The smuggler's daughter
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In a com- munity like ours, where almost every man is a trader-.- where property is constantly changing hands, and where so manyf business transactions requiring the mediunm of legal evidence are of daily occurrence among our Farmers, .5e- clianics, and Bouseholders, as well as regular business nieu, S UGGL DA UGHTElR, m]t S' 4)-° ALSO: THE TWO MAIPENS, BY T. S. ARTHUR. CINCINNATI: PUBLISHED BY 167 WALNUT U. P. JAMES, S T RE E T, --' " !Yr~~ma1 _ f' ' 1i -' _. ' .~ tI , - ." THE a fie., ;.,,. ^. : i=- . .,: { , , ._ - . -... r ... _. . - n,.45. } s-..w ...-.c ...: , ..wi, yy ,,;yr .} ,.,,s..,... - ., .. ...-.....+ .w; ti' Wie J[ "' = ' W~'. °. .- '' '"i -. ... ., ..r.. - re"., . vN' G ay';i1 iY.,.a d.,.1. ....,i4sgwi..wsa'. .:.w: .° /P*iwa' .wt r. @9-} 1": Mi, "+w.nr,}w ,y ,., , ,v.Ky , , ;.{.; .C,.qt.,Lryy," 0 ' + . i r d dub (!)1jpr aIc. page: (Table of Contents) [View Page (Table of Contents) ] 0 NTENTS. The Smuggler's Daughter. ............. The Faded Girl....."...... ....... The Last of thebLine--ByAMrs. S. C. Hal. . . ...... The Two Maidens-By7T. .sArthur.. ...... The Secret. A Tale from the French.............. - The Blighted One. -... ..... . .. . . - The Spanish Headsman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Legend of Rose Roche-By the Author of "Stories of Waterloo.". . .. . ... . BarbaraS- , By Charles Lamb The 'Trysting Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *..... . . A Story of the Heart............... . . . . . . . . The Vacant Chair-By J.M. Wilson, Esq. ... The Queen of the Meadow--By Miss Mitford.......... Pauline DeMoulan. n.... .................. The Wine Merchant's Story.-By the author of " Tue ng's 3 f 16' 36t tf. 40i 49 57 65 4 45 49 9 85 1 { ! k fY Sj' I "' i '; f ' f~ t, 't: i -& --" .1 - . =f : ,' , page: 0-9[View Page 0-9] / THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER. A FEW weeks since business caused ny attendance at the admiralty. While waiting in one of the anti-rooms, I heard myself accosted by name by a tall. and elegant looking man standing neir me.- 'My eye rested on his figure, but memory refused recognition in the gaze. I in- quired his identity. My surprise was great at finding he was one of my dear- est and earliest friends; and the start of astonishment, almost-of pain, which his revelation elicited from e, must have communicated to him t e knowledge of the withering havoc 1 ich sorrow had made on his person. Only five years had elapsed since o r last meeting, and that period, when nmarked by mentalI suffering or sicknes , may pass over man while in his prime- nd Capt. Tancred was now only thirty-fiv -without leav ing a record of its flight. I had known him in boyhood: he had been my wildest, but the truest and most generous of my school companions. His presence had ever been the signal for some thoughtless freak or hazardous ad- venture. With a spirit fresh and buoy- ant as the mountain air, exuberant health, and exhaustless vivacity, he was formed to be the idol of his associates. He seemed destined for happiness; he had every el- ement of it in himself: and utterly ex- I empt from that contracting selfishness which binds up the sympathies of too E many natures, he revelled in the joy oft dispensing it to others. Left to the choice of a profession, he selected that of the' sea: it assimilated'best with his taste, for it afforded indulgence to his peculiarly temperament, which, always seeking af- ter strong excitements, would even court danger in all its varieties. The very char- acter of the element had charms for him r he loved -its false unsubstantial surface, its engulphing depths, its perilous quick- sands, the warfare of its waves, whose wild hoarse murmurs seem to warn man from their territories ; they had terror in their sound, and that sound was music to his ears. Often when the tempest from above had-lashed theocean into fury, and it boiled forth its wrath in billows which threatened destruction to aught of human power that dared its ire, I have known him singly to embark in a little boat, in assertion, as he would say, of man's prerogatives, and to trample on the enemy which seemed to oppose his free agency over nature and her works. At the termination of our maritime struggles, finding his very soul enervated at the prospect of indolent peace, he ob- tained command of a revenue cutter, and I parted with him in the full glow of health, on his departure for the coast of Norfolk, to enter on his new service. En- gaged in active pursuits, I had little op- portunity for -correspondence ; but my heart often held communion wihim, who was the dearest friend " had ever known. An interval of leisure havitig occurred in my occupation, I had resolv- ed on visiting him a few days 'subse- quently to the period when chance again united us. And was it-could it be Tancred, the gay, the handsome, the vol- atile Tanered, who stood before me? His very voice seemed changed; his ac- 9 1 9 I ' " r .1 " it "" J 'r , r t dk .- a +rtt - --,wr ,r. ai +ls -.li;V . Su rt, p._raw. *...".a.:, ra. ..: 4wr ..,^t b } ky, L - y r a swri . l rue. i:!_ "i Y" .d.:,t . ' 4A -1*4 79a r SM Jt a: +d h-' 3 + .ioiz w s44 us: " .roc+t c#Yti .rt+ ' .s.4ns4 ;tr( ' =: #aS'e +''w .+iis" ;Mi. 'U,1 D"'$ '01tF'7, r} 'a'::4' l,' "p,.:s +..-,suss:.-_ _. r -' ' a i w fyT: r ,r 'tr $i t - t iI E T tf #i+! i; 1x 1 sEa + i ' J 3 is °t 1 ,j i F ,t i i i - ,n t 4 s ' . ,-W,#M t ,i 9 r .,, ,1 C t i1 4 4 } \ I tp k J page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 The Smuggler's .Daughter. cents had now a mournful and drear cadence, like the responses of a rifte cavern, and they were the echoes of bare and shivered heart. There wa still about him the exquisite polish of-de meanor so often instinctive with hig] birth-for Tancred was nobly connected --which had always distinguished him but the lofty bearing, the unquailing eye the sunny smile, was gone for ever! A an interview which I afterwards had with him, he disclosed to me the events which had produced such a metamorphosis in his aspect and manner. The substance( wais as follows- The signal station which Captain Tan cred commanded was situated, as I have said, on the coast of Norfolk. It was near a remote hamlet, and partook, in an eminent degree, of that dulness and in- sipidity which so often distinguishes a country village. The scenery was not of that elevated and picturesque charac- ter, which, in many parts of England, rivalling in loveliness and grandeur the landscapes of Italy or Switzerland, might well content a people less migratory than ourselves, with the native samples it dis- plays of nature's power. W had none of this; the painter or the poet might have looked' on it without the faintest glow of that kindling enthusiasm which rushes from the heart and thrills through the frame, at the sight (f beauty,' in whatever guise displayed, uninstruct- ed, unaltered, by the sophistications of art--fresh, luxuriant, and perfect, the vis- ible and tangible evidence of that uner- ring system of harmony and arrangement, by which the Divine Ruler conducts the universe. The inhabitants, too, of W--- were generally uncultivated and illiterate. Education had there been tardy in its civ- ilizing influence; and there was amongst the lower classes--the mass of the popu- lation.---little of that amenity of feeling and manner which may in some measure atone for the absence of -the higher mental qualities. The service in which Capt. 'Tancred was engaged drew an almost entire line of demarkation between him-j self and his neighbors. H-e met them,1 and perchance the bow and courtesy of compelled deference were accorded; but1 The Smuggler's Daughter. 11 the individual of the danger of her situ- lose its look of boundless radiance; while ation, or curiosity to discover who was a glance of deep, mournful, and passion- the lonely wanderer--or gallantry, as that ate feeling, would beam from its azure wanderer bore the outline of a female, depths, aind the dark silken fringe which which led him hastily forward to offer shrouded its glory become gemmed with protection. It was declined by the young the tears of silent sorrow. and lovely girl to whom it was proffered, Tancred often interrogated her as to with such bewitching yet shrinking ti- the cause of her unavowed grief. To ( midity, such trembling apprehensiveness, imagine it the result of personal miscon- that his interest was far more, powerfully duct was incompatible with the angelic awakened by her refusal, thaq if she 'had purity which so peculiarly distinguished acceded to his request. Casual and slight, her, and which, even more, perhaps, than' however, as this introduction to each oth- her extreme loveliness, captivated hisim- er may seem, it formed the basis of a agination and enthralled his heart. Of permanent acquaintance. It is unneces- her relations and friends she spoke little. sary for me to trace its progress, or to She talked indeed of her father, but it , follow it through all its graduations, was evident that feai' and awe were blend- while.germinating into friendship, till it ed with filial love and duty. That she arrived at the maturity of love. The moved in the lower walks of life, her ap- developement of a passion, which in- pearance indicated, though in her conver- volves the whole sum of earthly happi- sation, and in the soft and gentle repose ness of two individuals-which embraces of her manner, there was not discovered in its issue anguish or bliss to them, the slightest taint of vulgarity. Theymet .here and hereafter, may yet be too defi- but seldom, and each time with the re- cient in striking peculiarity of incident to solve on Helen's lips of parting forever ! engage the sympathies of other's. To a' But who shall tell the struggle it requires certain point this was the case in the at- voluntarily to separate from a being most tachment of Capt. Tancred and Helen, dear to us? Policy and prudence- for so was his idol called. There was a worldly wisdom may bid us ha--st the mystery about her, which she seemed fetters which enchain our souls; but most unwilling to account for or unravel, when those fetters are, at the same time, y there was 'neither glance, nor tone, nor d word of sympathy exchanged. He was a looked upon, by even those who stood s unconnected with the illicit' traffic which it devolved on him to oppose, with h distrust and suspicion. He was one of d those men, however, whose activity and healthiness of temperament supply to , themselves the deficiencies of place and t people. Still there were moments when his customary employment failed of amusement, when even his own beloved 'element was gazed upon with an eye of listlessness and dissatisfaction, when he would more gladly have enjoyed commu- nion with living than inanimate nature. In one of these moods 'he wandered forth on the beach. It was at that hour when The moon was up, and yet it was not inght. The sun was still in the sky, and the ocean blushed in- the gorgeous beams which crimsoned the west. A thousand clouds floated around the throne of his expiring glory, as though they were anx- ious to bear away to some favorite and distant clime, a trace of his splendor. A few stars were out to mark and guard the orbit of the timid moon, which, pale and more beautiful than all, seemed the type of that blissful world of peace and rest, from which she had just emerged.-- Tancred felt in its full force the might and majesty around .him. Who can look on the boundless deep, the uncir- cumscribed firmament, the "stars which are the poetry of heaven," and not feel his own insignificance in the scale of cre- ation ? Who can think of the world, its empty distinctions, its feverish passions, its trivial pursuits, while gazing on the immensity of nature ? The heart must be dead to every finer impulse, the mind destitute of every noble desire, which can restrict its views and wishes to mor- tality, while contemplating the symbols of immortality! .- Immersed in his own reflections, the hours glided imperceptibly on, and Tan- cred started, on finding the waves were " winning their way to the golden shore." lHe was about to retreat hastily, when a form at a distance met his oIbservation. Perhaps it might be humanity to warn the only connecting links between us and happiness--when the snapping of them rives asunder, too, the ties of sympathy, and affection--oh ! who shall marvel that we hug the chain closer and closer, till the meshes become so woven and entan- gled with our very heart's strings, that the breaking of the one may shiver the others too ! Tancred, convinced that the destiny of his future life depended for light or dark. ness on his beloved .Helen, offered his hand, though literally ignorant of the very name of her to whom he tendered it. His proposal was received in silence and tears ; still it was not rejected ; in- deed a faint smile illuminated her counte- nance, and a slight pressure of the hand she gave, when he talked of the ensuing week for their nuptials. This was su- perstructure enough for Tancred to build a fairy castle of hope upon, and he anti- cipated with unbounded joy, the near 7'}I 7 Beyond the name of Helen, he was even ignorant how the object of his worship was designated. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet !" and, while gazing on the exquisite being before him, he often thought how little accessary were name, birth, or station, to the pos- session of beauty, grace, and dignity. She was eighteen, yet looked even child- ishly young for that brief date of years. Her form was bounding and light, and there was a freedom and elasticity in her step, which her natural quietness of'spirit and demeanor at times could scarcely con- trol. There were moments when a dark and melancholy shade would steal across- a brow pure and clear as the fair and .stainless snows of heaven; and the small rosy mouth, which seemed blushing for the peril its matchless beauty exposed others to, would compress and almost quiver with internal agony. The eye, too, so blue and bright, would sometimes ; .Ltt(' gQ JM4r x r ;.+=: r' 1 y i' ., i: ;. sU.y w ' " 'R I - "+S a."... a Yv nr" r ..A, Lty LL't 2, v X rw i M 'f 'L Oe , . r=-,si _ k ,r"rsu1^' *..iR .,,r,. _ , V w'Fr.,r a' Nw+ 7a' s z. _ - + e ;,yam ;?,-t kw page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 prospect of calling Helen, the fair, th delicate Helen, his own forever ! But now to deviate from the order o my narrative. In a ragged and rarely-trodden pat which led to the beach, stood a mea and. lonely hut. It was of that coars and rude description which the min involuntarily associates with the ide of even squalid poverty, and fror which the eye retreats, while the boson yields a sigh -for those condemned to in habit it. It wore a cheerless aspect, a air of negligence and gloomy desolate ness, which seemed as though it wer wilfully indulged, and even prided in The inmates of this hut consisted of al old man and his daughter--little wa known of them. The ascetip and un compromising sternness of the father op rated so powerfully against the daugh ter, that her meek demeanor and singula loveliness could hardly subdue the gene ral feeling of dislike which was entertain ed for them. Of their former occupation or even the precise nature of their pres ent ' employment, none were aware Some imagined that the father labored under a painful alienation of reason; for there was at times. a savage moodiness about him which approximated to insani- ty. He seldom was met in the hamlet, and neither visited nor received his neigh- bors, by many of whom, as he had been more than once surprised in the exercise of fire-arms and the arrangement of sea- tackle, it was supposed that he followed the dark, desperate, and unlicensed trade' of smuggling.-The unavowed exercise, too, of any other occupation, rendered the belief prevalent and strong. Nor was suspicion false. Old Denham, which was the appellation of Helen's father, was a smuggler by vocation and choice, it, might be also said, by nature. In early life he had filled a subaltern situation in the navy; but the moroseness of his tem- per led to quarrels with his captain, and he quitted an honorable service, to engage in a dishonorable traffic. He had fancied himself wronged, though he himself was his own enemy. The conviction, how- ever, of having been injured, combined with the loss of a wife, who, though he e tyrannized over while living, he bewailed ceaselessly when dead, and the accidental )f death of an only son, soured his disposi, Lion to absolute malignity.- The constant h poverty which he struggled with, his ex- .n clusion from all -society, and even the e beauty of Helen, which might render her d so accessible to design and danger-all a lent their aid in making Denham an ob- n ject of restless anxiety to his child, and n detestation to his neighbors. - It has been stated, that, in ignorance n of her condition in life, in ignorance that - he had 'proffered his hand to one whose e father would have had little compunction . in stabbing him to the heart, Capt. Tan- n cred had fixed the following week for s uniting himself to the smuggler's daugh- - ter. For several nights a vessel had been - observed floating on the dark waters, - which had aroused the suspicions of r Captain Tancred. - On the Saturday night - preceding the week in which he fondly - hoped to realize his heart's dearest wish, it was again descried. On that evening a seaman, who had recently been added to their detachment, was on watch for the l first time. By the moonlight he recog-. nized in the commander of the little ves- sel a notorious smuggler who had long infested the coast of Kent, where he had previously served, but always eluded pur- suit, and had for some months disappear- ed from the neighborhood. The intelli- gence was communicated to Captain Tancred, who, with a party of men, put off in chase. It was a wild and stormy night; the moon at intervals only broke through the huge masses of cloud which drifted along the sky, the darkness of which received frequent illuminations from the lightning's blue glare. The wind howled around, and From peak to peak the rattling crags among, Leaped the live thunder. Many a heart might have blenched from daring man's and heaven's wrath 'on such a night as this ; but Tancred and his companions were fearless ; duty ex.- cited them, and they sped 'onwards daunt- lessly. The vessels met, and a short but determined encounter ensued. The ni. merical strength of the smugglers was trifling in comparison with their oppo- nents; but despair lent them gigantic en- ergy, and they fought as though this world: and the next had been staked on the is- sue of the engagement. After a brief space, however, the scuffle terminated in the defeat and capture of the smugglers. Yet there was one amongst them who; stood unharmed, unyielding, undismayed. Throughout the combat a savage desper- ateness and ferocity of conduct had dis- tinguished him from his comrades, His' arm brandished a huge cutlass, which he raised to strike at the head of Captain, Tancred, who at the same moment.dis- charged his blunderbuss. One ball en- tered the heart of the smuggler, and a: gurgling splash of blood welled from his side. One deep short groan, and the! heart stopped its pulsations, and he fell" a heavy corpse at the feet of Tancred! But the smuggler was not alone in his death-nor a single victim to Tancred's, fathl weapon ;-" its scattered shot de- struction dealt around." In the com- mencement of the affray, a slight figure, masked, and enveloped in a large cloak,) had es aped 'observation by crouching in, one corner of the vessel. As the danger thickegd, however, that form sprang from concealment,,and was about to in- terpose between the combatants, when, the fatal trigger was pulled, and a random bullet entered a bosom heaving with love for its murderer. The brave and the, weak, the stern and the delicate, alike had; been annihilated by Tancred's arm, and, lay prostrate before him! The vessel' steered hastily back to the shore, and then was the discovery made, which stamped with unalloyed and unmitigable grief the future life of Tancred. Thel bodies of the smuggler and his comrades' were removed from the boat.. There was no mask to hide the features of 01(d Denhani, and his ascertained identity cre- ated little sympathy. But the tearing off the mask, the removal of the fatal dis- guise from the figure of his youthful ad- herent, awakened a thrill of horror, and interest, and pity, in many a rugged breast, and overwhelmed one with a tide of misery that never ebbed. Perception -" v L The Smuggler's Daughter. his daughter's state of unprotected loveli- ness might be invaded by insult. There was no ostentatious parade of grief about rT'ancred; not a single tear did he shed: over the grave, when it opened to receive his life's essence. But the blight, had struck at his heart, withered up every blossom of joy, and blasted, as with vol- canic influence, the' soft verdure of hope- that had grown there. No 'amusements beguiled him of woe, no occupation rob- bed him of one pang of recollection.. "Memory ceaselessly plied the work of pain," and at the age of thirty-five he ap- peared before me, a bankrupt of joy, with a shattered frame, haggard looks, and a.. wasted and agonized heart ! n'' A 'x; The Smuggler's Daughter. at first refused to y reality of the appear Horror without him hope,, were in the con tion did come, and th the matchless agon3 Yes ! it was the co: lay before him--kill hand ! The fair, the being whom he had v idolatry of devoted l on his bosom in the pure affection, and to the whole earthly su He put aside the gol now clotted with go marble cheek, who; stained with blood.- yet on the lids lay a f the latest mementos The little flower whi evening presented to in her bosom. It wa, but, worthless as it a him the world's richer ed poor for the purch On inquiry it was p in his wayward mop his daughter to be h unlawful and danger reasonable motive co such proceedings by be traced to the nat disposition, or might fears "that he somet _i. . 1 _ ,r ;r Y -s t w , Y ' , ' i e. '' ^ . rt w,"d: ,' are F'' .1 t ", " .+:Y '@ r"+r.ron. t Nv--r :.w a' i ,w .V v«:usrti'a , w'" " T, - . ' -i.+kX.-vi. +y - aY^..dii... Mir."vaV'..w -r. 1. 1 _ _ '..av .. . p ~tr .. ., if .w.a, asw wrrweY,... M .- R}A1 U, y t . 'an..,1d °.: (,y.W 2 1 ' d'44 ° .... , t aL J I. { v P i a Y .« i tic 7 M } ) y ' g7_P'_,;r 'R f'.{ «w.v ds 'Vi. IWr ' 5; . . r+ t :N 11fA24.iWjdl4%41iMYdN4li:x 7l i 1 W '4P M M '° Y NYA'.M/iCNri11!d Vtd r- ' *',.i'+4W.'Mb litF"Y . 4rt' , e R a (1 aRT}M^ q~ M .'a Y , .dK" § t , , 51 i it r ' t ikwt.^Y .: iw... .Ww... - - ... , ...L ,_ - _ _ w! .Y' y 2 - " w....a aie..i,. ,,.i . r ..ui... i _ i . .p'. a.. f.l r&i , T%. 7k ,'L14WZ'!f[ dL a .i L .i It 13 field credence to the since presented to it. it, despair without viction; but convic- e mind sickens with y of the moment. rpse of Helen that ed, too, by his own e fond, the beautiful worshipped with the ove ; who had lain sweet confidence of whom he had been m of weal or woe! len hair, which was )re, and kissed the se whiteness was Her eye was closed, w glimmering tears, of human suffering. ich he had that very her, was yet hidden - s crushed and faded; ppeared to some, to es would have seem- ase of the holy relic. roved that Denham, ds, would often take is companion in his )us enterprises. No uld be assigned for others ;,it could only ural tyranny of his find solution in the times expressed lest a page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] The Faded Girl. I KNEW Anna Delaney in her earl childhood. She was a lovely little be ing--playful as a fawn, bounding as at antelope. I parted from her for a few years, and when I returned, she was blossoming beauty of sixteen summers- a flirt in the fullest sense of the phrase and surrounded by admirers. Her sligh frame had rounded to perfect grace-- deeper fire lit the brilliance of her eye and a stronger glow played fitfully upon her cheek. Her intellect, also, had won derfully developed. She- was even in her childhood esteemed precocious in mind and smart beyond her years; but I thought it impossible that so few sum- mers culd effect the revolution in the person and manners of Anna, the fruits of which I'now witnessed. It was just at twilight, in August, when I visited her father's house, after a long; absence. I inquired for her brother, who was my friend ; and, being shown into the parlor, was recognized and welcomed home by Anna. At first, unconscious that the being before me. could be her whose girlish lip I had so often pressed in innocent hilarity-I was formal and distantly polite; but the moment she was fully recognized, I again touched, her forehead with my lips, and pressed her light hand with the true warmth of friend- ship. The evening gradually stole on, and with the passage of the flying hours several young-gentlemen dropped in, evi- dently for the purpose of enjoying the society of Anna. Volatile and witty, she was polite and entertaining with all, and gave an interest and zeal to her con- versation beyond what might be expected y from her years.' She freely discussed - the merits of all the new works of note, n and expatiated with much discernment' v on the general features of the times. Of a me she inquired into the particulars of my travels, and endeavored by every method, to add to the stock of informa. t tion she already possessed. a The night waned apace, and I returned to my residence, reflecting on the change which a few years sometimes effects. I - also mused of the creature who had sud- denly started into womanhood, bright and beautiful. Visions of love and of hap- piness floated through my imagination, and I fell into elysium dreams. The past came back to me-,-again I saw Anna Delaney in her innocent childhood, throwing her little arms around my neck, and holding up her guileless lips that I might kiss them. Then, the scene sud- denly changed-a stately and majestic creature stood before me; a slight tinge of pride was blended with the crimson of her lip, and a flash of fire mingled in the glorious light of her eye. I fell down, before her, and poured into her soul vows of affection-she blushed, trembled, and was silent ; but at last I felt her finger cling with a closer grasp to mine-the blood -shot like lightning through my veins-my heart was flooded with rap- ture, as she clung to my embrace. Again the scene changed-we were before the altar--she arrayed in all the splendor of her bridal garments, and I wrapped in elysian smiles of happiness. Her father and mother, and her brother, my friend, were all-.there. The hoary headed priest came in his sacerdotal array, and stood before the altar. Anna leaned, in her girlish weakness, upon my arm. I could perceive that she trembled, and a thrill of joy, blended with a strange tremor, passed over my own heart. The priest took the holy book in his hands; friends and relatives stood around us. I placed the hand of Anna in mine. A peal $f thunder shook the church to its founda- tion-and I awoke. A summer sun shone warmly into my chamber. In vain I strove to shake off' the delusion of my dream. ,The look of my trembling bride still haunted my, imagination, and the peal of thunder still rung strangely in my ears. For many, months I was the nightly visiter of Anna Delancy. The impression which her wit and beauty made upon my under- standing, strengthened with every visit, but knowing that I must again return to Europe for a- fsw months, I postponed the avowal of my passion until the even- ing previous to my departure. Fleetly the time passed in that interval. Hap- pily I may say, for although tortured by doubts and fears, there were some gleams of unsophisticated kindness in the man- ners of Ana, and I frequently persuaded myself that I was beloved. . But the time of my embarkation speedily arrived; and the night previous found me at the feet of her I loved. I told my tale with all the pathos possible. When I had! finished, she questioned me concerning my anticipated absence ! I told her that the ensuing night would find myself on the ocean. She hesitated long, and'with apparent seriousness-told me as yet her heart was wholly her own-promised, if my absence did not extend beyond six months, she would still retain the right of appropriating of its affections. One hallowed kiss was imprinted uuon her lips, and we parted. The term of ab ence was extended to two years. Duri g all that period the image of Anna Del ncy held the freshest and warmest place 'n my heart. I un- derwent trials and 'ps-toil and strife-but still she held the choicest shrine in my memory--was the dearest and fondest theme of my dreams. Con- stantly I wrote to her; but neither antici- pated nor received an answer-my hopes were still alive, though delayed--and I tho ght oft and long of the period when I s ould again return and find her all that my fondest dreams portrayed. At length I returned. Again I knock- ed at the door of her father's dwelling, an was admitted to the same parlor as be pre. The furniture was- the same, and seemed placed in the precise situa- tio i as when I was last there. A thou- sand delightful and familiar images croyd- ed into my mind. Anna Delancy was also there-but oh God ! how changed. She rose with a faint smile, and my name trembled from her lips. I would have clasped her to my heart, but shud- dered at the change as I gazed upon her features. Her history during my absence is brief. She loved and was beloved in return, by one who possessed every quality, both of mind and person, for winning the affec- tions of a young and artless female. He enjoyed a highly respectable station in society, was accepted by Anna's parents, and soon accepted by herself. The day was fixed for the wedding, when she was suddenly attacked by that most terrible disease, the small pox.# The sequel may readily be anticipated. Her beauty was totally destroyed-her lover forsook her, and she was now pining away of a broken heart. Oh God, forgive the change that will pass over human affections. i . THE FADED GIRL. ..i, . .._ r Y .3rr.AS ti.sG S k-r^ 7" till.riiiis yy , t . x , , .., wfF _' lrTe ., y , A .a .. .s.n , - t ;; .,. .r 4 (..w. .. tla..-« } i , , . - I " w, +i. R _ y. , r. r r -",!* rr r 4 rt 4"°.°i v!A.?F+ .i. d e 7! ;y, ,,':,Tm ',"; Fpl ii *maui, ' ,atn q, i' , ' . ,, +, ; - Qn, - _..-.. ,' A ,. ' A ' y vii } fit IMexyy y , , ' r bf+r , ;6=+, ti. t ,.e. t.,, y^I N 7 - . F . , . .wM} qy u}+r'} c ' , ' 1 tit ^ , tr ..",a °k i ,r. . :t k f I' ' 4i w L17d f': +M ", +, '¢ P, . 4v C:E17 1 .fF' 1,' M fl ' r 'lM? : A7t ": ,}'1.--.:i; + 15 c w . i s Y" r 1 3 ' : 'S * sy "sf '} . t. 'I ' ' E .1 vS "' t _ r d , - x, i :a ,4 rr i .j .; " t _, ,', . A ,.e r . _ I v' .1a .rw"+ .. -y "-... ,,,, _ , .ry+aagy '1 r . " ay' ,.. , " J / ' Y - Lnk.,, .. . - ., , '. aY r 'a, _.. , . -. , . .,... W'.e.+few:x _ ,u,...,, r + .. ._ ..a, v .. ar i . - Y' a }Ar.Wa vva 7 '152tr',A 1YNdgq %drp ' K a" .s -i. .ua 1. xE"~-I.,f....,a+n iv',.+++.i ' s . i',1 , .ar"4wVA r+'i:lAx Krdi'a' }w'h' k j 'agE'V' .._ - t page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] The Last of the Line. 17 THE LAST OF THE LINE BY MRS. S. C. HALL. IT was on ea tranquil evening, inthe might have almost thought her destined lady of no ordinary a ane sthat a "To come like truth, and disappear like dreams." ly of o rdnay appearance sat at an open casement of many-coloured glass, Though she was young, there was much and overlooked a wild, but singularly of the dignity of silent sorrow in her as- beautiful, count.ry. From the window a pect; and it was difficult to converse flight of steep stone steps led to a nar- with her without feeling her influence row terrace, that, in former times, had not to overpower, but to soften. Her been carefully guarded by high parapets form was slight, but rounded tosthe most of rudely-carved granite ; but they had perfect symmetry, and an extraordinary len tdeeay, and lay m mouldering quantity of hair, black as the raven's heaps on the shrubby bank, which ran wing, was braided, somewhat after the almost perpendicularly to a rapid stream fashion of other lands, over a high and that danced like a sunny spirit through well-formed brow; although such was the green meadows, dotted and animated the style of the times, she wore ono head- with sheep and their sportive lambs. In dress, except what nature-had bestowed; the distance, rude and rugged mountains a golden rosary, and cross of the same towered innatiare dignity, "high in air," metal, gemmed with many precious jew- their grim an sterile appearance form- els, hung over a harp-stand of antique ing an extraordinary, but not unpleasing, workmanship;, a few of the strings of contrast to the pure and happylooking the harp were broken, and a pile of rich-. valley at their base, where, however, a ly-bound music gave no token of being few dingy peasant-cottages lay thinly often disturbed. Silken Ottomans, gild- scattered, injuring rather than enlivening ed vases, fresh-gathered flowers, and a a scene that nature had done much to long embroidered sofa, filled up, almost adorn, and man nothing . to preserve. to crowding, the small apartment. In a H-alf way up the nearest mountain, a lit- little recess, opposite the- window, a tle chapel, dedicated to "our Lady of child's couch was fitted with much taste Grace," hung, like a whited wren's nest, and care ; the hangings were of blue on what seemed a point of rock ; but, damask, curiously inwrought with silver, not even its rustic cross was visible from such as the nuns in France and Flanders the antique casement. Often and anx- delight to emboss; there was also a loose iously did the lady watch the distant fig- coverlet of the same material, and a tas- ures who trod the hill-side towards the seled oblong cushion at either end. I- holy place, to perform some act of pen- have said that the lady was seated at the ance or devotion, casement; sometimes she pressed her It was impossible to look on that in- small white fingers to her browand teresting woman without affection ; one then passed them over its rounded sur- face, as if to dispel, by that simple move- ment, thoughts, "the unbidden guests of anxious hours ;"-but still it was only for a moment her gaze was turned from her best -treasure,- her only child ; her eye followed it as, in its nurse's arms, it enjoyed the -evening breeze that played amid its light and clustering hair; the baby had a blue eye and a fair skin; and, if it sometimes, in the infantine se- riousness that passed as airy shadows over a smiling landscape, resembled its mother, now, as it laughed and shouted, in broken accents, " Mamma!'mamma !" she thought how like its father it spoke and looked. Clavis Abbey-as the strange mixture of ancient and modern buildings, inhabited by the household of Sir John Clavis, was called-was wisely situated. The monks of old always chose happily for their monasteries ; the sites of their ruined aisles tell of the good taste, as well as good sense, of their reverend projectors. Hill, wood, and cdater, were ever, in their neighbor- hood, and the red deer and salmon were' always near to contribute to their repast. But the fair possessions had, more than a century before our tale com- mences, passed from the hands of holy Mother Church. The marvellous tale of its exchange of masters is still often repeated, and always credited ; it is said and believed, that the stream, which runs through the valley I have described, is every midsummer-night of a deep-red hue, in mysterious- commemoration of the massacre of the priests of that abbey, which took place as late as the Eliza- bethian reign. Certain it is that the pro- jector of such indiscriminate slaughter, never reaped the rich harvest he antici- pated; for, unable from severe illness to visit the court of the maiden queen, lie' despatched his son's tutor on the mis-I sion, wtlhcommunication of satheand - vie he ha redee the latde ad a petiion for a grant othladhea' rescued from popery. The tutor, how- ever, made himself so agreeable to the royal lady that she either was, or affect- ed to be, severely angered by the unne- cessary effusion of blood ; and, so far from approving, testified her displeasure, and bestowed the fair lands of the mur- dered monks upon Oliver Clavis, the false, but handsome, accessary of the priest-slayer. But no family could take possession of the consecrated'ground in Ireland witho t falling under the ban of both Jure nd people; and, notwith- standing the bland and liberal conduct of the new owner of the estate, then called Clavis Abbey, Oliver lived and. died as unpopular as could well be imagined. Tradition says that none of the heirs male of the family ever departed peace- ably in their beds, and much learned and unlearned lore is still extant upon the subject. Somewhat about the year 1782, Sir John Clavis entered upon his title and property, in consequence of the sudden demise of his father, Sir Henry, who was drowned on a moonshiny night, when the air and the sea were calm, and he was re- turning from an excursion to one of those fairy islands that at once' beautify and render dangerous the Irish coast. The people who accompanied him, on that last day of his existence, say that he had been in unusual health and spirits during the morning, and had fished, and sung, and drank as usual-that as the night ad- vanced he became reserved and gloomy, and, as they neared the coast, insisted on taking the helm-that, suddenly yielding the guidance of his little vessel, he sprang overboard-that immediately thy- crew crowded to save him, but a black cloud descended on the waters, and hid his form from their eyes, and it was not until the boat had driven an entire mile (as well as they could calculate) from the spot, they were enabled to behold the sea and the sky. Some laughed, some surmised, but many credited the tale, for superstition had hardly, at that period, resigned any of her strong holds; and the peasantry, acted unde the influence of a spirit-guide, that had lured-him to sudden death, con- formably with the old prophecy- " The party shall fail by Clavis ledter i And none of te name shl die in thi -e. Sir John had just completed his col- lege course when he was called upon to support the honors of his house and "i, a : .t ; , r 4 ' ryNh _ . J "N -. 1. + " r ..... ] ,. ' S.J 1 lw w .V" isf l l'i ' W{'. .ns i a __ "" t ' . ' ..u ' ""_iTn' n'k ii i 5, _ F sI 'Y i'f{'1a b .. .v tnw ; .8b! $-l, l , t ,. ,,4, ,. } . ., y °,^ qrn '. , p , , :' k 3 ' gT , si, e r " ,d v e*." +... " f ~'" ' ; P?'':" _ .'t, .. 'H ~ a . 4 ' , \ - .. 4 a' ,. a a, e , . +,_ ,r , , , ,..,..._ . . ,.. ,,. , _. ._.. w .,_., ., , , . , 4I 286 ( 'fi r AdvAwriAd a r kw++sa , . ., , ' .k' A%7 M3 . C',e ' r 1 ! , "r Nv w. c .u . _ :. , .. aar +"avw..... - P .'^" _ + ' " " ."+ Mi..'. , .-.a .. _ .. vim., ,. r - .,. .. ,-- r .w ' ..". ..-,,,.w n«c~ .s..rr .m... w.vwrba+owtl sra.ru.,r.,,,. -..... .w. ., ... .t. .,a :w t.aV. 9r's4! F "y +YgFaae+i" page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 The Last of the Line. name. At ,Trinity he was considered exertions chose the least--c more as an amiable gentlemanly young affairs, for twelve calendar m man, than an esprit fort, or one likely to fnagement of Denny Dacey lead in public life. At' that period the s who had acted, satis college lads were a very different set of steward, since the second youths from what they are at present. the old and respected man The, rude but generous hospitality, the sixty years filled the situati thoughtless daring, the angry politics, the the Abbey, attended by on feudal feeling, that characterized the gen- vants and one travelling -carr try of that time, was not likely to send was a matter of surprise an forth subjects submissive to college rule; tion to many, more particu and the citizens of Dublin were too often Henry and his neighbour, insulted and aggrieved by the insolent ar- cliff,,a Cromelian settler, h istocratic airs of unfledged boys, ripe for that their children should be t mischief, who, half in earnest, half in jest, of sufficient age. Miss D( sported with their comforts, and often handsome and an heiress,; with their lives. Party feeling, also, ran said, in no degree averse to (as unhappily there it always does) to a they had been companions in readful height; and the young baronet, but the lady, it would appear whose father invariably, drank "The unromantic a disposition toI Glorious Memory," and " Protestant young baronet's indifference Ascendancy," every day after dinner, carriage, rolled past the aver was frequently called upon to defend or to her dwelling, he merely support his party, although he invariably ward and cast a fleeting glan declared that as yet he was of none-- the house. Where he met, a that he must wait to make up his mind, exact circumstances he owed &c. &c. It must be confessed that this sion of so lovely a wife as extraordinary irresolution, at such a pe- have endeavoured to describe riod, was more the effect of constitutional mystery ;,his business-letters apathy than of reflection; he had a good no.intelligence of his marriagE deal of the consciousness of birth and it until the arrival of gay furn wealth about him, but he disliked either a fashionable Dublin uphols mental or bodily exertion. As an only the i4ea of such an event o child he had suffered nothing like contra- the inhabitants of Clavis. diction; and had he horsewhipped and When the baronet returne abused his' servants (when at the age of nounced as his Lady her who twelve he sported two of his own racers on his arm; when the domesti at the Curragh of Kildare), instead of her with that warm-hearted speaking to them as fellow-creatures in a tionate respect, for which Iris mild and kindly voice, it would have eli- are so justly celebrated, and cited no rebuke from his father, who se- rumour went abroad that Sir cretly regretted that the youth was neither vis had married a Spanish lad3 likely to become a five-bottle mnan, a olic, and "one who had little staunch Orangeman,.nor a Member of glish than a Kerry man," grea Parliament--the only three- things -he consternation, and many and v considered worth living fol-. conjectures. "What will beco The young baronet never could have 'Protestant Ascendancy,' and made up his mind to visit the continent- rious and Immortal Memory,' an exploit he had long talked of--but .-popish mistress is come to that an anticipated general election fright- said one party. "Some chance ened him away, as he would certainly, and grace turning to the ould A if at home, have been expected to offer that the right sort's in it," ohs himself as a candidate, and make speech- other. Not a few affirmed, es. He hated trouble, and' of the two .lady had absconded from a 287 committed his onths, to the y, his nurse's factorily,'as childhood' of who hid for on; and left ly two ser- iage. This d conversa- larly as Sir Mr. Dorn- ad, arranged united when orncliff was and, it was the union; childhood, , was of too remove the As his nue that led leaned for- ce towards and to what the posses- the lady I e, is still a' s conveyed e,; nor was iture, from terer, that occurred to d, and an- leaned up- cs received 'and affec- h servants when the John Cla- y, a Cath more En. ot was the arious the mie of the the. 'Glob. flow that Clavis ?" e of luck bbey now erved the that the convent; f 4 Y' f band, after much contention, gave up the nurse paced slowly beneathlher turret- point, she ordered a green velvet dress window, the baronet was sitting tete-a- for the occasion, embroidered with gol- tete with no other than Denny Dacey, den shamrogues; she did this with a who, -from being what in England is view to gratify him, never imagining termed bailiff to the estate, had risen to that the colour which emblems the beau- the rank of agent, under the title, as his ty and fertility of Ireland could be ob- correspondents set forth, of "Dionysius noxious to any body of Irishmen. 