old city of Havana, that lay upon our right. A white cottage nestled at the foot of the green hill, sloping down from the "cabanias." Above the cottage waved the plume-like foli- age of the cocoa-palm. What a contrast to the bare brown plains which I had left in Germany! But I did not tarry there. A steamer was about leaving for New Orleans, and I went immediately aboard of her. Two days and a half more of the sea, but it was calm as a sheltered lake. I heard the sailors say: "The water is getting muddy." That indicated our approach to the mouth of the Mississippi. I ran out to see it, but it was long before it appeared. A sharp cold wind was blowing. AZILE. 215 I did not mind it. After a while we caught the first glimpse of land. My heart was all in a tumult of joy and of ap- prehension, I knew not of what. I felt as if I could have knelt upon the shore, as Columbus knelt upon the coast of Hispaniola. I had never known before how much I loved my native State. Soon I saw a flag floating from a pole on shore. It was something I had not seen before-three bars, red, white, and red, and a blue field besprinkled with stars. For the first time I realized that I was coming back-to a new country. I said to a bystander: "Is that the Confeder- ate flag?" and when he answered in the affirmative, the tears rushed to my eyes. "That, then," I said, softly to myself, "is the emblem of my country, and of her inde- pendence. God grant that it may wave in triumph over an undivided South!" When we landed at Ne-W Orleans, Spirro was waiting for me. I had expected him, for I had written him that I was coming, but I was pleasantly surprised to find Charles with him. As soon as I had looked at Spirro long enough to identify hin, and feel that he was in very truth the same dear bro- ther I had left a year ago, I asked Charles how Lucy was, and where. "You will see Lucy soon," he replied; "she is now Mrs. Robert Oglevie, and as happy as if Mr. Robert Oglevie were a much finer fellow than he is. After all, Oglevie is very kind to Lucy, and clever enough; only about some things he has n't half-sense." A short drive brought us to the hotel. Lucy came run- page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] 216 AZILE. ning down the stairs, looking very bright. She had seen us from the parlor-window, and came to welcome me. She went to my room with me, and would busy herself in help- ing me make my toilet. That finished, we descended to the parlor, and every five minutes she took out her watch, and said: "I wish Robert would come-I want you to see him;" as if I had not seen him a hundred times-the dear loving heart! When he did come, the gentle consideration of his manner toward Lucy, and the blissfulness of her face, convinced me that "a stranger intermeddleth not with the joy of the heart!"I never should have selected him as a husband for Lucy, yet he seems destined to be the true guardian of her happiness. AZILE. 217 CHAPTER XLVI. WHEN we went to the dinner - table, I was struck with the contrast between German and American life. I had left every thing in Dresden moving on as quietly as if the world were to last six thousand years longer, and as if each man's life were to be the life of a patriarch; here, every moment was crowded with excitement, and the very waiters around the table walked as if they expected the world to come to an end before the dinner was over. All around me were discussing the message of the Presi- dent of the United States.' S6me thought that all the indications were decidedly in favor of peace. Others inter- preted it quite to the contrary. One gentleman considered Lincoln a humorist, and the whole message a piece of pleasantry. Charles said: "What does he mean by his rigmarole of questions, and all that nonsense about taking I the public property, and collecting the revenue? It is just as if he were to say: 'Gentlemen, if I adjust this silken cord delicately about your throats, and elevate you a few feet in the air, by suspending you to a beam, will you call that hanging?' I should say to him: 'That is just what I call page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 218 AZILE. it, Mr. Lincoln; and I call trying to take our forts, and to collect our revenue, commencing a war -with us; so, come on, old gentleman! the sooner, the better!"'-and here Charles, taking a large banana, peeled it with nervous jerks, and commenced cutting it up as if it had been an enemy. A gentleman, at a little -distance from us, across the table, remarked: "I agree with Mr. Sumner in his estimate of that mes- sage. He calls it ' a hand of steel in a glove of silk." The voice that spoke this was so strangely familiar, that I looked up. As I was gazing upon the speaker, Lucy said to me: "Do you know that face?" I answered: "No ;" but just then he smiled, and I recog- nized him. "Oh yes," I added, "that is Edward Beauvais." It was indeed he. I had not seen him for some years, and he had quite altered from the boy to the man. The hair had lost something of its golden hue, and the lip and chin were covered with a heavy beard, but the smile was just the same--the same I had known in childhood, and only less beautiful than his brother's. After dinner, when we had retired to the parlor, he came in. As he approached, Lucy said to him: "Mr. Beauvais, here is an old friend of yours, Azile Damaron." He shook hands with me kindly,* expressing his pleasure at meeting me after so long an absence, but AZILE. 