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[Illustration: J. Addison]

CLARA HARLAND

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

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

CLARA HARLAND.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Yours respectfully."

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

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

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

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

St. Maur, however, approached him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    *    *    *    *    *

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

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

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

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

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

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

    *    *    *    *    *

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

THE ANCIENT AND THE MODERN MUSE.

BY LYMAN LONG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THERESA, OR GENIUS AND WOMANHOOD.

A TALE OF DOMESTIC LIFE.

BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THERESA'S FIRST LETTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THERESA'S LETTER.

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

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

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

SONNETS.

BY JAMES LAWSON.

I.--HOPE.

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

II.--A PREDICTION.

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

PHANTASMAGORIA.

BY JOHN NEAL.

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.

As sure as you are sitting there.

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

Faugh!

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

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

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

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

How so?

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

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

Precisely.

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

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

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

Better take breath, sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Permit me to finish, will you?

With all my heart!

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

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

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

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

Where!--where!

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

What man?

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

Indeed! you know him then?

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

Another Washingtonian, perhaps?

No indeed! nothing of the sort. Had he been a Washingtonian, he would
have found something more than a hole in his pocket when he had got