'What Dacey, Esq." &c. &c. How this per- f 5-- 288 The Last of the Line. 19 others asserted that she was picked off, then was her astonishment when he, with a few other survivors, from a wreck- whom she had been so anxious to please, ed vessel in the Mediterranean ; those expressed a most angry opinion of her who had not seen her, whispered she costume-which occasioned a flood of was no better than she should be ; but tears from one party, and from the other Miss Dornliff--who, at first perhaps to an over hastily expressed desire that, as show she was heart-whole, and after- she could never understand the customs wards from real regard, was often Lady of the country, she would give up trying Clavis's guest-generously declared that to do so. Matrimonial disputes are she was the most charming woman she dreadfully uninteresting in the recital,-- had ever met, that she was highly accom- not entertaining as are lovers' quarrels, polished, and, although a Catholic and a simply because there is no danger of a Spaniard, any thing but a bigot. , heart-breaking separation arising from Hr want of knowledge of the lan- them; it is only the two engaged in guage, when she arrived, prevented her those unhappy differences that can un- joining in conversation either with those derstand their bitterness, the world has who visited her, or those at whose houses for them but little sympathy. Enough, she was received. Perfectly uncon- then, be it, that the innocent green vel- scious of the rules and etiquette of so- vet was the commencement of much real ciety in our colder regions, she was sure disagreement: the lady insisting that she to commit some grievous fault in the ar- had the dress made as a compliment to rangement of her guests, which invaria- his party; the gentleman protesting that bly threw her husband into an ill tem- it could not be so, as green was always per, that, after the honey-moon was over, opposed to orange. This he repeated he seldom thought it necessary to con- over and over again, without troubling ceal. Sir John had shaken off a good himself to inquire whether his wife un- deal of his ennui by journeying; and derstood him or not. Many an unpleas- when he came home he no longer stood antness grew out of this trifle, that con- on neutral ground, but suffered the ex- tinued silently, likes the single drop of citement of politics to take place of that rain, to wear the rock of domestic hap- which is the accompaniment of travel- piness. Sir John persevered i drink- ling. He had now discovered that for ing deeply of the bitter cup of politics, the honour of the house it was necessary that universal destroyer of society and he should adopt his father's side of the kindly feeling. He soon discovered, or question; and, accordingly, the gardener imagined he had discovered, how per- was ordered to fill the flower-beds with fectly a continental education units the. orange lilies, and the hangings of the most amiable woman in the world -for spare rooms were garnished with orange the society and habits of our islands; and bindings. Unfortunately, the- members the very efforts Lady Clavis made to ap- of an Orange Lodge were invited to pear cheerful, were silent reproaches to dine at the Abbey, and Lady Clavis pos- him for not endeavouring to make her itively refused to wear their colour, in so; they had, however, still one feeling any way, because she-considered it as in common-affection for their child. -the symbol of persecution to the Catho- While the mistress of Clavis Abbey lic religion, of which she was a devout was engaged in watching every move- and faithful member. When her hus- ment of her beloved daughter, as the k ; J 1 ' , !, . 6 u,,, w " ' f , e l i rt Y ' !'" ", ' YS'r"9-""1a .'4 . 45,i. ';' x 4 . " . 'WN'"'. ' W' PkM '. a re. f:.4- ,cLlw ,.q . 46, ! ! r1r r .1 S f. : r i ,r q-'r ;.4 ++at rT+ rA+% d .fX.,, - hc . t7 ,ter+- "" rG ee gwyr . _...-«q, r "?"a wx +v 'Ag 61 AiYd 4%dt.GAk'+i ICtA'a.'ti(iCq°pp", - {f 1%iN"T' w+Y'4i1PwKa' 4 iw q AIS +M' ar pf4 5lFEi'!M.' u19 {RYtii'1l A fKI°' ilqbV J'15' Sx 7 4 .++i" Wt+V.4 ' +{11 ;' .'' R" d'IIM ! .1 aNNNIW V"? . F "O A'E'Pti:?"4V:Rn..ov' '1 .:, 1y", + :h"rrr 1 .... L.Y._ .Y "s .:.1 page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 The Last of the Line. 289 290 The uast of the Lize. son ever acquired the influence he , -p sessed over his patron, must now remain a mystery: itis to be supposed that he insinuated himself into his good graces, as a weasel does into a rabbit-burrow, by various twists and windings, of which nobler animals are incapable. It was no secret in the county that, although Sir John's apathy no longer existed, in a po- litical point of view, he had not acquired those active habits that are so necessary where a gentleman's affairs are embar- rassed, and . whet nothing but good, sense, and good economy, can retrieve them. During the young baronet's resi- dence abroad, Dacey had exceedingly prospered ; and, though one or two shrewd landholders suspected he used means, not consistent' with his employ- er's interest, to obtain both influence and wealth, there was so much plausibility about the man, that the most watchful could bring nothing home to him ; his bearing was blunt and open; he affected honesty, but his look belied the. utter- ance of his tongue, for his eye lacked the expression of truth, and, instead of looking forth straightly from beneath its pent-house lid, was everlastingly twist- ing into corners--with cat-like quick- ness, watching a fitting opportunity, when those with whom he conversed were busied in other matters, to scan and observe their countenance. It has been to me an entertaining, though often an unpleasing study, to attend to the va- ried expressions conveyed by the mere action of the eye, almost without refer- ence to the other features ; and I would avoid, as I would a poisoned adder, the person whose eye quivers or looks down. The two friends (as such is the usual term given to those who eat meat at the same board,) were seated at either end of a somewhat long table, on which were piled papers of various dates and dimen- sions; a huge bowl of punch had been nearly emptied of its contents, and the baronet did not appear particularly fit for business-Irish gentlemen seldom are- jpt all events, after dinner: he leaned listlessly on the table, as if in reverie-; and it was only Dacey's voice that aroused him from his reflections. " But, my dear Sir John," he com- menced with his peculiar drawl, while his eye was fixed on the punch-ladle; "My dear Sir John, 'pon my sowl it weighs upon my conscience, so itdoes, to be managing here, and you to the fore, with such a fine head-and so much clev- erness (a sly glance to-see how the flat- ' tery took), 'tis a shame you don't turn to it yourself, for by'n-by you'll, may- be, find things worse nor you think 'em, as I have told you before, God knows--" "And will my looking over ,these cursed papers make things better? It' is, positively, enough to set me mad, just at a time too when our grand coun- ty meeting is coming on, and the general election, and so much exertion expected from me; and the house will be full of English company from the castle, and Lady C. has not an idea how English people should be entertained." "But sure Miss Dorncliff is coming to stop with my lady while they stay." " Very true, she is a capital, good-na- tured girl, 'faith, and much better-look- ing than she was eight years ago, when I left Ireland. Oh, dear ! I 'wonder young men of fortune marry, Dacey ! "Sir John, it is very necessary." "Well, well, I suppose it is, but say no more about it ; there are enough of disagreeable subjects on the table al- ready." 'The baronet.-looked upon the pile of papers, and, the agent glanced keenly up, but his eye was quickly withdrawn. "My Lady was in a convent, I be- lieve, Sir John ?" "Ay; it was a fine exploit to get her out of it. Well, poor thing, she trusted nobly to my honour, and was not de- ceived." "Of course you were married by a priest?" (This was said cautiously.) S" To be sure we were, and by a jovial fellow too: he went with me to the convent-wall, and performed the ceremo- ny at the foot of a beautiful old cross, by the way-side, as the' moon was sailing - over our heads, and the orange-trees - were showering perfume around us,. Poor Madelina!1 he continued, almost involuntarily, "I found the withered ora ange-blossoms, which that night I bound' upon her maiden brow, encased in a cas- ket, with the hair of our child, only this morning." "You had the ceremony repeated on your arrival in England ?" inquired Da- cey. Sir John Clavis fixed- his eyes upon the reptile, and, in a sterner tone of voice than was his wont, in his turn be- came the querist. "Why do you ask ?" " For no reason, only that if you had a son it would be well to see that the marriage was firm and legal." " Thank you," replied the b-ironet drily, " there is not much chance of that being the case ; and if there was-" A long pause followed the last sen- tence, which neither seemed inclined to disturb. Dacey gathered the papers to- wards him, and pulling his spectacles from his forehead to his nose, occupied himself in sorting and placing them in separate piles ; every five or ten minutes a no gentle sigh escaped from his Ii the last of which was so audible tha Sir John exclaimed, " What the devil, man alive, do you growl for iii that manner ?-- one would think that you expected the ghost of your uncle, the priest, to start forth from the papers and upbraid you with your apostacv !" "Sorra a ghostat all then, Sir John, among the. papers ; only the reality of botherin' debts, custodiums, thrown-up leases on account of the rack-rent, and the Lord knows what !" "And whose fault is it ?" replied the gentleman angrily ; "did I not leave it all to your management ? The proper- ty was a good property, and why should it not continue so? I'm sure I can't think how the money goes ; to do Lady C. justice, she spends nothing." " There's the hounds, the hunters, and five grooms, of one sort or other, Sir John ; to say nothing of town-houses, and carriages, and--." " My father always had the same es- tablishment," interrupted Sir John, "and never kept an agent to overlook matters e"hMore's the pity !" ejaculated the 2 manager-(the exclamation might have been taken in two ways). "There's no manner of use in my keeping you, if I am to be pestered with those eternal accounts--accounts-ac- counts--morning, noon, and night. The simple fact is," continued Sir John, ri- sing from his seat,' "the simple fact is, money I want, and money I must have. After flying to the Continent to avoid an election, I find that now, at this particu- lar crisis, I can not help running into the ;very, strait I endeavoured tosteer clear of. My friends say it is,'neces- sary, and would even subscribe (if I per- mitted) to return me free of, expense; that I will never do--so money, Dacey, money I must have, that's certain." "It's easy to say money," retorted the agent; "will you sell,'Sir John ?" " What ?" interrogated the baronet. " There's the Corner estate, that long strip, close by -Ballyraggan; your cousin C y of the hill has long had an eye it, and would lay down something a£ ome. "Youpoor pitiful scoundrel'!" ex- claimed Sir John, "do you think it's come to that, for me to sell land, like a huckster !-and to Corney too, a fellow that gathers inches off every estate, as a magpie picks fi'pinnies !-a fellow who, basely born and basely bred, has, never- theless, managed to accumulate wealth, like a pawnbroker, on the miseries of others; I know he has had an eye on that property these eight years, but look -sooner than he should have it, I'll beg my bread-I'll sell the estate to a stran- ger to prevent the possibility of him or his ever possessing an acre of the land." " Please y'erself, sir," replied the manager, sweeping some of the. papers into a wide-mouthed canvas sack, which he drew from under his chair. "Here's Mr. Damask's, the upholsterer's, letter- swears, if he's not paid, he'll clap on an execution like iightning ; it's as good as 2,5001. now, with costs." " Fire and fury !" exclaimed the bar- onet, who, his apathy once shaken off, became terrible in his violence, "do you 'Then I11 sy nothing of Mr. Barry " I 1 y J l 21 f _..__. ...__ v +r r.rr.r.r+ r e . o '114401 V'4. ., f . i ..yam,-.41 .s , 1\ ,j: . ' .. . _ / .. era . .. .y. _ r - - " . . ,i.w+. '" . . . ' . - .. j i . - .. - sor, -.., .s «, o- -a---- .. ,...' ..r,..:,w: .a^1f'ia i-. +1 .:.. Y. - d._,..xi sc ia +i °.9icM i Ktd d'4e.,.i'7+MnfN+rlW ±ysrt ''+91elvA .'A l [[.zA b W['aw'r',' t+"nlL;ot. ."Y i .r. ..k. t { ' +F P v +xw .h.. 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Mahon's-little letter," continued the man of business quietly, "who writes, that as you've decided on standing, in op- position to him, he'll trouble you for the money he lent you as good as four years ago, to. complete some purchase or another ; it ends very civilly, though, by saying that it's only the knowledge that] a gentleman like you will be a formida- ble adversary,. which' obliges him to strain every nerve to make his own step firm." " A blight upon him and his civility !" "Then here is-" Mr. Dacey was prevented from finishing his sentence by Sir John's striking the table so violently; with his clenched hand, that the very punch-bowl trembled, and the agent eja- culated, "Lord save us!" "Look here !" said the baronet, "you have, Iknow-means, somehow or other,, of raising money when you like; find me1 the sum of ten thousand pounds by this day week, and that very estate, so covet- ed by my cousin Corney, shall be furs for ever, at a pepper-corn rent, pr4 d the matter be kept secret; mind, pro- vided it be kept secret, and you bind yourself never to let a twig of it into Corney's possession." - "It's easy to keep a thing a secret that never happens," observed Dacey, rolling the cord of the bag between his finger- and thumb; "is it me get money when I like ?--and I obliged to go at credit for, these brogues on my feet,"-and he put forth a topped boot, well-polished and shining, as he spoke. i'The Corner estate, as it is called," repeated Sir John. "At. a, pepper-corn rent," pondered Dacey; "if a body could any way make up the money, I'd do a dale to oblige you, sir;. and though I've neither cross nor coin.to bless myself with, to be sure, I know them that has, who, may-be, for a valuable consideration, might--thoug~h I don't know--the little estate-eh !- ... ten thousand !--it's badly worth that,$irj John, unless, indeed, you'd throw ,the' fourteen acres of pasture-by the loch Into it." " Well!" exclaimed the indolent ba- ronet, though perfectly conscious that the land was worth treble the sum; "we'll talk about that, provided you ensure me the money; and now gather your parch- ments, and vanish ; I've had enough of arithmetic to last me for some months-. and Dacey!" " Yes, Sir." " .ifter the election, I will really look into matters myself; but, at present, when the good of my country is- at stake -when we are threatened with invasion from without and rebellion from within --the man must be basely selfish who thinks of self-Oh, Dacey ! did you see the Madeira safely into the'cellar?" "Yes, Sir John." " Good night, Dacey !-there--good night-you won't forget-ten thousand- hard gold-none of your flimsy paper- the Corner estate." .0~ "And the pasture." " There, good night," repeated the baronet. As the wily agent bowed him- self out of the apartment, Sir John Clavis rose from his seat, and threw open the window which was directly under the turret that formed the boudoir of his Spanish wife; indeed it was the sound of her guitar that had drawn him to it; and he recognized a favorite seguidilla, to which he had written words; he re- membered having taught her to repeat them; and the full rich voice that had given them so much beauty-if in that twilight hour it sounded less melodious- had never fallen upon his ear so full of tenderness ; its simple burthen-- Sweet olive-groves of Spain," brought the remembrance of what Made- lina was to ,him, in the days when he playfully chid the mispronunciation of his poetry; and as the prospect of re- ceiving the ten thousand, and not being plagued about money matters, had some- what softened his temper (the idea that he was diminishing his property had no share whatever in his thoughts--posses- sing, as he did, the peculiarly Irish quali- fication of looking only on to-day), he thought, I say, of his wife, with more complacency than he had done since the affair of the green velvet. He was pleased when he heard Miss Dorncliff (of whose arrival he wa unconscious) urge her to repeat the ra nA She commenced, but at a line which he well remembered- ,,, "I know no b sing but thy smile," her voice faltered and the next moment he heard her ie chiding away her tears ; his st impul e was to go to her apartment, and inqui e their cause; but then he ha d seen s, and vanity or cu- riosity, or both, pted him to remain; and the broken dialogue which followed, happily for the repose of his soul, roused, . in- his wife's cause, the best feelings of . his heart.' Many were the affectionate expressions lavished by Miss Dornliff on her friend, and many the entreaties that she would cease to agitate herself upon what she insisted was a surmise without foundation. "You would not say so," replied Ma- delina, "if you had seen his attention, his tenderness, on the Continent-or 'heard his repeated promises that my religion should be held sacred; the little silver shrine, that my sainted mother so often knelt to, I have been obliged to remove, even from this chamber, which it is mockery to call my own;, and though I can not understand all he says--and though his eye is bright, and his lip smiles, sometimes, yet he never looks upon me as he used; to me his counte- nance is sadly changed." " I'll tell you what, my dear," replied her friend, taking advantage of a pause in her complaint, " adopt the course I should have done, if my good father's scheme had, unfortunately for me, been carried into effect. Assert your own dignity; if he looks as cold as snow, do you look as cold as ice-if he stamps, do you storm --if he orders, do you counter-order-if he says, 'I will,' do you say, 'you sha'n't.' My life on it !-such conduct 'for one week would bring him sighing to your feet. Here, you sit, with your baby, which, if he had the common feel- ings of a man, he would worship you for presenting to him-" " Stop, my dear Margaret," said Lady Cla is ; " do him not injustice ; he loves his hild as fondly as father ever loved a el' ; he has not changed to it-" " Yet," interrupted in her turn, the in- dignant Margaret, "he has not changed yet, but who can tell how soon he may? The man who would change to you must be base indeed." " He is not base," replied the wife, in a sweet low tone, which penetrated into the inmost recesses of Sir John's heart, "'not base, only weak; he is surrounded by a parcel of flatterers, many of whom hate. me because of my religion, and others for reasons which I can not, de- fine; but look, Margaret, were he to treat me as a dog, were he to spurn me from him, and trample me to dust, even that dust would rise to heaven's own gate to ask for blessings on his head." "She is an angel, after all !" thought Sir John. " You are a fool, my dear!" both thought, and exclaimed Miss Dorneliff; " and I only wish I were big enough to throw him over the terra of this old musty place, and I would soon choose out a husband worthy of your love." 4" Upon my word, I am much obliged to you, Miss Minx !" murmured the ba- ronet, as he cautiously, closed the win- dow, resolving to turn over a new leaf, and station himself, for the remainder of the evening in his wife's dressing-room, He could not avoid thinking, as he passed through the winding corridors and up the staircases, " a very pretty wife I should have had, if it had been as my worthy agent seems to think it might be even now. The fellow means well, but he is mistaken; I should not have been able to call my life my own-the termagant! Thank goodness, I escaped her ! I never valued my blessing before!" He met his child in the lobby, and took the laughing cherub from the nurse's to his own arms.. As he prepared to en- ter, " You may go down, Mary," he said, seeing the maid waiting to receive, the child, "INill -take Miss Madeline in myself." How easily can a man make the wo- man who truly loves himi happy ! It was enough for Lady Clavis that her husband was at her side-enough that' he smiled upon her.-tenough that he called her 'ar- ling:" although it' would have been= et- '" + 1'T°" 4n1 ' '.. , ,,sM ~t oar ^I ?f' ' nv "e $, , " yr; ' .. "{ , e: r- - ! Nf~. 1~ w.,. , N s, ^4, - r ., ., i i{ ,, , ;'Ct;1;/ :w7"' , 23 I I .. .. a h tq i 2 t t . y AMR ... . w ?43-.s i yi'"'v",,, e '... i" .Kk 1nfZ.; IE, hW.. alj+" page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 ter for them both, had she possessed the strength of mind to entitle her to the name of "friend," the most sacred, yet the most abused, of all endearing terms. Miss Dorncliff exulted in her happiness, though her more cool and deliberate tem- perament led her to believe that Sir John's "love-fit," as she termed it in her own mind, would not be of long duration. She little knew the service she had ren- dered Lady Clavis by her somewhat in- temperate advice; nor the dread the ba- ronet had, lest any portion of that advice should be followed by his gentle wife. As Mar Conway, Madelina's nurse, descended to the vestibule, she heard a voice, whose sound was familiar to her ear, repeat her name two or three times, and in various tones; she lingered for a moment, a8d then,' as if gladly remem- bering that her infant charge was com- mitted to its parent's care, turned into an abrupt passage, leading from the great hall to one of the archways, where dew and damps mouldered from day to day upon the massive walls. " What are you afther wantin' now, Mister Benjy ?" she inquired, as the out- line of her lover's (for there is no use in concealing the fact) figure became visible to her laughing eyes. "Nothing particular, that is to say; very particular," replied the youth, who was no other than Dacey's nephew; " only I'm going a journey to-night, and I thought I'd be all the betther for your God speed, or may-be a bit of prayer to the saints ye think so much of." "A journey!-where to-?" inquired Mary, with a palpitating heart. " Why, thin, just to Dublin, Mary, honey. And it's glad enough I'd be to get out of this murderin' grand ould place, only just for one single thing."' " And might a body know what that is?" again inquired the maiden. " Honor bright, Mary, because I sha'nt see y'er sweet smilin' face for many a long day, may-be; for uncle says he has a dale o' business to transact in Dublin, and that he'll be -wanting me to look afther it; indeed, I'm thinkin' that he has a notion we' re keeping company, and don't over like it; though, Mary, 293 darlin', its more nor he can do to put be- tween us." Mary covered her face with her hand, and, though no sigh or sound escaped her lips, tears bedewed her cheeks. She was nothing more nor less than a frank- hearted, good-natured girl, with .only three, or perhaps four, definite ideas in her pretty round head-the first of which was decided love for her mistress, and her mistress's child-a great portion of affection for benjamin Dacey-and no small regard for finery in all its branches and bearings; she consequently had not a multiplicity of objects to divide her at- tention, which was therefore steadily de- voted to the ,service of her three or four several propensities. The idea of her lover's being sent away, and to Dublin too, overwhelmed her with grief, to which she would have given more audible vent, but that Benjamin had unwittingly ob- served, his "uncle didn't over like his keeping company with, her," which aroused the maiden's pride; she there- fore said, "that indeed Mr. Dacey ought to remimber when he once held two or three acres of land under her father," and that, " though she was at the Abbey, she was far from being a rale sarvant; she took care of Miss Maddy more from pure love than aiay thing else. May-be, it was Mister Benjy himself that wanted to be off the -promise-if so, she was wil- ling and ready," &c. &c. But, in fact, these lover's quarrels are the same in all cases; I could give a recipe by which people ight quarrel, agreeably, ten times a Week on an average-only, as love would be the principal ingredient in my prescription, I fear the misunder- standings would be too soon understood for. your genuine downright-in-earnest quarrellers,-a set of choleric individuals, which I sincerely testify, I hold in most fervent abhorrence. I can not tarry with those young people, during this parting scene, but only recount that "Mary," as she afterwards expressed it, "got a dale out of Benjy, which no one should be the wiser'for; only her heart was fairly crushed--thinkin' what a misfortune it was to a boy like him to have such an uncle;" even this she only communicated 294 -- v to her particular friend and companion, Patty Grace. When the expected company arrived from Dublin,-from "the Castle," as it has been familiarly termed for ages-it was evident that Sir John had nerved his mind to some great undertaking to which he was secretly urged by Dennis Dacey. Indeed, the particular party who had. once been led by his father were anxious that he should tread in the same steps, and they again regretted that his union with a Catholic was likely to cool his ardor in "the good cause;" they how- ever did their best to urge him forward --and " the glorious and immortal me- mory" was drank so often after dinner, that those who sacrificed to the sentiment, had neither glorious nor inglorious me- mory left. The humble parish priest never joined in these revels; and when Dacey, in Lady Clavis's presence, hinted at this circumstance, andiad, moreover, the audacity to assert that his absence was a tacit acknowledgment of disloy- alty, the lady roused herself in -defence of her ancient friend, and told the agent that, if religion was a proof of loyalty, he must be the worst of traitors,.for he was a renegade from the faith of his fathers, and had changed for the love of filthy lucre. Dacey trembled and turned pale; but as he quitted the apartment lie put- tered a deep and bitter curse against the lady of Clavis Abbey. Not only had, " the little estate" been secretly trans- ferred to Dacey, along with the fourteen acres of pasture, and the ten thousand pounds paid for present relief, but other sums must, at this crisis, be advanced to relieve the necessities of the proprietor, and other lands sacrificed to feed the ra- pacity of thi agent. Mr. Barry Mahon resolved to stand as the people's cham- pion, and already were the addresses of the several'candidates duly prited mi the county papers ; the Abbey. became~ a scene of interminable bustle and confu- sion'; as the day for the commencement of the election approached, it would be difficult to convey an idea of the strange1 persons and scenes that crowded on each other. TIo Mary Conway's great de- light, Benjamin unexpectedly returned; and, from the mannerin which his uncle received him, it might be supposed that he was not particularly pleased at the circumstance ; he, however, carved out for him the task of managing (dare I say bribing?) a few refractory freeholders at some distance; but the young man did not depart untilhe had whispered some words of moment into his true love's ear. The sarne evening, when Mary was un- dressing the little Madeline, Lady Clavis entered the room, happy to escape from a tumult she could hardly understand. " I'm so glad y'er honorable ladyship's come in," said the girl; "I wanted so much to know what you'd have packed up to take into towrrto-morrow, my lady --as,of course you mean to go with his honor to see the election and all that ?" "Indeed,Mary," replied Lady Clavis, "I have no such intention; I shall be but too glad to escape the bustle of it here-- and I should be only in the .way, Sir John says." " Och, my grief! Does his honor, the master, say that? But, no matter, ma- dam, dear, for the love o' God, as -ye value y'er own honor, and the honor. of this sweet baby, go !-go, for God's sake! -or you'll be sorry for it,-mark my words !" Lady Clavis was astonished at the girl's vehement manner and gestures, but still she remained firm, to her purpose, She was suffering acutely from mental anxiety and bodily exertion; and as Sir John had continued'to treat her with great kindness, she was anxious tp show how willingly she would yield to his wishes -even where they were opposed to her own. But Mary was not to be thus sa- tisfied. She "hushowed" her little charge to sleep, and descended to the lobby that led to her master's study. She paused for a few moments at the en- trance, and inclned her ear so as to catch any sound that might pass along, having ascertained that persons were speaking within. I can not avoid lamenting that she was led away, by what might be called, " natural curiosity," to draw near -very near; so near that her ear cover- ed the key-hole-and listen.-systematia cally listen-to whatever conversation 4 - .f ]~ rI' The Last of the Line. The Last of the Line. L yt 1 i + k; v I. e r. ?; s1.r t :.ice :._ . t - .Y 4,.4.e d.si .rte .M ai+." +n /: r 44 page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 Th Las of he Lne. 95 29 TheLastof-te Lie. 2 t. air r rf F, rs " ' 5 L GL F k{ t± t 1 ft t 1 . x2 4 S I _ z 7 y'4 1 r/ r 1 J L e' " was going 4n. She might have remained some fifteen minutes, in no very com- fortable attitude, when she suddenly started up; but had hardly receded three steps from the door, when it was opened, and the round vulgar face of Dacey ap- peared, carefully prying into the dark- ness. Mary saw she could not escape unnoticed, so, with ready wit, she in- quired, "Oh, Misther Dacey, have you seen my lady's Finny? I've been hunt- in' all-the evenin' after the ugly baste, and can get neither tale nor tidings of it? --Finny!-Finny!--Finny!" "4Can ye see in the dark, like the cats, Miss Mary, with y'er fine red top knot ?" said Dacey, earnestly. "Troth, ye may ask that," she re- plied, "for my candle went out." " And where's the candlestick, Miss Mary ?" persisted the keen querist. "No wonder ye'd inquire, but sorra one have we been able, to lay hands on these threp weeks, for the shoals o'com- pany, so I just used the same candle- stick my father and your father, Misther Dacey, was best acquainted with-my fingers, why !---Finny !-Finny !-- Finny !" She was receding, calling the dog.at' the same time ; when Dacey, whose ire wasroused, followed her nearly to the end, and said, -'You'd better not turn y'er tongue against my family, Miss Im- pudence, for ye're mighty anxious to get into it, I'm thinkin'." " Not into your family, Mistber Da- cey," retorted Mary,, proudly. " Anx- ious, indeed ! I don't deny that Benjy and I have been keepin' company, though my true belief is he's no nevvy of yours. Ye'd think little of adoptin' any man's child or property either." " Hah !" he exclaimed, seizing her arm and pressirig it firmly, "is that the news ye' re afther ?--ye'd better--" but the girl prevented his finishing his. threat by screaming " Murder !" so loud- ly, thiat'Sir John Clavis rushed out, with a candle in his hand, to inquire into the disturbance. Dacey looked extremely foolish, while Mary lifted her apron to' her eyes, and with well-feigned tears, declared, "It's I a shame-and I'll tell my lady, so I will, that when I was looking for little Finny, that man corned out of your honour's study to kiss me, y'er honour-a dacent girl like me-I'll tell my lady, so I will. Finny !-Finny !-Finny !" And off she marched triumphantly, leaving Da- cey to explain his equivocal situation as he best could. The night had become dark and stormy; and, when Mary put her head from under -the archway, before men- tioned, large drops of rain were drifted on her, face. She hastily folded her gray mantle round her, and, stepping from paraet to parapet of the ancient enclosure, gained a particular elevation that overlooked the entire country. Here she paused for a moment, and then pushed into the brushwood that covered the slope leading to the meadows. Ha- ving reached the stream, that partook of the agitation of the evening gale, she seemed puzzled how to make her pas- sage good ; but her perplexity was not of long duration, although the stepping- stones were perfectly covered by the swollen waters. She seated herself on the wet grass, took off her shoes and stockings, and, folding her clothes round her, prepared to cross the river. Having achieved her purpose, after much buffet- ing with both wind and water, she re- adjusted her dress, and proceeded on her way so intently, and with so much reso- lution, that I doubt if she would have stayed her course had she even met the bogle that frightened the good Shepherd of Ettrick--- , "Its face was black as Bryant coal, Its nose was o' the whunstane; Its mou'was like a borel hole- That puffed out fire and brimstane." Regardless of banshees, clurecauns, or any of the fairy tribe, so admirably de- picted by their historian Crofton (Croker, Mary pressed earnestly forward till she arrived opposite a small gate that opened into an extensive park ; the lock, like most Irish locks, was out of repair, so that she had but to apply her finger un.- derneath, and push the .bolt back. She only paused to inhale a long breath, and flew onward across the yielding grass, startling birds and herded deer from their early slumbers : this continued fleetness soon brought-her opposite the gate of a noble modern mansion, but she preferred entering through a little post- ern-door to ascending the stone steps. " Where's her honour ?" she inquired of an old serving-man, astonished at -her, untimely visit. "Lord, Ma - you've frightened the' senses out o' ." ' "Why, thin ,'s myself is glaA to hear it." / " Why so, M ry ?" "Because it's the first I've ard of y'er havin' any in,-but wh e's' the lady ?" " Umph," repl I the old erva , ev- idently annoyed, nd out !" (, tu n- ing on his heel, L was leaving the of- fended damsel aloe , when she snatched the candle, that ma tained a very equiv- ocal equilibrium in js hand, and ran up the back staircase. "That one has the impudence of the ould boy in her, and makes as free in this house as if it was her own," he ob- served. She tapped gently at the door of a 'small apartment, and a clear-toned voice responded, "come in." In another mo- ment, Mary was in Miss Dorncliff 's presence. She advanced, making a curtsey .at every second step, until she stood opposite the' young lady, who re- garded her with much surprise. " Why, Mary, is your mistress ill- or has any thing happened to little Madeline ?" " No, God be thanked !--nothin'. -to say nothin'--yet," replied the girl, lay- ing her hand on the back of a chair for support, for she had traversed nearly five Irish miles in less than an hour. "Sit down, sit down, my good girl," said the lady, kindly ; " and, as soon as you can, tell me what has agitated you thus." " Thank you, my lady-sure ye said that just like herself that's the angel en- tirely, if ever there was one, God knows ! -and God counsel her, and you, my lady ; for she won't be said or led by me, and more's the pity !" 5 t 2 ~i' ~ ktoiny~, .°"n ,rrv ,n rw . - + , 3/ " You speak of your mistress, Mary, I suppose," interrupted Miss Dorneliff, "but do cone to the ioint at once, for I am all anxiety." "I can't make a long story , short,. madam, particularly when my heart's all in it-but, as fast as I can, I'll riddle it all out, for sure my heart's, burstin' to tell t." The lady assumed the attitude of a patient listener, and Mary, again drawing a long breath, and pulling first one and then another of her red, but taper fingers, commenced the disclosure of her mystery. " Ye remember, when her ladyship first came over, the robbery and the work there was about her ; and the peo- ple-the protestant people, (savin' y'er favour-all but y'erself,) saying this, that, and t'other about .her, as if she wasn't what she out to be. Well, to my knowledge and belief, the one who kept this stirrin' was no other than that ould vagabond-that the beams of God's own sun and moon 'ud scorn to rest upon- (saving' y'er presence, for mentionin' him before ye)--ould Dacey ; because ye're sensible he's a turn-coat in the first place-and my lady is so steady to her duty that it was ever and always puttin' him to shame; and to be sure my lady, seem,' I suppose,- that in foreign parts the poor are all negres, God save us! (may-be black bodies too,) my lady was high to him-she has a high way with her, I grant, and sure so has the lilies, though they're- so sweet and gen- tle when you come to know them-well, for that he hated her ; and I'm sure it's more to get at the way of punishing her, than even securin' the property, that he's been goin' on as he has lately---" "Securing what property ?-going on how ?" eagerly demanded Miss Dorn- cliff. " Let me tell you ry own way, miss, agra! or I can't go on; besides, how would ye get at the rights of it, if ye didn't hear from the beginnin' !" Miss Dorneliff resumed her patient at- titude. " Ye see ould Dacey knows what he's afther, and Sir John has a way of his own of 'never seeing' to any thing--gen. 9 I 1) p t I c I ' ' "" . . riT +s'.:NeW alir -4+: -:: -+ ,. . ra.k , T i *A" =V"' -s r r."- r-..r+A: Y A ;t 4 c r 3 J N .. + ' ' i L A t } i 7 13 v ]"' t{ k s t i 1 t i I, 1 The l Last of the IZne. The Last of the Line. 27 26 295 296 page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 297 298 r ' The Last of the Line. 29 6 tleman-like-though I can't but think it poor boy did, when they hear a thing, a bad fashion; and while he was on the without being the one to tell it ?" retort. continent there was a dale of plunderin' ed the girl, keenly looking into her face; roguery goin' on; and when he came and the lady wisely, seeing that Mary home, sure the agent managed to keep was now put on the qui vive to prevent him employed gettin' presentments, and her lover being suspected as the infor- entertainin', an' 'making speeches about mer, merely replied, "go on." pathriotism, and all that, (I've been tould " Ye've put me out ever so many he's a powerful fine speaker, though I times ; but all I've got to say's easy said can't say I ever hard him); and ever di- now ; it isn't enough for that ould'devil's vartin' him with sich things, till the right pipin' that he has custotied, or some sich time, when he turned, my dear ! as quick thing, the whole land, so as to make the as a merryman, and bothered him with noble man all as one as a genteel beg. debts and accounts. Now the masther gar, but now that the election is come being' a classical scholard, (as I've hard on, and Sir John goin' to stand for the tell), didn't by course like the figures, county and all--what d'ye think, but which are only common larnin' ; and he's laid a plan to get the poor gentleman the ould one played his cards so well, into W---, to give the word to some that he made him hate the sight of a bill, thraythors of vagabonds, and get him ar- or a figure; till at last Sir John said, rested and shampd fore'nent the whole 'manage it all y'erself, which he was county, unless-(oh, the black villain!) glad to get the wind of the word to do, -unless---(the' sneakin' ditch-hopper!) though all the time he'was purtendin' he -unless---(oh, indeed I can't say it, for wanted the masther to look to it himself the choakin' of my throat !)-unless he -,-the thief o' the world ! As well as I puts away his darlin' wife&:-who can be cair come at it, madam, (miss, I ax y'er made not his wife, on account of the re- pardon,) Sir John agreed to let Dacey ligion, as I'm credibly informed ; and have pieces of estates, on the sly, for that, if he doesn't give in to this, he'll ready money, at half their valee, agreein' expose him in the face of the people, that Dacey should keep it to himself; for which I know the masther 'ud rather the pride, ye see, wouldn't let him own die than stand. well, miss, ye see, he's it ; and the ould one, 'cute like, got sich got Sir John to promise entirely that another rogue as himself, in Dublin, to he'll not take my lady with him, be- go somethin' in it. You'r sinsible, miss, cause she's delicate like; and he's per- my lady. , Bein' not a well lamed girl, suaded masther she'd be in the way. never havin' got beyant my read-a-me- And I want her to go--for look," con- daisy, I can't understand the rights of tinued Mary, giving full scope to the it, only that these two was cocherin to- action and energy of her country, "if gether, and procurin' money--for what I she was with him, he couldn't desart know, unlawful money-froin foreign her, and look in her sweet patient face, parts, and gettin' bit by bit of the poor and her two darlint eyes, that send the masther's property from him, and tyin' bames of true and pure love right to his him down, as Benjy said." soul ; he couldn't look at that, ma'am "'As who said ?" interrupted Miss dear, and consent to stick a knife in her "We hy Benjy said so," stammered teart and sentes sthe fond ca forth the girl, confused at committing her thur that trusted him,i as if she -was a lover's name. thing- of shame, abroad in the could, " Then Benjy, as you call hin), was could, world !---but-" and here the your informant as to these pretty villa- poor girl's voice sank from the highest nous plots, I suppose ?" interrogated the tones of hope, to the low and feeble ones lady. of uncertainty--"if she's not with him, "I didn't say that, Miss Domneliff: and that villain at his shoulder ; and the sure a body may make a remark, as theudisgrace ; and lose the election ; and all ,hat: and if he agrees, plinty o' money; u pnd the seat; and ivery thing smooth, w and .keep him more than half or whole n mad, betwixt the fame and the whiskey! n -it 'ill be all over with my poor lady-! Oh, she little thinks ! this blessed night, she'll lay'down her head and, die !" Ma- ry hid her face in her hands, and sobbed F bitterly. s "My poor friend !-my dear- Made- lina !" exclaimed Miss Dorneliff, as she y hastily passed up and down the apart- 'h ment, "how worthy of a better fate !- l Mary, there is no use in your denying a it; Benjy has given you this informa- I tion, and he must give it publicly." f "D'ye want, ruin on him too ?" re- y turned the subdued girl; "sure he's above a trade, and has been brought up s like a born gentleman to do nothin'-;- h and, even if he had a mind, how can he s turn agin the ould villain, his uncle, when c sorra a penny he'd) have in the world, h and dQsn't know how to make one ?" n " Look," said the lady ; "if Benja-I I min will bring forward such proof of r trickery as can force conviction on Sirr John's mind, I will settle upon him a m sufficiency for life ; and there," she con-C tinted, throwing her purse into Mary's t lap, "is the earnest of my promise." For a moment, the girl forgot her mis-r tress's interest in her own, as she eyed; the glittering treasure ; but soon she re-i verted to what, with true Irish fidelity,1 was nearest to her heart. "My lady, you'll come to her now, and persuade the masther to take her, 1 and make out something to oblige. him to: take her. Och ! my heart never warm- ed to ye as much as it does at this min- ute !-for they said----" She stopped before the conclusion of the sentence. d "What did they say, Mary ?" inquired Mis Dorliff. "That you, my lady-only I'm loath to repeat a lie-that, may-be, you'd mar- ry the masther, if he'd put off his wife." Miss Dorneliff's, face and forehead crimsonedto the deepest de at thisvii- lanous insinuation. "M ." h ejacu lated, as if to herself, " Me !-the base, base-born churls! But I will save her,j come what may. Mary," she contim-1 "- } S- . f+, w~rMw .r y+w P , .., ::+- Mt~r .., -rc .- -_ R - , . a~r - ,q , - .; ,.a..v-.. ...,.+ . . t 28 The Last of the Line. l yL 'p ed, after a pause, "-Mary, do not say a vord of your having~been here.; mind, ot a syllable. You will see me in the morning." " Before masther goes ."' inquired lary, "No, but soon ; immediately after. ;ear not, my good girl, your mistress hall be safely cared for." "May the Holy Mother, whether (e've faith in her or no, preserve ye from iarm, and may heaven be y'er bed at ast !" replied Mary, clasping her hands, nd looking most affectionately at Miss Dorncliff; "and a good night, and a resh blessing' to ye every mornin' that ye see day-light !" When Miss Dorneliff was again alone, he revolved her plans as she paced along ier chamber. For the last three years he had had the sole management and ontrol of her father's affairs, whose age- had, in a great degree, swallowed ul his mind ; and a large property was also at her sole command, which sl had al- eady inherited from her eNe. That eight she neither slumbered .nor slept; repose came not to her body or her spirit ; and from the highest window of the dwelling, she watched until she saw Sir John's equipage, with, his troop ofd noisy retainers, pass the great gate on its way to W----. She then ordered her own carriage, and in a little time was at Clavis Abbey. The first person she in- quired for was Mary, and doubtless she derived some information from .her, for they were long together. She then pro- ceeded to Lady Clavis's dressing-room, and found her in tears." " I can not tell why," said she, but I feel a sad anticipation of evil hanging over me. It was so strange, John kissed me this morning when he thought I was asleep; and, do you know, he attempted to kneel at Madelina's cradle but he rushed, like a madman, from the room, despite my efforts to recall him."' o " We must follow him, then," o- served eMiss Dornelifff'o assmin nirt ofgaiey, "w .utflo hel kngt I want most sadly to go to the ection;, my presence will cheer on my own ten- ants to his service ; and there is no say s F" t. r ii 3 i(( 9+ ri Y f J. 1 J f 3 t f ' i 1 r I I f t 2 F a { i " r" f f 1 t #ro- , F l { a - ,v ':' - - 1 {'a+' ti' , 4;''' Z, xrr ti ii!+ .irulY' ,dT k:' . A 'r r+''$ ?. ',''et " %"° .:-....wcr r ,.-k:: ,,F.. i ' . 'a' lFa.r -; :a + ik.'WF' t:. i y 944 - '.a 'V'Ktme ',Se Ykyl d' I '"Ka+Ai: + Y n,# 4- i 1 1 x? it hr G° jtb iWoe page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] w[: The Last of the Lzne. 299 .00 The Last of the Line. ing but that some of them, were I not the spot, might dare to think' for they selves. Besides, I can only go und the protection of a matron, you knoi No interruption ; I must be obeyed ; w will set off this afternoon, so as to he his maiden speech from the hustings." Lady Clavis offered a very weak o position to what her heart longed to e gage in, and they arrived in W-.