219 219 I -fancied there was something of constraint in his man- nel. He asked me the ordinary questions about tilhe impressions that Europe had made upon me. I men- tioned that I had but little opportunity of jdging of country?" violently agitating Of things in general, as I scarcely saw any part of Europe except Dresden. He replied: Yes, Eugene told me---, and it appeared to me that his countenance grew grave as he spoke, and that he checked himself at the commencement of the sentence. I felt confused, and was afraid that I betrayed it in my face. Fortunate ly, Spirro was present, and not knowing that there as any cause of embarrassment, relieved me by asking naturally where Eugene was. Edward said he was at his plantation, but came sometimes to the city. "He never remains long, h oa - ever," he added; ,he has g o very agricultural in h is tastes." "Does he take much interest," Spirro inquired, in this question of secession, which is so violently agitati ng the country?" "Oh yes," Edward answered, " his whole soul is absorbed in it. ]h enever Eugen e feels at all, it is with the utmost intensity." The se r emarks le d a gain 'to1 -the probable future of the Confederate States, to the message of the President of the United States, to the prospects of peace or wa r; an d these subjects, t o South I ernes, w ere boundless and unlfathomable. page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 AZILEV I confess that I exerted myself to interest Edward. 1 dreaded to see him leave; his voice and smile were like his brother's; I listened to the one, and watched for the other; and when he was gone, a cold gray twilight stole over my heart. AZILE. 221 CHAPTER XLVII. To board at a fashionable hotel, suited neither my circumstances nor my tastes; so Spirro procured board- ing for himself and me with a quiet, pleasant family in the suburbs of the city. The house was separated from the road by a small garden, filled with shrubbery, where the birds used to awaken me in the morning, singing beneath my window. Then the bright face of Spirro was at my door, ready to go with me to the breakfast-table. It brought back to me the days when we were children at home together, and sometimes I tried to bring back the old childish carelessness, but it would not come. Spirro's leave of absence from college was nearly out, and I clung to each moment until it had flown quite past me, and I was forced to unloose my hold. He sat beside me in my cheerful little room, and read to me as I worked; he sang with me as I played; he walked with me everywhere about the city. What should I do when he was gone--this tender, gentle brother! He did not talk very much, but when he did speak, it was a joyous outhurst, like the unexpected gurgling of a riv- page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 AZILE. ulet, that breaks upon the ear in a mountain solitude. It made one fall in love with life to know him; at least, it made life much more attractive to me, to have him near me. One bright Saturday morning, several days before he was to have left, he came running to my room, his face glowing with excitement. He stood at the threshold with silent lips, his eyes only speaking. I looked up with surprise, and said: "What is it, Spirro? Surely you must have drawn a prize in the lottery!" "Sister!" he exclaimed. "Azile! they are fighting! They are fighting at Sumter!" I was almost as much excited as he. "Is that true, Spirro?"I said. "Are you sure?" "Oh yes! It is certain! Beauregard has knocked two holes in the fort-and I am going!" "You are going where? Have you lost your senses, my brother?" "No, I have not lost my senses; but ought not a man to fight for his country?" "Certainly; but you are scarcely a man yet, Spirro; you are merely a school-boy." "I am sixteen, Azile; sixteen day after to-morrow; and I can shoot as well as if I were forty." "Well, I will concede that point to please your fancy; but if Gen. Beauregard has knocked two holes already in the fort, I should think he might finish it without your assistance." -I AZILE. 223 "But, Azile, after professing to be so devoted to the South, do you intend to oppose my defending her?" "Not at all, brother mine, when you are needed; but remain where you are, at least for a few days, until you are actually sixteen. Let me set you a birth-day table, and then, if the South has not men enough to defend her, I will take a little pistol and go with you myself." "Now you are laughing!" "No, Spirro; you are very young, but whenever the South calls you, whatever the sacrifice may be to me, I shall cheerfully yield you; only I must insist upon being near you whenever you fight." "That is a dear, good sister!" he said, kissing me; "and now I must go back into the city; perhaps they have more news-no fears, though, where Beauregard is." He soon disappeared down the road, and I was left too much excited and interested to do any thing for the rest of the day. I tried one thing after another, but without success. I could think of nothing but Sumter. I put on my hat and walked into the city to see Lucy. She met me with her face lighted with unusual emotion. As she kissed me, she said: "You have heard the news -Sumter is attacked!" We sat and talked, just as inexperienced women do talk on such subjects. We were impatient to hear that the fort was taken, yet trembling to hear of the killed and wounded, shrinking from the horrid details of battle. Lucy said: "It is so terrible to think that while we i sit here quietly discussing the matter, some of our fellow- tawh L .. q . . - S^ page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 AZILE. creatures may be suffering at Charleston, mutilated and dying in dreadful agonies." "It is shocking, Lucy! I like the noise and pomp of war, the parade, the excitement, the booming of great guns; I love to see heroic men, who 'count not their lives dear,' but-I wish we could gain battles without killing people." As I was preparing to go home, Mr. Oglevie entered, and called to some one behind him: "Come in, here is your sister!" Spirro followed him, and both of them cried out at once: "Sumter is taken!" Lucy and I clapped our hands for joy. Then I felt still as if a great wave had rolled over me; my very heart was still. I could express nothing. I had entered upon a new field of emotion, and as it lay all unex- plored before me, I stood silent. At last, Lucy said: ";But Robert, how many were killed? Were many wounded?" He laughed. "'Nobody hurt!' absolutely-not one killed or wounded." "How is that possible?" she replied; "the fort taken, and nobody hurt?" "It seems incredible," he answered; "but such is the purport of the dispatch." "That is a battle after my own heart," I said; "but it must be a mistake; such a thing never was heard of. But do you not think, Mr. Oglevie, that this will bring on a general war?" ; AZILE. 225 "I suppose so," he replied; " and then, Lucy, you must prepare to lose your husband. I think I should look remarkably well in regimentals." The tears came into Lucy's eyes, and she said hastily: "Do not speak of it!" Spirro thought no more of college. He was all anxiety to be at the seat of war. It was with great difficulty that I could prevent him from going immediately to Pensacola; and numberless times he assured me that I was depriving him of the glory of being among the first to rush to the battle-field, and strike a blow for his country. I prevailed upon him, however, to wait a little while; talked of the probability of New Orleans being attacked, and- on his birth-day ornamented every thing about his table with pelicans and Confederate flags. If he had been two years older, I should have said nothing, but he looked so like a very boy, I shrunk from seeing him exposed to the dangers of battle, and the hard- ships of a camp-life. Qne morning Spirro and I were sitting by my win- dow talking, when we saw Charles standing by the gate, reading an " extra" which he held in his hand, and laugh- ing heartily. Spirro called to him and said: "What is the matter, Charles? Come in and let us hear what is in that 'extra.'" He answered: "No, I have no time. I came merely to ask you and Azile if you would come to Lucy's rooms to-morrow evening and take tea with her; but I have here the most extra of 'extras.' Mr. Abraham Lincoln 8 page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] 226 AZILE. calls upon us rebels to disperse in twenty days, and calls for seventy-five thousand troops to see that we do it. Hurrah now for the border States! This will bring them over. It will soon be, 'Hail, Virginia!' But come down to-morrow evening; it may be the last time, Azile, that you may hafe a chance to take tea with me. I am going to Pensacola-will you come?" "Certainly; but come in!" "No," he answered, and tossing the extra to us, walked rapidly toward the city again. AZILE. 227 CHtAPTER XLVIII. "NCOLN'S call for troops seemed to depress no one. The antagonistic principle of our nature was being fully aroused, and the whole population were exhilarated. Preparations for war were commenced in earnest, and every newspaper told you a fact which was before everybody's eyes-namely, that "the greatest enthusiasm prevailed." We were listening eagerly for news from Pensacola, for news from Virginia. The evening of my engagement with Lucy my spirits were unusually bright. Spirro had not yet come in, but I heard the roar of cannon in the city, and I was sure that they had news of the secession of Virginia. I commenced making my toilet. The evening was genial. So after arranging my hair simply, but with a little more care than usual, I put on a white muslin dress. I stood before the mirror, feeling none the less comfortable that I saw my dress was becoming. As I was trying to place two rose-buds in my hair to please me, I heard a carriage drive up to the gate, and a moment after some one tapped at my door. It proved to be little Bettie Grey, attended by Lucy's waiting-maid. The maid told me that Lucy had sent the carriage for me, and as neither Mr. Oglevie nor Charles te&^. -X page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] had yet come in, she permitted Bettie and the maid to come for me. I told them that I should be obliged to detain them a few moments until Spirro's return, and continued arranging my buds. Little Bettie said: "Miss Azile, did you know a great big war is coming down the river, or up the river, I do n't know which; and that it is going to throw a whole heap of shells all over New Orleans, and then going to burn it up?" "Why no, Bettie! That is terrible! Are you not fright- ened?" "No, I am not frightened, 'cause bud Charley is going to meet the war, and he can keep it from hurting me; but I think the little stars are scared, for I saw them trembling as I came along, and I 'spect they are 'fraid the war will- shoot at them." I laughed, and replied: "Yes, that would be bad ;" and after a moment, I added, speaking to myself: "I cannot place these flowers to suit me." Bettie said: "Miss Azile, do n't you think it a sin to pull flowers?" "Why no, Bettie: what makes you think it a sin?" "'Cause they have souls." "Oh no, I do not think they have." "Yes, they have: you know the leaves of the flowers, that's their body; then they smell sweet, and that's their soul. And when you pull the flower, the body dies, and the soul goes to heaven." "That is a new theology, Bettie-who taught you that?" "Nobody; I just thought of it." "Well, you are a very thinking little girl. Who," I asked, merely wishing to hear her prattle, "are to be at there, and bud--what is his name, Phcebe?" The maid replied: "Robert." "Oh yes, and bud Robert-.that is what I have to call Mr. Oglevie now, 'cause he is married to sis. Lucy---he is to be there, and Miss Mary Austin, and cousin 'Gene-- --" "Who is cousin 'Gene?" "Vhy, do n't you know him? He is Mr. Ed. Beauvais's broth and I thend I li the best of anybody." I felt my hands grow suddenly cold. I sat down on the t sofa. Phoebe said: "Miss Azile, are you sick? You look mighty pale," and she handed me a glass