- about half past ten at night. The litt Madelina was left in Mary's care at th Abbey. There was no difficulty in finding th inn, or, as it was called, hotel, where t h Orange member put up ; for he ha steadily refused going to the house of an of his constituents. The waiters immediately recognize Lady Clavis, and, with many bows, con ducted her into the passage, which wa empty at the time, though the sounds o music, singing, and loud debate, wer clearly distinguished by the ladies,- eve before they alighted from their carriage " You can show us to a sitting-room where we can wait'till Sir John is disen gaged. We wish to surprise him," sail MissDorncliff. "'I can't tell him ye're here just-now my lady," replied the man, "for M-r Dacey said they war not to be disturbed; and there's two gentlemen, I'm thinkin from Dublin, besides two or three others waitin' to get speakin' with him. And it's myself don't know where to put y'er ladyships, barrin' ye'll go into a ptirty tidy room jist off where his hon- our's settlin' ,a little affair of business with Mr. Dacey. Sure, if I'd known you war comm', it's the great grand committee-place I'd have redied for ye." "Be firm and cautious now, my dear friend, for the hour of trial is come," ob- served Miss Dorncliff in French, as she pressed her friend's arm closely to her heart ;---" the men from Dublin, and all: we have just arrived in the right time-- you may depend upon it, all will be well." , The waiter stared with stupid aston- ishment, and said, "May-be ye'd have the goodness, my lady, not to speak out much, as Sir John's at business in the on next.room, and he mightn't like to be m- disturbed ; it 'ill do to tell him by'n by, er won't, it my lady ? But what'll you w. please to take ?" ye "Nothing, nothing, now," replied ar Miss Dorncliff; for Lady Clavis appeared incapable of either mental or bodily p- exertion. Her friend had revealed to n- her a considerable .portion of her plaps at and anxieties during their brief journey; le and her elegant but weak mind, unable ie to arrive at any conclusion, remained in a state of passive obedience. e Communicating with the next apart- ie ment was a small door, which, in the- td true Irish fashion, hung very loosely on y its hinges; the cracks and chinks were many ; apd through the principal one d Miss Dorncliff saw Sir John sitting at a - table, his face buried in his hands ; while s Dacey, whose head was approached f close to his,- was talking in a low, eager e tone ; so low that only broken syllables n reached her ear. At last Sir John removed his hands, , and lifting his eyes slowly, while his pale - and sunken features expressed the pain- d ful struggles he endured, said, "It must not be, Dacey ; do youthink I want to insure damnation to my soul ? What possible difference can it make to you, that you thus stipulate for her destruc- tion? Men are seldom so desperately wicked without a motive." I " Hasn't she scorned me, and ordered me out of the room a;, if I was a neagre ? --hasn't she treated me with the con- tempt which a man never forgives ?---. hasn't she but the short and the long of it is, Sir John, that you know my determination: disgrace her, or disgrace yourself !--disclaim your marriage, or go to jail !-to jail instead of to parlia- ment ,!-to the jail, where Mr. Mahon can point, as he passes it, at the last of ,the house of Clavis ! There's the pen and the ink ; I don't force ye ; do as ye please; it's no business of mine.' The fellow pushed some parchments and pa- pers towards the unfortunate baronet, and gathered unto himself a pile of rou- leaus .that were filled with gold, while his eyes gloated and glared on the ago- nized face of his patron ! " Sure, there's no harm in life in keeping a for- eigner like her," continued the brute ; "many has done the same, and will again. Send her back to the 'olive-' groves of Spain,' she's so fond of sing- ing about, and " " Peace, miscreant !" roared Sir John, in a voice of thunder, quite forgetting the time and place. " Whisht !" exclaimed the coward, "never call names so l6ud-you know I'm y'er best friend. If these sheriff's, officers hear ye, it will be high mass within us all!" The baronet sunk back in a state of stupefaction, and the agent advanced to- wards him, pen in hand. Almost me- chanically Sir John took the little instru- ment in his fingers,-its point touched' the paper: even the letter JL was traced, whemMiss Dorncliff pushed strongly against the door ; and, in the same in- stant, both. Sir John and Dacey were trembling in her presence. For some moments, all parties remained silent-1 gazing at each other with such varied ex- pressions, as would be difficult to de- scribe. With the politeness with which Nature has endowed every Irishman, from the prince to the peasant, both push- ed seats towards the young heiress, which she declined ; at last Sir John inquired, as the pen dropped from his fingers, "to what circumstance they were indebted for the honour of her visit ?" "I came, Sir John," she replied--and the first sentence was uttered in a trem- bling voice, which gained strength as she proceeded, " I came to save the, HUs- BAND of my friend, Lady Clavis, from destruction !" Sir John's pride mounted, as he re- plied stiffly and formally, " that he was not aware to what Miss Dorncliff could allude." " Thi , Sir John," she continued, heedless o' his interruption, " is a bad' time for c mpliments ; you were about to sign a p per repudiating your wife, in order that th t bad man' might relieve your prese necessities, and save you from arrest. I -can not now bring for- ward the proofs that I possess, of his1 villanies, and the various arts he has' used, to dupe your understanding, while he ruined your property. I pledge my word to do so; and to redeem all, even the little Corner estate, from his clutch- es, if, instead of signing his paper, you will sign mine-and, to relieve your present embarrassment, I will tell down, guinea for guinea, of the money. you are to receive from that person ! Need I say more? Need I urge the love you have tried ? Need I ask if you will con- sign your child to shame ? Need I She was interrupted by a loud and piercing shriek from Lady Clavis, as with one strong effort she rushed from the outer room, and threw herself into her husband's arms. He was so unpre- pared, so astonished, that he did not ap- pear able to support hetr, and she sank gradually on her knees; her hands clasped ; her hair falling in heavy masses over her neck and shoulders; and her eyes shining with unnatural brightness, from amid'the bursting tears that flowed incessantly down her cheeks. It is im- possible to describe the mingled look of hope and anxiety with which she re- garded Sir John. Miss Dorneliff ad- vanced to her side ; and, as her tall, commanding figure, towered over the bending form of her friend, she laid her hand on the baronet's arm, and, in a low impressive tone,. said, "Can you look upon and crush her ?" The appeal was decisive. He pressed his wife con- vulsively to his bosom; and, it is no dis- grace to his manhood, to.confess that his tears mingled with her's. " This is all mighty fine," at length exclaimed Dacey, whose vulgar perplex- ity was beginning to subside into assu- rance, "but I don't understand it." " And who supposed that the wallow- ing swine comprehended the sweetness of the ring-dove's note ?" replied Miss Dorneliff, casting upon him a withering look of contempt and scorn. " I don't deserve that from you, Miss," said the-savage, interpreting the expres- sion of her countenance, " for I meant to help you to a husband." " Sir John Clavis, I call upon you to turn that man out of the room !"~ replied 30 31 z a ' t } t4 z } i ,Ya ' L t e1e 2t F( to r r i i' I ' °i 2 ri r^ j: i TTT) I _ V - +,. ,j v v , ..--^- r . 9 ' t .,:-J ". .. .. ... ; : ,. :: i .i:.. n ,... .. . ,.. i::: . .:-... "f, qq 1 a k x r e +3' r . 4 . 4 1 i t _i 4_.., .. ,: e { -.,.. _.... ..-. t .. i. ;:-. ,.. r,.F.. n..,l .e - e :.t.: t.. '- ., .. ..: . .i~ r . r .... . U 5'." . k' j- " i ::1 .s If Y.. { - ..... ,: ,. . r, . ,. :.. t " ..: 5,5.,t'i }r., * .u s ; :. '!¢.r.:. k .., S,:ts r a .fs .. : I ' t- _ i. i4 + .r 9 i ' ., ' . a .: ,.r., r.... r ., :,_. .. l; t., ::, :::.:-f _.", .-3.;ti. =$t - ^taT.: Ysr. f"+ . . ., .:-. f a .;. J'+ 7 !- u t ,f +y ,N. ;R' y. }y( fit, -1 ' .{ 'turf ..'1: { 4 - A,.k" r It A a s V fie' .. ix, r , s tn. nar. . vkM... ,lf",R ,r ""1'e 1, aAd.i .r .n .; -. . !z V.iOM"' jc' i " 'h .4, ~y, , n, ' 'gy t . ; ~, y-c yr', "g_,; Ate i , page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] v2 Th ato h in.3140 h Ls f h ie the lady; "let him and his gold vanish and trust for this night to the agency o your wife's friend !" -- Bitter and deep were the curses hi muttered, while depositing the coin it his leather wallet; he would hav formed no unapt representation of Satat preparing baits for sin ; but foiled ever in this effort. "I recommend you, Dacey, to be si lent," said the baronet. "But others won't be so," growled forth the menial, as he retired. He had hardly closed the door, when he reinem oered the papers and parchments he had left on the table, and returned with the view of securing them. Miss Dornclifl had anticipated this - movement ; and, placing her hand firmly on the docu- ments, signified so decidedly her inten- tion of not suffering their removal, that, baffled at all points, he finally withdrew. le could hardly have reached the hall, when the officers, who had been waiting outside, made their appearance, in no very gentle manner, to make good.their seizure. This, however, Miss Dorncliff prevented, by paying the amount de- manded, and the room was soon cleared of such graceless company. " Now, then," said the generous girl, l9oking round her with a happy and cheerful countenance, "now, Sir John, my document must be signed. I claim that as my reward. My own lawyer will settle other matters at some future date," but that must be done before I either slumber or sleep; the physician demands her fee." The baronet seized the pen, which, a short time before, he had taken to per- form-a very different office, and affixed his name to the paper she presented. After placing it within her bosom, she remained some time silent, while the vacillating man was endeavouring to ex- plain his conduct to his wife, who, loving much, forgave all. " It s well," she thought, " that such men should be wedded to such gentle women.. My affection would always expire with my esteem;.but now, she loves and believes, as if he had never been about to ruin her reputation, and to stigmatize for ever their°innocent child ! if There must be something mysterious in this love, which I cannot comprehend." e She could, however, comprehend the n depths and sweets of the noblest friend- e ship. Her sleep that night. was, light n and refreshing; and, it was not till the n morning was- far advanced, that the shouts and bustle of an Irish election, - woke her to consciousness, and activity. It is not to be supposed that Dacey's I bad but enterprising spirit, would rest I composedly under detection, and conse- - quent exposure. He conjectured, truly, I that Miss Dorneliff, through .some means, which at present he could only suspect, f had obtained information of his inten- tions, and was prepared to render null and void his basely-earned bargains and nefarious schemes. He was aware that, until the election was over, no investi- gation could be systematically gone into; and he hit upon a cold and villanous de- sign to prevent the inquiry he had so much reason to dread. He knew well the character of the opposing candidate-. a fearless, careless, man-vigorous and imprudent--. -' - Jealous of honour, Sudden and quick in quarrel;" who had fought more duels than any man in the county;- and was as often called "Bullet Mahon," as "Barry Ma. hon." He existed only in an atmos- phere of democracy ; and his hot impa- tient aspect, firm tread, blustering voice, and arrogant familiarity, formed a very striking contrast to the polished, weak, but gentlemanly, bearing of Sir John Clavis. It was not at all unlikely that a quarrel would ensue, before the termina- tion of the election, and many had even betted upon it. With the generality of Irishmen, it would have been unavoida- ble. But, though Sir John had. never shown the white feathei-, he was a deci- dledly peaceable man--and was known so to be. Dacey, however, resolved not to trust to chance in the matter, and the morning of the 'second day he was clos- eted with Mahon for nearly an hour, When the candidates appeared on th'e ill-constructed hustings, to greet their respective constituents, it appeared evi- ,dent that Mahon was overboiling with iage at some known orsupposed injury. :Sir John's address was mild, and more than usually facetious ; a style better un- derstood and appreciated in England than in the sister island ; he alluded to, with- out exulting at, the favourable state of the poll; and, after a short and cheering exhortation to his friends, resumed his seat. When Mahon prepared to address the crowd, he swang hisbody uneasily from side to side, looking, when wrapt up in his huge white coat, as the personifica- tion of those unhappy polar bears who suffer confinement in our menageries. At last, elevating his right arm, as if threatening total annihilation to all who even differed from him in opinion, he began ,one of'those inflammatory ad- dresses that have been followed up by so many second-rate agitators in modern times; he talked of the distresses of the people, until those who had just eaten a hearty dinner, imagined they were liter- ally starving-and assured them so often that they were in a debased state of bon- dage, that at last they fancied they were sinking under their fetters' weight. "I would have you beware," he said, exert- ing to their utmost power his Stentorian lungs, "I would have you all, green as well as orange, beware of those who would purchase your votes by' bribery ! If a man gives a bribe, he will take one! -and I wonder my opponent is not ashamed-I say ashamed-to show his face here, after the conduct he has prac- tised in private." Sir John Clavis called upon Mr. Ma- hon to explain. Mr. Barry Mahon said he did not come there to explain-he came to speak, and speak he would-no descend- ant of an 'ipostor should put him lown-if Sir John Clavis wished for ex- planation, he could seek it elsewhere-if he did not do so, he was a COWARD. The language had grown too violent, or, as the interfering parties called it, "too warm," even for an Irish election; and the friends of both candidates en- deavoured to put an end to it, or, at all events, to conclude it in another place. As Mr. Mahon refused to make any apology, or even give any explanation, it became necessary, according to the re- ceived and approved code of honour, for Sir John Clavis tf send a message to the gentleman who had so grossly insulted him. It was sent, but Clavis so worded it as to leave the matter open to apology. This, however, was not taken'advantage of, and a "meeting" for the next morn- ing was.of course agreed (upon. Since their reconciliation, poor Lady Clavis had been suffering severely from agitation ; her mind and body had re- ceived a severe shock ; and, though the happy termination, through her friend's kind sacrifice, had set her trembling heart at ease, her health had not yet mastered the struggle ; she had been confined to her chamber, unceasingly at- tended by Miss Dorneliff. About seven o'clock on the evening of the distressing quarrel between the can- didates, Lady Clavis had just requested her friend to open the window, that she might feel the breath of heaven on her fevered cheek, even for a few moments; her fine dark eyes were fixed on the setting of a rich autumnal sun, which shed its glories over the scattered houses, and converted them into dwellings of molten gold. She was reclining on a couch formed of the high-backed chairs of the rude apartment, and as her hus- band entered she greeted him with in- quiries as to the state of the poll. Miss Dorncliff thought within herself that he looked pale and agitated, but did not al- lude to the circumstance. He was hard- ly seated, when a servant placed a note in Lady Clavis's hand; she just broke tg wafer, and, glancing at the contents, burst into tears. Sir John perused it with almost the same agitation ; and the intelligence it conveyed was well calcu- lated to excite sorrow, for it said that the little Madelina had been taken danger- ousl~ ill, and Mary Conway, the wr,1- ter, ntreated Lady Clavis, "for God's sake, to come home, if she wished to see the child alive." The mother lost to time in her preparations ; she thought not of herself; and to Sir John, under y~,," . t(,N." - y y i'55 , '' " [ - r r i w r' i ' ' I 7 t V ,CFi { j. r YJ , ,- 'ter., . ,t_. _ I ± v . E/ . raw . ... r .,3 r ' c:. v , + - t- - F4 .- Yj,: l ra'q.t-~},h}:= J (iii '. Ybs. ,Sx -.,a? .. - . s - 9.tt i:j l{N -is' fig .:. . Ca.' . r r - . {.,..t- . i h.. .,' '{, - i .'; ry,+ i't4 ._ ,x 'eil a n 1 . r S.1S.,a ' a . i' ,r ' . s . 1 .,y,,; , :'tn _k ," ": +. F': y ' 7 r;.' e ^;u. a, x .,.h ;i Y2" ,?C. %'G3Y ? ,:a t 't,' t : r. ,t 1 M. r '...s }- r# t , -;,fi ' 7 ;; - ,.. ::. k ..e g . r. ; y ', = c S'' .. ?,.rx . a7t;,y, v 'qtr: ,;: + y .! ' Iwr .t, s e t r /// r {i i r The Last o the Line. The Last o the .dine. 32 301 l2402 v v i yyi V page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] w e a '1 .,, 34 existing circumstances, her departure was a relief: he kissed' and handed h( into the carriage; the door was shut, an the coachman preparing to drive of when Sir John called to him to stole The evening sun had set, and the night wind was blowing sharply in the horses heads ; the baronet pushed the footma' away, and, unfastening the door, let th steps -down, so that he could kneel upot them-. " Madelina," he said, in a low agitate( tone, and in her own dear native tongue 'Madelina, do you, from your heart forgive me, for the. unkindness I havi shown.-for the injury I'would have don you, and our suffering child ?" " My soul's life," she replied, "why do you ask ? I cannot think of you and injury at the same time; from my heart I have forgiven you." She bent her head forward to kiss her husband, and the wind blew one of the long locks of her raven hair across his, face. He seized upon it, as on a treasure. " I must keep this .to wear next my heart till--" "we meet again," he would have added, but the sentence re- mained unfinished, while he severed the riiglet from the rest; he then extended his hand to Miss Dorneliff, and contin- ued, even in a more broken tone, " You have been her friend,-as well as my pre- server; .I -commit her to your care !" " How kind and affectionate he has grown !" observed Lady Clavis, as the carriage drove on ; " when this dreadful election is over, and our darling recov- ered, we shall be so happy !-and to you, my dear, dear friend-my more than sister-I owe all this: his first love was not so sweet to me as his returning affection ;" and, overcome with many contending feelings, the gentle creature. sank into a troubled sleep. 'rhe roads were heavy, and the hum- baring carriage and fatted horses little accustomed to hasty journeyings; they had got on at the rate of three miles, or three miles and a half, the hour, and were within five miles of the Abbey, when their progress was arrested- by a Algure on horseback seizing the reins, and commanding them to stop. "God 303 104 e be thanked for his marcy!" ejaculated 2 r well-known voice, "by his blessin' i d 'ill not be too.late, and he may be saved I', yet." S " Who saved?-what do you, mean, t- Mary ?" eagerly demanded Miss Dorn. s' cliff, for Lady Clavis was not sufficiently n collected to make any inquiry, and e only looked wildly from the carriage. n window. "The master ! the master !-turnd d the horses' heads, Leary, as ye value , salvation, or the priest's blessin' !" "Explain first, Mary, for this is mad. e ness," replied Miss Dorneliff; wheree e --how is the child ?"' ")Here," she replied, unfolding her cloak, and placing the smiling cherub on l its mother's lap. 64I knew misthress 'ud never believe it was aliveland well, when I hard o' the trick just to get ye all out Io' the way, my lady-and you too, f Miss, who unriddled .so much before that he thought you'd be at it again-- the villain! The short an' the long of it is, that ould rascal tould some lies to the other mimber that wants to be, and, on the strength of them lies, him, the other man, insulted master forenent the d people; and they'd a row'; and the up- shot of it is that they're io fight a jewil to-morrow morning-Lord save us-like Turks- or Frenchmen;. and 'twas he wrote the note-as one let on to me, who rode a good horse to tell it-and, troth, grass didn't grow \mnder my feet either. But turn, turn !-we'll may-be get a help of horses on the road ; I'll gallop on and have 'em ready, though it's as much as we can to reach town by day-light." The servants urged the jaded animals{ to their utmost speed ; and prayers mingled with the tears Lady Clavis shed as she pressed her child to her bosom. Miss Dorncliff endeavoured to give what shze did not possess--hope. She knew that Barry Mahon's bullet was unerring; and, from time to time, she let down the front glass to cheer forward the anxious coachiman. The horses Mary procured on the road were more a hindrance than a help, so restive and ignorant were they as to carriage-harness. Never did cul- The Last o ------------ The Last of the Line. prits, who watch for, yet dread, the coming day, feel more bitterly than they did when the first thin stream of light appeared on the horizon ; the stars, one by one, faded from their gaze ; and at last-the spire of the church of W appeared like a dark speck on. the clear- ing sky. "Forward, forward, my good Leary !" said Miss Dorncliff; "'t ere's the church- steeple-hasten now, and reward all not be wanting. '/ "It isn't the reward-it's the ~st ier I'm thinking of," replied the faithf1e - low. "If we had the luck to be on the Dublin road itself, there'd be some chance of help; but here---" He groaned audibly; and, by words of encourage- ment, and a more liberal application of the whip, forced the horses -into some- thing like a trot. "I can see the masts of the vessels that are lying in the harbour," exclaimed Mary ; " for God's sakehasten, Leary !" "I may as well throw down the-reins," replied Leary ; " they can only crawl; this one's sides are cut with the whip,i and'that one's fallen lame, too !" " I could walk faster than the horses can go now," said Miss Dorncliff. "And so could I, and we will walk," replied Lady Clavis, rousing all her en- ergies. "Do, do, my dearest friend," retorted Miss Dorncliff, " for I see figures on the bridge that cannot be mistaken ; and if we could only get there in time, all could be explained." Lady Clavis sprung from the carriage with a promptness that astonished her friend. She folded her chil'losely to her bosom, and' took the path across some meadows, which led, by a nearer way than the carriage-road, to the field that for centuries had been the duellist's meeting-place. The agony of her mind may be .imagined, but cannot be de- scribed. There was her liusband-eve- ry step rendered him more visible-she pressed .onward-and her .child was rocked by -the panting of her bosom., The ground is measured-she flew with- out disturbing the dew that trembled on the grass; repeatedly she raised and '- - -- ., f the Line. 3-6 waved her arm, eager to arrest attention -it was in vain! Man to man stood opposed-not in spirited combat, but with cold murdering designs on each other. She screamed loud and fearfully, and her scream was answered by a fiendish, laugh, which seemed to proceed from the hollow of a blighted tree that stood in her pathway ; as she passed it, the bad face of Dacey glared upon her with bitter exultation. She shrank involuntarily from his ken, and the report of a pistol struck upon her ear with appalling distinctness ; it was followed by another, and the next moment saw her kneeling by the side of him h m she had loved with all the fer- vour of the glowing south, and all the fidelity of our colder climes ; the inno- cent baby crept from her arms over his bosom, and pressed her little lips to, those of her dead father. Lady Mla'vis mo- tioned off the people, who wished to re- move the body, and with fearful calmness unbuttoned the bosom of his shirt, and looked intently on the wound, and the oozing blood. :She attempted to unfasten it still more, but started back as if some new horror had been displayed,. when the tress of hair he had severed from her head the night before, appeared literally resting on his heart. Tears did not dim her eyes, which became fixed and mo- tionless ; and her whole figure assumed a frightful rigidity. The scene was even too much for Ellen Dorneliff's firmness; she fainted while endeavouring to take the child from the remains of its ill- starred parent. "IT'S THE LAST "OF THE LINE, sure enough," exclaimed an old ke er, who had watched the whole melancho pro- ceeding ; " for a girl, and such a gi1, if report says tr , has no hoult the land-ill got, il gone !" -My tale is told, and many will recog nize it as over true. Lady Clavis's in- tellect never recovered the shock it re- ceived, and some years afterwards she died in a convent in Catalonia. The property .of Clavis passed into other hands and those who obtained it were ~generous and honourable enough to set- tie upon Lady Clavis ana ner child a a V '.jle3_w' 4 , ti ,.,oa., ..,xatgr. _ -r ' - 'Ai~k - y- I Y'Y" , r v . ' +,4 i" "*4.irNl ,i ".;{It 'iri .,. , +,t ' ', I' 'r I page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] The TwQ Maidens. 30b 306 The Two Maidens. 37 much greater income than they would have been entitled to, had there- even been legal proof of the marriage, which it was generally supposed could not be obtained, or.Miss Dorncliff would have brought it forward. So perfect, however, was the evidence she had collected of Dacey'svillany, that he was never suf- fered to enjoy his ill-gotten wealth. I remember himi in extreme old age-a hated, mischievous, drivelling idiot. Ma- ry and Benjy were "as happy,", to use the tale-telling phrase, "as the days were THE TWO' BY T. S. "Goon morning, Mrs. Hinton," said Martha Green, lifting her head, as a visit- er entered the room in which she sat, busily engaged in sewing, "You see that I am full of work." " So you seem to be," was the quiet reply. " But I suppose you can spare to-night, for a work of mercy ?" " How a work of mercy, Mrs. Hin- ton !" " Poor old Mrs. Benderis very ill-so ill that she cannot be left alone any length of time. I have been up with her two nights in succession, and am now looking nor one or two young ladies who will take charge of her to-night. Can I de- pend on you ?" "Not to-night, Mrs. Hinton, it would be impossible ! It will take me till twelve to-night, and the most part of to-morrow, to finish this dress, which I must wear 20 long-;" and Miss Dornclif-who was a living refutation of all the scandal ever heaped upon that most injured and most- respectable class of persons called old maids-received, in her declining age, more than even a child's attention from Madelina Clavis. Some years subse, quent to the incidents I have detailed, the papers, with all due ceremony, an- nounced that excellent and interesting young lady's marriage with-the next heir to an earldom. MA IDE NS ARTHUR. at Mrs. Corrie's party to-morrow even- ing.--Any other time I would go with' pleasure." "I am really sorry for that. I have been to two or three this morning, and, all have declined on account of this par- ty." " Hannah Ball can go as readily as not, Mrs. Hinton. She had her new dress, made at the mantua-maker's." " I have seen Hannah." "Does she decline ?" "Yes." " That's very strange. What reason does she give ?" "She says, that if she were to sit up to-night, it would ruin her appearance to-morrow evening. That it would make her look dreadful." " There is something in that, you know yourself, Mrs. Hinton. Loss of rest has the same effect upon me. I don't look fit to be seen for two or three days after losing a night's sleep." "Yes, I know that sitting up does not improve the looks much," Mrs. Hinton gravely remarked; and then, after paus- ing a few moments, got up, and said, asi she moved towards the door- "Well, I must bid.you good morning, Martha, time is passing, and I must find some one who will relieve me, or I shall get sick myself." " I do hope you will," Martha said, in a tone of concern. " Were I not situ- ated just as I am, I should go with plea- sure 1" And then the visiter went away. Af- ter her departure, Martha Green sat thoughtfully for some minutes. She did not feel altogether satisfied with herself, and yet, on reflection she could not see any cause for self-condemnation. Sin-' cerely did she pity the condition of poor old Mrs. Bender, who was nearly seven- ty years of age, sick, and without any one in the world up to whom she could look and claim, from consanguinity, a single kind office. "But it was impos- sible for her to go," she reasoned ; in the effort to quiet her uneasy feelings, "under the circumstances-utterly im- possible." Still she sat thoughtful, without re- suming her needle. At length she aroused herself with the half audible re- mark- "Somebody will go, of course"-andl that settled the matter. It was, perhaps, an hour after, that a yound friend, and confidant, dropped in to sit an hour with Martha. The conversa- tion run, of course, on the party to be held at Mrs. Corrie's on the next evening. "You will look beautiful in this dress," the friend remarked, lifting a portion of the garment upon which Martha was at work, in her hand. " It suits your com- plexion admirably; besides being of a rich material, and attractive, yet -appro- priate, and not too gaudy in color." " I am glad you think so," Martha re- plhed, with a smile of satisfaction. "I don't believe there will be anything half so elegant at the party." 3, . .. a si -=r, . ... ,u~f° '. .'..ra .-. .n.. . . v et g ; fit 'u" S r r , !. . . S F ! J ! u i Yt ^ n I 36 "There will at'least be one dress there that will fully equal it," the visiter said. "Are you sure ?" in a tone of disap- pointment. " Yes. As I came along this morn- ing, on my way here, I dropped in to see Ellen Willard, and found her at work as you are upon her own dress. She has certainly selected it with.exquisite taste. Much as I admire yours, I should prefer the one she has chosen. 'She 'wil at- tract much attention, of course, for you know that she is a girl of a great deal of taste, and knows how to dress to the very best advantage." This intelligence had the effect to change, naturally the tone of Martha's feelings. As far as was in her power, she concealed this change from her friend, but after she'had left, her countenance ex- pressed much concern. The reason was this. A young man named Alton, had paid her a good many attentions, in the last few months, and of such a marked kind, that she had suffered her affections to become a good deal interested.-The extent of this interest had not become apparent to herself, until within a week or two, during, which time, she thought that she perceived a slight change in his manner towards her, united with, on two or three occasions, a perceptible prefer- ence for the company of Ellen Willard. One reason for her being unusually desi- rous of making, if.possible, the very best, appearance at the party of Mrs. Corrie, was to fix agaip the wavering regard of Mr. Alton. To learn, then, that Ellen was likely to equal, if not to eclipse her, was no very pleasant information, and it troubled her in spite of every effort to rally her feelings. Time passed, and the evening came- for the-anticipated company. Martha was there early, dressed with the most scrupulous regard to effect, yet tastefally in every respect. Alton came in perhaps half an hour after. The maid's heart~ bounded as she saw him enter, while the soft tint of her cheek, delicate as the rose blossom, deepened its hrie. The eye of the young man glanced around the bril- liantly lighted room, evidently in search ,t ,' i , + i r } i E 4 z v k F (tj _ f 1 E l t :+, ....,..,yv ... r.r.n r : ,L a s . _ ....'. , ''": _ artme ;'°: "' ' -3it" '"'' «wt: w,: i r - r, ,r ~ gr-. -ct,: :. ' ^; yhW''C1irwi- ro, a., '. °' 7 q " l ,, _ E . (, i ., ;". . , .j . k h', t 1L" ,f} f e, If i ,t ;}s f 5 t ' ' +1=try-nyjvq,.' -;.+s ,+ 7n.1f... s ,I:: page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] ' I «r 307 308 The Two Maidens. of some one, and then he seated himself alone, as if disappointed, and again slow- ly surveyed the company. 'Of course he did not fail to notice Martha Green. In a little while others made their appear- ance, and soon he found himself by the side of one of his most intimate friends. " Did you ever see Martha Green look so beautiful ?".=he said to this young man. "Where is she? Oh, yes-I see. Real- ly, she is a superb looking woman." "Isn't she ? But there is one whom I expect here to-night, that, if I am not mistaken,.will eclipse her." " Who is she?" "Ellen Willard." "There she is now. Look at her, and then yield the palm at once to Miss Green. Really, I never-saw Ellen look so indif- ferent in all my life," Alton turned his eyes towards the door, and sure enough there was Ellen, plainly dressed, though neat, and her face wearing an expression of weariness. It was a moment or two before he spoke, and then he said, in a tone of disappoint- ment, " As you say, I never saw her look so indifferent in my life. Still, she is a sweet girl, even though eclipsed to-night, in every way, by Martha Green." "Theycertainly will not bear a com- parison," responded the friend. Martha Green, who was sitting beside the friend and confidant mentioned as having called on her the day before, had been glancing uneasily towards the door,. every time it opened to admit some new comer, and was among the first to per- ceive Ellen. "0 dear! If that is all, no one here, need fear being thrown into the shade to-night," was her exulting remark. "'Why I thought you told me that she was at work on a dress even more beauti- ful than mine ?" "So she was," replied her friend. "And I cannot for my life tell why she 'has not worn it." "She could not get it done, Isuppose." " Perhaps not. There was a good deal to do on it when I saw her. Indeed she had just commenced working on it." 4 "Do you not know that I am right down glad of it ?" Martha said. "No-why ?" "Because, if she had come out in her very best style this evening, I am very much afraid Mr. Alton would have been too much pleased with her." "Indeed ! I thought he was paying al- most exclusive attention to you." " So I have flattered myself until within the last, week or two, when he has seemed to grow a little more atten- tive to Ellen than is agreeable to me." "You have nothing to fear to-night, Martha, just see! She has that old dress, worn by her at the last-half dozen par- ties. And instead of her usual brilliant complexion, her skin looks sallow, and her cheeks pale; and her whole face has a dull lifeless expression. What on earth can be the matter? Something has happened, no doubt, to prevent her from getting that dress done, which has worried her so much as to spoil her very face. And see, with what .a look Mr. Alton is now regarding her." " Yes, I see ; and what is more, I see that I am safe." In a few minutes after, Alton took a seat beside Martha, cured, as he thought, of the evident preference which had- re- cently existed in his mind for Ellen Wil- lard, over her anxious rival. This pref- erence had not been so distinct as to have been founded upon any serious compari- son made in his mind between the in- trinsic claims to estimation, which the two young ladies presented; it was rather a leaning towards Ellen, without reflect- ing upon the reason why she seemed more interesting to him than Martha. Of course, it required but a trifle to change that state of mind. He now re- newed his attentions to Martha Greeh, with even more than his former assiduity, t~o th'e entire neglect of Jgllen Willard, who retired at a very early hour. - Towards the close of the evening, he sat near Mrs. Hinton, who was present, and two or three ladies who were con- versing.--The name of Ellen mentioned by. one of them, attracted his attention. " Ellen did not look like herself to- night," was remarked by one. "No," said another, "I never saw her make a more indifferent. appearance. And she was, besides, very dull while she remained, and h'as left the room at an unusually early hour. What can be the matter with her ?" "She is not very well," Mrs.-Hinton said. "«But even that does not account for the want of taste and effect in her dress, two things that are always regarded by her." "I think that I can explain it all," re- plied Mrs. Hinton, smiling. Alton listened very attentively to what followed, although it was not intended for his ears. lie sat near enough to hear all that was said without making any effort so to do--and he was too much interest- ed to get up, and move to another part of the room. "Well, what is the reason ?" asked two or three of the ladies. " It is a very plain case," esumed Mi-s. Hinton. "Most of you k ow old Mrs. Bender. On calling to e her a few days ago, I found her very ill, and in need of nourishment and attention. She is very old, and lives entirely by herself. In the condition that I found her, it would have been cruel to have left her alone for any length of time. For two nights I remained with her myself, not wishing to trouble any one else, and being in the hope every day that she would get much better. Yesterday I found myself so much fatigued from the loss of rest, that I was compelled to seek for some one who would relieve me. Accordingly I called upon several young ladies, and asked their assistance. But some, like Martha Green had their hands so full in making up dresses for this evening, that they could not possibly sit up--while others were afraid that the- loss of a Night's rest would entirely unfit them to Enjoy this pleasant company. Any oth- Ser time, one and all would have come Forward cheerfully for the sake of _old SMrs. Bender. With a feeling of discou- ragement, I called in to see Ellen, and found her busily engaged on one of the sweetest dresses I have ever seen. It was to have been worn this evening. " - "Busy, too," I remarked, as I sat down by her side, with a feeling that my search for a sitter-up would prove fruit- less. "I am busy, Mrs. Hinton," was her reply, "but not so busy, I hope, but what I can oblige you." " Instinctively, it seems, had she per- ceived, from my tone of vice, that I had a request to make, which her heart prompted her at once to grant, if in her power. "I am rather afraid, Ellen, that you are too much engaged for what 1 wish you to do. This beautiful dress is for to-morrow evening, I suppose ?" " Yes." "And is just commenced, I see." " Yes." "And, of course, will keep you busy to-night and to-morrow." " I shall not, certainly, have much time to spare," was her reply. "But what is it that you wish me to do ?" "I did wish you to sit up with old Mrs. Bender, who is very ill." " To-night ?" "Yes. I have been to six or seven young ladies, but not one can go. I have been up for two successive nights myself, and feel quite worn out." "Is Mrs. Bender very ill ?" she in- quired, in.a voice of sympathy and con- cern. "For a few moments Ellen sat thought- ful, and then said, with a cheerful smile, "I will go over to-night and sit up with her." "But you cannot finish this dress, and do so," I said. "I know that, Mrs. Hinton. But Mrs. Bender needs my kind attentions a great deal more than I need this dress, ,much as I have desired to appear in it to-mor- row evening, and much as I need a gen- teel dress-for such an occasion. But I had rather go with a calm consciousness of having done mny duty, than, without it, to appear in thie attire of a queen." " The dear girl spoke with an earnest- ness that made her cheek glow and her eye brighten. I thought that I had never seen her face wear so lovely an expres- sion. True to her resolution, she went i'- . N. d The Two Maidens. . - - . __.__ ,artWwr+ v w+ aul4 r ,ir ,.N ..a r.;Aatd M'S c45G i" -ASR x; r t, F P E fi (i l {1 4 t 1 ti' C .' ! page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] I iP g~${a Kf The Secret. over to Mrs. Bender's, and remained with her all night.. Her dress could not, of course, be finished, and that was not all. An attack of sick head-ache was the con- sequence, the effects of which upon her appearance, you all observed to-night." "Admirable girl !" murmured Alton to himself, as Mrs. Hinton ceased speaking. " How far more beautiful is a truly good, self-sacrificing action, than all the exte- rior graces that art can put on." As he said this he looked up, and his eye fell upon the belle of the evening, Martha Green. But, like magic, faded TgES: A TALE FROM r; ARMAND D'APREMONT had entered the navy at a very early age, and had arrived,, although very young, to the dignity of a captain. He had amassed a large for- tune, in addition to his patrimonial es- tates, and he had now come home to rest after his -labors. As yet, however, he was a single man, and moreover had laughed at love. But when he saw Nathalie, his opin- ions underwent a change. He inquired -" Who is that pretty woman who dan- ces so well ?" "That is Madame de Hautville. Is she not handsome, captain ?" "Oh, yes-she is perfect." " Yes, and she has as many graces of mind as of body. Ask her to dance in the next set, and you will find I am right." "Ah ! but I do not dance." And for the first time in his life he re 310 all her exterior loveliness as he compared it with the moral beauty of the other. He sought not her side again, and left the company as soon as he could do so with propriety. The next evening found him at the dwelling of Ellen, in whose every look and tone, he now perceived a new attraction, and in every movement a new grace. He soon yielded his heart to the power of virtues nuperceived and unfelt before; virtues, whose bloom and fragrance time nor change can steal away. ECRET. THE FRENCH. grettea that he had never learned to dance ; but he kept his eyes constantly fixed on Nathalie. Nathalie perceived this, although she pretended not to take any notice of him. "What fun it would be," said'Ast, "to make that man fall in love with me ; him who never speaks to a lady." His attentions to a young widow soon became the subject of general conversa. tion, and several of'his friends said to d'Apremont-t-" Take care ! Madame de Hautville is a coquette. She will amuse herself with you for a while, and then cast you off." At last, the report of Nathalie's new conquest reached the ears of M. d'Ablain-. court, and one evening, when lNathalie mentioned to her uncle that, she expect- ed the captain to spend the evening with her, the old man grew almost angry. " Nathalie," said he, " you act entirely The Secret. .:__. 41 without consulting me. I have heard that the captain is very rude and unpolished in his manners. To be sure I have only seenhim standing behind your chair ; but he has never even asked after my health. I only speak for yours interest, as you are giddy."_ Nathalie begged her uncle's pardon for her inconsiderateness in acting on her own responsibility, and even offered not to receive the captain's visits, if her uncle desired it, but' this he fore- bore to require-secretly resolving .not to allow his visits to become too fre- quent. But how frail are all human resolu- tions,-overturned by the merest trifle. In this case, the game of backgammon was the unconscious cause of Nathalie's becoming Madame d'Apremont. The captain was an excellent hand at backgammon. When the uncle heard this, he proposed a game ; and as the cap-' tain understood that it was important to gain the uncle's favor, readily acceded. This did not please Nathalie. She preferred that he should be occupied with herself. When all the company were gone she turned -to her uncle, saying- "You were right, uncle, after all. I do not admire the captain's manners ; 1 see now that I should not have invited him." "On the contrary, niece, he is a very well behaved man. I have invited him to, come here very often, and play back- gammon with me-that is-to pay his addresses to you." Nathalie saw that the captain had gain-. ed her uncle's heart, and she forgave him for having been less attentive to her. He soon came again, and, thanks to the backgammon, increased in favor with the uncle. He soon captivated the heart of the pretty widow, also. One morning, Na- thalie came blushing to her uncle. " The captain has asked me to marry him. What do you advise me to do ?" He reflected for a few moments. "If she refuses him, d'Apremont will come here no longer, and then no more -back- Sgammon. But if she marries him, he Swill be here always and I shall have my s '44 y4f 40 G ,L , t' games." And the answer was-" You had better marry him." Nathalie really loved Armand; but she would not yield so easily. She sent for the captain. " If you really did love me"- - " Ah, can you doubt it ?" " Hush ! do not interrupt me. If you really love me, you, will give me one proof of, it." " Any thing you ask, I swear"- "n No, you must not swear any more ; and -one thing more, you must never smoke. I -detest the smell of tobacco, and I will not have a husband who smokes." Armand sighed, but answered-" I will submit to any thing you require. 1 will smoke no longer." The wedding was soon celebrated ; and when they appeared, afterwards, in the ay world, the surprise was great thathe coquette should have married a sailor. _ The first month of their mar- riage passed very smoothly ; but some- times Armand became thoughtful, restless and grave; Nathalie, for a while, did not notice-it. After some time these fits of sadness became more frequent. " What is the matter ?" asked Natha- lie, one day, on seeing him stamp with impatience.