of water. I took the water, saying: "I do not feel quite well this evening; I think I will lie down a while." I rested my head upon the the arm of the sofa. I could in a few moments have overcome or concealed my emotion, but I was debating with myself whether I should go to Lucy's rooms at all or not. Because Eugene's fate and mine could never be united, was that a reason why we should not be friends? wVhy I should avoid him? In itself, perhaps, no; but he had seemed to avoid me in Dresden, and since my return, though he must have must have known of it through Edward, and though he must have been in the city, for Edward said that. h city, for Edward said that he sometimes came, yet he had should go to", Luc oosa ll-rnt Bcue gnl page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] 230 AZILE. never called to see me. If I should now meet him at Lucy's rooms, would it not appear that I sought to do so? The more I thought of it, the more I determined not to go; and when Spirro came in, I begged him to go, and make my excuse, saying I did not feel very well. He was unwilling to leave me, but -I insisted so much upon it, that he at length went without me. Tears are a woman's right, and her defense, and her con- solation. When I was alone, I threw myself upon the sofa and wept bitterly. Eugene, I did not doubt, Was going to join the army. Probably I should never have an oppor- tunity of seeing him again. I thought- of him, lying on the coast of Florida, mangled, bleeding, dying. He was going to fight for my safety--for more, for my country -and yet I had not seen him to speak one kind word, or one word of encouragement. If I could only have said to him, "I pray for your success!" it would have been something; but without a word-a token-he was going, perhaps to death- and I would have died to save him! Late in the evening, when I heard Spirro's returning step, I put out my light, that he-might suppose me in bed. r AZILE. 231 CHAPTER XLIX. THE next morning I assured Spirro that I was quite well nd he was all the more rejoiced, because he was now wild itlh eagerness to join the army. Virginia had really seceled; Charles and Mr . Oglevie, Eugene and Edard, were all going. Eugene was equipping a w company himsef. I asked Spirro if Eugene was captain of the company. No, he had refused to hold any office, and was attached as a private to the artillery. M r. Oglevie, how- ever, was captain of a company, and Charles and Edward were both lieutenants. I found that I had no eloquence sufficient to stem the se nthusiasm-of Spirro; so I consented, young as he was, to see him go. Later in the day, he and Charles came in togetler, full business, and as joyous as if preparing for a gala day. Charles said:"Azle, y ou are n ot out of spirits about Spirro 's going, are y ou?" "No, he is young; but I thank Heaven that I have a bro- ther to g o. I shall follow him through the thickest of the battle with my prayers, and trust that at some future time we shall all together rej oice over ou r victories." ^ i= ^ ^ ^ ^^^oie ve Or i^ore ^^- page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 232 AZILE. There was a little rising in the throat as I said this, but I kept it down. Spirro left the room, and Charles said to me: "What was the matter with you last night? Why did you not come to tea, as you promised?" "I was not very well." "Oh no, Azile, that will not do. I'll tell you what it is, you will be the death of that young man. You are just driving him to desperation. He is very reticent, you know: but the other day I took up a book of his, and found written upon the fly-leaf-'Si je vous perds, je suis perdu.' I could guess the history that hung upon those words. Then he told me, in confidence, that he intended to plant himself before the mouth of the biggest cannon, so that he might be shot all to pieces." "Charles!" "No, Azile, he did not say any thing like it. All that I have been saying to you is mere gammon; but I will tell you the truth. Last evening, when Spirro came and gave your excuse, .Eugene was turning over a book of prints; no one else noticed him, but I saw his face redden, and he bit his lip with vexation." "You fancy a great deal, Charles." Spirro came back, and Charles walked out on the balcony and commenced whistling. For days I was as busy as it was possible for me to be- working for Spirro, working for the soldiers. Poor Lucy, too, worked as fast as her fingers could move, and many a stitch was wet with her tears. AZILE. 233 When the last moments came, I said to Spirro: "I can- not stay here; only you and I are left together, and we must not be far separated. I must be near you, so that I can hear from you often; else I should torture myself to death with fancies of your suffering." A- He consented that I should move somewhere nearer to '1 him. "Only," he said, "you must not be too near the danger, for then your presence would disarm me in the face of the enemy." So it was settled; and I was to leave New Orleans as soon as the arrangements could be made. Lucy went home with her parents, to remain until her husband should return-that day, how far distant it seemed to us all! how uncertain! We trembled for the friends whom we had sent forth- but only for their lives. Many an unhopeful heart looked undismayed upon the overwhelming numbers of the North, and many a tongue repeated the words of Emmett: "My grave shall be the last entrenchment of liberty." page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] 234 AZILE. CHAPTER L. THE Governor of Kentucky responded to Lincoln's call for troops, "No!"--the Governor of Tennessee said emphati- cally "No!"