-" Why are you so irrita- ble ?" "Nothing-nothing at all !" replied the captain, as if ashamed of his ill-humor. "Tell me if I have displeased you in any thing." The captain assured her that he had no cause to be any thing but delighted with her conduct on all occasions, and for a time no angry expression escaped him; but it soon returned. Nathalie was distressed beyond measure. ' She imparted her anxiety to her uncle, who replied, " Yes, my dear, I know what you mean ; I have often remarked it myself at back-gammon." "My dear uncle, what can the matter be: -I wish he would confide hi~ distresses to me." " There are some things a man cannot confide even to his wife." i 1 It" 4- IL° I I7 I page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 Tre Scret 31 312The ecre... " Not even to his wife ! I should like my husband to conceal nothing from me. I cannot be happy otherwise." M. d'Abraincourt-promised to endeav- or to discover the mystery ; but he satis- fied himself with playing back-gammon with the captain every day. It was now summer, and the family left Paris for a pretty .country seat be. longing to the captain, in the neighbor- hood of Fountainbleau. D'Apremont seemed very happy in the society of his wife and' always anxious to please, but he left her every afternoon for about two hours, and at his return appeared very gay and lively. Nevertheless, his wife was not satisfied. She said to herself-" My husband is certainly happier than lie used to be in Paris ; but where can he go, every day in that mysterious way all alone, and without mentioning where he has been. I shall never be happy till .1 fathom this to the bottom." Sometimes she-thought of following him when he left the house, which he regu- larly did at the same hour, sometimes even when the house was filled with company; but then to secure the ser- vants in her confidence, and to act as a spy upon one who was so habitually kind to her-no, she could not do such a thing ! One day, a young inan, a visitor at the house said, laughing, to d'Apremont, " My fine fellow, what in the world were you doing yesterday, disguised- as a peasant, at the window of a cottage about a quarter of a mile from here ? If I had not been going so very fast, I would have stopped my horse to enquire if you had turned shepherd." " My husband ! disguised as a peas- ant !" exclaimed Nathalie, with astonish- ment. " Edgar is mistaken: it could not have been me that he saw," replied Ar- mandl, turning~ away in evident embar- rassment. "Not you-impossible !" replied the young man. " Some one, then,. very much like you." " How was the man you-saw dressed ? where is the cottage ?'' asked Nathalie hurriedly. "Oh, Madame, I do not know exactly; I am not well' enough acquainted. with, this part of the coflntry to describe the" place, but the man wore a blue ' blouse.' But why should I have. taken him for the captain, I cannot imagine, as we are not yet in the carnival." Madame d'Apremont said no more ; but she was fully persuaded that the per- son nientioned was her husband. But why disguise himself. He must be en. gaged in some very dreadful affair ; and. Nathalie shed tears as she thought, " Oh how unfortunate I am to' have married a man who is so mysterious !" She now became very anxious to re- turn to Paris, and her husband, always attentive to her wishes, made no objec. tion. But, once in town, his old habits of impatience and irritation reappeared, and one day he said to his wife-" My dear, an afternoon walk does me so much good, such as I used to take in the coun- try ; an old sailor like myself cannot bear to sit all the evening, after dinner." "Yes sir ! I see how it is--go !" "Nevertheless, if you have any ob- jection." " Oh no ! what objection can I have?" He, went out, and continued to do so, day after day, at the same hour, just as he had done in the country, and as before, he regained his good humor. " He loves some other woman, per- haps," thought Nathalie, "and he must see her every day. Oh, how wretched I am ! I must let him know that his per- fidy is discovered. No, I will wait till I have some certain proof wherewith to confront him." And she went to seek her uncle, say. ing-.- " Ah ! I am the most unhappy crea- ture in the world !" " What is the matter ?" said the old man, leaning back in his arm chair. - " Armand leaves the house two hours every evening -after dinner, and comes back in high spirits, and as anxious to please me as on the day of our marriage. Oh ! uncle, I cannot bear it any longer, if you do not assist me to discover where he goes, I will separate myself from him." "But my dear niece ?" "My dear uncle, you are so good and obliging, grant me one favor. I am sure there is some woman in the secret." M. d'Ablaincourt wished to prevent a rupture between, his niece and nephew,, which would interfere with the quiet, peaceful life which he had led at their house. He pretended to follow Armand, but came back very soon, saying he had lost sight of him. "But in what direction does he go ?" " Sometimes one way and sometimes another, but always alone ; so your sus- picions are unfounded. Be- assured he only walks for exercise." But Nathalie was not to be duped in this way. She sent for a little errand boy, of whose intelligence she had heard a great deal. "M. d'Apremont goes out every eve- ning." "Yes, madame." "To-morrow, you will follow him; observe where he goes, and come and tell me privately. Do you under- stand?" "Yes,,madame." Nathalie waited impatiently for the next day and for the hour of her hus- band's departure. At last the time came -the pursuit is going 'on - Nathalie counted the moments. After three quar- ters of an hour the messenger arrived covered with dust. "Well," exclaimed Nathalie, "speak;' tell me every thing you have seen!" " Madame, I followed M. d'Apremont, at a distance, as far as Marias in the Rue Ville du Temple, where he entered a small house in an alley. There was no servant to let him in." "An alley! no servant ! dreadful !" "I went directly after him, and heard him go up stairs, and unlock a door with a key he held in his hand." " Opened the door himself without knocking ! Are you sure of that ?" " Yes, madame." . " The wretch! So he has a key ! But go on." ., "'When the door was shut after him, I stole -softly up the stairs and peeped through the key-hole." " Well,-you have twenty francs more!" "I peeped through the key-hole and saw him drag a box along the floor " " A box?" " Then he undressed himself, and.-." " Undressed himself ?" "'Then for a few seconds, I could not see him, and directly he appeared again in a sort of-grey blouse, and a cap on his head." " A blouse, still. What in the world does he want with so many blouses? well, what next ?" "I came away then, madame, and made haste to tell it to you; but he is there still." "Well, now run to the corner and get me a hack, and direct the coachman to the house where you have been." While he was gone after the hack, Na- thalie hurried on her hat and cloak, and ran into her uncle's room, saying- "I've found him out--he is at his mis- tress's house now, in a grey blouse. He had a blue one in the country But I will go and confound him, and then you will never see me more." The old man had no time to reply. She was gone with her messenger, in the hack. They stopped at last. " Here is the house." Nathalie got out, pale and trembling. " Shall I go up stairs with you, mad- ame ?" asked the boy. " No, I will go alone. The third sto- ry, is it not?" "Yes, madame ; the, left door at the head of the stairs." Nathalie mounted the dark, narrow stairs, and arrived at the door, and almost fainting she cried-" Open the door, or I shall die !" The door was opened, and Nathalie was received in her husband's arms, who was alone, sn the room, clad in a grey blouse, and smoking a turkish pipe. ,"19My wife ?" exclaimed Armand in surphse. "Yes, sir, your wife ; who, suspect- ing your perfidy, has followed you to discover the cause of your mysterious conduct !" ._ I I I , P _ v "f k , .w 1r L. n ,Z - vAxy ' Wt a., tdnyyR4ih++k. + r s Yf i .~ s w, " ; ; a+.4.w. pq,4glgCpY . i 6F ,Y .;" 'vSr) ' 'N r..r7c + 9 ^'k,. :: E" e . _.,"., a+ - .. ,. r ., ....... .:.mow .y+,y ,+.... :,t+...ur ki.r;F '+mrwru.M..sr nn t +.f +,n, o4 AL. . AxwnAnc wh "1 174 I dll87iw/.s. ,.uur+ , , 4 ' i t r - t-_r ' . Yrtc - '- r}t i, - P f ' _. ,n..' s Y %+.. .x-4bFn. .s,;-"_ e.: :* + . y~1 ' Gd k ' .11 1 a } tS1 R° + , a d '\f ti, xiWra , 3b° 31M ' . ti tit x a s i 'j y^ .. ;L _ , 4 'y }wyft ''IA, H ' r te. ,. :'t'{} w ,}Li': yi"r1 '' ', V i t t. ' l 4, cy , .,r4 V y ,A.F.. ,q"RVi r,,, y.4r " ,. - v."a.lrrw we _ ....t. sv#,.v..m v F, k ""Y,'G,ldK r 'c"*v iy m ', r'i"... .. -..,r«" {tN'"i I A++-7Y. ca r 4" 43 The Secret. -The Secret: 312 42 311 page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] 4 The Secret. - "_ _- 313 " How, Nathalie, my mysterious con- duct? Look, here it is !" showing his pipe. "Before . our marriage, you for- bade me to smoke, and I promised to obey- you. For some months I kept the promise'; but you remember how irrita- ted I became. It was my pips, my be- loved pipe, that I regretted. One day, in the country, I discovered a little cot- tage w ere a peasant was smoking. I asked him if he could lend me a blouse and a cap, for I should like to smoke with him, but it was necessary to con- ceal it from you, as the smell of the smoke remaining in my clothes would have betrayed me. It was soon settled, between us ; .I returned thither every af-, ternoon to indulge in my favorite occupa- tion, and with a precaution of a cap to keep the smoke from remaining in my hair, I contrived to deceive you. When we returned to Paris, I hired this little room, at a distance from home, and here I keep this great box, in, which I always lock my coat before I bring out my pipe ; so that when I return, you, may not be of- fended at the odor. This is the mystery. Forgive me for my disobedience, since I have done all' I could to conceal it from you." Nathalie embraced-him, crying.- "Oh, no ! I mIght have known it could not be ! I am happy now, and you shall smoke as much as you please, at home. I will never make any oppo- sition to it, and you need hide your pipe no longer." And Nathalie returned - to: her uncle, saying- " Uncle, he loves smoke! He was on- ly smoking; but hereafter he is to smoke at home." "I can arrange it all," said M. d'Ab- laincourt; "he shall smoke while he plays backgammon. In that way," tho't the old man, "I shall be sure of my game every evening.". " My dear Nathalie," said the captain, "I will profit by your permission ; but at the same time I will take care not to discommode you. I will use the same pre- caution at home as I have formerly done." " You are so-kind! But I am so hap- py to find that you are so faithful to me that I think I shall even like the smell of the smoke." I WHo is this distinguished-looking young woman with her eyes drooping, and the shadow of a dreadful shock yet fresh upon every feature ? Who is the elderly lady with her eyes flashing fire ? Who i the downcast child of sixteen ? 'What that torn paper lying at their feet ? Who is the writer ? Whom does the paper concern ? Ah ! if she, if the central figure in the group-twenty-two at the moment when she is revealed to us -could on her happy birth-day at sweet seventeen, have seen the image of her- self five years onwards, just as we see it now, would she have prayed for life as for an absolute blessing? or would she not have prayed to be taken from the evil to come-to be taken away one evening at least before this day's sun arose ? It is true, she still wears a look of gentle pride, and a relic of that noble smile which belongs to her, that suffers an' injury which many times over she would have died sooner than inflict. Womanly pride refuses itself before wit- nesses to the total prostration of the blow; but, for all that, you may see that she longs to be left alone, and that her tears will flow without restraint when she is so. This room is her pretty boudoir, in which, till to-night-poor thing !-she has been glad and happy. There stands her min- iature conservatory, and there expands 'her miniature library ; as we circumnav- igators of literature are apt (you know) [ to regard all female libraries in the light t of miniature. None of these will ever rekindle a smile on her face ; and there, beyond, is her music, which only of all that she possesses, will now become dearer to her than ever; .but not, as once, to feed a self-mocked pensiveness, or to cheat a half visionary sadness. She will be sad indeed. But she is one of those that will suffer in silence. Nobody will ever detect her failing in any point of du- ty, or querulously seeking the support in others which she can find for herself in this solitary room.' Droop she will not in the sight of men; and, for all beyond, nobody has any-concern with that except God. You shall hear what becomes of her, before we take our departure; but now let me tell you what has happened. In the main outline I am sure you guess. already without aid of mine, for we leaden-eyed men, in such cases, see nothing by comparison with you our quick-witted sisters. That haughty-look- ing lady with the Roman cast of features, who must once have been strikingly handsome-an Agrippina, even yet, in a favorable presentation-is the younger lady's aunt. She, it is rumored, once sustained, in her younger days, some in- jury of that same cruel nature which has this- day assailed her niece, and ever since she has worn an air of disdain, not altogether unsupported by real dignity, towards men. This aunt it was that tore the letter which lies upon 'the floor. It deserved to be torn ; and yet she that had the best right to do so would not have torn it. That letter was an elaborate at- tempt on the part of an accomplished young man to release imself from sa- 44 -- "1 THE BLIGHTED ONE. 4 f - 4 Q } C w T 1 t " ft v y ft r r v it )5 447 f ilT 1 j qv 5 i pd r ' r r } _ i j ,.rwt.'tit'w w .w,: 'Jk'+.i J ,.y. ' +le M'n f4'i M'BM'''i; K av ae ,. , , , y " j, '...t.ciyNh:. .,j+ y~d. ,a AMA+L kiMNA a AK x M.+."ww Mk+sa FM .roWK' .. " CF . . rnk, " f Ari+wun, n+,Wpl1f'! l +2 M 7 8 . 7 . 3a aa+. .x w 3.k., kr..i E3RiepN4tlL' R% Y't ( "+Ff :.+w +-;4G ?" t .,x.j,1 k' iF4,..:1''r -& .. . ;. ."s;tig~vy'7,.ry*x; , , t . page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] 4v ThlgtdEn.TeBihe n.4 cred engagements: What need was there to argue the case of such engagements ? Could it have been requisite with pure female dignity to plead anything, or do more than look an indisposition to ful- fil them? The aunt is now moving to- wards the door, which I am glad to see ; and she is followed by that pale timid girl of sixteen, a cousin, who feels the case profoundly, but is too young and shy to offer an intellectual sympa- thy. Shall we, then, after an interval of near- ly two years has passed over the young lady in the boudoir, look in again upon her-? You hesitate, fair friend ; and I myself hesitate, For in fact she also has become a wreck: and it would grieve us both to see her altered. At the end of twenty-one months she retains hardly a vestige of resemblance to the. fine young woman we saw on that unhappy evening with her aunt and cousin. On consider- ation, therefore, let us do this. We will direct our glasses to her room, at a point of time about six weeks. further on. Suppose this time gone; suppose her now dressed for her grave, and placed in her coffin. The advantage of that is- that, though no change can restore the ravages of the past, yet (as often is found to happen with young persons) the ex- pression has revived from her girlish years. The child-like aspect has revolv- ed, and settled back upon her features. The wasting away of the flesh is less ap- parent in the face'; and one might ima- gine that, in this sweet marble counte- nance, was seen the very same upon which, eleven years ago, her mother's darkening eyes had lingered to the last, until clouds had sw llowed up the vision of her beloved twin. Yet, if that were in part a fancy-th t not only much of a childlike truth and simplicity has reinsta- ted itself in the temple of~her now repo- sing features, but also that tranquility and perfect peace, such as are appropriate to eternity ; but which from the living coun- tenance had taken their flight forever, on that memorable evening when we looked in upon the impassioned group--upon the towering and denouncing aunt, the sympathising-but silent cousin, the poor blighted niece, and the wicked letter ly- ing in fragments at her feet. One only person in this world there is, who could to-night have been a support. ing friend to our young sufferer, and that' is her dear loving twin-sister, who for eighteen years read and wrote, thought and sang, slept and breathed, with the di- viding-door open forever between their bed-rooms, and never once a separation between their hearts ; but she is in a far distant land. Who else is there at her call ? Except God, nobody. Her aunt had somewhat sternly admonished her, though still with a relenting in her eye as she glanced aside at the expression in her niece's face, that she must "call pride to her assistance." Ah, true ; but pride, though a strong ally in public, is apt in private to turn as treacherous as the worst of those against whom she is invoked.' How could it be dreamed by, a person of sense, that a brilliant young man of merits, various, and eminent, in spite of his baseness, to whom, for near- ly two years, this young woman had giv- en her whole .confiding love, might be_ dismissed from a heart like hers on the earliest summons of pride, simply be- cause she herself had been dismissed from his, or seemed to have been dis- missed, on a summons of mercenary cal- culation ? Look ! now that she is reliev- ed from the weight of an unconfidential' presence, she has sat for twct hours with her head buried in her hands. At last she rises to look for something, A thought has struck her ; and, taking a little golden key which hangs by a chain within her bosom, she searches for some- thing locked up amongst her few jewels. What is it ? It is a Bible exquisitely illu- minated, with a letter attached, by some pretty silken artifice, to the blank leaves at the end. This letter is a beautitul re- cord wisely and pathetically composed, of maternal anxiety still burning strong in death, and yearning, when all objects beside were fast fading from he-c eyes, af ter one parting act of communion with the twin darlings of her heart. Both were thirteen years old, within a week, or two, as on the night before her death, they sat weeping by the side of their mother, and hanging on her lips, now for farewell whispers, and now, for farewell kisses. They both knew that as her strength had permitted during the latter month of her life, she had thrown the last anguish of love in her beseeching ,heart into a letter of council to them- selves. Through this, of which each sister had a copy, she trusted long to converse with her orphans. -And the last promise which she had entreated on this evening from both, was--that in .ei- ther of two contingencies they would re- view her councils, and the passages to which she pointed their attention in the Scriptures ; namely, first, in the, event of any calamity, that, for one sister or for both, should overspread their paths with total darkness ; and secondly, in the event of life flowing in too profound a stream of prosperity, so as to. threaten them with an alienation of interest from all spiritual objects.. She had not con- cealed that, of these two extreme cases, she would prefer for her own children the first. And now had that case arrived indeed, which she in spirit had desired to meet. Nine years ago, just as the sil- very voice of a dial in the dying lady's bedroom was striking nine upon a sum- mer evening, had the last visual ray streamed from her sinking eyes upon her orphan twins, after which, throughout the night, she had slept away into heav- en. Now again had come a summer evening memorable for unhappiness ; now again the daughter thought of those dying lights of love which streamed at sunset from the closing eyes of her moth- er ; again, and just as she went back in thought, to this image, the same silvery voice of the dial sounded nine o'clock. Again she remembered her mother's dy- ing request; again her own tear-hallow- ed promises-and with her heart in h r mother's grave she now rose to fulfil i . Here, then, when this solemn recurrence to a testamentary council has ceased to be a mere office of duty towards the de- parted,, having taken the shape of a con- solation for herself, let us pause. Now, fair companion in this exploring voyage of inquest into hidden scenes, or forgotten scenes of human life--perhaps 'it might be instructive to direct our glas- ses upon the false perfidious lover. It might. But do not let us do so. We might like him better, or pity him more, than either of us would desire. His name and memory have long since droop- ed out of everybody's thoughts. Of prosperity, and (what is more important) of internal peace, he is reputed to have had no gleam from the moment when he betrayed his faith, and in one day threw away the jewel of good conscience, and "a pearl richer than all his tribe." But, however that may be, it is certain that, finally; he became a wreck ; and of any hopeless wreck it is painful to talk.-. much more so, when through him others also became wrecks. I i r z d i 4 c 1 f -Ij k + * 1 -Ago, ... . _...-- rfb w.+-i ,. . +',.SyG + '' . . '.^Y. 'gewrd;j, ;'J tyv, y«pC VS+,^iw ,ti. ). ~+«btAS,+n W' h+'Kv :hrar., :rs.b~" - ,r 1rurtk+N . . L t f _ ' " r s Y a - t 9 ILI 4 a 1 F. The Blighted One. 46 315 316 The Blighted One. 47 y, page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] Q t ti i i° , " TO LAURA, WITH HER PORTRAIT AND CHARACTER. THE SPANISH HEADSMAN. o thou, the fairest of the fair, the tribute now I bring Is on the golden harp of praise, thy beauties bright to sing; Deign, lady fair, to list the lay of lyre that hath so long In silence slumber'd, waked again by sorrow's child of song. THE town clock of Menda had tolled 0, in thy-large and melting eye there is a light of love the hour of midnight, when a young With which no eye can ere compare, save angel's eye above; French officer, leaning on the wall of an It speaks without a tongue, and hath a language of its. own, extensive terrace, which formed the Far sweeter than the laughing lip may tell in melting tone. bounds of the gardens of the chateau And yet I would not from thy lip of rich and rosy hue, {appeared lost in reflection, and absorbed Rob one brightsmile, or lovely grace, or nectar'd drop of dew; in deeper contemplation than generally For on that smiling lip I've seen the graces often play accompanies the gay thoughtlessness of And hung upon its silvered tones that sweetly died away. a military life: although, undoubtedly, Nor would I from thy forehead fair withhold the ,eed of praise place, season, and all by which he was Where oft thy lofty soul is seen clad in its own bright rays;- surrounded, were most propitious to Like some snow-mantled mount beneath the fair Italia's slies, meditation. It was one of the clear and Where lightnings flash, yet all below one beauteous summer lies cloudless mghts of Spam; the twikling 0, thou art wild and giddy, yet thou hast the power to beof the stars, and the moons pale and All thoat wlve ind wo n, yt tu grat th pee partial beams, threw a soft light on the All that we love mi woman, or im gravity or glee ; -' rich and romantic valley in which, at a In thy young brilliant soul there is capacity to shinerihndro tic neat , inws siatd a In.all that's bright and beauteous here, and all that is divine-h.dhe feet beneath tow ofuMed that s diinethe small but handsome town of Menda, Within thy bosom virtue dwells, that stern and lovely pride, skirting the base of a rock, which shel- That dares e'en death, prefer'd to woes'that hope and heav'n divide- 'tered its inhabitants from the north wind, That gives to woman all those charms so blissful here to scan, and on the summit whereof was placed Without which beauty is but shame, and love a curse to man. the vast and antique chateau; and thence Within thy pure and gentle heart that knows the art to feel, the waters of the Atlantic, extending far The sweetest passion lives, that thou'rt too timid to reveal; on either side, might be fully descried. Ay, there love lives, in ambush sly, and only peeps from eyes The chateau of Menda, however, afford- That spread a sunshine on thesoul, and make a paradise. .5ed a contrast to the calm and silence of Yes, Laura, thou art all that man might wish to rpake him blest the scene around it. From its numerous A generous soul, a feeling heart, and pure and guileless breast;' casements blazed forth a profusion of A reind too bright for one so fair, for one so young refined light; the lively clamour of the cheerful Thou art what I would wish should be the race of womankind. dance, the sounds of mirthful music, and Adieu, thou bright and beauteous one, perhaps we neet no more, the joyous voices of the assembly, often But memory oft shall bring to mind the hours that now are o'er; - migled with, and oftener overpowered, And oft in fancy's musing mood and silent midnight's dreams ,the noise of the more distant waves dash- Thou shalt again be with me, and thy bright eye on me beam. in against the shore. The refreshing g y n meeam.coolness of the night, succeeding a day Adieu, and if no more we meet on life's eventful shore, of extraordinary heat, with the delicious 0, may we meet in Heav'n above, where parting is no more: perfume of trees and flowers by which But not till i the gloomy grave my head shall rest at last, he was surrounded, in restoring him from Shall I forget thee, or shall fade the memory of the past jthe severe fatigue whici the military du- MIFORD BARDt I ties of the morning occasioned, had long detained the young soldier in that de- lightful spot, and induced him to forego the social enjoyments which the interior of the mansion afforded. . The chateau.itself belonged to a Span- ish grandee of the first rank ; who, with f his family, now resided there. Of his two daughters, the eldest was particularly handsome; and had, during the evening, greatly attracted the admiration of the l French officer, whose notice had evident- ly not been disregarded by the fair Span- iard: but, whenever she addressed him, there was, mixed up with her looks and tones of kindness, so singular an expres- sion of seeming sorrow and compassion, that, haply the impression it had made on him, had led him to withdraw from the society, and induced his deep and lengthened reverie. Notwithstanding she was one of five children, the-great wealth of the Marquis justified the .idea that Clara would be richly endowed: but Victor Marchand could scarcely bring himself to hope that, in any event, the daughter of one of the proudest and most powerful nobles in all Spain, would even be permitted to regard, with more than ordinary civility, the son of a Parisian grocer. The French were hated: and General G'*t *r, the commandant of the province, having had strong reason to suspect that the Marquis de Leganes contemplated an insurrection of the inhabitants of that and the surrounding country, in favor of Ferdinand the Seventh, the battalion com- I manded by Victor Marchand had been 'VwA I [FROM THE GARRET.] I :.lI d ^, ' ,I I p} j G4=_- , nr ' t4 4f } Tt p r f I. 1 ! 1 , 0 7 YI. 1' "R ^t .+., +.t1y c+ W+Mrva +nlV+ t^^ a+-w,....wr. wytra- ; A K+' j , 'r r ',$f4p y s,?sv i.y.y v ,{w~rave.u. i-. yn i ,++^ ..' '~% . } ; , s a .- n '_ P F, , . : ? page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] The Spanish Headsman. The Spanish Headsman. sent to garrison Menda ; and to overaweV than adequate nocturnal police rounds like silence reigned around for a moment; its inhabitants and the people of the! which he had organized? He was re.ind then were heard, but for an instant, neighboring towns. and. villages, who! solved to fathom the mystery : and at glistant.and heart-piercing groans, as of a were at the disposal and under the influ- once,, and with all the impetuosity of hort conflicting agony: the report of a ence of the Marquis. Indeed, a recent youth, he was in the act of scaling the cannon boomed along the surface of the despatch of Marshal Ney had even com- terrace wall, to reach, by a direct and ra- ocean. Cold drops burst from the fore- municated the probability of the English pid descent of the rock, the corps-de. head of the officer. He was there alone, attempting a landing on the coast, and of garde stationed at the entrance of the ,unarmed, unfriended. His soldiers had the Marquis being in active correspon- town, on the side of the chateau,.when a ;all-all perished. He felt himself a de- dence with the, cabinet of London. So slight movement near him, resembling 'graded and dishonored being ; he would that, notwithstanding the welcome and the light step of a female on the sanded-;be dragged before a council of war, a hospitality evinced by the Marquis to alley of the garden, induced him to pause, prisoner, and in chains: all who could himself and his comrades, Victor Mar- He looked around him anxiously for some vindicate his zeal and prudence were. of chand never relaxed in the adoption of moments, but without success. Again hejanother world. With a keen and rapid every precaution that prudence could sug- raised himself to observe, and he became glance he scanned the depth below; and gest. In 'pacing the garden terrace, and fixed and motionless with surprise, as his eaping on the terrace walk, was on the .casting a keen and watchful glance from strained sight dwelt on some distant ob. point of casting himself into theabyss, time to time to ascertain the state of the ject ; for, clear and distinct as the moon when the slight shriek and convulsive town, of which his position gave him a in heaven, he beheld a fleet of ships rid. "grasp of some one by his side restrained distinct and general view ; or in listening ing upon the- waters and nearing the .him. occasionally to whatever sounds arose land. He was casting in his mind, with "Fly! Oh Fly !" whispered Clara, from the valley below, in which it lay, the utmost rapidity of thought, the mea" almost breathless from agitation ; "my he strove vainly to reconcile to his mind, sures lie must instantly pursue, when his brothers follow me--descend the rock, the open and almost unreserved friend- reflections were interrupted by a hoarse, quickly-without delay-there -that ship the Marquis had displayed towards low voice, proceeding from a breach in" way-below you will find Juanito's him, and the peace and tranquillity of the the wall, at some paces distant, above 5 horse--begone---haste-haste----" country itself, with the doubts and 'fears which a human head projected. He She urged him onward with all her expressed by his general,--when his cu- hastened to the spot, and ascertained it strength. Lost and confused, the young riosity ivas suddenly awakened, and-his to be the orderly who was in attendance man gazed on her for a moment; but suspicions aroused by new and some- upon him at the chateau. quickly yielding to the instinct of self- what unaccountable circumstances. In- " Is it you, Colonel ?" preservation, which rarely deserts us, he numerable lights, at" one and the same " It is !" leaped into the park, and rushed onwards instant, were to be seen moving in the town " The beggars, below there, Sir, are;4 in the direction pointed out to him. The below: the hum of many voices simul- twisting about like so many worms. I steps of persons in pursuit were heard, taneously heard, where all had been for have been upon the watch, and hastened danger animated him to speed: he hasti- so many hours darkness and repose. Al- to make my report'to you." 1 ly scrambled down the rocks, by paths though it was the feast of Sant' Jago, "Speak !", said Victor Marchand. never bfmvotrodden but by goats. A he had issued, that very morning, severe "Seeing a man leave the chateau pri- shower ofmusket-balls whistled by him: and peremptory orders, that everywhere, vily, with a lantern, I resolved to follow but, with almost inconceivable rapidity, (with the excption of the chateau) fire him; for a lantern, at this hour, looked a he 'gained the valley. The horse was and light should he extinguished at the suspicious, so I stuck close to him, as he 4 there. le bounded on his back, and dis- hour appointed by the military regula- crept thitherwards: ard on a platform 4 appeared. tions. Again he looked, and more in- of rock, there, where my finger points,) A few hours brought him to the head tently: and certainly could distinguish Sir, I saw him approach an enormous u a quarters of General G**tr, who was at the glittering of muskets and biyonets at pile of faggots; when--" breakfast with his staff: and he was in- several of the posts where his sentinels A tremendous shout rose from the town stantly admitted into the command's were stationed. The light were yet beneath. A wide and sudden blaze of presence. seen; but-a solemn silence no succeeded light broke forth near him, produced by " I come to resign myself to death," &to the noise, which was w oily distinct the firing 'of straw and dry wood: and,~ exclaimed the Colonel, as he stood before *from that which might be supposed to ac-. at the same instant, the grenadier he had the General, pale and haggard. company the observance of a festival of been talking with, received a ball in his. " Sit down, Sir, and when you are the church. Whence could proceed so skull, and fell dead upon the spot. more composed I will listen to you ;" general and extraordinary an infraction The cheerful sounds within the cha- and the stern severity of his countenance, of military orders, in despite of the more teau walls were hushed at once. A death which truly indicated his well known harsh unyielding character, somewhat abated as he witnessed the emotion of his visiter. As soon as he was able, Victor told his horrible tale': and the downcast looks and deep silence of his auditors were the only, but expressive, comment on his history. "It appears to me, Sir," at length said the General, calmly, "that you, are more unfortunate than criminal; you can hard- ly be deemed responsible for the guilt of the Spaniards; and if the Marshal decide not otherwise, I shall not hesitate to ac- quit you." These words afforded ut feeble consolation to Victor, who falte - ingly demanded, "But when the Emp - ror learns the report, Sir ?" "It is not impossible he may order you to be shot," observed the General, in a tone of indif- ference: " but of that hereafter," he add- ed, rising and assuming his more bitter expression of tone and feature. "Let us now only think of vengeance-ven- geance, deep, deep and terrible. on these Spaniards." In a short hour, an entire regiment, with detachments of cavalry and artillery, were on their march; at the head of which rode the General and Victor. The troops, informed of the massacre of their com- rades, pressed onwards with unrelenting activity, actuated by feelings of hate and fury. The villages through which their road lay were already up in arms: but they were soon reduced to obedience, and in all of them each tenth man was told off and shot. By some -unaccountable fatality, the English fleet remained lying to and inac- tive, without even communicating with the shore : so that the town of Menda was surrounded by the French troops without the slightest show of resistance on the part of its inhabitants: who, dis- appointed in 'the succor on which they had relied, offered to surrender at discre- tion. Such as were more -immediately implicated in the massacre of the garri- son, justly pressuring that, for their act, the town would be delivered up to flames, andl the entire population put to death, by an effort of courage and self-devotion, not unfrequent in the war of the Peninsula, offered to become their proper accusers. 50 r La 3 4 1; i f 4_ ; . 51 'I I k 4T 3 }s i i 7 L ]. +-=- ^^' ... a+...iw .r..,+ri+ - 4'. -t ;y , i _' r page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] .R * I, 4 r - 52 The Spanish Headsman. This unexpected and extraordinary pro- position was acceded to by the General; and he engaged to accord a pardon to the rest of the inhabitants, and prevent the town being fired or pillaged by the in- censed soldiery. But, at the same time he levied an enormous contribution on' the people; for the payment of which, within twenty-four hours, he commanded that the principal and wealthiest resi- dences should be given as hostages into his hands; and inflexibly decreed that -all the persons appertaining to the cha- teau, from the Marquis to his lowest val- et, should be placed, unconditionally, in his power. Having seen his soldiers encamped, and taken all due precautions for their safety against a sudden attack, the Gene- ral proceeded to the chateau, of which he immediately assumed military posses- sion. The respective members, with the domesticsof the family of Leganses, were found with cords, and the ball-room as- signed them as a prison, the casements whereof opened upon the terrace: while the General and his staff occupied an adjoining suit of rooms, where a council was holden, to adopt all necessary mea- sures in the event of an attempted disem- barkation by the British. Orders were given for the erection of batteries, on the coasts, and dispatches sent off to the Marshal.. The two hundred Spaniards who had acknowledged themselves as the authors of the massacre, and resigned themselves into the General's power, were drawn up on the terrace of the chateau, and shot ! without a single exception. As soon as their execution had terruinated, General G**t-r ordered the erection of as many gallows as there were prisoners in the ball-room, on the same spot; directing, moreover, that the hangman of the town should be summoned. Victor Marchand profited by the in- terval in the work of death, which the execution of the General's orders requir- ed, to visit the unhappy prisoners; and a few minutes only elapsed before he again presented himself to his command- ing officer. " I presume, Sir, he said," with much emotion, "to implore your The Spanish Ileadsman. 53 / 'consideration in behalf of the condemned Ystood with their arms tied behind theirs family." "You!" observed the Gene. backs, mute and motionless, their looks ral, with a sneer.-" Alas, Sir, it is a sor. turned on their superiors, as if to derive rowful indulgence they solicit. The .a lesson ofcourage or resignation from Marquis, in observing the preparations their bearing. At times a hasty excla- for the approaching execution, trusts that nation disturbed the silence, attesting the you will deign to change the mode of 8 regret of some bolder spirits, at having pus ishment; and that such as are of no. failed in their enterprise. The soldiers ble blood may suffer by decapitation." who guarded them were stern and silent, " ranted," was the laconic reply. " He as if respecting the misfortunes of their also hopes you will allow him to have enemies;. and Victor shuddered as he the aid of religion; and in tendering his looked upon the mournful spectacle of solemn engagement not to indulge in -the their distress, where but so lately joy thought of escape, he prays that he and and gaiety presided; and compared their his may be freed from their bonds." "Be afflicted statg with the gaudy trappings it so," said the General: "you being re- which yet adorned the walls, as-in mock- sponsible'for the consequences. What ery of the dreadful doom which they further would you ?" he added, sternly were sentenced in a few minutes to un- and impatiently, seeing the Colonel yet dergo. linger and hesitate to speak.---" He pre. Ordering the soldiers to loose the bonds sumes, Sir, to render you all his wealth of the others, he hastened to the release --his entire fortune,-so that his young. of Clara; and while every eye was turn- est son might be spared." 'Indeed," ed towards him with intense interest, he said the General; "it is no extraordina. freed her beautifully moulded arms from ry exertion of generosity, as his proper. the cords. Even in that moment of sor- ty is already at the disposal of King Jo. row, he could not but admire the loveli- seph. But," he continued, after some ness of the Spanish girl, her perfect form moments of reflection, while-an indescri. --her raven hair--her long, dark eye- bable expression of savage triumph light. lashes--and an eye too -brilliant to be ed up his features--"I perceive all the gazed on,.suffused as it was with tears of importance attached to his last request, anguish or indignation. "Have you suc- and shall even go beyond it. Let him needed ?" she whispered, as he bent over then purchase the continuance of his; her; and her look strove to penetrate his name and family, that it may exist,a ne- ilnmost thoughts. An involuntary groan morial of his treason and its penalty. was Victor's sole reply ; and to avoid her But it shall be on my terms; mark me,-- ardent gaze, lie threw a wild and piteous I leave his fortune free, and grant like look upon her brothers and her parents, pardon to such one of his sons as shall --and again on her. The eldest son, Ju- assume the office of executioner. I have anito, was about thirty years of age, short said it,--begone ! and let me hear no of stature, and scarcely well formed, but more of him or his." The General these defects were redeemed by a coun- turned from Victor towards the chateau,[ tenance eminently Spanish, proud, fierce, where dinner for himself and staff had and disdainful, teeming with all his coun- been just served; leaving the Colonel[ -try's gallantry. Filippo, the second, was thunderstruck. , about twenty years of age, and bore an His brother officers eagerly hastened Iextraordinary resemblance toClara. Raf- to satisfy an appetite provoked by fatigue, Lfaele, the youngest, was eight years old ; but he hadno thought but for the wretch. a mild and passive -creature, with nmuch ed prisoners ; and summoning resolution of patience or endurance in his gentle again to meet them, he\ slowly entered features. The venerable countenance ofj the ball-room, where the father and mo.~ the aged Marquis, and his silver hair, ther, their three sons and two daughters, offered a study worthy of Murillo. As sate bound to their -rich and gilded chairs; he contemplated the mournful group, while the eight servants of the house Victor knew not how to announce the 4 General's determination. Compliance with it was surely out of the question; and why should the cup of grief, already full, be unnecessarilyovercharged ? The entreaties of Clara, however, overcame him ;-her face wore the hue of death as she listened, but she struggled violently with her feelings, and assuming a com- paratively calun and tranquil air, she arose and placed herself solemnly on her knees at her father's feet.-" Oh, Sire !- Father !" she'exclaimed; and as all leaned forward in breathless- attention, her accents fell clear and distinct around, as earth upon the coffih-lid. "Command --command Juanito to swear by all his hopes of mercy hereafter, that he will now obey your orders, whatever they may be, to their fullest extent, and we shall yet be happy." The mother trem- bled from joy and hope, eagerly, as unob- served she bent forward to participate in the communication her daughter whis- pered in her- father's ears. She heard, and fell fainting to the earth. Juanito himself seemed evidently aware of its intent; for he writhed from rage and hor- ror. Victor now commanded the guards to quit the room, the Marquis renewing his promise of unconditional' submission. They accordingly retired, leading away the domestics, who, as they issued forth, were- delivered over, one by one, to the public executioner, and successively put to death. Thus relieved from painful intrusion, the old man arose--" Juanito !" said he, sternly. The son, aware of his father's intention, only replied by an inclination of the head, indicative of a decided re- fusal. He then sank into a chair, while his wild, fixed, and haggard look rested upon his parent. "Come, come, Juani- to ; dearest brother !" said Clara, in an encouraging and cheerful tone, as she playfully placed herself upon his knee, the other hand fondly removing the hair from his burning forehead, which she af- fectionately kissed. "If you knew, my Juanito, my own kind brother, how wel- come death would be, if given at your hand. Think, Juanito, my loved, loved, Juanito! that I shall thus escape the odi- p :r I I I SI IO t ' ' I ' i t# 3 't . 1 z ,F 0 s s ,C S i Ali rx. t 8 ' The Spanish Headsman. 53 , '., } a } ,3 : ' .,- ,,}4 ,j. ' ;, n k; Y r fr)5 ""t " dci.-yx paa. nmvists- ' '. page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 The Spanish Headsman. t , r , 3' a, ous touch , o the public executioner. You, you will id my sufferings: and so shall we thwart the triumph of ." Her dark eye turned from Juanito full on Victor, as if to awaken in her brother's bosom all his hatred for the French. " Be a man, brother. Summon all your courage!" said Filippo: "Let not our name perish, and by your fault." Clara arose; while all made way for the Marquis, who addressed his son. "It is my will-I command you, Juani- to." The young Count moved not, stir- red not; and his father fell at his feet. Raffaele, Filippo, and their sisters did the same, stretching forth their supplicating hands towards him, who alone could save their name from forgetfulness and extinction, while the Marquis, on his knees, continued, "My son, my Juanito, prove yourself a Spaniard. Show the stern resolve, the noble feeling of a Spaniard. Let -not your father thus kneel in vain before you. What are- your sufferings compared with the honor of those you love-those who so truly love you ? Let not your own sorrows prevail against your father's prayer. Would I not die for you, were it required of me ? Live then for us. Let not the hand of infamy insult my hoary head.-Is he our son, Madam ?" indig- nantly exclaimed the Marquis, addressing his wife as he arose, while Juanito, with a fixed and horrid stare, sate deadlike; the distended muscles of his livid front, seeming less the traits of mortal man than those of chiseled marble. "He yields, he yields," shrieked forth the mo- ther, in accents of triumph and despair. " He consents," she cried, as she marked a slight movement of his brow, which she only could understand as implying the hard and cruel obedience of her child. The almoner of the chateau entering, he was instantly surrounded by the fami- ly, who led him towards Juanito, while Victor, no longer able to endure the scene, madesign to Clara of his intention, and rushed from the room to make one last effort with the General. Him he found in one of his milder moods, cheerfully conversing with his officers, while he partook of the delicious wines the cellars of the chateau afforded. An hour afterwards, and one hundred of the principal inhabitants of Menda were assembled, by the General's orders, on the terrace, to witness the execution of the family of Leganes. They were arranged beneath the line of gallows, on which hung the bodies of the Marquis's domestics; and a strong military guard preserved order. At about thirty paces distant,. a block had been prepared, on which a large and naked scimetar was laid; while the executioner stood near to act, in the event of Juanito's refusal. r The dead silence which prevailed was interrupted by the sound of many foot- steps; the slow and measured tread of the soldiery, and the clattering of arms, drowned, at times, by the loud laugh of the officers over their wine. So had the dance and music, bit shortly since, been mingled with the expiring groans of the French garrison.: All eyes were now di- rected towards the chateau, and the seve- ral members of the Leganes family ap- proached, with firm unshrinking step, and countenances patient, calm, and se- rene-save one. He, pale, wan and heartstricken, leant upon the priest, who unceasigly urged every argument of re- ligion, to sustain and console the wretch- ed being who was alone condemned to live. The Marquis, his wife, and their four children, took their places at some paces distant from the block, and knelt. Juanito was led forward by the priest, and having reached the fatal spot, the public executioner advanced and whisper- ed him, haply imparting some necessary instructions in his dreadful mystery. The confessor would. have arranged the victims so as to avoid, as far as possible, a view of the work of death; but they were Spaniards, and evinced no symp- torus of fear. Clara now darted forwards to her bro- ther. " Juanito!I" she exclaimed, "you nmst have pity on my weakness. I am a sad, sad coward.-Begin with me." iA hasty step was heard approaching- iwas Victor. Clara was kneeling by the block, and her white ne$? already bared to the scimetar. The otler shud- 55 and my mother's blood !" A cry of hor- ror burst from all around. The baccha- nalian orgies within the castle were at once ended. The Marchioness, sensible that the strength and courage of her son had fled, cast one glance, and one only, at the scene at her feet;- and then, aged as she was, leaped the terrace balustrade, and disappeared. As she fell upon the rocks beneath, the reeking instrument of death dropped from the hand of Juanito. His eyes flashed an almost maniac fire. A low gurgling sound, like a death-greeting, broke from his- livid lips,.--life seemed to forsake his limbs--and he sunk sense- less upon the ground, beside the beloved beings who had fallen by his hand. S * * * * * dered, but rushed forward,-" Your life is. spared, Clara. The General pardon you, if you consent-to-to be mine.' The Spanish lady looked on him fo an instant; g proud, disdainful glance of withering scorn, "Quick, quick, Juanito," she murmured in a hurried hollow voice, as she turned, and her head rolled at Vic- tor's feet. As the first dull blow of the heavy scimetar was heard, for one moment the mother's whole frame moved convulsive- ly. It was the first and only sign of weakness exhibited. * * -* * * " Am I well so--my good-good Ju- anito ?" said the little Raffaele. "You weep, my Marquirita, my sis- ter," and, verily, the voice of Juanito seemed as a voice from the tomb, as again he lifted the scimetar. "It is for you, dear brother," she an- swered. "Poor, poor Juanito !--you will be without us all, alone, and so un- happy." * * * * * * The tall commanding figure of the Marquis now approached. He looked on his children's blood, and then turning towards the assembled Spaniards, and. stretching forth his arms over Juanito, exclaimed in a loud and resolute tone of voice,-"Spaniards, hear me ! A father's blessing I give unto my son ; may it ever rest on and with him ! His is the post of duty. Now, Marquis of Le'ga- ne's, strike firm and surely, for thou art without reproach !" But when Juanito saw his mother ap- proach, supported by the confessor-the scimetar struck heavily against the earth, as he shrieked in bitterest agony-" Mo- ther !-God !-God! It is too much- She bore-she nourished me. Blood ! ',_ '+4Y' ~ ~ * * * * * * * Notwithstanding the unlimited respect and high honors accorded by his sove- reign to the Marquis de L6ganes--not- withstanding the title of ElVerdugo, by which his ancient and noble name has been rendered yet more illustrious, the Marquis now lives an almost heart-broken and solitary man. The birth of an heir to his name and fortune (an event which, unhappily, deprived her who bore him of existence,) had been impatiently await- ed by him, and as his son :aw the light, the father felt that it was now his privi- lege, in Heaven's own time, to join that troop of shadows, that are ever with him and around him. With these, in his long hours of solitude, he holds strange dis- course: and if he ever smile, it is when he points out his sleeping boy to those. unseen beings-unseen by all save him- self-and swears by its innocent head, and by the generations yet unborn, an eternal enmity to France and her chi- dren. The Spanish Headsman. I VFI Iz I '11 5~- i i r e S r r a S L ILyr t t i a '.,.yi..""a. as h "+-".., r.,r ins-, s}aTF:.. ,+,,,,, '' °" yr-, """ ° tk " !!yrn,. ^tV :r"+-...r, +- . ..,.u, page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] BRING FLOWERS. THE LEGEND OF -ROSE ROCHE. BY MRS. HEMANS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "STORIES OF. WATERLOO." BRING flowers, young flowers for the festal board, To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd: Bring flowers! they are springing in woodland vale, Their breath floats out on the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path, He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! He comes with the spoils of nations back ; The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track; The turf looks red where he won the day- Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, They have tales of the joyous wood to tell; Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky ; And the bright world shut from his languid eye. They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And a dream of his youth--bring him flowers, wild flowers. Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride t6 wear ! They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childish mirth ; She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth; Her place is now by another's side-b Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed A crown for the brow of the early dead ! For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst ; For this-in the woods was the violet nurst. Though they smile in vain for-what once was ours,, They are love's last gift-bring yp flowers, pale flowers. Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer ; They are nature's offering, their place is there! They speak of hope to the fainting heart; With a voice of promise they come and part. They sleep in dust through the wintry hours ; They break forth in glory.--bring flowers, bring flowers. 56 AT sixteen Rose-Roche was the loveli- est maid in Ulster. In infancy she was found exposed at the Gate of the Ursu- lines, and her beauty and destitution re- commended her to the charity of the sis- terhood. Educated accordingly, for a conventual life, she had never passed the boundary of the garden walls, and accident discovered the existence of beau- ty, which else had faded unseen and tin- admired within those cloisters, to which from childhood it had been devoted. Cormac More, Lord of Iveaugh, was the patron and protector of the communi- ty at Balleek. At primes and vespers a mass was celebrated for his soul's weal. His Easter-offering was ten beeves and five casks of Bordeaux wine ; and on the, last Christmas visit he presented six sil- ver candlesticks to the altar of Our Lady. No wonder this powerful chief was held in high honour by the' sisterhood of St. Ursula. One tempestuous night in October, wearied with hunting, and separated from his followers by darkness and the storm, Cormack More found himself beneath the walls of the convent of Balleek. Approaching the gate, he wound his horn loudly, and begged for shelter and refresh- ment.. Proud of this opportunity of af- fording hospitality to so noble and muni- 7 ficent a protector, the wicket was unbar- red, the Lord of Iveaugh admitted, and v received in honourable state by the Lady i Superior, and inducted with due form in- to the parlour of the Ursulines. There a plentiful repast was speedily prepared, and the tired hunter was cere- moniously seated at the table. His morn- ing meal had been dispatched before the sun had topped Slieve Gallion, and a long day's exercise had given him a keen rel- ish for the evening banquet. . The Lady Abbess feasted the patron of her house right nobly-he was attended on assidu- ously by the novices-dish after dish succeeded in luxurious variety, until the chief requested the tables to be drawn, and with knightly courtesy entreated per- mission to pledge the holy mother of the Ursulines in a deep draught of Rhenish wine. Then for the first time, the novice who presented the cup, attracted the good knight's attention. ThQ folds of her thick veil could not conceal the matchless symmetry of her form; and as she filled the chalice from the flagon,' the exquisite proportions of her hand and arm struck Cormac More with wonder. At this mo- ment her drapery became entangled with the jewelled pommel of the Knight's ra- pier; a hasty attempt to disengage it was unsuccessful--the veil fell, and disclosed to the enraptured view of the Lord of Ive- augh the loveliest features he had ever seen. Covered with blushes, which heightened her surpassing beauty, the novice caught her veil hastily up and re- tired from the parlour, while the Knight, despite the evident displeasure that the accident had caused the Lady Abbess, gazed after 'the retiring girl until she dis- 57 . q.' sty k -, Lj r ;t,{ r, -',fi t ". ,, , I A 41 1~J t 'f S v '{ , ^'f F f, i ,, 1 'Aly -py .g - - z " y 4 f: t gar e1 St7nikr4i '"f^ icf" S {r 1 G'1. sta. i*. 4 rf. 'k. .l.I Y' cr " e1, /pyykt a :r ;.,a.+,+.-.t fi :. r. " r r1 ?xi-0M +i, ,S i ; . r Yiw- iFA' ar! ,-iiSrn .esr^. " :.n M$ j ,.a r _' a, ,. 'r. Y P.Fi4 :, )/ ( ,' " 'Ry jt}"4 aM1 tniV _ _, ' r .. _ _ T 4' 7r, %R 7° ' .J : .- " ' i k \: j. .'_ V p KfIt Y}ll '4: 1y lY x' 1. a44 ya iM: :.,.M:dAG", tVwf. G+tAvsM M 1 FY'i 4w 'l..t b S i, wr r0.', J. As J. R' .r:+eix'. .i page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] The Legend of Rose Roche. appeared among the cloisters. In vai the proud Superior introduced costib in er wines of rare and ancient vintages ; in; vain she enlarged upon the piety- of her' order, and enumerated.the number of the Ursulines who had been canonized; the Knight's whole thoughts were engrossed 'with one lovely object--his courtesy and converse were feeble and constrained, un- til, piqued by his neglect, the Abbess wished him a fair repose, and retired in full state from the apartment, preceded by crucifix and taper, and followed by her attendant nuns. Although the Knight lay on the Bish- op's bed, and occupied that honored cham- ber where none of a less degree than a mitred abbot had hitherto been permitted to repose, no slumber sealed his lids, nor was the' beautiful novice for a moment absent from his thoughts. - Cormac More had declined many a splendid alliance ; the Lord of Offaly proffered him an only sister, with a princely dower; and O'Nial himself courted him for a son-in-law, and promised him the barony of Orier, and Blanche, his fairest daughter. But till now, Cormac had never loved: the beau- teous cup-bearer seemed to him a being of another world; the more he dwelt upon her image, the more his passion was excited; alliances with lords and princes were overlooked, disparity of rank and fortune was forgotten, and, ere the morning sun ad lighted the storied win- dowof the Bislop's chamber, the Knight'st determination was formed, and matins 1 were scarcely over when he demanded an audience of the Lady Abbess. i Never was there greater surprise than f that, with which the holy Mother heard Cormac More express his passion for the novice of the Ursulines. - Joy sparkled in her eyes as the noble Lord of Iveaughc confided the secret of his love, entreated t her powerful intercession, and begged force her sanction to "his nuptials. - As- Rose r was still unprofessed, there existed no f spiritual barrier to her marriage. Flat- r tered by the high honor conferred upon o her house by the proudest Baron of the Pale selecting a bridle from the holy sis- i. terhood, the Superior willingly acceded b to his request ; his offers were accepted, a i I 1 c c t r and ere the vesper bell had tolled, the preliminaries were completed, and the fair novice had consented to become the bride of Cormac More. But, alas ! the wild ardor of the.good Knight, and the carnal motives of the Abbess, caused both to neglect consulting another personage, namely, the blessed Ursula herself, in thus disposing-of one devoted to her service from the cradle; and the saint felt the oversight. That night the Abbess was tormented with fearful and portentous dreams ; the Lord of Iveaugh tossed restlessly upon the Bish- op's bed ; and if the novice closed an eye, her slumbers were broken with strange and incoherent visions. In vain next day, the Knight hunted from sunrise to curfew-his hounds were eternally at fault, and his followers appeared besotted or bewitched ; the deer, when pressed to the utmost, vanished on a bare moor-and knight, squire, and, yeoman, unanimously agreed that the several parties interested in the chase, were under the immediate influence of the Prince of Darkness. Nor did the holy Superior of the Ur- sulines fare better than the persecuted Knight and his afflicted companions. Every thing about the convent went astray, and the culinary preparations for entertaining the Lord of Iveaugh were awfuIlly interrupted by accident and for- getfulness. The sister who presided over the pastry, and whose conserves, throughout a long and blameless life, had been pronounced-unique and irreproach- able, now actually omitted the necessary ingredients ; the soup, when uncovered for a second, was invaded with such a, discharge of soot, as reduced it, in color at least, to an equality with the broth of Sparta. The nun at the organ, instead of a "jubilate" struck up a "nunc dimit- is ;" the very bells were "jangled out of tune"--and the Lady Abbess was hor- ified by a succession of prodigies that, ~rom her noviciate to her promotion, had ever before visited the quiet residence ~f the sisterhood of Saint Ursula. What were the nocturnal visitations inflicted upon the lovely novice, have not een exactly handed down. One thing lone is certain. She visited the Lady Abbess with the first dawn, and in her maternal bosom the bride elect deposited the causes of her sorrow. In thisperplexity, the Knight and the a Superior held secret counsel in the-par- lor of the convent, and long and difficult was the conference. The result was, that Cormac More vowed a golden cha- lice to the offended virgin; and the Ab- bess, not to be outdone in liberality, agreed to double ayes and credos for a- fortnight. But with Rose Roche herself the chief difficulty was found to lie. "A11 measures proposed by the holy mother were inefficacious ; and, in this desperate dilemma, it was deemed advisable to add to the number of counsellors, and the Prior of the Dominicans was summoned to the assistance of the conclave. To that holy man the exigencies of the respective parties were intrusted. The Prior was sorely disturbed with doubts, but after a night's deliberation, during which he discussed a capon single hand., ed, and fortified his stomach with a sec- ond stoop of Rhenish wine, he decided that the Lord of Iveaugh should add a flagon to the chalice-the Abbess double her penitentiaries for a month-and Rose Roche undergo a private penance, which he, the Prior, should communicate to the lady alone. Never had such an alarming predica- ment a happier termination ! The Knight had scarcely laid himself upon the Bish- op's bed, until a sweet and refreshing slumber, blessed, with the happiest vis- ions, sealed his eyes ; the Lady Abbess slept like a watchman ; and since she had first gathered wild flowers in the con- vent garden, never did the fair novice en- joy more delightful dreams. At last the bridal day arrived. The Lord of Iveaugh was attended by a splen- did following. The bells rang out a joy- Sous peal, and the 6leve of the Ursulines Left the home of her youth, escorted by Three hundred horsemen, the consort of Sthe proudest Baron of the Pale. No 'lover could be more gallant than the noble Husband of Rose Roche. Fete succeeded fete, and feasting continued in the castle of Cormac More, from Michaelnas till 'Advent. ' - ! is - - i Y. }" c - f { "f_" , .{ ~a 1 * « t S ' s t y ;y'._t arq t s y. ' r .. W si4 i # # ry!i. "a ', 4. r :,eW h3 - tla: i s, a_ "! 1 xf si ri.: Yti .,r is u of Rio-.. .',M -FM^ r ,' e i RFt .,X " ".: v :i tr'~ , s'W. x . s L'.i#,';i ,.l., a*;, y7 : . a r ' i r4,r' - & 1. l i e,#.,1 _ r e A Iv Months passed away, and honey- moons can not be expected to last for ever. Cormac More by-degrees resumed his hunting, and again involved himself in the endless feuds and warfare of those restless times; and-Rose Roche was oft- en deserted for the chase or the field. She still was passionately loved, but in the bosom of a martial Baron other and sterner feelings held a predominance. It is true that the young bride bore these frequent absences with wonderful resig- nation; and page and tire-woman confess- ed in secret, that Dhu Castle was gayer and merrier when Cormac and his stern companions were away. A year wore on. The Lord of Iveaugh was pensive and thoughtful; a cloud would often gather on his brow, and his bearing to his beautiful wife became chilling and, repulsive. It transpired that two circum- stances occasioned his anxiety. His lady wore a curious-fashioned coif, which con- cealed her tressesas effectually as if she never laid aside her night-cap ; and the cherished hope of an heir to his ancient line now faded in the heart 'of Cormac More. Dhu Castle became duller and more gloomy-the fair Baroness was more and more deserted-the chase and banquet were preferred by the moody Knight to soft dalliance in his "lady's bower,'' and any pretext was gladly re- sorted to, which offered an excuse for being absent from his joyless home. Gentlewomen, in these perilous days, required and possessed an astonishing portion of philosophy. No Baron's lady "in the Pale" submitted to a frequent separation from her lord, with more laud- able submission than Rose Roche. The customary resource of " wives bereaved," appeared any thing but consolatory to the dame. She determined to avoid crying, as being an unchristian waste of beauty ..-.-and instead of -useless lamentations, she wisely substituted mirth and mini- strelsy. There was not a more accomplished hard in Ulster than Connor O'Cahan, and for seventy years he had resided with the Lords of Iveaugh. No tale or tradition connected with this puissant race was unknown to this gifted minstrel; 14 Li y fn 3 ;r i . {t t S 2 i .'1 .F kr _ § y f , f [f i6 Si W i.~F 4 °"^L 4r ]Sf!'F4n a 4 1 .N ,Y 1Y" Yd ,i Y , y - irk} L , l.a Diu: p:, Xd.h i ^ 'k-. " , ',. .,1 w.,., "y !a; "..am Y n"M'a., } r Yy~ lit if ,. k 3. 1 X Y r . r b y ' -- ^ , 14g T"l r'''s .41 -e+r" . w i .A 58 The Legend of Rose Roche. 59 page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] j r' i , T 4 l k Y r . ,,;.;. , ii' 60 The Legend of Rose Roche. The Legend of Rose Roche.. yet by some strange infirmity of taste young Rose preferred the light romance of her Lord's English page, to all the 1 gendary lore of the gray-haired harper and listened with more delight to a men roundelay from Edwin's lute, than to th deeds of Cormac's grandfather, as s out in song by Connor O'Cahan. TI bard, it is, true, was blind, and the pag had the-blackest eyes imaginable. This unhappy predilection was nc concealed from her Lord. His jealous instantly took fire, and. the handsome page was suddenly removed,,and non knew whither. The absence of an hei had now become matter for serious com plaint; it was whispered among the Ba] on's followers, that there was no caus for hope, and maliciously insinuated moreover, that the close coif adopted b; the dame, was worn to conceal some na tural deformity. Cormac, a slave to sus picion, and instigated by his rude com panions, insisted that the hood should b discarded, or that Rose Roche should re tire in disgrace to the convent front whence she came. On the alternative being proposed, th Lady proved positive, and the coif wa peremptorily retained. Cormac, irritates by opposition to his commands, was ob stinate in his determination, and Ros Roche left the castle of her lord a repu diated wife, and once more returned to the convent of the Ursulines. From the hour of their separation, the Baron seldom smiled. To part from his wife was a trifle; but unluckily he had embroiled himself with the church. The Abbess espoused the lady's quarrel fierce ly, and ave and credo were no longer of fered up for Cormac More ! Notwith standing past largess, beeves and wine- butts were forgotten; the caidle-sticks upon the altar no longer elicited a prayer; and his soul's health was no more attend- ed to by the community, than the lowest horse-boys of his train.. Thus matters stood; when one dark evening, returning from the chase, Cor- mac and his. followers were surprised by a bandi of Catterans, and a fierce and desperate skirmish ensued. The outlaws were defeated, but the Lord of Iveaugh I~ te, was shot clean, through tlge body with a es three-foot arrow; and how could he have e- better luck ? r ; Then it was that the sinful Knight was ry tortured with remorse and unavailing sor- e row. He cursed the evil counsellors who et tempted him to insult Saint Ursula and e her adopted daughter, and determining to e be reconciled to his wife and the church together, directed his followers to carry ot him to the Abbey of Balleek. His or- y ders were obeyed, and the Lady Abbess e consented to admit the dying noble. He te was laid before the altar, and his injured ir wife, forgetting past resentment, was the 1- first to rush from her cell, andminister r- to his relief. In the fatal emergency, e coif and veil were left behind; her raven 1, tresses fell below her shoulders, and y reached to her very waist, and Cormac 1- was convinced, too late, that his ill-used consort had the finest hair in Christen- - dom. Alas ! those ebon locks had been e the admiration of the whole sisterhood-- and for penitential purposes, the Domi- n nican had enjoined their concealment for three years, when he gave spiritual coun- e sel, in their hour of tribulation, to the s Abbess, the Baron, and Rose Roche. d To make atonement for his former un- - kindness, he willed his rich domains to e his beautiful widow. The Prior of the - Dominicans indited the deed, which dis- posed of:his possessions ; and the church, of course, was not forgotten. Surround- ed by all the emblems of religion, and with. a splinter of the true, cross in his I right hand, the penitent Baron breathed his last. He lay for three days and - nights in the chancel, in great state; and was interred on the fourth morning, with - all the ceremonies that both Ursulines - and Dominicans could bestow. The days of mourning passed over: Rose Roche exercised her resignation; and Dhu Castle became a different place to what it had been during the latter days of the defunct Baron, and mirth and mu- sic were exchanged for the rude revelry of Cormac More. Her hail was filled with guests; at the board she (lid the honors nobly ; and when she visited the green wood, with her gold-belled hawks and gallant retinue, she looked as if she iad been ennobled from the Conquest,' ,and in her bearing and attire, seemed N'every inch a queen." i But amidst all this splendor and mag- 1niflcenee, poor Rose had her own secret -causes of inquietude. Beauty accompa- 1ied by broad lands, could not but induce sailors without lumber to come forward, hand never was woman, not excepting .Penelope herself, more vigorously be- ?sieged. From past experience, Rose dwas not ambitious to exchange wealth land liberty for becoming the wife of some :doughty Baron, who would probably un- dervalue her charms, just as much as he I would over-estimate his' own great con- descension in giving her his name. A tender recollection of one, long since lost, would cross her mind occasionally, and in her solitary hours the black-eyed page haunted her imagination. Accordingly she eschewed all offers for her hand, with excellent discretion. Few were offended, she managed her rejections so prudently ; 4and through the first year of widowhood, neither land nor liberty were lost. The consort of the wise Ulysses her- ,self could not have held out forever. Rose was severely pressed; for finding ' themselves foiled by her ready wit and good discretion when they attacked her singly, her lovers, fromnenecessity, agreed to coalesce, and determined that one should be accepted, and, the remainder be pledged to support the acquired rights of the fortunate candidate, as report said King Henry had resolved to gift a favor- ite noble with the person and estates of the beautiful widow. This agreement of her suitors was po-' litely but decisively intimated to Rose Roche, and the Prior declared, " by the ' vestment," that to evade matrimony lon- ger was impossible. "She had," the ' holy man said, "an ample list to choose Sfromr; there were eleven suitors in the ~neighborhood, besides the ' Big Man of the West,' for so the Thane of Con- ~naught was entitled." ~jIn thisextremity the lady resolved to exercise, at least, the privilege of free 1 choice. The Prior was directed to en- gross a bond, by which the respective i candidates for her hand bound themselves to grant an uncontrolled right of selec- tion to the widow, and covenanted, more- over, neither to molest, or permit her to be molested, when her choice was made. The deed was duly executed-the day for her decision was named-and a rea- sonable time allowed for " the Big Man of the West" to attend and try his for- tune. O'Connor was surprised when the de- termination of the widow was communi- cated. He had only time for a hurried preparation, as his rivals, from their vi- cinity to the lady, had never taken the remoter situation of the " Big Man" into their consideration, when they named the day. O'Connor, however, was no slug- gard ; he collected his "following" with all haste, and every department was com- plete, when, alas, the chief harper fell sick without -a cause, and no other was procurable for a distance of sixty miles. In this dilemma a Saxon youth, who, two years since, had been shipwrecked- be- neath the castle walls, was recollected. He could not, it is true, "strike the bold harp," but he had a sweet and mellow voice, and his skill upon the lute was ad- mirable. In wood-craft he was a thorough proficient, and with lance and brand had more than once proved himself a man. O'Connor had no alternative, and the stranger was selected to fill the place that "Cathwold O'Connor of the harp" should; have more worthily occupied. Although the Thane of Connaught and his gallant company pushed forward with all the speed that man and horse could make, from bad roads and flooded rivers, they were unable to reach the heights above Dhu Castle until the sun of the eventful day had set. In vain knight and squire pressed on their jaded steeds- evening fell; all the- candidates'besides had been in the hall for hours, and, as "the Big Man" had not appeared, ac- cording to modern parlance he was voted present by the company, and the banquet was served. Never with such a heavy heart did Rose Roche assume the place of honor. Though her hall was lighted- splendidly, and her table crowded with the proudest nobles within "the Pale"-- though rich wvine flowed, and the most afaxs~i~ts ,;l, ,y~Mie~e~ at+ m+ ,ian~cri c *w d.tr ;,;i '2 4,,,:..kt I; ', 61 '4 " Ii q I } F b s + A s S" ] -"-"-".. Is t I S 4 f ' i , - i. ,L r page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] G Y 5 J i f 62 The Legend of Rose Roche. The Legend of Rose Roche. skilful harpers in the province poured forth their lays of love and war-yet one heart was heedless of gaiety and grandeur; and that one was her's on whom every eye was bent, in deep expectancy await- ing her decision. The curfew rang-and -in another hour the happy Lord of Dhu Castle would be proclaimed. As the moments flew, the beautiful widow became paler and more dejected; and breasts which had never quailed amid the roar of battle, now throbbed as nervously as a maiden's, when she listens to the first 4ale of love. The harps were mute, the revel became less loud, for all were deeply interested in that event which a brief space must determine. At this embarrassing moment, a loud blast was heard at the grand gate, and the seneschal rushed in, to announce the arrival of the Thane of Connaught,- attended by a noble following of, at least, one hundred horse. The sudden and opportune appearance of him of the West, seemed to affect the company variously. His rivals heard the news with mingled feelings of jealousy and alarm, which was in no ways abated when the number of his attendants was announced, which exceeded that of their united followings. Rose Roche felt a secret pleasure at his coming; not that her sentiments towards O'Connor were more favorable than to her suitors gene- rally, but his late arrival must-.necessarily occasion some delay, and postpone, though but for a brief space, that dreaded moment when she. should surrender a hand, without a heart, to her future lord. While O'Connor, as the greatest stran ger, was placed beside the lady of Dhu Castle, his bard stood behind his master, and his train bestowed themselves where they could best find room. As Rose Roche looked carefully around to see that the band were fitly, accommodated, her eyes met those of the young minstrel:- the blood rushed to her brow ; for ex- cepting those of her own loved page, she never looked upon a pair so black and sparkling as the stranger' . When the Trhane of Connaught had feasted to his heart's content, the Prior of the Dominicans produced the parch- ment, to which his rivals had affixed their signatures already. The "Big Man" listened attentively as the monk read it. "'Tis all fair," he added, as he placed his sign manual to the deed, "that the; lady should choose her lord ; and thus I" bind myself, faithfully to abide the intents! of this parchment." Then turning to Rose Roche, he thus proceeded: "It grieves me that through accident I have unwittingly occasioned some delay; there- fore, in pity to my gallant competitors, I beg you, lady, to terminate their suspense, and declare to this noble company the happy object of your choice-nay, blanchi not so, fair dame," for t lady became pallid as the white marb of a warrior's'," tomb; "exercise your own pleasure lei- surely; and while I pledge thy matchless beauty in a cup of muscadine, Aylhner, my bard, shall sing a Saxon roundelay." As he spoke, O'Connor signed to the, minstrel, who, rising at his lord's bid-. ding, struck with a rapid hand the pre-. lude of a light romance, which, with aj tremulous, but powerful voice, he thus gave words to: "Ladye, farewell !-the fatal hour Has sped, for thus thy tyrant wills, When he, who loves thee, leaves this tower, Deserts gay hall and woodland bower Of her, for whom his heart's pulse thrills; And thou art she-Ladye--sweet Ladye." When the minstrel touched the pre- lude, Rose Roche became visibly affect- ed ;ut when the words fell from his~ lips, a burning blush dyed her cheek and brow, and her heart throbbed almost t6 bursting. Alas, it was the very rounde- lay the poor page had sung beneath her casement on that melancholy night when her defunct lord had expelled him from the castle !- She turned hastily round to see who the strange youth might be, who thus re- called her absent love in look and voice so forcibly. Blessed Ursula ! it was he, the long lost page. The minstrel,.as he caught her eyes, suddenly ceased his melody-the lute fell from his nerveless grasp, and, oee by feelings that could not be controlle eJr sank upon the bench behind him. It was, indeed, young $ylmer. The well remembered features ;ould never be forgotten, although the .oy had ripened into manhood--the thick down upon the lip had changed to a dark ;noustache-and the belt which once held hunting blade, supported now a goodly brand. The strange effect of the melody upon the lady, and the minstrel's sudden indis- Aposition, could not escape remark ; a startling suspicion flashed across the ,minds of the company, and after a pain- ful silence of some minutes, Hubert de Moore rose from his seat, and bowing to the very table, thus addressed the lady of 1 the castle: " Wilt thou forgive the humblest but most devoted of -thy suitors, if he pre- sume to remind you that the hour has long since passed when your election should have been made? Far be it from me, noble dame, to seem importunate; but suspense is irksome to those that love, and I and my brother nobles pray you to signify your pleasure, and end uncertain- ty at once." While De Moore was speaking, Rose Roche appeared to recover her self-pos- session wonderfully ; her eye brightened, her color came again, and the compres- sion of her lips proved that she was nerv- ing herself for some determined effort. She rose slowly and gracefully, while a dead silence pervaded the hall; faint and tremulous as her first words were, they were distinctly heard by those remotest from the dais.* " Noble lords," she said, " I own and thank your courtesy: I ask; this holy churchman if I am to exercise free choice in this affair, unshackled with bar, or con- dition, save my own pleasure ; and if he whom I shall place here," and she point- ed to the vacant seat beside her own, which had been reserved for the success- ful wooer, "shall be supported in all the rights and properties which he shall ob- tain through me?" "All this," said the Prior, "is fairly stipulated in the intents of this scroll." "Then will I not trespass on your pa- tience, noble lords,-there stands the oh- *The place of honor in a Baronial hall. ject of my choice ; and thus I instal him in this seat, as Lord and Master of Dhu Castle?" She turned to the astonished minstrel as she spoke, and ere her words were ended, the youth was seated at her side. A scene of wonder and wild confusion followed--most of the Barons protested loudly against her choice ; angry looks and threatening gestures were directed at the minstrel, and more than one sword was half unsheathed. O'Connor seemed,, thunderstruck-and the lady herself was the most collected of the company. " How is this, Sir Knights ?" she cri- ed. " Is lordly word and written pledge so lightly held among you, that thus ye violate their sanctity? .Thane of Con- naught," she continued, as she addressed" herself to the ' Big Man,' "thy faith was never questioned, and thy word is held to be sacred as a martyr's vow. When the English King, under. pain of confis- cation, ordered thee to deliver the stran- ger up, whom thou hadst resetted-al- though five hundred marks were put upon his head, what was thy.-answer ? 'The lands may go, but plighted faith must stand.' The ink with which you bound* yourself to the conditions of yonder bond, is not yet dry upon the parchment, and wilt thou break thy word?" "It is a trick," cried De Moore. "'The selection rests with ourselves alone," exclaimed Mandeville. "We will never brook that page or minstrel should hold the lands and castles of Cormac More," said both togeth r; and they laid their hands upon their s ords; the attendants followed the example of their lords, and a scene of violence and discord was about immediately to ensue. O'Connor slowly rose-he waved his hand to command silence, and his wishes were promptly obeyed. "Trhis is, indleed,an unexpected choice," he said: "'Sir Prior, read the parchment aloud, that all may hear, and read it care- fully, line after line, and syllable by syl- lable; see that a letter be not omitted." The monk obeyed. " The document is ,a plain one," said the 'Big Man,' " and by it, the lady has gooa right to choose whom she listeth for her consort. Lady 63 J f 4 " !1f I I f a I - ' ;, ,ti 5. , ; { s ; " f' ,, " ,i. k t s , f , ; r ; *1 ' s , .1y, Yr "' r,4,; I . , , ,t. s' ' f _ t "s , r r.w k,.,t, , . '. a'-" ; r'.,~r 1.'*° a }yY ' IMri Y - 1 "v' ;,.; r ..i "+ fl.v".. g ~c - p .; ,^ «pj . - ,.- r ; r- . f s ' -s i ,} " .. - '° ref, Y TT:T page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] - Q .j A 1 1 i 1 1', y k , M'. "+ 64 Legendary Ballad. of Iveaugh," he continued, as he turned unity? The sword that conferred th to the blushing widow, "is this youth the honor, is ready and able to maintain it !" husband of thy choice?"-"He and none 'And O'Connor, as he ended, flung belt besides, so help me saints and angels !" and rapier on the table. was the solemn answer. "Then by (ny But none seemed disposed to quarrel father's ashes, and a knight's word, that ;with him; and gradually they followed never yet was questioned, thou, Aylmer his example, and admitted the lady's Mowbray, shalt this night- possess thy right of choice. The mirth and feasting bride ! And why, my lords, chale you were resumed; and each, after reasoning so at this ?" for the storm was again with himself, finding that the chances of about to burst forth :"Is it because the success were greatly against him, became monk was but a sorry lawyer, and the reconciled to lose the lady and her lands. lady took advantage of a loose parch- Before midnight struck, the Prior per- ment which should have bound her bet- formed the marriage ceremony; and while ter? Is it that the Lord of Dh Castle O'Connor bestowed the beauteous bride, was once a page ? What was thy an- De Moore himself attended upon the for- cestor, De Moore, (I mean not to offend tunate minstrel. thee,) but usher to the Lord Justice? and Nor did Sir Aylmer Mowbray disap thine, Mandeville, but chamber-groom to point his patron's expectation. His lute Strongbow? Aylmer, I love thee too was sweetest in the bower, his plume well to envy thee thy good fortune ;--thy was foremost in the field. He held the lute has won the lady--thy lance must possessions he gained by his lady against keep her lands. Kneel down, minstrel every claimant; sons and daughters bless. no longer-rise up, mine own knight ban- ed his bed, and transmitted his titles and neret? And now, Lords of the Pale, estates to posterity; and thus more than Henry himself could not confer a nobler one powerful house traces its lineage back dignity; for- O'Connor's knight is stan- to an "ileve" of the Ursulines, and the dard-bearer to the King of Connaught! black-eyed Page. Does any here gainsay his rank and dig- LEGENDARY BALLAD. BY MR. MOORE. TILE MAGIC MIRROR. 'Come, if thy magic glass have power To call up forms we sigh to see; Show me my love in that rosy bower, Where last she pledged her troth to me." The wizard showed his lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bower she lay ; " True hearted maid," saidthe happy knight, "She's thinking of one who's far away." But lo! a page, with looks of joy, Brings tidings to the lady's ear, "'Tis," said the knight, " the same bright boy Who used to guide me to my dear." The lady, now, from her favorite tree, Hath, smiling, pluck'd a rosy flower; " Such," he exclaimed, " was the gift that she Each morning sent me.from that bower !" Ehe gives her page that blooming rose, With looks that say, "Like lightning fly !" "Thus," thought the knight, "she soothes her woes, By fancying still her true love nigh !" But the page returns, and--oh ! what a sight For a true lover's eye to see ; Leads to that bower another knight, As gay, and, alas ! as loved as he! "Such," quoth the youth, "is woman's love !" Then darting forth with furious bound, Dash'd at the mirror his iron glove, And strewed it all in fragments round. MORAL. Such ill would neverhhave come to pass, Had he ne'er sought that fatal view; The wizard still would have kept his glass, And the knight still thought his lady true. BY CHARLES LAMB. ON the noon of the 14th of November, Prince of Wales. She would have done 1743 or 4, 1 forget which it was, just as the elder child in Morton's pathetic after- the clock had struck one, Barbara S--, piece to the life ; but as yet the ",Chil- with her accustomed punctuality, ascend- dren in the Wood" was not. ed the long rambling staircase, with awk- Long after this little girl was grown an ward interposed landing-places, which aged woman, I have seen some of these led to the office, or rather a sort of box small parts, each making two or three with a desk in it, whereat sat the then pages at most, copied out in the rudest Treasurer of (what few of our readers hand of the then prompter, who doubtless may remember,) the Old Bath Theatre. transcribed a little more carefully and All over the island it was the custom, and fairly for the grown-up tragedy ladies of remains so I believe to this day, for the the establishment. But such as they players to receive their weekly stipend were, blotted and scrawled, as for a child's on the Saturday. It was not much that use, she kept them all; and in the zenith Barbara had to claim. of her after reputation it was a delightful This little maid had just entered her sight to behold them bound up in the eleventh year; but her important station costliest morocco, each single-each small at the theatre, as it seemed to her, with part making a book-with fine clasps, the benefits which she felt to accrue from gilt-splashed,. &c. She had conscien- her pious application of her small earn- tiously kept them as they had been de- ings, had given an air of womanhood to livered to her; not a blot had been effaced her steps and to her behavior. You would or tampered with. They were precious have taken her to have been at least five to her fer their affecting remembrancings. years older. They were her principia, her rudiments; Till latterly she had merely been em- the elementary atoms; the little steps by ployed in choruses, or where children which she pressed forward to perfection. were wanted to fill up the scene. But "What," she would say, "could Indian the manager, observing a diligence and Rubber, or a pumice stone, have done adroitness in her above her age, had for for these darlings ?" some few months past intrusted to her I am in no hurry to begin my story- the performance of whole parts. You indeed I have little or one to tell-so I may guess the self consequence of the will just mention an observation of hers promoted Barbara. She had already connected with that interesting time. drawn tears in young Arthur; had ral- Not long before she died I had been lied Richard with infantine petulance in discoursing with her on the quantity of the Duke of York ; and in her turn had real present emotion which a great tragic rebuked that petulance when she was performer experiences during acting. I 65 tokL =r _ i ' fY+{{+ t l =a i 1 j; /, ; _ i Y : ' f , , " .: . ,, n lY 3 _aa St ' n f i 7 i t t r 5 :( 4_ +r , ",'; ; , { k . i 1 _ 4 f ., to ",vys }3 ' zx e r , lc v ...+. ... ;x.. '+:.s4p' F" i ..xsr , y. 3tk 7W.d+s..aiT .a-" i sai +n v',....:r :e q' ,:ut . H:..:^17rt..,.n :i.1rww.