-and so said the Governors of the other border States-all but one, and "curses not loud but deep" were the amen that arose from the State which he governed. Virginia was already out of the Union; Tennessee and Arkansas, hand in hand, stalked out together; and North Carolina soon followed. We waited, day after day, to hear that the battle -had commenced at Fort Pickens; but it did not commence. Other battles, however, took place. Troops were moving northward, and Spirro wrote to me: "Do not come to Flo- rida, we shall be ordered to Virginia ;" and very soon they were on their way to the '"Old Dominion." Fortress Monroe vas taken by the Federal forces. Then came the battles of Little Bethel and of Great Bethel, and- the faintest hearts began to think that, after all, we might not be exterminated. Lucy wrote to me that Capt. Oglevie had been victorious in a severe skirmish. Spirro wrote that the company to 'which he and Edward belonged had had much marching and counter-marching through mud and rain; "but," he AZILE. 235 added, "it seems that we can never get into a fight." Charles, who was in the artillery, had grown impatient for the conflict., All these things I heard, from time to time, as I remained at my boarding-house, alone, in New Orleans. Every morn- ing I arose eager for the newspapers, and as I sipped my coffee my eye ran hastily over the startling events that were following each other in rapid succession. My blood grew feverish. I had always thought that I should shrink from the dangers of war as a timid child; but now I began to understand how the feeling of fear might be quite drowned out by a flood of enthusiasm. Joan of Are did not seem so beyond possibility, and the womanly heroism of Charlotte Corde was not like a: bewildering dream-she came up before me now, a lucid realization; and as my blood has sometimes chafed at the treachery of a faithless politician, from whom we might have hoped better, I could appreciate the feeling of the modest, intrepid girl, reared in retirement, drinking in the spirit of old, Grecian and Roman stories, until her little hand was nerved to seize the dagger and strike the blow that she believed would free her country. While thinking of the terrible scene that formed the finale of the brave girl's life, I had surrounded myself with the brutal crowd that flocked about the guillotine, and saw the young martyr ascending the scaffold, quiet and composed: I saw the executioner remove the kerchief from about her throat, and the warm blush of sensibility suffuse her face. Before it had time to retire. to the heart, the ax of the guillotine had fallen, and the blushing face'of the noble girl was held page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] 236 AZILE. up to satisfy the eager gaze of the blood-thirsty multitude- it remains suspended-that blushing face! an object of pity and of reverence to all generations. As I sat, lost amidst this scene of brutality, of heroism, and of blood, a little girl in the garden below broke forth into a Tyrolean air, so joyous and full of melody, that it seemed a love-song to the world. The girl, with her bright eyes and animated French face, looked as if she might have been Charlotte Corde herself in her happy childhood. Another day, as I walked along the street, with my mind all in a tumult from the news that was filling the papers, and filling the thoughts and the conversation of everybody, my attention was attracted by some \bonnet-trinmmings and collars of mourning that hung in a shop-window. My feel- ings were instantly subdued to sadness, as I thought how much these might be needed in a few months-the gay uniforms and floating feathers of the troops faded away, until nothing was left but black, an emblem of the desola- tion which war must leave. In a meditative mood, I entered the open door of a church. I stood amidst the silence. Before me was a copy of the "Transfiguration" by Raphael. The disciples are sinking beneath the insufferable light that crowns the top of the mountain. The Saviour, attended by his heavenly visitors, floats above the earth in his "glistening raiment," and his hair seems fanned by breezes from paradise. All around is glorified, and peace and blessedness dwell upon. the mountain, as the Saviour holds high converse with those AZILE. 237 neath the look of benignity which said: "In me ye shall have peace." But of what did the Saviour speak, even on the Mount of Transfiguration? Was it not of struggle with the powers of Evil, of suffering, of blood, of death, to be followed by final triumph? So do the divine and the human mingle! So meet the divine and the infernal! Life surrounds us with discords, but through them the attentive ear may catch strains of the harmony of Eternity. About this time, a gentleman from Virginia, a distant relation of my mother, came to New Orleans on business. Remembering our family, he made some inquiries about me, and traced me to my boarding-house. He introduced X himself as Mr. Richardson, and in our conversation asked me if I should not like to go with him to Virginia. He O said: "You will find the times rather squally there, but as your brother is there, perhaps you would not mind that." I told him how anxious I had been to get nearer my brother, and then he insisted that I should go with him. I was soon ready, and never was I happier than when I felt myself flying along the railroad toward the scene of conflict. The cars were crowded with soldiers, and I was glad when I could even hand one of them a glass of water. We passed through Richmond, along toward Ma- nassas, and then we came to a point where we stopped, and I saw a carriage waiting for us, with a boy of some twelve or thirteen years of age seated beside the driver. The boy jumped down as soon as he saw Mr. Richardson. page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 238 AZILE. The old gentleman shook hands with him, kissed him, and then said: "Tom, this is your cousin, Azile Damaron." We all entered the carriage together, and were soon driving through the thick pine and oak, over the undu- lating ground, toward Mr. Richardson's house. A feow miles brought us there, and at the door we were greeted by Mrs. Richardson-a large, handsome woman, kind and motherly! The key-basket in her hand spoke of stores of pickles and preserves, and all the mysteries of Virginia housewifery. Mr. Richardson said: "Well, Eliza, you are not demol- ished yet?" "Oh no," she replied; "(Tom and I have kept house splendidly; but the Federals are advancing, and our troops are falling back." "Let them come,m" said Mr. Richardson, "I fancy they will find that they have caught a tartar," and the old gen- tleman laughed very heartily. Tom was the grandson of these good people. He was too young for the army, much to their regret and to his own. His grandmother said: "Never mind, Tom, in two years you will be fifteen, and then you can go." But Tom, half crying, replied; "No, I can't; for by that time the Yankees will all be disheartened, and I'll not get a chance to take one of them." Spirro, Captain Oglevie, Charles, and Edward learned where I was, and all came to see me-all came but Eugene; he never came. ,AZILE. 239 They were in the finest spirits. The Federals were advancing, and our troops retreating, but they said: "Wait a day or two and you will see!" Sure enough! Thursday came; we heard heavy cannon- adting, and at night we had news of a victory. I was all trepidation and anxiety for my friends, but the next day Tom rode over, and brought me tidings from. them-all were safe. Yet I was not free from anxiety. The Federals would still advance, and the great battle was yet to be fought-O my soul! with, what issue? Sunday morning, the twenty-first of July, arose bright and jubilant, but the deepest concert was written on every face at the breakfast-table. Very little breakfast was eaten. I arose and went to my room-I kneeled, I prayed -I could not kneel, I walked, and still I prayed-again I threw myself upon my knees, and with my face buried in my hands, how earnestly I prayed, while the great guns were making the earth tremble beneath me! Mr. Richardson had rode off to get nearer the battle- field. Tom was wild to go, but his grandmother would not let him. Unnumbered sounds filled the air. It appeared to me that I could hear the very groans of the dying borne upon the breeze. Again that sentence of Thackeray came to my mind, "And George lay upon the field of battle-dead- with a bullet through his heart." I felt as if I should lose my senses. I could not stay in my room. I ran down stairs and out of the front door. Mrs. Richardson called to me: "Azile, child, where are you going?" page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 240 AZILE. "Nowhere," I answered, "but on the lawn; I cannot stay in the house." I walked to the gate at the end of the lawn and back, ,!- and again, and again, and again, I retraced my steps, and ever the great cannon boomed like the voice of Destiny. t Late in the afternoon, I saw a horseman approaching. It a was Mr. Richardson. I ran to meet him. As he saw me, he took off his hat, and waving it, cried: 'Hurrah! the victory is ours! Beauregard and Johnston 'have scat- tered them! They are totally routed!" I said: "Have you seen Spirro? Have you seen all our friends?" "No," he answered," I saw none but Charles; I saw him receive a ball in the leg--it was just as the President came on the field. Charles cried out: "Hurrah for Jeff. Davis!" and continued to fight; so I suppose he was not seriously hurt. But I am going back to have some of the wounded brought away. I am afraid our loss is heavy." I waited to hear no more. I started forward, running through the woods toward Manassas. I heard Mr. Rich- ardson call out, "Stop!" but I did not stop. Then I heard footsteps behind me, and in spite of my utmost speed, I was soon overtaken by Tom, who said: "Cousin Azile, grandpa says 'wait for the carriage '-he will send it after you." But I replied: "Well, it can overtake me; I can- not stop." Tom kept beside me; but the carriage did overtake me at last; and I got in, while Tom mounted the box with the driver. A ZILE. 241 "Now uncle Joe," said Tom, "make the horses fly!" "Dey fly fas' as eny hosses in Virginny, Mas Tom," said uncle Joe. "I knows how-to qualify 'em! He cracked his whip, and they started off-fast, I sup- pose, but my heart was continually crying out: "Faster'! c-* faster!" It was twilight when we came to the scene of battle. It is now like a horrid dream of dead and dying men, of blood and brains, of the mingled groans of horses and the shrieks of agonizing human beings. Even then, I thought of the battle-scene that had come across my mind in the - streets of Dresden. Men were hurrying to and fro, but it I did not attend to them. I knew not what I was'doing; I only hastened forward, looking into the face of the dead ; -that lay on the ground before me. 'Suddenly Tom cried out: "Cousin Azile, there is cousin Spirro!" " (Where?" -I exclaimed. "There!" he said, pointing to a horseman who was gal- loping across the field. He rode too fast for our voices to reach him, but it was certainly he, and evidently unhurt. Never did I thank Heaven more devoutly. I continued to walk on over the'rough ground, plowed up by the cannon-balls of the enemy. Once my foot slipped, as I inadvertently stepped upon brains that had been scattered on the earth. ' With a; shudder,.I hastened onward, and saw, lying before me, near a tree, a man appa- rently dead. It was rapidly growing dark, and the face of - . page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] 242 AZILE. the fallen man was from me, but I knewa hillm. I sprang forward without speaking. The head was resting upon the arm, and the face- was bloody. I said: "Tom, bring water! quick! quick! for Heaven's sake!" I tried to turn the wounded, but I could not. I lifted the