+-Y:- .a r.,{aE s - ? ,if f-.,'. r , , ., iw sws^ ...;.wss ad'hd.3r ,u i '"" . , - x ' t s r Aik page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] 66B-br- ventured to think, that though in the first instance such players must have possess- ed the feelings which they so powerfully called up in others, yet by frequent repe- tition those feelings must become dead- ened in a great measure, and the perform- er trust to the menmtory of past emotion, rather than express a present one. She indignantly repelled the notion, that with a truly great tragedian the operation, by which such effects-were produced upon an audience, could ever degrade itself into what was purely mechanical. With much delicacy, avoiding to instance in her se/- experience, she told me, that so long ago as when she used to play the part of the Little Son to Mrs. Porter's. Isabella, (I think it was) when that impressive ac- tress has been bending over her in some heart-rending colloquy, she has felt real hot tears come trickling from her, which (to use her powerful expression) have perfectly scalded her back. I am not quite so sure that it was Mrs. Porter ; but'it was some great actress of that day. The name is indifferent ; but the fact of the scalding tears I most dis- tinctly remember. I was always fond of the society of players, and am not sure that an impedi- ment in my speech (which certainly kept me out of the pulpit) even more than certain personal disqualifications, which are often got over in that profession, did not prevent me at one time of life-from adopting it. I have had the honor (I must ever call it) once to have been ad- mitted to the tea-table of Miss Kelly. I have played at serious whist with Mr. Liston. I have chatted with ever good- humored Mrs. Charles Kemble. I have conversed as friend to friend with her ac- complished husband, I have been'in- dulged with a classical conference with Macready ; and with a sight of the player- picture gallery, at Mr. Matthews's, when the kind owner, to remunerate me for my love of the old actors (whom lie loves so much) went over it with me, supply- ing to his capital collection, what alone the artist could not give them-voice ; and their living motion. Old tones, half- faded, of Dodd and Parsons, and Badde- ley, have lived again for me at his bidding. Only Edwin he could not restore to me,. I have supped with.- but I am grow- ing a coxcomb. As I was about to say-at the desk of the then treasurer of the Old Bath Thea- tre-not Diamond's-presented herself the little Barbara S-. The parents of Barb ira had been in reputable circumstances. The father had practised, I believe, as an apothecary in the town. But his practice, from causes which I feel my own infirmity too sensibly that way to arraign-or perhaps from that pure infelicity which accompa- nies some people in their walk through life, andch it is impossible to lay at the do r of imprudence-was now re- duced to nothing. They were in fact in the very teeth of starvation, when the manager, who knew and respected them in better days, took the little Barbara into his company. At the period I commenced with, her slender 'earnings were the sole support of the family, including two younger sis- ters. I must throw a veil over some mor- tifying circumstances. Enough to -say, that her Saturday's pittance was the only chance of a Sunday's (generally their only) meal of meat. One thing I will only mention, that in some child's part, where in her theatri- cal character she was to sup off a roast fowl (0 joy to Barbara !) some comic actor, who was for the night caterer for this dainty-in the misguided humor of his part, threw over the dish such a quan- tity of salt (0 grief and pain of heart to, Barbara!) that when he crammed a por, tion of it into her mouth, she was obliged sputteringly to reject it; and with shame of her ill-acted part, and pain of real ap- petite at missing such a dainty, her little heart sobbed almost to breaking, till a flood of tears, which the well-fed spec- tators were totally unable to comprehend,. mercifully relieved her. This was the little starved, meritorious maid, who stood before old Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's pay- ment. Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many old theatrical people beside hierself say, of all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for accounts, paid away at random, kept scarce any 66 indispensable for her mother to provide 'knew her. 1 I S 1 Barbara ._ S Barbara S-------67 summing up at the week's end, for her, with hard straining and pinching books, and sumn. pa e efa' tc n huh o ifhe found himself a pound or so deficient, from the family stock, and thought how blest himself that it was no worse. glad she should be to cover their poor feet Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a with the same-and how then they could bare half guinea.-By mistake he popped accompany her to rehearsals, which they into her hand a- whole one. had hitherto been precluded from doing, Barbara tripped away. by reason of their unfashionable attire,- She was entirely unconscious at first in these thoughts she reached the landing of the mistake ; God knows, Ravenscroft place'- thesecond I mean from the would never have discovered it. top-for there was still another to tra- But when she hd got down to the first verse. of those uncouth landing-places, she be- Now virtue support Barbara!ien did step came sensible of an unusual weight of And that never-fap metal pressing her little hand. in-for at that moment a strength not her Now mark the dilemma. own, I have heard her say, was revealed She was by nature a good child. From to her-a reason above reasoning--and her parents and those about her she without her own agency, as it seemed had imbibed no contrary influence. (for she never felt her feet to move) she But then they had taught her nothing. foud herself strnsportjustbac itthen Poor men's smoky cabins are not al- individual desk sle had just quitted, and ways porticoes of moral phosop her hand in the old hand of Ravenscroft, This little maid had no instinct to evil, n silence took back the refunded but then she might be said to have no fix- treasure, and who had been sitting (good ed principle. She had heard honesty man) insensible to thelapse of minutes, commended, but never dreamed of its ap- which to her were anxious'ages; and from plication to herself. She thought of it as that moment a deep peace fell upon -her something which concerned grown-up heart, and she knew the quality of honesty. people-men and Women. She had nev- A year or two's unrepining application er known temptation, or thought of pre- to her profession brightened up the feet, paring resistance against it.- and the prospects of her little sisters, set Her first impulse was to go back to the whole family upon their legs again, the old treasurer, and explain to him his and released her from the difficulty of blunder. He was already so confused discussing moral dogmas upon a landing- with age, besides a natural want of punc- place. tuality, that she would have had some I have heard her say, that it was a sur- difficulty in making him understand it. prise, not much short of mortification to She saw that in an instant. And then it her, to see the coolness with which the was such a bit of money! and then the old man pocketed the difference, which image of a larger allowance of butcher's had caused her such mortal throes. meat on their table next day came across This anecdote of herself I had in the her, till her little eyes glistened, and her year 1800, from the mouth of the late mouth moistened. But then Mr. Raven- Mrs. Crawford, then sixty-seven years croft had always been so good-natured. of age (she died soon after); and to her had stood her friend behind the scenes, struggles upon this childish occasion I ad evnrcmeded he prmtio to have sometimes ventured to think her in- somn o ever lteomn par omoBu aginthe debted for that power of rending the heart old man was reputed to be worth a world in th e representationaof conflictingeemo- of money. He was supposed to havetinfrwchnateyassews fifty puds yea la f the theatre. considered as little inferior (if at all so in An then scae starn uon hre fig the part of Lady Randolph) even to Mrs ures of her little stockingless and shoeless. Siddons. sisters. And when she looked on her whi The made namd e thsi lar as trt her staneat he thtre stokigs dhic those of Dancer, Barry, and Crawford. bhe was her ituaion t te thatrehadmade it Mrs. Crawford, and a third time a widow, whenI r, ;t f L' .f 1 " . Yr9 T tL r C 4 , LT. l t C 4 t d t t . f i i r ' 9 Y page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] b a t Y T E r1[ . , ap.y.bi r' ii+e" . L, ,1 .. 'y «. , ,. k'2 a s1 Story of the Heart. IT is not our place to account for the perversity of the human heart, or our in- tention to excuse the inconstancy of hu- man nature. As for the fickleness of love, it is the old woman's axiom, time out of mind; as if love, to prove that it is so, ought necessarily to evince itself incapable of the changes to which alltthe material and immaterial world around us is alike liable. We say no such thing. We have seen, we have known, we can imagine; and without further argument on the, passion or no passion--the affec- tion or no affection which produced this or that consequence, we are content to draw our own conclusions. Therefore, without any sweeping denunciation against the race of man-without any libel against the law of love---without raising one man to the elevation of greater or better spirits -without degrading the species to the level of this one-we shall sketch a simple picture, in a simple way, and let the moral, if there be any, rest with the reader. The precepts scattered to the young are as seeds sown on the bosom of the earth; time shall roll on, but the season shall come round to show that the hus- bandman has been there ; and so it was with Delacour. Wealth, emolument, and self-interest, had been the lessons of his youth, and he had profited by them.; On the death of his father, a respectable tradesman, he found himself in fair cir- cumstagces; and--by aid of his profes- sion-for he was a lawyer--on the high road to reputadon, and it might be, to riches. Possessed of'a fine person, a, graceful demeanor, a majestic figure, pleasing voice, lively conversation, and easy vivacity, it is no wonder he got into good society, and, from thence, into some notice as a professional man. He was now turned thirty, and in the full career of fortune ; still. unmarried, still sought by anxious mothers, and wooed by for- ward daughters ; but he was not in love, or scarcely dared believe it himself. The, father of Emily Sidney was a merchant, who had been mainly instrumental in the good fortune to which Delacour had at- tained ; she was the heiress of a supposed large property, and the beauty of her cir- cle. This was enough to depress, a less ardent admirer or a more calculating man; but Delacour had owed much to chance, and perceiving as- he thought, something not altogether unpropitious to him, he commenced his secret suit. Ah ! I remember her as yesterday. She was then eighteen,--youth scarce mellowed into early womanhood. The face, as it peeped from the chastening chestnut ringlets around it, was worthy the hand of a painter, though the smile that played on the lip might have defied his skill; the small and well-rounded figure vied with sculpture, but marble had vainly essayed to express the grace and dignity of thyt demeanor, And this was the least part of all. She knew what was kindness and charity, and practised 'what she knew. She--but let her story de- lineate her character. It must be presumed that Delacour was, in his way, ambitious, and this was the object at which he now aimed. He A STORY OF THE HEART, had imagined beauty; here was beauty unrivalled, unexcelled ;-virtue,--here was virtue the most alluring; modesty, sim- plicity, truth, love, all combined in one ; and for fortune, here was such as he could never have anticipated; connexions the most to be desired, and influence the most to be coveted. But why reason upon it! She should be his in any con- dition of life,-her beauty were alone dowry fit for a prince. In all stations alike lovely, alike to be desired. In such extacies he passed his hours; when a new suitor appeared in the person of a young baronet of considerable fortune. Money was nothing to him, and happi- ness every thing. Equally handsome and agreeable, and more rich than Dela- cour, he was, in every respect, no com- mon rival; besides which, all the arts of a -true lover were devised to secure the treasre to himself. About this time Mr. Sidney incurred a great loss of property by an unlucky speculation. The affair was stated to the baronet-the carriage was put down--but he was not to be changed by time or place; the same, ac- corplished suitor, the same unchanged admirer-nor did he fail to show the pre- ference he felt. But what will love not effect ! Emily Sidney was an only child, and with all the sweet ignorance of afflu- ence, she wondered what riches had to do with content. The old question of "love in a cottage, or palace without," this eternal young girl's theme, was pon- dered upon, but all thoughts leaned to the same side,--the predilection she felt, happily or unhappily for Delacour. He protested disinterested affection-total disregard of all future or present expec- tations-and could she do less than be- lieve him ? The father consulted, the mother advised-but Emily wept, and it ended in the refusal of the baronet. A week after, Delacour made his offer, and was accepted ; and who could fail ,to be flattered by the preference ? From that time they were all the world to one an- other-for ever together-he the .most attentive of lovers, she the happiest of women. As no man, by looking in the glass, is likely to form a just estimate of his own defects, or his own peculiar perfections; so no man discovers his true character by gazing, however intently, in that in- ward mirror of the mind-his own imag- ination. For as our shadows, seen in the sun, are most defective r.epresenta- tions of our own forms, so are these men- tal likenesses like the bright shape of fancy, too airy and too heavenly, and too perfect to be aught but ideal types of what we would fain believe. Delacour had his vanity. He had hitherto been a hap- py and prosperous man; he was much sought, and, moreover, was beloved by one whose opinion most men had been pleased to have gained. And if he de- ceived himself or believed too firmly in himself, what are not the deceptions that we practise on ourselves, and on others-. and this when we would be tine to all parties. It was, however, no deceit that he wasin love, though the manner of his loving might be another thing. Here his heart was fixed. The world might go round, and the seasons change, but each and the other could not affect him. All his feelings, his associations, were here combined, and nature must change ere he cold. But why descant upon, or question, his emotions? Who, in a dream, ever dreamed that he should awake again in five minutes, or five hours, or ages, or centuries ! For us, we have oftentimes stood on the utmost height of a green and glorious hill, and there have seen nature's most awful might spread out around us. The vale, the sloping mead, the verdant lawn, the blooming garden ground, the river, the lake, the slender stream, all blessing and giving glory to, the darkness of our thoughts within; and when the golden sun broke out, we hailed the earth as joyous and happy. We do not know that the cloud was noticed, or the tempest heard to moan, though in the deep forest its voice might have been heard deploring. We must confess, that when the rain came down, we were taken unawares. Our thoughts were leading on hope, not treading after servile despair. And when the landscape was effaced, the brightness of the heavens gone away, then we could have wept, but the tears were demijed 69 D r t h' r 'r 39 . 1 "i ,". ~ '4" Y ;, S^'~; ., : rl , rb ^: wk+k^''Sarp v , . rr ,+t^ ru+a^ ,.q.r- pm"Y xns .rr+. -,r^^,^wJ., : }eraYw W s + r ,,.CwaJDyx .., ro ryJJY jS -'l7 F M{ d ,4 f.. a. - " t W x"1MfiL4 i - w v V r 9. \l .-.. page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] , r '_ U" ""; - to " ., - y-a , 61 I A Story of the Heart. .f Story of the Hear t. 71 So Delacour had before his eyes some such gorgeous scene ; it was still bright, and without shadow, as if it never meant to fade. It was a delightful evening at the latter end of summer, when, mounting his horse, he took his usual way to the man- sion of the Sidneys. His easy and fash- ionable lounge, his fine person, set off by the splendor of his attire, as well as by the beauty of true content there depicted,i might alone have attracted the passengers; but then his steed, as if proud of his duty, contrived by certain coquettish knaveries and ambling graces, to fix the attention. Delacour was born to be admired, "the observed of all observers," and many were the remarks as he passed onward. He had been riding thus for some time, when he was overtaken by an ac- quaintance. " What ! Delacour, on the old road again, in spite of the news. Why Sidney is in the Gazette." "Impossible !" cried Delacour, "I would'have ventured my life against it- you joke." "Incredulous as a lover," replied the other, "look and be satisfied." The paper was handed to him, a glance was sufficient, and murmuring a hasty adieu, he set spurs to his horse, and was quickly lost to the view ; the cloud of dust that followed his flight, alone told of his passage; and those who now saw him, pale, agitated, and flying desperately for- ward, might have well mistaken him for the messenger of more than common woe. A dagger, indeed, could scarcely have caused a greater revulsion of the heart. He no sooner, entered the house, than the voice of the domestic proclaimed that something had happened; he met Mrs. Sidney on the stairs. "You will find Emily," said she, "in the drawing-room. This affair has agi- tated us all--you will excuse Mr. Sidney to-night?" He whispered a polite reply, and has- tened forward, but he was, for the first time, unheard. Emily was seated at the table, lights were in the room; she was gazing at something-it was his picture, the one he had himself given her; he drew near-the lip quivered, and tears were trembling in the eyelids; she sigh- ed and sighed again, he advanced a step farther, a slight cry escaped her. " Oh ! it is you," she exclaimed, but there was something tremulous in the voice, half joy, half anguish: "I knew you would come, that is, I thought you would." "Ilow could I do less than come, when I have so often come before," was the answer. "You are very good," she sighed, "but my father's misfortunes, oh ! Delacour, you can guess my feel- ings." " Your feelings are perhaps peculiar to you," he returned, somewhat coldly, " you are very suspicious to-night." " I hope not," she replied meekly,, "but you are tired, we will have some refreshment, and tune the harp; you were always fond of that." The refreshments were brought, she helped him with her own hands ; but when she turned to the instrument, the full and surcharged eyes-the flushed face-the heaving of the bosom-the trembling speech-the look wandering to and fro on the face of her lover, too plain- ly indicated that she had perceived some- thing more or less than usual in theman- ner of his address. She seemed to De- lacour, as she touched the strings, to have the finest figure in the world, and indeed her soul was on the chords. She felt that she needed some other person to make all he had once been to her ; she was a gentle and excellent girl, and Dela- cour, who was an admirer of all excel- lence, was quickly won to her side. She had never played with such execution, and now attentive, and now wavering, he listened, and was now impassioned and now cold as ever-and now he dreamed himself back to all his former adoration of her. At length he snatched a kiss-- said something of forgiveness, and all was forgotten ; but another hour was over-he was silent and more cold than death, at least, to the heart of Emily. It was now getting late, anid he declined, on plea of business, staying the night, which was his usual custom. She sunk .into silence and despondency. " You are sad, Miss Sidney," he said, "or angry, but my Emily used not to be' Yet why arraign the providence of Hea- either." ven ! For we walk like the wayfarer of " I am sad," she murmured, "but not' the desert, when no star is out to guide angry-you are full of mistakes to-night." us. With the blessing of happiness in She smiled faintly, our hands, we cast it aside and determine "I am surely not mistaken," he re- on misery; and-when weighed down by turned, " not a word has been' spoken the burden of -carc, we would1 sill seek this half hour; but some people mistake, to be happy; and this, because nothing temper for feeling." is desirable we possess, and all to be co- "Excuse me," she cried, and as she-I veted we can never hope to obtain. Vile was seated by his side, she placed her weakness of human nature; that we who hand gently upon his shoulder: "you. would, in truth, believe ourselves perfect, do not understand me ; there is no tern- should yet allow ourselves, wilfully and per in me but sorrow. I am not angry,"[ willingly; to be so base ! One would but he arose, and hinted that he must de- think that " the wisdom of the serpent" part. 1-the cunning of true selfishness, might Good ni it, Miss Sidney," said he,' teach us selfish peace: if "the gentleness "good ni it Emily,-we shall meet to-! of the dove"-the artlessness of true na- morrow." 1 ture, might teach us disinterested love. His hand was upon the door-sheiAs for Delacour,he resolved to be wretch- looked up-blushed and advanced to-i ed, because he feared to be so; and then wards him. "I am not angry," she add-, sought to be happy even while resigning ed, "you mistake me. Let us be friends."Ihis greatest of human good. But what The last gush of feeling burst from his if the affections we feel, or others feel for heart-and he caught her in his arms.1 us, be true or false: the falsehood or the A scarcely audible, "God bless you," truth may be equally miserable-time came from his lips-an instant-and he!can alone show u$ the reverse. In the was gone. mean time the world goes on, d we In her bosom was left sorrow-and an- must go likewise, lest, thrown from the guish-and repining; the red blush was channel-broken on the rock of hope- on her brow, but she sighed not, neither while catching at some other or firmer did she weep. The next day she receiv-' hold than the reed within our grasp-lest ed an apology for not waiting on her, as' finally, we be drifted down the tide of his business was urgent, but a promise. tinge-and left to perish. So Delacour so to do as quickly as possible. But day pursued his avocations-rushed into so- after day past on, and he came not,-shet ciety-and believed himself contented. watched in vain.. It was late one even- But the canker of the heart eats not away ing, she thought she saw him leaning as; so soon. If he had any feelings, any usual against the garden gate. She went sentiments---he had forsworn the better to the window, but it was delusion,-she part. As it is never too late for a man looked more intently, answered' incohe-to grow wise, so it is never too late to rently some questions addressed to her,Iilove honor. Had he then lived for this! -and fell senseless to the ground. Heremembered his debts of obligation- Let ue pass over the rest.--It has been, of gratitude to his old friend; but then said that the father waited on Delacour,1 he recalled also the prospects that might but all that could be elicited was, that his yet be open to him-the crease of views were changed, his mind, but notj wealth-his expectations of the future- his affections, altered. With these words he thought but once and no more;i he he left him: " Young man," said heI hastened into amusements, into dissipa- " may the sorrows of this young creature~ tion, and while he forgot his affection, he fall a hundred fold on your head !" forgot himself. Some have remarked that * * * * * * * his person became altered, his spirits How strangely we decide our destiny ! changed, that it was natural depression .Led by appearances, even misled by truth., and forced hilarity; but if he ever expe- I , A_ f f n k t O t I t 4 _ rT d; !4Y MIN-w' + p y r.r"*MrP'n -e'r 1 !' " '"-" ''?; F° .$t ,r aM. -H, a v irM+ I"'n-..r.n u lE' ,gPyq y+sn +w.rw wr w am.-.. ..pn,. "wNr..ri s.YC - , -I r n d .' . , ' n" Ia ~ _ ' - r ,r, '- t x r V -i.t, " I , " f 1 I , -Az 70 J t r S 1t 1 t Y h ' Y rf y (a j _' } J r J 1 3" Z 4 e} ' i ax i, , y: y i F F . . r Y l .. -1= Ai l~ 0 ti r' t page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] f }yH _. ' A ,acl 4"'lc '! j tt '' , - 1 ' ','rih-' 'tti? . - :. , .'t ^ , '- * of A :r.. c . ' if r, , {..,- -, ' . ,S y id c.' 7 A Story of- the Heart. A11 Story of the Heart. rienced wretchedness, or sighed in the full emotion of regret, he was the last to believe that his sorrows, his vexation, his self-r eproaches, were of his own creation. But a few months had gone by, and another lady caught his attention, of his own years-handsome,. accomplished, and of desired wealth. He soon imagin- ed himself to be in love, for in false hearts no flame is so easily kindled as false pas- sion ; and the lady was in love with him, just such love as a calculating woman may bestow, who thinks more of herself than of the world beside. She knew, indeed, of no feelings out of the sphere of a drawing-room, or any emotion but such as might lie in the compass of a carriage. Again family, future, friends, and connections were canvassed, and were fond hitting ; again he pictured un- interrupted peace, unclouded days; again he was in possession of all his dreams; again hoped, was again happy; again constant, again, in fact, a lover. Time rolled on and on, and he saw no reason to regret his choice. He became restless, for others were in pursuit of the same prize as himself, and then he grew impatient and more impassioned, and, at length, made his offer, and was success- ful. He was now more gay than ever-- more fashionable-more splendid. In all public places and private parties he was the acknowledged suitor, and con- gratulated by his friends on the fortune he would acquire--on the conquest he had made; he was not backward in boast- ing the favor in which he found himself, ill exhibiting the influence he had.over her, and in talking of the brilliant pros- pects that he anticipated in the futures It was with this lady hanging on his arm, that he first again beheld Emily Sidney. The bloom of youth was gone, the form wasted, the-ringlets confined .beneath a -gauze cap ; the figure no lon- ger joyous' with content, but shackled by despondency and disappointment. She rose as she beheld him-the young Baro- net was at her side. - ."I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you well," said Delacour, with his un- changing eye fixed full upon her face. She blushed, faltered, and murmured an assent. " I beg your pardon," he added, "but I hear you only indistinctly. You say that you are well, surely." She fix- ed her expressive look reproachfully upon him. "I am better than I have been," she returned, "indeed-quite well," and so they parted. The words that had been spoken were the common compliments of the day: but oh! the manner said every thing. On that night she burnt a little likeness she had drawn of him from memory; she cast aside all embarrass- ment, she quitted her sick room, dressed, sung, laughed, danced and played as she was used to do; she hurried into compa- ny, into amusement, was as much ad- mired as ever, as usual sought as when she had a fortune: but' her parents saw the dark side of the picture,-the young girl's heart was broken. Can it be possible that Delacour went home that night in remorseless compla- cency? That no compunction dwelt within his breast-that no conscience visited his thoughts.-that the faded form of nature's loveliness-.-the sweet confu- sion that pleaded,'like the tongue of mer- cy and of truth-that, last of all, that- look-had spoken nothing! It is impos- sible. He knew he was to blame--he writhed under the infliction of secret re- gret-he thought he had not acted quite honorably-quite tenderly-but for all that he would have started at the name, of villain. Yet it was for his good he should act as he had (lone ; she would marry the Baronet; his destiny, and not himself, was to be reproached, and, shift- ing from any further argument, he hasten- ed to conclude affairs with the lady in question. Now came the confusion of prepara- tion. Parties were given and received, and the round of reciprocal introduction took place, and, in the sadden rush of coming events, Delacour lost all recollec- tion of the past, and sacrificed its memo- ry for ever on the altar of futurity. The world was determined to make him pleas- ed, and he was resolute to be so. The house was taken, furniture, table-linen, the elegances of a lady's comforts, all were procured, and all in the exact taste that night best suit both parties. Busi- . .. ness was no longer attended to, for Dela- cour was at each and every hour of the day prosecuting his love-suit, and the lady was, at all times, his attentive listen- er. The marriage deeds and the settle- ment were next talked about, for marri- ages, at least such marriages as these, generally end as they begin, in a very business-like manner. But now, on the exposure-of the absolute property, on the explanation of the contingent prospects of Mr. Delacour, he was found, by the father, or might it be by the lady?-he was found deficient, that is, not quite the exact bargain that was expected. They tell that the lady, hearing he had boasted of her preference, fearing too easy a con- quest, adopted this pretty piece of co- quetry, in hopes of being over-persuaded. Be- this as it may; at the moment of doubt and denial, at the moment when the lady hinted that her decision had been entirely in obedience to her parents, not that she had in the least changed, then it was that Delacour perceived he had been a dupe-cheated, betrayed, and made the very ridicule of fortune. He rushed from the house, where he had passed two years in the pursuit of a shadow, as worthless as it was frail, and hastened homeward. He had pride, he was not quite with- out feeling, at least for himself; but when he recollected the heaven he had cast away, how he had smote upon the heart that loved him, to be smitten in return, conscience was his accuser. The affair of Miss Sidney was known to his ac- quaintances ; he himself had given pub- licity to this; here was the deceiver him- self deceived, the betrayer himself be- trayed-and he heard the laugh of deri- sion-go round about him. ' It is hard for the brave and the good to part with the lasting hope-the lving impression-the unfading aspirations of their every-day existence; but how much more difficult for the calculating-the base, to separate, upon even terms, with their desires. This one expectation, this aggrandlizement, perhaps, the lady her- self, had been the stamina of Delacour' s late actions and life. To have been climbing, with struggles and anguish, the 72 73 C i Ca I' steep of fortune--.bewildered among the brushwood-torn and defaced. amid the brambles,-to find one's'foot upon the last elevation our wondering gaze might discover, and no sooner to find ourselves there than the foundation gives way, the basement is scattered, and we and all our tiny hopes hurled headlong into the abyss, or into the humble vale from which we first up-sprung,-this may well demand patience; but when inflicted on the strong, when suffered by the proud, then comes the sting of madness-the writhing of passion-the gnawing of the heart-and all that despair may suffer under, and philosophy deride. While torn by conflicting emotions, there seemed no resting-place whereon the thoughts of Delacour might repose. He had held himself above the world, as one whom no storm might reach, no breath might touch: he had walked in pride, he was therefore more open to scorn. He looked around him, and one fair form, and one alone, was seen in the far expanse, and to her he turned. To this being he voyed to resign all false ambitions, all theories of self-emolument, all speculations of self-interest. He had grown in riches within the last two years; she might still love him-he had lost honor in losing her-well, he must repair the loss-but then her reproaches and scorn,-he deserved them, and humbly and faithfully he could avow it. He4 thought of her angel ways-her maiden kindness ; he thought, and wondered at the monster he had been. But the mind forms schemes, after the body is tired of action, incapable of impulse. A fatal malady, the -effect of his disturbed spir- its, now made its appearance. - Day after day passed in ineffectual attempts to ob- tain an interview with the being he had injured. The wretched young lady, on whom their last meeting had made a last- ing impression, suspicious of his ad vances, fearing to avow her real sentiments ; her delicacy offended and pride wounded, fled his secret approaches, or with cold insen- sibility met his more open attentions. It wvas enough for her to know that he was on the point of marriage with another, land though he was evidently an object _ __ , ' - . , _ f z yy n 4,r tl i , :. _ ., 'r . ,:;te a ?: ; \. .i4+',^'iw s.#=, pY ,, F r ~er ' ;rq- page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 .~9 Sory of te Head. d Storyof h eat 7 of horror, yet, more eager than ever for And now he wouldwrite to her, re- some explanation, something to subdue veal all his heart, and rely upon her gen- or excite the anguish within him, he con- erosity, and in the energy of desperation tinted his vain pursuit. ,Baffled at all the epistle was penned. But vain the points, and sick in body and mind, he designs of man! On that very day he yielded to his depression, undetermined heard that she had acquired a large for- in what way to act that might yet amend tune, by the death of a distant -relatign. the past. A fortnight was over, and he. Thus then the. barrier was placed for ever was the shadow of-his former self, the between them. To return was now de- wreck of his own weakness and folly. nied him. Fortune had been the aim of He now determined,.cost what it would, his life, and it now stood, forever, be- to see her and to speak to her. Was it! tween him and all that he valued from reason or was it madness that led him to this to the grave. How, without the act thus ? imputation of the meanest of motives, It was a fine and sunny afternoon, how dare he now return ? What had when he quitted his sick chamber, in the once been generous, would now be base. wild and neglected attire of one who had, No-no-the spring of.life was over, the indeed, forgotten himself; and jumping' wilderness of the world gone through, on the top of a passing stage, he quickly and.death lay alone open to him. found himself in the neighborhood of the The tide of feelings will have way, but cottage where they now dwelt. This! with Delacour it now bore upon its pas- was his last attempt, and he was resolved sage the freshness and the vigor of life. it should not be unsuccessful. Some! It might be- truly said of him, that, from time he lingered, till, growing impatient,t this time, he was a broken-spirited man, he sprung over a small fence at the bot- -one not to be reconciled to himself,-- tom of the garden, and made his way, one who condemned himself beyond stealthily, to an arbor that was near. aught or all in the world beside. His His hand touched the Foliage round the happiness he had cast away, his wealth entrance ere he perceived, reclining on a he had rendered worthless'to him, and seat, the figure of Emily herself. An: the malicious have said (and the best of involuntary sigh escaped him, but hers us are not free from malice) that what his thoughts were elsewhere, and it was un- owi folly and emotions might have failed heard. He gave one fatal glance, and, to effect, his dissipation-his recklessness in another instant, rushing forward, he, --shall it be said--the profligacy of a clasped her in his arms. It was not a wounded mind-more easily contrived. shriek, or a groan, but something more' Disease had now laid hold upon him. terrible than either, that burst from her His friends came round him, all atten- lips, the living sound of anguish and of tions. were paid him, and he received a sorrow. In vain he called upon her in1 note from the last lady of his choice; all the desperation of agony, repentance,, she had heard of his illness, she would and affection; in vain, with presumptu- receive him again. Delacour could just ous lips, he dared the purer touch of hers: afford a smile, and with hands chilled she lay insensible, or only recovered tot in the coldness of coming dissolution, he give back a blind look of horror, as he tore the paper and scattered it around. embraced her. Here then was the on- At length the hour and the moment summation of his villany-the height of drew nigh that was to give him freedom-; all his despair. At this moment he'heard his thoughts had truly become a burden a footstep. Scorn, contumely, and in- to him, and he was haippy to resign them. sult,..were all he could expect ; lie felt lHe had made peace with earth, and plead- himself a wretch who merited no more; ed .for peace with heaven; and now he and, with one last embrace--one last re- could willingly go his way. " This is, spectful pressure--he fled he scarcely the last -bitter pang, my dear girl," said knew where, and the morning had risen he, as his favorite sister drew near, "but before he found himself at home. it is the last, and let us pass through it bravely." It was after he had blessed her, and kissed her, and bade her adieu, that he called her back again. His noble face was changed to the marble of the grave, and those eyes shone with the last burning flame of nature and of life. He dashed away the tears that had gathered till they flowed, and dashed them away again. The impressiveness of death was on his tongue. "-If ever you see her," he sighed; "if ever you meet, tell her -but no-I can say nothing.-If she knew all she would know too much- my silence is enough." With this he sank backward, and lay calmly ; a long drawn sigh was heard-and Delacour was dead. But the sorrow he had caused l neither was ended nor died with him. His faults had been without extenuation, his errors without excuse, and the world had not been backward- to censure him; yet one heart was found that could pardon, one soft enough to pity his frailties. All the mercy he could hope was there, and1 tenderness that surpassed all he might imagine. The shriek that burst from Emily Sidney while reading the news of his decease, was the knell of another un- timely end. The woe of years was end- ed, the link of past emotions broken. He was then gone-for ever and irrevo- cably gone. The pride of her thoughts -the friend of her heart-the lover) of her youth. No scorn or maidenly reserve could now uphold her. Modesty might fear to reveal the last fond truth, but death wipes away all blushes. If sighs might speak of grief, or tears, or inward sorrowing, a broken sleep, a, restless and unenjoyed existence,-if; all these are the emblems of woe, all this had' been past, though in the last few years, and it was over. "Mourn not, my child," urged the mother, "he is happy, and has long been a stranger to us." "I am sen- sible of no grief," was the answer; "yes, - w r ., x J he has long been a stranger AtIst o me,-yes, yes-to me he has been a stranger." This was the last time she ever spoke of him; but the thoughts will utter what the tongue never tells. Shy dreamed upon the scene in the garden, that faint and indistinct recollection of something most blissful and most wretch- ed. He had thought of her, had return- ed to her, it was enough, he was forgiven; yet why had she not spoken to him and soothed him, and parted in friendship, if not in love? The idea was fraught with madness, and here the fatality of all her misery was seen. In the mean time she evinced no more than common grief. The day of his funeral she took her usual walk; she saw the sad procession pass, speechless, tearless, and without a murmur. And yet after this she was seen in company, and, to the same eyes, the same as ever. Is woman's pride so delicate, or is it so unconquerable that it may feign all this ! Yes, sad- necessity, that the last humility of disappointed af- fections can only stoop thus low. At many public places, scenes of fash- ionable resort, or haunts of fashionable invalids, she was afterwards met. The baronet was in constant attendance ; the parents hinted their hopes. She had never, willingly, given sorrow to any one; she consented to accept him, received meekly his attentions, smiled at the de- lighted congratulations -of her friends, and seemed happy.-The sober twilight of morning just shadowed the apartment where she lay; it was her own accustom- ed attitude; her arm gently supporting her head, the long hair hanging luxuri- ouslyon the bosom and veiling the hands. Her mother drew near and stooped to kiss her. Enough; what would you more! That cry might have well toki the rest. k. ;r i " .. t 2 - ' y, - , r r ~ , .. ' '..: °' ;, ,-i' ,rr ' Ywf _ ,_ _ ;_,_',- aSrtf - i .i A.Xi T .. i ' M f'" , Et t{ ; 5 C.; i' g l zt , .r t ,. ' ,t tfi, mss{ I, t C a dtv N z 4, f= t r ,f i fi 71 3 r .$ : 4 t i 74 ok A Story of the .Heart. 75 A Story of f' the Heart. k , A" F page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] } rfr'a Y : Fr i"- ""!-Pa"',y , ',fi'I' .s e h r.. .Y. TEl Ob 7 / y mow! N S! r i The Vacant ,Chair. V A C ANT.CIIAIR. BY J. M. WILSON, ESQ. You have all heard of the Cheviot Peter was placed in very unpleasant mountains. If you have not, they are circumstances, owing to the situation of a rough, rugged, majestic chain of hills, Marchlaw house, which unfortunately which a poet might term the Roman wall was built immediately across the "ideal of Nature, crowned with snow, belted line".dividing the two kingdoms; and.his with storms, surrounded by pastures and misfortune was, that being born within it, fruitful fields, and still dividing the nor- he knew not whether he was an English- thern portion of Great Britain from the man or a Scotchman. He could trace southern., With their proud summits his ancestral line no further back than his piercing the clouds, and their dark rocky great-grand-father, who, it appeared from declivities frowning upon the plains be- the family Bible, had, together with his low, they appear symbolical of the wild grandfather and father, claimed March- and untameable spirits of the borderers law as his birth-place. They, however, who once inhabited their sides. We say, were not involved in the same perplexity you have all heard of the Cheviots, and as their descendant. The parlor was know them to be very high hills, like a distinctly acknowledged to be' in Scot- huge clasp riveting England and Scotland land, and two-thirds of the kitchen were together; but we are not aware that you as certainly allowed to be in England; may have heard of Marchlaw, an old, his three ancestors were born in the room gray-looking farm-house, substantial as a over the parlor, and therefore were modern fortress, recently, and-for aught Scotchmen beyond question; but Peter we know to the contrary, still inhabited unluckily, being brought into the world by Peter Elliot, the proprietor of some before the death of his grandfather, his five hundred surrounding acres. The parents occupied a room immediately boundaries of Peter's farm indeed were over the debateable boundary line which defined neither by fields,, hedges, nor crossed the'kitchen. The room, though stone walls. A wooden stake here, and scarcely eight feet square, was evidently a stone there, at considerable distances situated between the two countries; but from each other, were the general land- no one being able to ascertain what por- marks; but neither Peter nor his neigh- tion belonged 'to each, Peter, after many bors considered a few acres worth quar- arguments and altercations upon the sub- relling about; and their sheep frequently ject, was driven to the disagreeable alter-, visited each other's pastures in a friendly native of confessing he knew not what way, harmoniously sharmg a family din- countryman he 'was. What rendered er in the same spirit that their masters the confession the more painful was, it nade themselves free at each other's ta- was Peter's highest ambition to be les- thought a Scotchman; all his arable land lay on the Scotch side; his mother was collaterally related to the Stewarts; and few families were moi-e ancient or re- spectable than the Elliots. Peter's speech, indeed, betrayed him to be a walking partition between the two king- doms, a living representation of the Uni- on; for in one word he pronounced the letter r with the broad, masculine sound of the North Briton; and in' the next with the liquid burr of the Northumbri- ans. Peter, or if you prefer it, Peter Elli- ot, Esquire, of Marchlaw, in the coun- ties of Northumberland- an9 Roxburgh, was for many years the best runner, leaper and wrestler, between Wooler and Jelburgh. Whirled from his hand, the ponderous bullet whizzed through the air like a pigeon on the wing; and the best putter on the borders quailed from com- petition. As a feather in his grasp, he seized the unwieldy hammer, swept it round and round his head, accompanying with agile limb its evolutions, swiftly as swallows play around a circle, and hurled it from his hands like a shot from a rifle, till antagonists shrank back, and the' spec- tators burst into a shout. " Well done, Squire! the Squire forever!" once exclaim- ed a servile observer of titles. "Squire, wha are you squiring at ?" returned Peter. "Confound ye! where was ye when I was christened Squire ! My name's. Peter Elliot-your man, or any body's man, at whatever they like !" Peter's soul was free, bounding and buoyant as the wind that caroled in a zephyr, or shouted in-a hurricane -upon his native hills, and his body was thirteen stone of healthy, substantial flesh, steep= ed in the spirits of life. He had been long married, but marriage hadwrought no change upon him. They who sup- pose that -wedlock transforms the lark into an owl, offer an insult to the lovely beings who, brightening the darkest hours with the smiles of affection, teach us that that only is -unbecoming in the husband which is dlisgraceful in the man. Nearly twenty years had passed over them, butdanet was still as kind, and in his eyes as beautiful, as when, bestowing on him her hand, she blushed her vows at the altar; and he was still as happy, as generous, and as free. Nine fair chil- dren sat around their domestic hearth, and one, the youngling of the flock, smiled upon its mother's knee. Peter had never known sorrow ; he was blest in his wife, in his children, in his flocks. He had become richer than his father. He was beloved by his neighbors, the tillers of his ground, and his herdsmen; yet, no man envied his prosperity, But a blight passed over the harvest of his joys, and gall was rained into the cup of his felicity. It was a Christmas day, and a more melancholy-looking dun never. rose on a 25th of December. One vast sable cloud, like a universal pall, overspread the heavens. For weeks the ground had been covered, with clear, dazzling snow ; and as, throughout the day, the rain continued its unwearied and mono- tonous drizzle, the earth assumed a char- acter and appearance melancholy and troubled as thd heavens. Like a mastiff that has lost its owner, the wind howled dolefully down the glens, and was re- echoed from the caves of the mountains, as the lamentations of a legion of invisible spirits. The frowning; snow-clad preci- pices were instinct with motion, as ava- lanche upon avalanche, the larger burying the less, crowded downward in their tremendous journey to the plain. The simple mountain rills. had assumed the majesty of rivers, the broader streams were swollen into wide torrents, and, gushing forth as cataracts in fury and in foam, enveloped the valleys in an angry flood. But at Marchlaw the fire blazed blithely; the kitchen groaned beneath the load of preparations for a joyful feast; and glad faces glided from room to room. Peter Elliotkept Christmas, not so much because it was Christmas, as in honor of its being the birth-day of Thom- as, his first-born, who that day entered his nineteenth year. With a father's love his heart yearned for all his chil- dren, but Tfhomas was the pride of his eyes.' Cards of apology had not then found their wvay- among our Border hills; and, as all knew that, although Peter ad- F 444 4 4 ." g.'' - 1 { .. , 4 , , °1 _ t i 1J T: 318 77 7"k vz~ 44f,. I I I I 14 '1'; 444 --- -- - r -. rT ( ,, T r; \ p ... 