arm that was free; it seemed to be- shattered. I sat upon the ground, and took the head on my lap. I applied a bottle of salts to the nose; I rubbed the hands; I thought to myself, "- He is dead!" but my lips refused to say it. I only said: "O will Tom never, never, never come?" At last he came with a cup of water. A strange gentle- man was with him. Tom asked, as he handed me the water: "Cousin Azile, is he dead?" I answered: I do n't lknow. Tom said: "Who is he? Do you know him?" I nodded in assent. I tried to say "Eugene Bleauvais," but I could not; I felt as if the very life were going out of me; yet I did not faint. The stranger was bending over Eugene, feeling his wrist. He said: "He is not dead. Stay there a few moments, Miss; we will have him removed." As he left, Tom said: "That is Dr. Kennedy; if any- body can cure him, he can." I sat without speaking a word until he came back, and in that time I had lived a thousand years. I continued to chafe the lifeless hand that lay on my lap. AZILE. 243 A kind of bed was made, and the Doctor had Eugene iput upon it, and placed in the carriage. I took my seat' beside him, and in that doleful night, surrounded by dark woods, amidst clouds and rain, I passed with him through the valley of the shadow of death. ^ page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 501 WE: arrived at Mr. Richardson's. The body, still appa- rently lifeless, was taken into a room, and examined by the Doctor. When he came out, he said: I cannot decide as to the full amount of injury received. I hope the wound in the side is not very serious. 'The arm is considerably shattered, and may have to be amputated." I said: " Doctor, you will not leave him ?" He answered: "No, Miss, but you had better go up to your bed now." Without answering, I went into Eugene's room, and sat down beside the bed, and there I spent that miserable night. Toward daybreak his breathing was better, and after a while he murmured: "Water!" As I held it to his lips, he opened his eyes, and when he saw me, smiled. I was not sure whether he recognized me. During the day his consciousness returned, but the phy- sician forbade his speaking. Once, when he was alone with me, he whispered: "Azile, have you been with me all the while ?" AZILE. 245 "Yes, but you must not talk." He smiled again, and closed his eyes. One afternoon, as I went from his room to procure him some tea, I heard a little noise at the front-door, and looking to it, saw his mother entering the portico. I ran to meet her. She took me in her arms and said: "God bless you, my child!" The sound was like that of the Sabbath-bells upon the desert air, which one reads of in Eothen. Mrs. Beauvais had been in Richmond several days before the battle, anxious for her sons. She had at length learned that Eugene was wounded, and where he was, and had hastened to him. A week passed by, and although the house was filled with the wounded, Eugene was well nursed. Spirro and Edward, both of whom had escaped unhurt,had been to see him, but it had been impossible for them to remain. His mother and I gave him all our time, the family were kind, and Dr. Kennedy justified Tom's praises of him. One evening, however, when he examined Eugene's arm, he looked very grave, and said: "I am sorry, Mr. Beau- vais, to say any thing to you that is unpleasant, but you are a man of courage, and can bear it." "I know what it is,' Eugene said calmly; "it will be necessary to amputate my arm." The Doctor answered: " I am afraid so." "Very well, Doctor," he replied, "then the sooner it is done the better-can you do it to-morrow ?" "If you wish it." page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 AZILE. "Certainly, I would have it done immediately." "Then, I will come prepared to-morrow morning." During the conversation, Eugene's countenance had not changed at all. He lay upon a couch beside a window that looked toward the west, and after the Doctor had left, he spoke to his mother and me of the beauty of the sun- set, as if he had no care on his heart. I went up to my own room, and as I stood 'there, with my head against the mantle-piece, weeping as if my heart would break, I felt an arm placed around me, and Mrs. Beauvais said: "Azile, tell me why it was you would not marry Eugene? You know how devotedly he loves you- are you, indeed, indifferent to him, or was there some other reason?" I hid my face upon her bosom, and wept afresh. "What is it Azile? Will you not confide in me--your mother's earliest friend?" The spell was taken: from me. I lifted my head, and said calmly: "Because it would have been selfish in me to marry him--he had the right to look for a more brilliant alliance." "Azile Damaron," she exclaimed, "I have never before heard you say so foolish a thing! You have been very silly!" but she kissed me on the brow, and then putting her arm around me, we went down-stairs together. Our household was one of wakefulness, because of the. number of wounded men in it. It seemed as if we had all forgotten how to sleep. At nine o'clock Mrs. Beauvais went to her own room for something, and Eugene said to AZILE. 