2,h .,' ° y. w } ...'SF ' M _ 4 / , ' h'C 'iRY"L';..'9 .LC, page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78TeVcatCar.39 -Th aat hi.7 mitted no spirits within his threshold, nor a drunkard at his table, he was nev- ertheless, no niggard in his hospitality, his invitations were accepted without ceremony. The guests were assembled ; and, the kitchen being the only apart- ment in the building large enough to con- tain them, the cloth was spread upon a long oaken table, stretching from England into Scotland. On the English end of the board were placed a ponderous plum- pudding, studded with temptation, and a smoking sirloin'; on Scotland, a savory and well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep's head and trotters; while the intermediate space was filled with the good things of this life common to both kingdoms and to the seasons. ., The guests from the north and from the south were arranged promiscuously. Ev- ery seat was filled--save one. The chair by Peter's right hand remained unoccu- pied. He had raised his hand before his eyes, and besought a blessing on what was placed before them, rind was prepar- ing to carve for his visiters, when his eyes fell upon the vacant chair. The knife dropped upon the table. Anxiety flashed across his countenance, like an arrow from an unseen hand. " Janet, where is Thomas ?" he in- quired; "have none o'ye seen him ?" and without waiting an answer he con- tinued, "How is it possible he can be absent at a time like this ? And on such a day, too? Excuse me a minute, friends, till I just step out and see if I can find him. Since ever I kept this day, as many o' ye ken, he has always been at my right hand in that very chair, and I canna think o' beginning our dinner while I see it is empty." "If the filling of the chair be" all," said a pert young sheep-farmer, named Johnson, "I will step.into it till Master{ Thomas arrives." - " Ye are not a father, young man," said Peter, and walked out of the room. Minute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests became an- gry, peevish and gloomy, while an ex- cellent dinner continued spoiling before them. Mrs. Elliot, whose good-nature was the most prominent feature in her character, strove by every possible effort to beguile the unpleasant impressions she perceived gathering upon their counte- nances. "Peter is just as bad as him," she remarked, "to have gone to seek him when he kenned the dinner wouldna keep. And I am sure Thomas kenned it would be ready at ane o'clock to the minute. It is sae unthinking and un- friendly like to keep folk waiting." And, endeavoring ,to smile upon a beautiful black-haired girl of seventeen, who sat by her elbow, she continued, in an anx- ious whisper, "Did ye see naething of him, Elizabeth, hinny ?" The maid blushed deeply; the ques- tion evidently gave freedom to a tear, which had for some time been an unwil- ling prisoner in the brightest eyes in the room; and the monosyllable "No," that trembled from her lips, was audible to the ear of the inquirer. In vain Mrs. Elliot despatched one of her children after another, in quest of the father and brother; they came and went, but brought no tidings more cheering than the moan- ing of the hollow wind. Minutes rolled into hours, yet neither came. She per- ceived the prouder of her guests prepar- ing to withdraw, and observing that, "Thomas's absence was so singular and unaccountable, and so unlike either him or his father, she didna ken what apology to make to her friends for such treat- ment ; but it was needless waiting, and, begged they would use no ceremony, but' just begin." No second invitation was necessary; good humor appeared to be restored; and sirloins, pies, pastries and moor-fowl, be- gan to disappear like the lost son. For a moment Mrs. Elliot apparently par- took in the restoration of cheerfulness; but a low sigh at her elbow again drove the color from her rosy cheeks. Her eye wandered to the farther end of the table, and rested on, the unoccupied seat of her husband, and the vacant chair of her first-born. Her heart fell heavily within her; all the mother gushed into her bosom; and, rising from the table, " What in the world can be the meaning o' this !" said she, as she hurried with a troubled countenance towards the door. Her husband met her on the threshold. "Where have you been, Peter ?" said she, eagerly; "have ye seen naething o' him?" "Naething !' naething !" replied he: "is he no cast up yet ?" and, with a - melancholy glance, his eyes sought an answer in the deserted chair. . His lips quivered, his tongue faltered. "Gude forgie me !" said he ; " and such a day for even an enemy to be out in ! I've been up and down every way that I could think on, but not a living creature has seen or heard tell of him. Ye'll excuse me, neighbors," he added, leaving the house; "I must away again, for I canna rest." "I ken by myself, friends," said Adam Bell, a decent looking Northumbrian, "that a father's heart is as sensitive as the apple o' his ee; and I think we would show a want o' natural sympathy and respect for our worthy neighbor, if we didna every one get his foot into the stirrup without loss o' time, and assist, him in his search. For, in my rough country way o' thinking, it must be some- thing out of the common that could tempt Thomas to be a missing. Indeed, I nedna say tempt, for there could be noinclina- tion in the way. And, our hills," he concluded in a lower tone, "are not ow'r chancy in other respects besides the breaking up o' the storm." " Ah !" said Mrs. Elliot, wringing her hands, "I have had the coming o' this about me for days and days. My head was growing dizzy with happiness, but thoughts came stealing upon me like ghosts, and I felt a lonely soughing about my heart, without being able to tell the cause-but the cause is come at last ! And my dear Thomas-the very pride and staff o' my life-is lost to me for, ever " "I ken, Mrs. Elliot," replied the Northumbrian, " it is atn easy matter to say compose yourself, for them that dinna ken what it is to feel. But, at the same time, in our plain country way o' thinlk- ing, we are always ready to believe the worst. I've often heard my faither say, and I've as often remarked it myself, r r r ^.y wiw.swTy '' wls' { 19 ' ," ~;'y)"-r *.t h'A r,, Yt ~r w. c. , 121 ' - " (t ' r, , , ,M1 v _ o y l V r e I ""# r e j 1 - ,+ t " f r ~gy ;yjy p " 5 fir.\t1A ! i ). , , . ,° ' , a r -i+ 7 1 .z ' '; - +feS'r+t/bMr ; Yt" -qd t ,;;,t.¢ty.@" r, t'. . $:., _ /r , e"k . . ,, . 1[. +"cf '" t, .,r tr. P -' ."' " '$rtr 'IS r f n, ib,"'yb+ f ' =y "y Y f~9 e" +. . _ '*, that, before any thing happens to a body, there is a something comes ow'r them, like a cloud before the face o' the sun; a sort o' dumb whispering about the breast from the other.world. And though I trust there is nothing o' the kind in your case, yet, as ye observe, when I find myself growing dizzy, as it were, with happiness, it makes good a saying of mty mother's, poor body !-' Bairns, bairns,' she used to say, ' there is ow'r muckle singing in your heads to-night; we will have a shower before bed-time ;' and I never in my born days saw it to fail." At another period, Mr. Bell's disserta- tion on presentiments would have been found a fitting text on which to hang all the dreams, wraiths, warnings, and mar- vellous circumstances, that have been handed down to the company from the days of their great-grand-fathers; but, in the present instance they were too much occupied in consultation regarding the different routes to be taken in their search. Twelvehorsemen and some half-dozen pedestrians, were seen hurrying in divers directions from Marchlaw, as the first faint lights of a melancholy day were yielding to the heavy darkness which appeared pressing in solid masses down the sides of the mountains. The wives and daughters of the party were alone left with the disconsolate mother, who alternately pressed her weeping children to her heart, and told them to weep not, for their brother would soon return; while the tears stole down her own cheeks, and the infant in her arms wept because its mother wept. Her friends strove with each other to inspire hope, and- poured upon her ear their mingled and loquacious consolation. But one re- mained silent. The daughter of-Adam Bell, who sat by Mrs. Elliot's elbow at table, had shrunk into an obscure corner of the room. Before her face she held a handkerchief wet with tears. Her bo- som throbbed convulsively; and, as oc- casionally her broken sighs burst from their prison-house, a significant whisper- passed among tne younger part of the company. i ,.c . r , sy1-n slew Y. -t .,.i, _ _ .. ; y ti N^^" Nwn . r t t'}" ^ "i j .,t r + , _ ,Y 1'M'N, c :r wu¢ r, rt - '!'' W, ,''r 4 . The Vacant Chair. 79 78 The Vacant Chair. 319 0 o page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] . .,- '~ . yf a' fm.,y-F ti; 1- The Vacant Chair. 321 322 The Vacant Chair. Mrs. Elliot approached her, and, taking. her hand tenderly within both of hers, "Oh, hinny! hinny!" said she, "your sighs go through my heart like a knife ! And what can I do to comfort ye? Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love, let us hope for the best. Ye see before you a sorrow- ing mother, that fondly hoped to have- seen you and-I canna say.it !--and I am ill qualified to give comfort, when my own heart is like a furnace ! .But Oh ! let us try and remember the blessed por- tion; 'Whom the Lord loveth he chas- teneth,' and inwardly pray for strength to say 'His will be done!'" Time stole on towards midnight, and one by one of the unsuccessful party re- turned. . As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to listen.--"No, no, no !" cried the mother again and again, with increasing anguish, "It is not the foot o' my own bairn;"-while her keen gaze still remained riveted upon; the door, and was not withdrawn, nor the hope of despair relinquished till the indi- vidual entered, with a silent and ominous shake of the head, betokening his fruit- less efforts. The clock had struck twelve ; all were returned save the father. The wind howled more wildly ; the rain pour- ed upon the windows in ceaseless tor- rents ; and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave a character of deeper ghostli- ness to their sepulchral silence. For they sat, each wrapt in. forebodings, listening to the storm; and no sounds were heard, save the groans of the mother, the weep- ing 'of her children, and the' bitter and broken sobs of the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her father's bosom, refusing to be comforted. At length the barking of the farm-dog announced footsteps at a distance. Ev- ery ear was raised to listen, every eye turned to the-door; but before the tread was yet audible to the listeners, "Oh,-it is only Peter's foot !" said the miserable mother, and, weeping, rose to meet him. " Janet ! Janet !" he exclaimed as he entered, and threw his arms around her neck, " what is this come upon us at last ?"l He cast an inquisitive glance around his d welling, and a convulsive shiver pass- g 21 ed over his manly frame, as his eye again fell on the vacant chair, which no one had ventured to occupy. Hour succeeded hour, but the company separated not; and low, sorrowful whispers mingled with the lamentations'of the parents. "Neighbors," said Adam Bell, "the morn is, a new d'ay, and we will wait- to see what it will bring forth, but in the mean time, let us read a portion o' the Divine Word, and kneel together in pray- er, that whether or not the day-dawn cause light to shine upon this singular bereavement, the Sun of Righteousness may arise with healings on his wings, upon the hearts o' this afflicted family, and upon the hearts of all present." "Amen !" responded Peter, wringing his hands; and his friend taking down the " Ha' Bible," read the chapter where- in it is written "It is better to be in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting ;" and again-"-- It is well for me that I have been afflicted, for before I was afflicted I went astray." The morning came, but brought no tidings of the lost son. After a solemn farewell, all the visitants, save Adam Bell and his daughter, returned every one to their own house-; and the disconsolate father, with his servants, again renewed their search among the hills and surround- ing villages. Days, weeks, months, and years, roll- ed on. Time had subdued the anguish of the parents into a holy calm; but their lost first-born was not forgotten, although no/ trace of his fate had been discovered. The general belief was, that he had per- ished in the breaking up of the snow ; and the few in whose remembrance he still lived merely spoke of his death as a " very extraordinary circumstance," re- marking that "he was a wild, venture- some sort o' lad." Christmas had succeeded Christmas, and Peter Elliot still kept it in commem.- oration of the birth day of him who was not. For the first few years after the loss of their son, silence characterized the party who sat down to dinner at March-. aw, and still at Peter's right hand was placed the vacant chair. But as the youn.- ~er branches of the family advanced in ' .it . , a " a.. i ' _ ' w.hY . a.,.q,,. St tpAa..i s ..._ " " Y' +"^t"-rives cL j;.,t y :..N..M ag r j t a ,xrgrr *.," " i.F fi [.! + j GdSt1 ;, e*f x- /+ rF years, the remembrance of their brother became less poignant. Christmas was with all around them a day of rejoicing, and they began to make merry with their friends; while. their parents partook of their enjoyment with a smile, half of ap- proval, and half of sorrow. Twelve years had passed away; Christ- mas had again come; it was the counter- part of its fatal predecessor. The hills had not yet cast off their summer ver- dure; the sun, although shorn of its heat, had lost none of its brightness or glory, and looked down upon the earth as though participating in its gladness; and the clear blue sky was tranquil as the sea sleeping beneath the moon. Many vis- iters had again assembled at Marchlaw. The sons of Mr. Elliot and the young men of the party were assembled upon a level green near the house, amusing them- selves with throwing the hammer and other Border games, while himself and the elder guests stood by as spectators, recounting the deeds of their youth. Johnson, the sheep-farmer, whom we have already mentioned, now a brawny and gigantic fellow of two and thirty, bore away in every ganie the palm from all competitors. More than once, as Pe- ter beheld-his sons defeated, he felt the spirit of youth glowing in his veins ; and "Oh !" muttered he, in bitterness, " had my Thomas been spared to me, he would have thrown his heart's blood after the hammer, before he would have been beat by ever a Johnson in the country !" While he thus soliloquized, and with difficulty restrained an impulse to com- pete with the victor himself, a dark, for- eign-looking, strong-built seaman uncere- moniously approached, and, with his arms folded, cast a look of contempt upon the boasting conqueror. Every eye was turned with a scrutinizing glance upon the stranger. In height he could not exceed five feet nine, but his whole frame was the model of muscular strength; his features were open and manly, but deep- ly sunburnt and weather-beaten; his long, glossy, black hair, curled into ring- lets by the breeze and the billow, fell thickly over his temple and forehead ; and wvhiskers of a similar hue, more con- 80 8I V spicuous for size than elegance, gave a character of fierceness to a countenance otherwise possessing a striking impress of manly beauty. Without asking per- mission, he stepped forward, lifted a hammer, and swinging it around his head, hurled it upwards of - five yards beyond Johnson's most successful throw. " Well done !" shouted the astonished spectators. The heart of Peter Elliot warmed within him, and he was hurry- ing forward to grasp the stranger by the hand, when the words groaned in his throat, "It was just such a throw as my Thomas would have made !--my own lost Thomas !" The tear burst into his eyes, and without speaking, he turned back, and hurried towards the house to conceal his emotion. Successively at every game the stranger had defeated all who ventured to oppose him; when a messenger announced that dinner waited their arrival.-Some of the guests were already seated, others enter- ing ; and, as heretofore, placed beside Mrs. Elliot was Elizabeth Bell, still in the noontide of her beauty ; but sorrow had passed over her features like a veil before the countenance 'of an. angel. Johnson, crest-fallen and out of humor at the defeat, seated himself by her side. In early life, he had regarded Thomas Elliot as a rival for her affections ; and stimulated by the knowledge that Adam Bell would be able to bestow several thousands upon his daughter for a dowry, he yet prosecuted his attentions with un- abated assiduity, in despite of the daugh- ter's aversion and the coldness of her father. Peter had taken his place at the table; and still by his side, unoccupied and sacred, appeared the vacant chair, the chair of his first-born, where none had sat since his mysterious death or disappearance. "Bairns," said h~e, "did none o' ye ask the sailor to come up and take-a bit o' dinner with us ? " We were afraid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr. Johnson," whispered one of the sons. " He is come without asking," replied the stranger, entering; "and the wind shall blow from a new point if I destroy -,, _ , ..' r of _ t " _ ,1 .,yar i4, i.s'. fr i 5 ss ir ?' rt r . (F x r - arm - F f Y t f r - + v +. b +r r . i 2- rt f f: ' 41f" j df ' i r 3 page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 the mirth or haj ny. "Ye are a stra Peter, " or ye wo ing o' mirth mak ye are welcom Haste, ye, lasses vants; "some o' gentleman." "Gentleman in son between his t Never mind les," said the sec and before Peterc him, he had thr into the hallowed twelve-years-unoc it of sacrilege utt a pulpit could not gation of pious w horror and consti filling of the vaca of Marchlaw. "Excuse me, said Peter, the w tongue, "but ye there !" "0 man ! man "get out o' that! my chair !-take -but dinna sit he sat in by mortal b my dear bairn !- another is a thing "Sir! sir !" co have done it thro excuse ye. But seat ! Twelve ye birthday-he pe how !-He went the cloud that p never-never to spare a father's fee wrings the blood f "Give me yoi soul!"- exclaimed vere, nay, hang it, feelings ! BttTor 11 and I cast anchor - ;{ . 'tl. '. ^ _ '.5 ppiness of the compa- Anger, young man," said uld ken this is no meet- ers. But, I assure ye, e, heartily welcome. ," he said to the ser- you get a chair for the deed !" muttered John- eeth. about a chair, my heart- aman: "this will-do !" could speak to withhold own himself carelessly ed, the veneratede, . the cupied chair. The spir- ering blasphemies from] have smitten a congre- 'orshippers with deeper ernationl than did this nt chair the inhabitants sir! excuse me, sir !" vords trembling on his can not-ye can not sit i!" cried Mrs. Elliot, get out o' that !-take any chair in the house! re ! It has never been eimg since the death o' and to see it filled by I can not endure !" ntinue d the father, "ye ugh ignorance, and we that was my Thomas's ars this very day-his rished, Heaven kens out from our sight, like asses over the hills- return. And, oh, sir, lings, for to see it filled rom my heart !" ur hand, my worthy the seaman; "I re- I would ,die for your m Elliot was my friend,: in this chair by special' )w that a sudden broad- d thing; but as I don't ach a sermon before have to say, is-that commission. I kno side of joy is a ba know how to pre telling you, all I Tom an't dead." 323 " Not dead !" said Peter, grasping the hand of the stranger, and speaking with eagerness that almost choked his utter-" ance ; "Oh, sir! sir! tell me, how ? how ?-Did ye say living ?-Is my ain Somasylivig ?" " Not dead, do ye say ?" cried Mrs., Elliot, hurrying towards him, and grasp- img his other hand; "not dead ! And shall I see my bairn again !- Oh ! may the blessing o' Heaven, and the blessing o' a broken hearted mother, be upon the bearer of the gracious tidings;-But tell me--tell me how it is possible ! As -ye would'expect happiness here, or hereaf- ter, dinna, dinna deceive me !" "Deceive you !" returned the stran- ger, grasping with impassioned .earnest- ness their hands in his, "Never! never! and all I can say is-Tom Elliot is alive and hearty." "Nono !" said Elizabeth, rising from her seat, "He does.not deceive us; there is that in his countenance which bespeaks a falsehood impossible:" and she also en- deavored to move towards him, when Johnson threw his arm around her to withhold her. '' Hands off, you land-lubber !" ex- claimed the seaman, springing towards them, "or, shiver me ! I'll show day- light through your timbers in the turning of a hand-spike !" and, clasping the lovely girl in his arms, " Betty! Betty, my love !" he cried, "don't you know your own Tom ? Father! mother ! don't you know me? Have you really forgot- ten your own son? If twelve years have made some change in. his face, his heart is sound as ever." His father, his mother, and his bro- thers, clung around him, weeping, smil- ing, and mingling a hundred questions together. He threw. his arms around the neck of each, and in answer to their inquiries, replied, "Well! well! there is time enough to answer questions, but not to-day, not to-day." " No, my bairn !-my bairn !" said his mother, " we'll ask no questions- nobody shall ask you any-But how- how were ye torn away from us, my love ? And, oh, hinney ! where, where have ye been ?" V= 324 83 " It is a long story, mother," said he, "and would take a week to tell it. But, however, to make a long story short, you remember when the smugglers were pur- sued and wished to conceal their brandy in our house, my father prevented them; they left muttering revenge, and they have; been revenged. This day twelve years,) I went out with the intention of meeting! Elizabeth and her father, when I camel upon a party of the gang concealed mi the King's Cave. In a moment half a; dozen pistols were held to my breast,{ and~ tying mly hands to my sides, they1 1 dragged mie into the cavern. Here I had not been long their prisoner, when the, snow rolling down the mountains, almost, totally blocked up its mouth. On the1 second night they cut through the snow, and, hurrying me along with them, I was bound to a horse between two, and be- fore daylight found myself stowed, like a piece of old junk, in the hold of a smug- gling lugger. Within a week I was ship- ped on board a Dutch man-of-war; and, for six. years kept dodging about on dif-1 ferent stations, till our old yawning hulk; received orders to join the fleet which was to fight the gallant Duncan at Cam-1 perdown. -To think of fighting against1 my own countrymen, my own flesh and blood, was worse than to be cut to pieces; by a cat-o'-nine-tails; and, under cover. of the smoke of the first broadside, I, sprang upon the gunwale, plunged into the sea, and swam for the English fleet. Never, never shall I forget the moment that my feet first trod.upon the deck of a1 British frigate ! My nerves felt firm as1 her oak, and my heart free as the pennant. that waved defiance from her mast head. I was as active as any one during the{ battle; and, when it was over, and I found] ,.tw ,,,. r . 'Mx ~ , t r r ,Sit ' I, _ _-" ^+ +ar '."rl r . ,'! , i_, _ °"tf 'y7 ns4 .. . .v sa:. " ,_rk" t ,' j? 1 +.y + 'IT,: The Vacant Chatr. The Vacant-Chair. 'U myself again among my owi country- men, and all speaking my own language,' I fancied-nay, hang it! I almost believ- ed Is should meet my father, my mother, or my dear Bess, on board of the British frigate. I expected to see you all again in a few weeks at farthest-but, instead of returning to old England, before I was aware, I found it was helm about with us. MAs to writing, I never had an opportu- nity. but once. We were anchored be- fore a French fort ; a packet was lying along side ready to sail; I had half a side written, and was scratching my head to think how I should come over writing about you, Bess, my love, when, as bad luck would have it, our lieutenant comes to me, and says he, 'Elliot,' says he, 'I know you like a little smart service; come, my lad, take the head oar, while we board some of these French bum- boats under the batteries.' I could'nt say no. We pulled ashore, made a bon- fire of one of their craft, and were setting fire to a second, when a deadly shower of small shot from the garrison scuttled our boat, killed our commanding officer with half the crew, and the few who were left of us were made prisoners. It is no use bothering you by telling how we escaped from the French prison. We did escape; and Tom will once more fill his vacant chair." Should any of our readers wish far- ther acquaintance with our friends, all we can say is, the new year was still young when Adam Bell bestowed his daughter's hand upon the heir of March- law, and Peter beheld the once vacant chair again occupied, and a namesake of the third generation prattling on his knee, s - - : ¢ t i t a" i.f ' - - a f r°y } {' ttt.i... ::r...wr1tW' T r L iEiEJ r } Y. T L .. " t _ t' 's.T ',, 'Y tF "ji Juax4 J W a- t u p* It ) fI I'I' j s r Cs/1' . f+:i E{' ti . , y _ .n , w page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 2 -'I /1f I I their hands, with which they gathered up and flung out the snow by gowpens, and ere this had been long continued, they succeeded in extricating the very girl, ex- actly eight days from the time she had been buried. You may guess it was a moment of agonizing perturbation which succeeded the discovery that- she was alive ! On coming to the tree and. not finding her lover there, she drew her plaid tight around her, and sat down to wait. She conjectured that the cold had madesher drowsy, and the snow falling thick upon her, when she awoke she was unable to move, and felt\herself as if alive in her grave, and cut off from the living world. Her lover was full of sorrow and expla- nations. "If he had but thought she could have ventured out on such a night, he never would have failed to keep his word," &c. Every young man's mind will suggest the proper thing to be said on the occasion; but Lizzy, who could scarcely be suspected of bestowing any but cold looks at such a time, took no notice of him whatever. The country people who accompanied him had a sup- ply of cordials, and he was loud and ear- nest in enjoining them to "give her some- thing warm instantly ;" and a glass of spirits was offered, which she gravely pushed aside. "Give me a glass of wa-_ ter," said she; "its a cauld heart that canna warm a drink to itsel'." Her Joe was ardent in his addresses, but she repulsed him with endless scorn. Whether she ever took a husband or not, I have - forgotten, but it is certain she never married him. t 4 shy ' n , r r k ^ " - 1 - - 4 r' " . ' a . ri , Y w hey a i3' y,!" , _ " ao r r r"; a f'°'i: 7i'i.1P l\$i '" . ,f ' a', ''*, ' r 5, M;^"? r1 r8''t "4.-;.s . ,x R1' sLPr +r'^ +i, r, 5 %N' :., , r , ,,,:1"', isL,,. , -c, ... . _ _ 1 k" . , .t 9 THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. BY MISS MITFORD. IN a winding unfrequented road, on the south side of our village, close to a low, two-arched bridge, thrown across a stream of more beauty than consequence, stood the small irregular dwelling, and the picturesque buildings of Hatherford Mill. It was a pretty scene on a sum- mer afternoon, was that old mill, with its strong lights and shadows, its low-brow- ed cottage covered with the clustering Pyracantha, and the clear brook which, after dashing, and foaming, and brawling, and playing off all the airs of a mountain river, while pent up in the mill-stream, was no sooner let loose, than it subsided into its natural peaceful character, and crept quietly along the valley, meander- ing through the green woody meadows, as tranquil a trout stream, as ever Izaak Walton angled in. Many a traveller has stayed his step to admire the old buildings of Hatherford Mill, backed by its dark orchard, especi- ally when its accompanying figures, the jolly miller sitting before the door, pipe in mouth, and jug in hand, like one of Teniers' boors, the mealy miller's man with his white sack over his, shoulders, carefully descending the out-of-door steps, and the miller's daughter, flitting about amongst her poultry, gave life and motion to the picture.1 The scenery at the other end of the road was equally attractive, in a different style. Its principal feature was the great farm of the parish, an old manorial house, solid and venerable, with a magnificent 6 clump of witch elms in front of the porch, a suburb of out-buildings behind, and an old-fashioned garden with its rows of es- paliers, its wide flower-borders, and its close filberd-walk, stretching like a cape into the waters, the-strawberry beds, slo- ping into the .very stream: so that the cows, which in sultry weather, came down' by twos, and by threes, from the opposite meadows, to cool themselves in the water, could almost crop the leaves as they stood. In my mind, that was the pleasanter scene of the two; but such could hardly have been the general opinion, since nine out of ten passers by, never vouchsafed a glance at the great farm, but kept their eyes steadily fixed on the mill; perhaps to look at the old buildings, perhaps at the miller's young daughter. Katy Dawson was accounted by com- mon consent the prettiest girl in the par- ish. Female critics in beauty would be sure to limit the commendation by assert- ing that her features were irregular, that she had not a good feature in her face, and so forth; but these remarks were al- ways made in her absence, and no sooner did she appear than even her critics felt the power of her exceeding loveliness. It was the IHebe look of youth and health, the sweet and joyous expression, and above all, the unrivalled brilliancy of co- loring, that made Katy's face, with all its faults, so pleasant to look upon. A con- plexion of the purest white, a coral lip, and a cheek like the pear, her namesake, 85 Ay~pa 1 v..,.a .. ., .1. , ." t.JF P ' m r ;. ., , tF s f, i..a ,+ THE TRUSTING TREE. FROM REAL LIFE, OR THE PORTFOLIO OF A CHRONICLER." JOURNEYING one day along a muirland road not far from Stirling, we passed a very. fine old tree in a field at a short distance. I remarked its beauty, to which Simon assented, but seemed a while ab- sorbed in recalling recollections associ- ated with it. At last he said, pausing and looking hack on the tree: "That sturdy old plant of other years, reminds me of an incident which displayed a striking trait of character of the true old Scottish breed. That is, or was, called the Tryst- ing Tree, and there a country lass-had consented to meet her sweetheart one winter night, to. arrange matters for the wedding. The night came, cold and fog- gy, and the girl, true to her appointment, set off silently in the hopes of being back again before she was missed. It soon came on a heavy snow, and snowed all night. The girl was not to be found; and all the roads round being not only impassable, but invisible from the depth of the drift, a whole week passed before communication was possible with the neighboring farms, all which time noth- ing could be heard of her. At length the news reached-her lover, who was lost and bewildered with the feelings of won- der, fear, and jealousy.-On inquiry as to the time when his betrothed had been last seen, he found it was the 'night of their assignation, and the first of the snow. The Trysting Tree flashed upon his mind, and hither, with a sturdy band of pioneers, he bent his course. On reach- ing the tree they commenced digging all round it, and soon came to a solid ham- mock,---Their spades and shovels 'were then exchanged for the simple labor of I 1 s; 'e _ r 0 'y r q;- tw1, fA SjMj , H " a :J i - ..,k .. ......, ice. ,.r. .« .. r ..r .. ., Y wfw. '3 __ Q 7 r 'C -1 page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 41~ 86 'Phe Queen of the Meadow. "on the side that's next the sun," were Soon after the rejection of this most relieved by rich curls of brown hair, of philosophical of all discarded swains, an the deep yet delicate hue that one some- important change took place in the neigh- times finds in the ripest and latest hazle- borhood, in the shape of a new occupant nuiof, the season. Her figure was well of the great farm. The quiet respectable sited toher blossom countenance, old couple, who had resided there for half rouid, short, and child-like ; add to this, a century, had erected the mossy sun- "a pretty foot, a merry glance, a passing dial, and planted the great mulberry-tree, pleasing tongue," andl no wonder that having letd rmined to retire from busi Katy was the belle of the village. ness, were succeeded by a new tenant But gay and smiling though she were, from a distant county, the youngest son the fair maid of the mill was little acces- of a gentleman brought up to agricultural sible to wooers. Her mother had long pursuits, whose, spirit and activity, his been dead, and her father, who held her1 boldness in stocking and cropping, and as the very apple of his eye, kept her his scientific management of manures and carefully away from the rustic junketings, machinery, formed the strongest possible at which rural flirtations are usually begun. contrast with the old-world practices of Accordingly our village beauty had reach-i his predecessors. All the village was ed the age of eighteen, without a lover. full of admiration of the mtelhgent young. d L1-,.. 1 dxnt h._1 d ff i"nJPr farmer Edward Grev: who being un- -ohe hau inueeu ia tL u ulers on -from a dashing horse-dealer, who hav- :ing seen her for five minutes one day, .when her father called her to admire a' nag that he was cheapening, proposed for' her that very night as they were chaffer- ing about the price, and took the refusal in such dudgeon, that he'would have left the house utterly inconsolable, had he not. contrived to comfort himself by cheating, the offending papa, twice as much as hey intended, in his horse bargain. The- other proffer was from a staid, thick, so- ber, silent, middle-aged personage, who united the offices of school-master and land-measurer, an old crony of the good miller's, in whose little parlor he had, smoked his pipe regularly every Satur- day evening for the last thirty years, and who called him still from habit, "Young Sam Robinson." He, one evening as they sat smoking, outside the door, broke his accustomed silence, with a formal de- mand of his comrade's permission to present himself as a suitor to Miss Katy;, which permission being, as soon as her father could speak for astonishment, civ- illy refused, Master Samuel Robinson addressed himself to his pipe again, with his wonted phlegm, played a manful part in emptying the ale jug, and discussing the Welch rabbit, reappeared as usual, en the following Saturday; and to judge from his whole demeanor, seemed to have entirely forgotten his unlucky proposal. ill H; married, and of a kindly and sociable dis- position, soon became familiar with high and low, and was no where a greater fa- vorite than with his opposite neighbor, our good miller. Katy's first feeling toward her new acquaintance, was an awe, altogether dif- ferent from her usual shame-facedness; a genuine fear of the quickness and talb ent which broke out not merely in his conversation, but in every line of his, acute and lively countenance. There was occasionally, a sudden laughing light in his hazel eye, and a very arch and momentary smile, now seen, and now gone, to which, becoming as most people thought them, she had a particular aver- sion. In short, she paid the young far- mer, for so he persisted in being called, the compliment of running.away, as soon as he came in sight, for three calendar months. At the end of that time, ap- pearances mended. First she began to loiter at the door ; then she staid in the room: then she listened; then she smi- led; then she laughed outright; then she ventured to look up'; then she began to talk inher turn; and before another month had passed, would prattle to Edward Grey as fearlessly and freely, as to her own father. On his side, it was clear that the young farmer with all his elegance and refine- ment, his education and intelligence, liked The Queen of the Meadow.' 87 nothing better than this simple village"eandidate put a stop to the dispute, by lass. He passed over the little humors, declining to come to the poll. So that proper to her as a beauty and a spoiled the quarrel was, per force, pretermitted. child, with the kindness of an indulgent A t last, a real and serious anxiety, over- brother; was amused with her artless- clouded Katy's innocent happiness; and ness, and delighted with her gaiety. as it often happens, in this world of con- Gradually he began to find his own tire- tradictions, the grievance took the form side lonely; and the parties of the neigh- of a gratified wish. borhood boisterous; the little parlor of Of all her relations, her cousin Sophy the miller formed just the happy medi- Maynard had long been her favorite. um, quietness without solitude, and so- She wa an intelligent, unaffected young ciety without dissipation-and thither'he woman, a few years older than herself; resorted accordingly. His spaniel Ran- the daughter of a London tradesmai, ex- ger, taking possession of the middle of celently brought up, with a great deal of the hearth-rug, just as comfortably, as if information and taste, and a total absence in his master's own deinesnes, and Katy's of airs and finery. In person she might large tabby cat, a dog-hater by profession, almost be called'plain, but there was such not merely submitting to the usurpation, a natural gentility about her ; her mail- but even ceasing to erect her bristles on ners were so pleasing, and her conversa. his approach. tion so attractive, that few people, after So the world waned for three months passing an evening in her society, re- more. One or two little miffs had, in- membered her want of beauty. She was .deed, occurred between the parties; once, exceedingly fond of the country, and of for instance, at a fair held in the next her pretty cousin, who, on her part, look- town on the first of May. Katy having ed up to her with much of the respectful been frightened at the lions and tigers fondness of a younger sister, and had painted outside a show, had nevertheless thought to herself a hundred times, when been half-led, half-forced into the booth most pleased with their new neighbor, to look at the real living monsters, by her how I wish my cousin Sophy could see ungallant beau. This was a sad offence. Edward Grey," and now that her cousin But unluckilyour'village damsel had been ;Sophy had seen Edward Grey, poor so much entertained by some monkeys Katy would have given all that she pos- and parrots on her first entrance, that she sessed in the world, if they had never quite forgot to be frightened, and after- met. They were heartily delighted with wards, when confronted with the royal each other, and proclaimed openly their bruits, had taken so great a fancy to a mutual good opinion. Sophy praised beautiful panther, as to wish to have him Mr..Grey's vivacity; Edward professed for a pet; so that this quarrel passed himself enchanted with Miss Maynard's away almost as soon as it began. The voice. Each was astonished to find in second was about the color of a riband,,an the other, a cultivation unusual in that election riband ; Katy having been much walk of life. They talked,, and laughed, caught by the graceful person and gracious and sang together, and seemed so happy manners of a country candidate, who call- that Katy, without knowing why, became ed to request her father's vote, had taken quite miserable, flew from Edward, avoid. upon herself to canvass their opposite ed Sophy, shrank away from her kind .neighbor, and was exceedingly astonished father, and found no rest or comfort, ex- to find her request refused, on no better cept when she could creep alone to some plea, than a difference from her favorite in solitary place, and give vent to her vexa- political opinion, and a previous promise tion in tears. Poor Katy, she could not .to his opponent. The little beauty, aston- tell what ailed her, but she -was quite ished at her want of influence, and ren- sure that she was wretched; and then dered zealous by opposition, began to she cried again. look grave, and parties would certainly In the meanwhile, the intimacy be- have run high at Hatherford, had not her tween the new friends became closer and A3 v "G'^ 'it °..Nt nor d M K , y ' Ni .1 .. , .r .t ay 1 .,. +. ... . .. ,. 8r arYvvr. r w'.w,-""swh.:.i. .e. a. t...u. s. ee.:--aae!^r.. OR. N W t r } 1-0 page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] * 88 The Queen of the .Meadow. closer. There was an air of intelligence long wreath of the woodbine, and the between them that might have puzzled briony, and the wild vetch, was, or pre- wiser heads than that of our simple mit- tended to be, deeply engaged in twisting ler-maiden. A secret--could it be a love the garland round her straw bonnet, and secret? And the influence of the gen- answered not a word. She tied on her * tieman was so open and avowed, that bonnet, however, and stood by listening, Sophy, when on the point-of departure~ whilst the other two continued to talk of consented to prolong her visit to Hather- the symbolic meaning of floivers, quoting * ford, at his request, although shme had pre- the well-known lines from the Winter's viously resisted Katy's solicitations, anid Tale, and the almost equally charming the hospitable urgency of her father. passage from IPhilaster. Affairs were in this posture, when one At length Edward, who, during the fine evening, towards the 'end of June, conversation, had been gathering all that I the cousins sallied forth for a walk, and he could collect of the tall almond- were suddenly joined by Edward Grey, scented, tufts of the. elegant meadow- when at such a distance from the house, sweet, whose crested blossoms arrange as to prevent the possibility of Katy's themselves in a plumage so richly deli- stealing back thither, as had been her cate, said, holding up his nosegay, .. do usual habit on such oocasions. The path not know what mystical interpretation they chose led through long narrow mea2 may be attached to this plant in Katy's dows,.,sloping down, on either side, to 'country art,' but ,it is rmy favorite the winding stream, enclosed by high amongst flowers; and if I were inclined hedges, and, seemingly, shut out from the to follow the Easterni manner of court- world. ship, and make love by a nosegay, I A pleasant walk it was, through those, should certainly send it to plead my newly-mown meadows,- just cleared of cause. And it shall be so," he added the fay, with the bright rivulet meander- after a short, pause, his bright and sud- it ing /hrough banks so variously beautiful; den smiles illumining his whole counte- now fringed by rushes and sedges ; now nance ; " the botanical name signifies, the bordered by little thickets of hawthorn, Queen of the Meadow, and wherever I and woodbine, -and the brier-rose; now offer this tribute, wherever I place this overhung by a pollard ash, or a silver- tuft, the homage of umy heart, the proffer barked beach, or a lime tree in full bios- of my hand shall go also. Oh, that the '1 'somn. Now a smooth turfy slope, green offering may find favor with my queen !" to the eye, and soft to the foot; and now Katy heard no more. She turned away again a rich embroidery of the golden to a little .bay formed by the rivulet, flag, the purple willow-herb, the blue where a bed of pebbles, overhung by a forget-me-not, and " a thousand fresh- grassy bank, afforded a commodious seat, water flowers of several colors," making and there she sat her down, trembling, the bank as ay as a garden. ..cold, and wretched ; understanding for It was impossible not to pause in this the first time her own feelings, and wvon- lovely spot; and Sophy, who had been dering if any body in all the world had collecting a; bright bunch of pink blos- ever been so unhappy before. soms, the ragged-robin, the wild rose, the There she sat, with the tcars rolling crane's-bill, and the fox-glove, or, to use down her cheeks, unconsciously making the prettier Irish name of that superb "rings of rushes that grew thereby," di plant, the fairy-cap, appealed to Katy to and Edward's dog Jianger, who had "read a lecture of her country art," and been watching a shoal of minnows at show " what every flower, as country play in the shallow water, and every} people hold, did signify." A talent for now and then inserting his huge paw which the young maid of the mill was into the stream, as if trying to catch one, as celebrated as Bellario. But poor Katy, came to her, and laid his rough head, and who,. declining Edward's offered arm, his long curling brown ears in her lap, had loitered a little behind, gathering a and looked at her with "eyes whose hu- 4, avi ' T c2 F x i i + ,,a. 'rH. ",y: Pauline de .Moulan. man meaning :did not need the aid of basin of water under those hazels ! speech"---eyes full of piety and of love; Come !" He put her -hand under his for Ranger, in common with all the four- arm, and led her thither ; and there, footed world, loved Katy dearly: and when mechanically she cast her eyes on now he looked up in her face, and licked the stream, she saw the rich tuft of her cold hand. Oh ! kinder and faithful-'Yneadow-sweet, the identical Queen of ler than your master, thought poor Katy,{the Meadow, waving like a plume, over as, with a fresh gush of tears, she laid her own straw bonnet : felt herself her sweet face on the dog's head, and sat1caught in Edward's arms; for between in that position, as it seemed to her, for1surprise and joy, she had well nigh fld- ages, whilst her companions were hook- len ; and when, with instinctive modesty, ig an landing some white water-id- she escaped from his embrace, and took les. 11refugc with her Cousin, the first soundl At last they approached, and she arose that she heard was Sophy's affectionate hastily and trembling, and walked onjwhisper,-pI knew it all the timeKaty.! anxious to escape observation. " Your every body knew it but you! and the garland is loose,1aty," said Edward,1 wedding must be next week, for 1 have lifting his hand to er bonnet: " Come promised Edward to stay and be bride's- and see how nicely I have fastened it" i ' n a~ eeae ir yhn haeaa e othem aidarni the very next week they No clearer mirr r than the dark smooth were married PAUJLINE DE MOULAN. A young lady of good family in ParisjMany a time and oft, in the solitary was deprived of the friend who had chamber, she would cast down her pen brought her up, and was compelled to looklin despairing lassitude ; but the difficulty out for some source of support for her- of seeing any better mode of mainte- self. She had received a good education,nance made her always lift it anew, with and having a taste for literature, made an revived determination. Her efforts were attempt to gain her bread by the use of at length rewarded with something like the pen. She sent various little stories success. Her essays found favor with the and other contributions to several of the managers of the periodical paper called newspapers; but all her pieces were too the Publiciste, and she became a regular long or too short, too grave or too light! contributor to its pages, being paid for -any thing, in short, but entitled to re- her labors in such a manner as to main- ception. Had Pauline not possessed tain herself in comparative comfort. She uncommon energies, as well as uncom- became even the object of considerable mon abilities, she would have found it notice, and was occasionally an invited impossible to fight her way through the member of the literary soirees so com- briery path that leads to literary success. ;mon among the Parisians I- ; , 1a 7, "4h/ 4' 7j+L ' P ti 4 ell74 1'77'7 , '-1i' n '..nioe s." '4[dAryaQaiwY G.. wew i° : . page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] t yl"y, wv M4. t4 4 4 Wry'f«.. . 't.,.. , v. + r +.( 1 -, 90 Pauline de Moulan. At M. Suard's, in particular, a well sured to her in her illness, and she re. known member of the world of litera- covered that health which distress of ture, Pauline met and mingled with ma- mind might otherwise have aided to keep ny of the rising people of talent, male back. and female, in the French metropolis. Pauline's correspondent dropped his Things continued thus until Pauline fell labors when she was enabled to resume ill, and became unable to send her contra- her own. it may be imagined that her butions as usual to the Publiciste. Un- mind dwelt much on this circumstance, luckily for her, the capital supplied too and she longed to know and thank her many young persons of literary ability to benefactor. She was not long left n the make the cessation of her labors a mat- dark. A pale slender young man, with ter of much consequence to the, people a mild and expressive countenance, called with whomn she communicated. She upon her and modestly revealed himself was sensible of this, and her sick-bed as her unknown assistant. He was im. was harassed by fears of indigence and mediately recognized by the young con. distress. But at this moment, a kind tributor of the Publiciste as one whom though unknown assistant stepped in to she had seen at M. Suard's, and who had relieve her terrors, and save her from fall- won for himself the repute of being one ing a prey to the evils in prospect. of the most promising young men of the One morning while musing sadly on her day. He also had seen her at M. Su- state, she received a packet, which pro-.arl's, and it was from no common feel- ved on being opened, to contain a contri- ings that he had been induced to act as bution, in her own line and manner, for has been related. After their first inter- the Pub/iciste. It was accompanied by a view, they saw each other again and note, in which the writer stated his in- again, and Pauline soon learned to recip- tention to send her a similar paper at reg- rocate the affection which the other had- ular intervals, hoping at the same time already conceived for her. They were that they might be accepted in place of married. At this day they live happily her own, until she was well enough to with each other; and while the husband resume her tasks. The hand writing fills one of the highest places in the Sen- of the note and paper were unknown ate and literature of his country, the wife, to Pauline, and she could form no guess while holding no ignoble station also in who was their author. The promise the world of letters, is elevated high made, was fulfilledhowever. Articles of among the, matrons of France. Reader, a fitting kind were regularly sent, and the parties of whom we have been speak- they procured for the young invalid, from ing are Monsieur and Madame Guizot. the conductors of the Publiciste, the The "Letters on Education," and other ~ same remuneration that her own toils had works of the latter, showv her to be a produced. . . .. ' worthy partner of a statesman and his- * All necessary comforts were thus as- torian. so distinguished as M. Guizot,. I- ( r - 1 r4,. 4._ - "''10..Vy I Yk . ? i I ,a [. ^ a T '"i " + THE WINE MERCHANT'S STORY. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE KING'S OWN." [The following amusing story is one of the series in imitation of the Arabian Nights. A Pacha is supposed to depireaa similar amusement, and to hear original tales, to whichaend he sallies forth in company with hisvizier. When they meet with person likely to tell a good story, lie.i ordered to the palace. OWe of thee, thus relates the particulars of his eventful life] I AM a Greek by birth ; my parents were poor people residing at Smyrna. I was an only son, and brought up to my father's profession, that of a cooper. When I was twenty years old, I had bu- ried both of my parents, and was left to shift for myself. I had been for some time in the employ of a Jewish wine mer- chant ; and I continued there for three years after my father's death, when a circumstance occurred which led to my subsequent prosperity and my present degradation. At the time I am speaking of, I had by- a strict diligence and sobriety, so pleased my employer, that I had risen to be his foreman ; and although I still. superin- tended, and occasionally worked at the cooperage, I was entrusted with the draw- ing off and fining of the wines, to pre- pare them for the market. There was an Ethiopian slave, who worked under my orders, a powerful, broad shouldered, -and most malignant wretch, whom my master found it almost impossible to manage ; the bastinado, or any other pun- ishment, he derided, and after the appli- cation only became more sullen and dis- contented than before. The fire that flashed from his eyes, upon any faults be-I ing found by me on account of his negli- gence, was so threatening, that I every day expected I should be murdered. I repeatedly requested my master to part with him; but the Ethiopian being a very powerful man, and able when he chose, to move a pipe of wine without assistance, the avarice of the Jew would not permit him to accede to my repeated solicitations. One morning I entered the cooperage, and found the Ethiopian fast asleep by the side of a cask which I had been wanting for some time, and expected to have been ready. Afraid to punish him myself, I brought my master to witness his conduct. The Jew, enraged at his idleness, struck him on the head withone of the- staves. The Ethiopian sprung up in a rage, but on seeing his master with the stave- in his hand, contented himself with muttering, "That he would not remain to be beaten in that manner," --and re-applied himself to his labor. As soon as my master had left the cooper- age the Ethiopian vented his anger upon me for having informed against him, and seizing the stave, flew at me with the in- tention of beating out my brains. I stepped behind the cask; he followed 91 * ~ a4.444~4~4~~\ ~ V V ° A. ' _+ - 'k1 i . r "M1 , "i''T i t "tr '} ,' P j'P 1 Te ""a ,4 ' M1 page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 the Wine Merchant's Story. fi n P Y i Ey'j II_ 1 i l M ± Al" me, and just as I had seized an adze to defend myself, he fell over the stool which lay) in his way-he was springing up to renew the attack, when 1 struck -him a blow with the adze which entered his skull, and-laid him dead at my feet. I was very much alarmed at what had occurred; for although I felt myself jus- tified in self-defence, I was aware that my master would be very much annoyed at the loss of the slave, and as there was no witnesses, it would go hard with me when brought before the cadi. After some reflection I determined, as the slave had said "He would not remain to be beaten," that I would leave my master to suppose he had run away, and in the mean time conceal the body. But to ef- fect this was difficult, as I could not take it out of the cooperage without being per- ceived. After some cogitation, I decided upon putting it into the cask, and head- ing it up. It required all my strength to lift the body in, but at last I succeeded. Having put in the head of the pipe, I hammered down the hoops and rolled it into the store, where I had been waiting to fill it with wine for the next year's de- mand. As soon as it was in its place, I pumped off the wine from the vat, and having filled up the cask and put in the bung, I felt as if a heavy load had been removed from my mind, as there was no chance of immediate discovery. I had but just.cdmpleted my task, and was sitting down on one of the settles, when my master came in, and inquired for the slave. I replied that he had left the cooperage, swearing that he would work go more. Afraid of losing him, the Jew hastened to give notice to the authorities, that he might be apprehended ; but after some time, as nothing could be heard of the supposed run-a-way, it was imagined that he had drowned himself in a fit of sul- lenness, and no more was thought about him. In the mean while I continued to work there ,as before, and as I had the charge of everything, I had no doubt but that, some day or another, I should find means of quietly disposing of my incum- brance. '. The next spring, I was busy pump- ing off from one cask into the other, ac- Th ieMecats tr.9 A i E i i -, ' E ., . Ir Tjl ' i ,, . , ( t x' r 4 ;f : a}i l1 t, ,. 4 u c - , 4 7 k ! } r" 3 .i t . e r} Y, # l ' .' ,l t 'R .yam . ...nr .....y u..u t- -..'- "a. + "' " i.f M 1 ':a1N~etM: Si 'dLRL A ? 4- :7 .5 77 f. Vj ", . / Y' , ." rid . al. . a;e p Y.'t fJ rr R " . a ,T r r' - r1 Jj' .. J .ewe n.s'p.,r~e e r ..t . ., r, ,.. _ "n'r cording to our custom, when the aga of the janissaries:came in. He was a great- wine-bibber, and one of our best custom- ers. As his dependents were all well known, it was not his custom to send them for wine, but to come himself to the store and select a pipe. This was carried away in a litter by eight strong slaves, with the curtains.drawn close, as if it had been a new purchase which he had added to his harem. My master showed him the pipes of wine prepared' for that year's market,'which were ar- ranged in two rows ; and I hardly need observe that the one containing the Ethi- opian was not in the foremost. After tasting one or two which did not seem to please him, the aga observed, " Friend Issachar, thy tribe will always put off the worst goods first, if possible. Now I have an idea that there is better wine in the second tier, than in the one thou hadt recommended. Let thy Greek put a spile into that cask," continued he, point- ing to the very one in which I had headed up the black slave. As I made sure that as soon as he had tasted the contents he would spit them outs I did not hesitate to bore the cask and draw off the wine which I handed to him. He tasted it and held it- to the light-tasted it -again and smacked his lips-then turning to my master, ex- claimed "Thou dog of a Jew ! wouldst thou have palmed off upon me vile trash, when thou hadst in thy possession wine which might be sipped with the Houris in Paradise ?" The Jew appealed to me if the pipes of wine were not all of the same quality; and I confirmed his assertion. " Taste it then," replied the aga," and then taste the first which you recoi- mended me." My master did so, and was evidently astonished. " It certainly has more body," replied he; "yet how that can he, I know not. Taste it, Charis."-I held the glass to my lips, but -nothing could induce me to taste the contents. I contented myself with agreeing with my in aster, (as I most conscientiously could,) "that it certainly had more body. in it than the rest." The aga was so pleased with the wine, that he tasted two or three more pip( of the back tier, hoping to find others o the same quality, probably intending have laid in a large stock ; but finding r other of the same flavor, he ordered h slaves to roll the one containing the bod of the slave into the litter, and carried to his own house. "Stop a moment,,thou lying Kafir said the Pacha,."dost thou really mean t say that the wine was better than the rest? "Why)should I tell a lie to your sul lie Highness-am I not a worm th you may crush ? As I informed you, .did not taste it, your Highness ;" but a ter the aga had departed, my master ex pressed his surprise at the excellence o the wine, which he affirmed to be supe nrior to anything that he had ever taste --and his sorrow that the aga had' take away' the cask, which prevented hir from ascertaining the cause. But on day I was narrating the circumstance t a Frank in this country, who expresse no surprise at the wine being improved He had been a wine merchant in Eng land, and he informed me that it was th custom there to throw large pieces of raw beef into the wine to feed it; an that some particular wines were ver much improved thereby. ",Allah Kebir ! God is great !" crie the Pacha,--then it must be so--I hav heard that the English are very fond of beef. Now go on with thy story." Your Highness cannot imagine th( alarm which I felt when the cask wac taken away by the aga's slaves. I gave myself up for a lost man, and resolve( upon immediate flight from Smyrna. I] calculated the time that it would take for the aga to drink the wine, and made my arrangements accordingly. I told my master that it was my intention to leave him, as I had an offerto go into business with a relation at Zante. My master, who could not well do without me, en- treated me to stay ; but I was positive. lie then offered me a share of the busi- ness if I would remain, but I was not to be persuaded. Every rap at the door, I thought that the aga and his jamissaries were coming for me ; and I hastened my -departure, which was fixed for the fol- es lowing day,-when in the evening my )f master came into the store with a paper to in his hand. o "Charis," said he," perhaps you have is supposed that I only offered to make you y a partner in my business to induce you it to remain, and then to deceive you. To prove the contrary, here is a deed drawn up by which you dare a partner, and- enti- to tied to one third of the future profits. " Look at it, you will find that it has been b- executed in due form before the cadi." at He had put the paper into my hand, I and I was about to return it with a refu- f- sal, when a loud knoek at the door start- c- led both. It was a party of janissaries f despatched by the aga, to bring us to - him immediately. I-knew well enough d what it must be about, and I cursed my n folly for having delayed so long; but the n fact was, the wine proved so agreeable to e the aga's palate, that he had -drank it o much faster than usual; besides which, d the body of the slave took up at least a 1. third of the cask, and diminished the - contents in the same proportion. There e was no appeal, and no escape. My mas- f ter, who was ignorant of the cause, did d not seem at all alarmed, but willingly ac- y companied the soldiers. I, on the con- trary, was nearly dead from- fear. I When we arrived, the aga burst out in e' the most violent exclamations against my master-" Thou rascal of a Jew !" said he, " dost thou think that thou art to im- e pose upon a true believer, and sell him a s pipe of wine which is not more than two-thirds full, filling it up with trash of 1 some sort or another. Tell me, what it is that is so heavy in the cask now that it is r empty ?" r The Jew protested his ignorance, and appealed to me: I of course, pretended the same. " Well then," replied the aga, "we will soon see. Let thy Greek send tor his tools, and the cask shall be opened in our presence; then perhaps thou wilt recognize thiuie own knavery." Two of the janissaries were des patch- ed for the tools, and'when they arrived I was directed to take the head out of the cask. I now considered my death as certain-nothing buoyed me up but my observing that the resentment of the aga The Wine Merchant's Story. 93 page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] 94 Te Wne Mrchnt' Stoy. he ine erc~an's 5torp 9 was levelled more against my master than against me; but still I thought that, when the cask was opened, the recogni- tion of the black slave must immediately take place, and the evidence of my mas- ter would fix the murder upon me. It was with a trembling hand that I obeyed the orders of the aga-the head of the pipe was taken out, and to the horror of all present, the body was ex- posed; but instead of being black, it had turned white, from the time it had been immersed. I rallied a little at this cir- cumstance, as, so far, suspicion would be removed. " Holy Abraham !" exclaimed my master, "what is that which I see !-A dead body, so help, me God !-but 1 know nothing about it-do you Charis?" I vowed that I did not, and called the Pa- triarch to witness the truth of my asser- tion. But while we were thusexclaim- ing, the aga's eyes were fixed upon my master with an indignant and deadly stare which spoke volumes; while the remain- der of the people who were present, al- though they said nothing, seemed as if they were ready to tear him into pieces. "Cursed unbeliever !" at last uttered the- Turk, " is it thus thou preparost the wine for the disciples of the prophet ?" " Holy father Abraham !-- I know no more than you do, aga, how that body came there ; but I will change the cask with pleasure, and will send you another." " Be it so," replied the aga; "my slaves shall fetch i4 now." He gave- di- rections accordingly, and the litter.soon re-appeared with another pipe of winery "It will be a heavy loss to a poor Jew-one pipe of good wine," observed my master, as it was rolled out of the litter ; and took up his hat with the in- tention to depart. " Stay," cried the aga, "I do not mean to rob you of your wine." "QOh, then you will pay me for it," replied my master; "aga, you are a con- siderate man." " Thou shalt see," retorted .the aga, who gave directions to his slaves to draw off the wine 'in vessels. -As soon as the pipe was empty, he desired me to 94 ake the head out; and when I had obey- ed hirh, he ordered his janissaries to put my master in. In a minute he was gag- ged.and bound, and tossed into the pipe; and I was directed to put in the head as before. I was very unwilling to comply, for I. had no reason to complain of my master, and knew that he was punished for the fault of which I had been guilty. But it' was a case of life or death,-and the days ofself-devotion have long passed away in our country. Besides which, I had the deed in my pocket by which I was a partner in the business, and my master had no heirs,-so that I stood a chance to come into the whole .of his property. Moreover- - "Never mind your reasons," observed the Pacha, "you headed him up in the cask-go on." " I did so, your Highness ; bt al- though I dared not disobey, I assure you that it was vith a sorrowful heart-the more so, as I did not know the fate which might be reserved for myself."' As soon as the head was in, and the hoops driven on, the aga desired his slaves to fill the cask up again with the wine ;- and thus did my poor master per- ish. "Put in the bung, Greek," said the aga, in a stern voice. . I did so, and stood trembling before him. " Well! what knowest thou of this ti'ansaction ?" I thought as the aga had taken away, the life of my master, that it would not hurt him if I took away a little from his character. I answered that I-really knew nothing, but that the other day, a black slave had disappeared in a very suspi- cious manner-that my master made very little inquiry after him-and I now strongly suspected that he must have suf- fered the same fate. I added, that my master had expressed himself very sorry that his highness had taken away the pipe of wine, as he would have reserved it. " CursedJew !" replied the aga ; " I don't doubt but that he has murdered a dozen in the same manner." . ' ++c .,y .ri",..., ,.t .r. Ntq.n ; ...v.,. y . a r '+ +.w.t.=way! R ."hrswe. r _ 4r_ p " uM6 G"w+: tiu..hlrY,? + R. KRi+' Iti(i's°#i!' 's 7ts'Ne.Mt vMewv, , 'ilji,.' ' ' , y+ ;? . - , .. , x i . +-.!r a .. .. , ~ y b",;1rra..+a++ r+:w+ we wYW+w WG.:r .w.sRlda M4rhv . p w+s .1+r.tiws }R f" 4+.(r .+'6 a1W.w f- K a +NK 1d'*'d' ' .riufi vuie i re«w: :.4arr «sa..isr .ai e."a+h 'i'yF'eaL.,u. .v,.. !A++cr +w-.."" awnLfsris rr4b +fk+ , . _ r _ k j '' I, N F." f _ y k r 1* j'' * } r .4 Y( My w a 1 -,i $!T" - 4 The Wine Merchant's Story. '" I am afraid so, sir," replied I, "and I suspect that I was to have been hip next victim; for when I talked of going away, he persuaded me to stay, and gave me this paper, by which I was to become his partner with one third of the profits I presume that I should not have enjoyed them long." "Well, Greek, " observed the ga "this is fortunate for you; as, upo cer tam conditions, you may enter upon the whole property. One is, that you keep this pipe of wine with the rascally Jew in it, that I may have the pleasure occa- sionally to look at my revenge. You tvill also keep the pipe with the other body in it, that it may keep my anger alive. The last is, that you will supply me with what wine I may require of the very best quality, without making any charge. I)o you consent to these terms, or am I to consider you as a party to this infamous transaction ?" I hardly need observe that the terms were gladly accepted. Your Highness must be aware that nobody thinks much about a Jew. When I was questioned as to his disappearance, I shrugged up my shoulders and told the inquirers, con- fidentially, that the aga of the janissaries had put him in prison, and that I was carrying on the business until his re- lease. In compliance with the wishes of the aga, the two asks containing the Jew and the Ethiopian slave, were placed to- gether on settles higher than the rest, in the centre of the store. He -would come in the evening, and rail at the cask con- tainings my late master for hours at a time; during which he drank so much wine, that it wan a very common circum- stance for him to remain in the house until the next morning. You must not suppose, your Highness, that I neglected 'to aail myself (un- known to the aga) of the peculiar prop- erties of the wine which those casiks contained. EI had them spoiled und!er- neath, and constantly running off the wine from them, filled them up afresh. In a short time there was not a gallon in my possession which had not a (lash in. it of either the Ethiopian or the Jew; I and my wine ,was so improved, that it s had a most rapid sale, and I became rich. All went on prosperously for three years ; when the aga, who during that time had been my constant guest, and at 'least three times a-week had been intoxi- I cated in my house, was ordered with his troops to join the Sultan's army. By , keeping company with him, I had insen- -4sibly imbibed a taste for wine, although I never had been inebriated. The (lay that his troops marched, he stopped at my door, and dismounting from his Arabian, cme in to take a farewell glass, desiring his men to go on, and that he would ride after them. One glass brought on anoth- er, and the time flew rapidly away. , The evening closed in, and the aga was, as usual, in a state of intoxication ;-he in- sisted upon going down to the store, to rail once more at the cask containing the body of the Jew. We had long been on the most friendly terms, and having this night drank more' than usual, I was in- cautious enough to say-" Prithee, aga, do not abuse my master any ipore, for he has been the making of my fortune. I Will tell you a secret, now that you are going away-there is not a drop of wine in my store that has not been flavored either by him, or by the slave in the oth- er cask. That is the reason why it is so much better than other people's." " How!" exclaimed'the aga, who was now almost incapable of speech,--" Very well,- rascal Greek! die you shall, like your master. Holy prophet!-what a state for a Musselman to go to Paradise--. impregnated with the essence of a cur- sed Jew !-Wretch! you shall die--you shall die." He made a grasp at me, and missing his foot, fell on the ground in such a state of drunkenness as not to be able to get up again. I knew that when he be- came sober, he would not forget what had tiiken place. and that I should be sacrificed to his vengeance. The fear of death, and the wirie which I had drunk, decided me how to act. I dragged him into an empty pipe, put the head in,' hooped it up, and rolling it into the tier, filled it with wine. Thums did I revenge my poor master, and relieved myself from The Tine M rchant's Story- 95 I 3r page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 -any further molestation on the part of the aga. As soon a I had bunged up the cask, I went down to the yard where the aga had left his horse, and having severely wounded the poor beast with his sword, 1 left it loose that it might gallop home. The noise of the horse's hoofs in the middle of the night, aroused his family, and when they discovered that it was wounded and without its rider, they im- agined that the aga had been attacked and murdered by banditti, when he had fol- lowed his troop. They sent to me to ask at what time he had left my house ; I replied an hour after dark-that he was very much intoxicated at the time and had left his sabre, which I returned. They had no suspicion of the real facts, and it was believed that he perished on the road..- I was now rid of my dangerous ac- quaintance, and although he certainly had drank a great quantity of my wine, yet I recovered the value with interest, from the flavor which .I obtained from his body and imparted to what I had left. I raised him up alongside of the two other casks ; and my trade was more profitable and my wines in greater repute than ever. But one day the cadi, who had heard my wine extolled, came privately to my house ; I bowed to the ground at the honor conferred, for I had long wished to have him as a customer. I drew some of my best-" This, honorable Sir," said I, presenting the glass, "is what I call my aga wine: the late aga was so fond of it, he used to order a whole cask at once to his house, and had it taken there in a litter." "A good plan," replied the cadi,"much better than sending a slave with a pitch- er, which gives occasion for remarks: I will do the same; but first let me taste all you have." -He tasted several casks, but none plea- sed him so much as the first which 'I had recommended. At last he cast his eyes upon the three casks raised above the others. " And what are those ?" inquired he. " Empty casks, Sir," replied I; but he had his stick in his hand and he struck one.i "Greek, thou tellest me these casks are.empty, but they do not sound so; I suspect thou hast better wine than I have tasted: draw me off from these immedi- ately." I was obliged to comply-he tasted them-vowed that the wine was exqui- site, and that he would purchase the whole. I stated that the wine in those casks was used for the flavoring the rest; and that-the price was enormous, hoping that he would not pay it. He inquired how muc h-I asked him four times the price of the other wines. "Agreed," said the cadi; "it is dear -but one cannot have good wine with- out paying for it :-it is a bargain." I was very much alarmed ; and sta- ted that I could not part with those casks, as I should not be able to carry on my business with reputation, if I lost the means of flavoring my wines, but all in vain ; he said I had asked a price and he had agreed to give it. Ordering his slaves to bring him a litter, he would not leave the store until the whole of the casks were carried away, and thus did I lose my Ethiopian, my Jew, and my aga. As I knew that the secret would soon be discovered, the very next day I prepared for my departure. I received my money from the cadi, to,whom I stated my in- tention to leave, as he had obliged me to sell him those wines, and I had no longer hopes of carrying on my business with success. I again begged him to allow me to have them back, offering him three pipes of wine as a present if he would consent, but it was no use. I chartered a vessel, which I loaded with the rest of my stock: and taking all my money with me, made sail for Corfni, before any discovery had taken place. But we en. countered a heavy gale of wind, which after a fortnight, (during which vbe at- tempted in vain to make head against it) forced us back to Smyrna. When the weather moderated, I directed the c'ap- tain to take the vessel into the-outer road- stead, thatI might sail as soon as possi- ble. We had not dropped anchor again more than five minutes when I perceived ia boat pulling off from the shore, in r , i4 ... . .,. .. - -.- ,. }1 +a£^ $lf l ." ."1 ,Y=7 ' ' '. : "J. ' ^ '"Mt' ."' x -.r:,7.:;,v . er "..; t." ,,.. y.; ' "gtY y " y Y,'; x. 1 I i4 .' . I which was the cadi-and the officers o justice. Convinced that I was discovered, was at a loss how to proceed,' when a idea occurred to me that I might concea my own body in a cask, as I had befor so well concealed those of others. I called the captain down into the cab in, and telling him that I had reason t( suspect that the cadi would take my life offered him a large part of my cargo if he would assist me. The captain, who, unfortunately foi me, was a.Greek, consented. We wen down into the hold, started the wine ou of one of the pipes, and having taker out the head, I crawled in, and was hoop. ed up. The cadi came on board immediately afterwards, and inquired for me. The captain stated that I had fallen over- board in the gale, and that he had in consequence returned, the vessel .not being consigned to any house at Cor- fu. "6Has then the accursed villain esca- ped my vengeance !" exclaimed the cadi; "the murderer, that fines his wines with the bodies of his fellow-creatures; but you may deceive me, Greek, we will ex- amine the vessel." The officers who accompanied the cadi proceeded carefully to search every part of the ship. Not being able to dis- cover me, the Greek captain was believ- ed ; and after a thousand imprecations upon my soul, the cadi and his people departed. I now breathed freer, notwithstanding I was nearly intoxicated with the lees of the wine which impregnated the wood of the cask, and I was anxious to be set at liberty : but the treacherous captain had no such intention, and never came near me. At night he cut his cable and made sail, and I overheard a conversa- tion between two of the men, which made known to me his intentions: these were to throw me overboard on his pas sage, anid take possession of my proper-j ty. I cried out to them from the hung- hole: I screamed for mercy, but ini vain,. One of them answered, that, as I mur- dered others, and put them into casks, 97 if ). C r 7 JI4 The Wine Merchant's Story. - The Wine Merchant's Story. v s + ,e . J ., s ti +, s , . ,3 ., " C" Dlr.; , 3 ' mil *., t} .. f I should now be treated in the same manner. I I could not but mentally acknowledge n the justice of my punishment, and re- 1 signed myself to my fate ; all that I e wished was to be thrown over at once and released from my misery. The mo- - mentary anticipation of death appeared o to be so much worse than the reality. But it was ordered otherwise ; a gale of wind blew up with such force that the captain and crew had enough to do to r look after the vessel, and either I was t forgotten, or my (loom was postponed un- t til a more seasonable opportunity. On the third day I- heard the sailors - observe that, with such a wretch as I was remaining on board, the vessel must inevitably be lost. The hatches were then opened: I was hoisted up and cast into the raging sea. The bung of the cask was out, but by stuffing my handker- chief in, when the hole was under, water, I prevented the cask from filling ; and when it was uppermost, I removed it for a moment to obtain fresh air. I was dread- fully bruised by the constant rolling in a heavy sea, and completely worn out with fatigue and pain ; I had made up my mind to let the water in and be rid of my life, when I was tossed over and over with such dreadful rapidity as prevented my taking the precaution of keeping out the water. After three successive rolls of the same kind, I found that the cask, which had been in the surf, had struck on the beach. In a moment after I heard voices, and people came up to the cask and rolled me along. I would not speak, lest they should be frightened and allow me to re- main on the beach, where I might again be tossed about by the waves; but as soon as they stopped, I called in a faint voice from the bung-hole, begging them for mercy's sake to let me out. At first they appeared alarmed ; but, on my repeating my request, and stating that I wvas the owner of the ship which was off the land, and that the captain andl crew had mutinied and tossed me overboard, they brought some tools and set me at liberty.- The first sight that met my eyes after I was released, was my vessel lying a i a -,; , s x. f: M 5a r 8 11.2 .emu page: 98-99 (Advertisement) [View Page 98-99 (Advertisement) ] 't~, Y.. ,hf", ' . .t^~'' '~.° ad.-! -.L r'- ,:x. 4'; r} i 4s Jill . i fits F t a°i1 Vz r' 7} ! !S - r f , y 'e y 9N t 1 ( S i ,i, _r 41 c u Y^ /i * r ;t i " wreck ; each wave that hurled her tur- ther on the beach, breaking her more and more to pieces. She was already-divi- ded amid-ships, and the white foaming surf was covered with plpes of wine, which as fast as they were cast ashore, were rolled up by the same people who had released me. I was so worn out, that I fainted where I lay. When I came to, I found myself in a cave upon a bundle of capotes, and perceived a party of forty or fifty men, who were sit- ting by a large fire, and emptying with great rapidity one of my pipes of wine. As soon as they observed that I was coming to my senses, they poured some wine down my throat, which restored me. I was then desired by one of them, who seemed to be the chief, to ap- proach. "'lhe men who have been saved from the wreck," said he, "have - told me strange stories of your enormous crimes --now it down and tell me the truth- if I beli ve you, you shall have justice -I am , di e-if you wish to know where you are, it is upon the island of Ischia-if you vish to know in what company, it is in the society of those who by illiberal people are called pirates : now tell me the truth." I- thought that with pirates my story would be received better than with other people, and I therefore narrated my his- tory to them, in the same words that I now have to your Highness. When I had finished, the captain of the gang ob- served :-.- "Well, then, as you acknowledge to 98 PRICE 25 CENTS. have killed a slave, to have assisted at the death of a Jew, and to have drowned an aga, you certainly deserve death ; but on consideration of the excellence of the wine, and the secret which you have im- parted to us, I shall commute your sen- tence. As for the captain and the re- mainder of the crew, they have been guilty of treachery and piracy o-n the high seas-a most heinous offence, which deserves instant death: but as it is by their means' that we have been put in possession of the wine, I shall be lenient. I therefore sentence you all to hard la- bor for life. You shall be sold as slaves in Cairo,'and we will pocket the money and drink your wine." The pirates loudly applauded the jus- tice of a decision by which they benefit- ed, and all appeal on our parts was use- less. When the weather became more settled, we were put on board one of their small xebeques, and on our art ival at this port were exposed for sale and pur- chased. Such, Pacha, is my history, and I hope you will allow that I have been more unfortunate than guilty, as, on eve- ry occasion in which I took away the life of another, 1 had only to choose be- tween that and my own. " Mashallah ! Bounty ! I've given him his life, and, as he considers it, of more value than an aga's, J think it is a very handsome present. Drown an aga, in- deed I" continued the Pacha, rising, but it certainly was a very curious story. Let it be written down, Mustapha. We'll hear the other man to-morrow. The Wine Merchant's Story. CINCINNATI: PUBLISHED.BY U. P. JAMES, No. 167 WALNUT STREET. II U t ' ,f 1 E ' C I 'f t ,s tt . / °r i E .j. }r . ?} , r 3 i ? t #, . _, TO WHICH 18 ADDED, A POPULAR EXPOSITION.OF LIEBIG'S THEORY OF LIFE, HEALTH, AND DISEASE. BY R. J. CULVERWELL, M. D., AUTHOR OF " HOW TO BE HAPPY," " DISEASES OF WINTER," ETC., ETC. I GUIDE TO on WhAT. TOEAT, BRINK., AND AVOID; WHAT EXERCISE TO TAKE; How TO CONTROL AND REGULATE THE PASSIONS AND APPETITES AND ON T8E GENERAL CONDUCT OF LIFE, &c., &c. d ..._. :,_ I , s -" °'h: a. page: 100 (Advertisement) -101 (Advertisement) [View Page 100 (Advertisement) -101 (Advertisement) ] Vahluabt.rBois, pu bished by U P JAMES-ontinuedy .j t R # f 'i, lllf .{ t, i 1 1 t (, E ( 4' ,r i = r r . t i . lr t I i ,; i ' i r . s f! } S i . t l (" +' 1+ C . ¢y e' 1 F 4 t i t ' r- . ,} t t f t( This is one of the most humorous and laughter-provoking Books of the age. The recital of the Doctor's numerous scrapes,-the easy familiar style of telling, all conspire to make it a pleasant companion for traveling or home reading. U. P. JAMES, Publisher, 167 Walnut Street, Cincinnati. t _ qt 1 {f t 1 t -- - OR, TllI R J RECOLLEUTI NSF A AUKW 0 SMIAN WHO H1AS TRAVELED MANY THOUSAND MILES ON THIE HIGH WAYS OF HUMAN DESTINY; BROUGHT ABOUT A REVOLUTION IN DOMESTIC HAPPINESS, AND EFFECTED A GENERAL SHAKE-UP OF CREATION. BY DAVID RATT L E IHEAD M.D., (THE MAN OF SCRAPES), AUTHOR OF THE AREANSAW DOCTOR, ETC., ETC. Illustrated, an put up in Fancy Cover, Price 50 cents LEN3&V OF AN" BY DAVID RATTLETIEAD, M.D., (The 3Ian of grapess,) With fine Wood-Cut Illustrations, in one volume 12mo,, Fancy Cover,. 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Raving hastily glanced over the positions in this volume, and the mode of sustaining them, and regarding the argument as clear, onvincing, and irrefragible, I cannot but express the opiulc n, that the doctrine of u~niversalism is fairly met, and very atisfactorily, and, Imight add, clearly and con- cisely reft tedi. To those doubting or denying the, future perdition f ungodly men, I commend the treatise to their serious an candid consideration., A. CAMPBELL, of 1$ethany, Virginia.' ierr'ey. Meditations and Contemplations. By the Rev. JAMES HER EY, A. M.,-late Rector of Western Favell, North- amptonshirp, containing his Meditations among the Tombs,; 'Redeetions in a Flower Garden, together with the Life of, the Author.' In one neat 16mo. vol., cloth, 50 ets. Salathiel. A story of the Past, the Present, and the Future. By the Rev. GEOiE CROLY, author of the "Life and { Times of -teorge - the Fourth," Two vols. in one, 12mo., cloth,$1 00- Paper, 2 vols., 60 cts. 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MB. in% gree,and Rev.N.'C Rice; lpthy$1 0. juveuage Bioo. s att ra1 Sitory-o Lad B~irds ' vNatural History of, Wator Birds ;Natural H tory of Quad rupeds ; Jivenle?$,ports1'sid; Oci upatin s ; Costumiee of America;- Costumne ;'Btrope. 'tl1 of gratings. Paper; covers. 10 ct cs NNET g, irOPULA «NOV . 'he Prairi W'ower; or Adventures in the Far West. r:; iBy ErE fion Bennett. New x edition, revised and corrected by theauthor. .vo., paper Cover, 25 eta. Leni Leeti. A sequel'to "Prairie Flower." New edition. 8vo., paper dover, 25 ets. z The.Forest Iose. Atale of theFrontier. By Emerson Bennett tyo., paper cover;25 ots. A bookof ma thrillingg and exciting interest. - gike Fiwik;'a gend of the Ohio y Emerson Bennett: 8vo.,papercover, 25ts._ This bool;porrais'vivid colors,the haands, bloody figts, and hairbreadth ,e|apes of the early boat en--keel boats" and "broadhorns" oftheOhio, ' la Raraweill::'' An hiatricalhRomance of Border Life., By EmersonBennett. 8vo., papedof6e r,'5 et,. 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NOT FOR REPRODUCTION -i i' C'ls'6' Tk" Y ' { 1 , .{ Y ,r, ~_ , t, ,_ t. . . , ... ., N ' xi . i , ' 1 'f; ~ IIf 2 /, ffC t J Y w + l r ae bma, s ai Is3 of tl Chest ter eedialand - avet iytee::t tneut Ad ireaed ' poplanguag toew e.ical reaevs i. p jper:t o;@ tholet and 1eginnencearyd or;prvlids A'e, an Appeni;1 eon. :aing.wolgndtedforu41 of theIt dhost proved rqesieszan"y y lia ladourestic reetpea, d fu ldt Tred t fo'the pIa ihation; " nB n ~(BER JV a OihvaR ari~a~wd at iorcs o he o t osto W k4%Mi:, I Pap [yer 'piice 26 X16ts * idtGaidto eitl'and L4ln if4 'or, watto Eat, :;r r ; hei;A:thaf t re ' ise ;a o* ~to0rel ; and Regilateth+ Passions abd;Appietites,* dasfattheOne ' : sigoldu t-of life-wlerebysbealth .ny beb ecured,ha buppy aid' comfortable old aga stained; that at ;last, when" our areer is copcluddih wehnty, 'mtIkeripo fruit, drop ito ou Mother slap, r.'be with ease' thered, not baishly phucked."- Milton. To whichis 'da opula e o g',i.h Life,rearth, r2dDisease.,ByIo tT. ; ,M Papervcovor, 2{ ;'eta. °,". 's i . x, ;' . , . ;' rr: ,, r , a . ;, , Ji , ' i i r , ;. F i E S y C y Y } 1 1 f t .,fit .; . ;' 1 , r ' f Y I l , if, f , ( Ir