247 me: "Now, Azile, you must go to bed to-night and sleep; you are beginning to look ghostly for the want of rest." "No, Eugene, I cannot leave you any more now until--" "Until when?" I had intended saying, "until the amputation is per- formed," but I had not the courage to finish the sentence. "Azile," he said, " come here." I went to the couch. "Sit down." I took a chair beside him. "Now tell me," he continued, "until when will you remain with me? Azile, when I had health, and my limbs were unmarred, and my fortune apparently secure, I asked you to marry me, and you would not; now, without health, with the certain prospect of losing my arm, with no security for my property, for every cent of it shall go if necessary for the South, I again ask you, until when will you remain with me? Will you ever leave me again?" "Never!" The same word which had pronounced my destiny in Dresden, now reversed it. He took my hand as it lay upojn the covering of the couch, and exclaimed: "God bless you, my own, dear Azile!" "Eugene," I said, "you have a higher, nobler soul than mine, but I will learn of you, and try to be more like you." Mrs. Beauvais entered the room just then, and coming page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 AZILE. up to the couch, said: "Did you want any thing, my son?" "Nothing, my mother," he replied, "nothing; Azile has made amends to me for all-mother, here is your daugh- ter!" and placing my hand in hers, he kissed them both together. Mrs. Beauvais pressed me to her bosom, and whispered: "Fled from her wish, and then said-now I may." Eugene slept sweetly all night long, and when Dr. Ken- nedy came the next morning and examined his arm, his face brightened, and he said: "I believe I shall not take it off this morning, Mr. Beauvais." AZILE. * 249 CHAPTER LII. THE arm was not taken off; but it was decided that Eugene should return to Louisiana until he was entirely restored. "Not without you, Azile," he said; "you go with me as my wife, or I do not go at all." I need not tell my answer: I have said before, his temper was peremptory. One morning, a carriage drove to the door. Edward and Spirro got out, and then assisted some one else-it was Charles. He limped into the house, and called out to Eugene: "Mr. Beauvais, I hail you after the battle of Manassas! Did you not think you were on the confines of the lower regions? But an angel came, I am told, and rescued you; and now, to crown your good fortune, you are to have the office of captain of artillery forced upon you-for gallant conduct, they say; though I can see no special gallantry in feigning one's self dead, like another Falstaff, on the field of battle." "How is your wound, Charles?"Eugene asked. Charles answered: "Pooh! that was nothing! 'Not page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 .AZILE. blood!' as Joan of Arc, or somebody else, says; 'but a drop or two of glory, to cement the liberties of my country. " Edward had never spoken to me of Eugene; but in parting from me this morning, he pressed my hand warmly, and whispered: ( I forgive you, and thank you, mny sister." Weeks after the battle of Manassas, one morning when every thing was sunshiny, Captain Oglevie and Lucy came out from Richmond; Charles was with us, and Edward and Spirro, and a minister of the gospel, who was a friend of Eugene's. Every thing was dream-like about me. I remember that I was in a room where they were all assem- bled, and I stood beside Eugene. On the other side of me was Spirro. The minister was in front of us, and said something. I suppose it was the marriage-ceremony, but I did not hear it. I only know that Eugene took my hand, and the minister said: "I pronounce you man and wife." And now, I had a mother once more-an own, true mother, and another brother in Edward. Mrs. Richardson had the breakfast-table spread with all that Virginia hospitality could invent, and little Tom said he wished somebody would be married every day. We all went in carriages to the railroad, and when a seat had been arranged so that Eugene could lie down, Charles, and Edward, and Spirro left us. Captain Oglevie and Lucy went with us to Richmond, and then our party was reduced to Eugene and myself, with our mother. That was a happy journey, when I sat beside Eugene and arranged his pillows, and listened to him talk, and felt that nothing could separate us but death. AZILE. 251 We reached his beautiful home in Louisiana, and the rejoicings of the old servants brought tears to the eyes of more than one of us. I assisted Eugene to his room, but started back with joyful surprise to see my pwn copy of the Holbein Madonna over the-mantle-piece. On the wall, between two windows that open upon the front gallery, was the "Chocolate Girl." Eugene had insisted upon having them, and had exchanged two other paintings with Mrs. De Vere for them. There, also, was the portrait-the dark-eyed portrait of the atelier. This last belongs rightfully to his mother's room, but she is so kind as to let it remain a while longer, where, for con- venience, it had been temporarily placed. And now I sit with the Madonna smiling upon me. But I look up to the portrait which introduced me to the path that has led to my happiness. I glance from its contem- plative eyes to the loving eyes of the original, as he sits beside me, looking out upon the river, and his arm resting upon my table, while he hums the burden of that old song: "Ah, well-a-day! The sweetest melody Can never, never say One-half my love for thee!" THE END. page: 252-253 (Advertisement) [View Page 252-253 (Advertisement) ] 1 I r) i I L 1 I " i J a OUR OWN PUBLICATIONS. APOSTOLICAL SUCCESSION, ESSAY ON. By Powell. With an Introduction by T. O. Summers, D D. 12mo. $1 25 ARMNIUS, LIFE OF JAMES, D D., Professor of Theology in the University of -Leyden, Holland. Trans- lated from the Latin of Casper Brandt, Remonstrant Min- ister, Amsterdam, by John Guthrie, A M. With an Intro- duction by T. O. Summers, D D. 12mo. 1 50 AZILE. By Mrs. Jane T. H. Cross. 12mo, muslin. 1 5o This charming little book is just from the press. It is written in the best style of the gifted author, and abounds with pas- sages of surpassing beauty, life-like descriptions, criticisms of works of art, and the like, suggested by her travels in Europe -all strung like pearls upon the silken thread of an ingenious and entertaining story. BAPTISM: A Treatise on the Nature, Perpetuity, Subjects, Administrator, Mode, and Use of the Initiating Ordinance of the Christian Church. 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