city. The shrubbery is kept neatly trimmed and attended with great care,
and is odorous the live-long year with the perfume of opening flowers.
The trees clothed in their perpetual green foliage are fairly alive with
birds of bright plumage and sweet song, which carol their morning and
evening hymns free from harm. In the centre of the square is a large
fountain, surmounted by the Goddess of Liberty, which spouts pure water
high up in the air, and at its base crouch four lions, from whose mouths
spout up smaller jets. A semicircular row of seats surrounds the
fountain, and the surface of the space within is paved with large flat
stones, laid in tasteful figures. From this point the paths and
gravel-walks radiate in every direction, which are again met by others
running from other centres, the point where they cross being adorned by
smaller fountains. In pleasant weather hundreds of children assemble in
this charming place in the afternoon, and amuse themselves with their
innocent gambols in the shade of the wide-spreading trees. Hither the
beauty and fashion of the capital, who seek pleasure on foot, resort
toward evening, to promenade through the shady avenues. There the
student carries his book, and, in some quiet secluded corner, apart from
the fashionable world which rejoices around him, he sits alone and
pursues his favorite study; and there also the lovers repair at the
enchanting hour of eventide, and whisper anew their vows of faith and
constancy. A numerous throng were gathered there, enjoying themselves in
many ways, apparently unmindful that “grim visaged war” had erected his
shrine in their beautiful city, and that foreign soldiery were
overlooking them on the corner of every street. We rode through these
shady avenues and then passed out at the south-west angle into Passeo
Nuevo, with the crowd which moved that way. This is one of the
fashionable and most frequented public drives of the city; it is a
beautifully McAdamized road, half a mile in length, planted on each side
with fine shade-trees, and adorned in the centre by a fountain, which
spouts four jets of water. Seats are placed at intervals along each side
of the drive, and opposite to the fountain, for the accommodation of
foot people. Here all the world of Mexico may be seen toward evening, on
a bright afternoon, in carriages and on horseback, and a lively,
animated scene it presents. Rich equipages glitter in the declining sun,
noble steeds, superbly caparisoned, and ridden by gay caballeros,
proudly prance along, and beauty smiles upon every beholder. Everybody
who can command any kind of a vehicle drives to the Passeo, and
sometimes it is so much crowded, as to be quite difficult to drive or
ride along it. The equipages which throng this path of fashion are
various, and some of them are quite unique; and it is not uncommon to
see the elegant turn-out of the English minister, side by side with a
common country cart, lined with oxhide, and drawn by a poor old apology
for a horse that would hardly dare to look a vulture in the face. Yet
both parties are enjoying themselves in the fashionable world. The
custom of this drive is somewhat peculiar, which all follow to the very
letter of the law; it is to drive the full length twice, stop in the
centre opposite the fountain to salute your friends, as they pass by,
and then return home. To show our knowledge of the fashionable world, we
conformed as nearly as possible to the ways of those who were initiated
into the mysteries of the Passeo, and thereby, no doubt, passed for
current coin. We spent one hour thus, in seeing and being seen, pleased
with the animated scene we had witnessed, and then returned to our
quarters. Thus I passed my first Sunday in the city of the Montezumas,
and although not as religiously kept as would have been done at home, it
had no evil effect upon the spiritual or moral man.

                              =ENDYMION.=

                       =BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.=

         What time the stars first flocked into the blue
           Behind young Hesper, shepherd of the eve,
         Sleep bathed the fair boy’s lids with charméd dew
           Mid flowers that all day blossomed to receive
                     Endymion.

         Lo, where he lay encircled in his dream!
           The moss was glad to pillow his soft hair;
         And toward him leaned the lily from the stream;
           The hanging vine waved wooing in the air
                     Endymion.

         The brook that erewhile won its easy way
           O’errun with meadow grasses long and cool,
         Now reeled into a fuller tide and lay
           Caressing in its clear enamored pool
                     Endymion.

         And all the sweet, delicious airs that fan
           Enchanted gardens in their hour of bloom,
         Blown through the soft invisible pipes of Pan,
           Breathed mid their mingled music and perfume,
                     Endymion.

         The silvery leaves that rustled in the light
           Sent their winged shadows o’er his cheek entranced;
         The constellations wandered down the night,
           And whispered to the dew-drops where they danced
                     Endymion.

         Lo! there he slept; and all his flock at will
           Went, star-like, down the meadow’s azure mist:—
         What wonder that pale Dian, with a thrill,
           Breathed on his lips her sudden love and kist
                     Endymion!

                             =THE VINTAGE.=

                           =BY A. B. REACH.=

                          [WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

Let us to the joyous ingathering of the fruits of the earth—the great
yearly festival and jubilee of the property and the labor of Medoc.
October is the joyous “wine month.” For weeks, every cloud in the sky
has been watched—every cold night-breeze felt with nervous
apprehension. Upon the last bright weeks in summer, the savor and the
bouquet of the wine depend. Warmed by the blaze of an unclouded sun,
fanned by the mild breezes of the west, and moistened by morning and
evening dews, the grapes by slow degrees attain their perfect ripeness
and their culminating point of flavor. Then the vintage implements begin
to be sought out, cleaned, repaired, and scoured and sweetened with hot
brandy. Coopers work as if their lives depended upon their industry; and
all the anomalous tribe of lookers-out for chance jobs in town and
country pack up their bag and baggage, and from scores of miles around
pour in ragged regiments into Medoc.

There have long existed pleasing, and in some sort poetical,
associations connected with the task of securing for human use the
fruits of the earth; and to no species of crop do these picturesque
associations apply with greater force than to the ingathering of the
ancient harvest of the vine. From time immemorial, the season has
typified epochs of plenty and mirthful-heartedness—of good fare and of
good-will. The ancient types and figures descriptive of the vintage are
still literally true. The march of agricultural improvement seems never
to have set foot amid the vines. As it was with the patriarchs in the
East, so it is with the modern children of men. The goaded ox still
bears home the high-pressed grape-tub, and the feet of the trader are
still red in the purple juice which maketh glad the heart of man. The
scene is at once full of beauty, and of tender and even sacred
associations. The songs of the vintagers frequently chorussed from one
part of the field to the other, ring blithely into the bright summer
air, pealing out above the rough jokes and hearty peals of laughter
shouted hither and thither. All the green jungle is alive with the
moving figures of men and women, stooping among the vines or bearing
pails and basket-fulls of grapes out to the grass-grown cross-roads,
along which the laboring oxen drag the rough vintage carts, groaning and
cracking as they stagger along beneath their weight of purple tubs
heaped high with the tumbling masses of luscious fruit. The congregation
of every age and both sexes, and the careless variety of costume, add
additional features of picturesqueness to the scene. The white-haired
old man labors with shaking hands to fill the basket which his
black-eyed imp of a grandchild carries rejoicingly away. Quaint
broad-brimmed straw and felt hats—handkerchiefs twisted like turbans
over straggling elf-locks—swarthy skins tanned to an
olive-brown—black, flashing eyes—and hands and feet stained in the
abounding juices of the precious fruit—all these southern peculiarities
of costume and appearance supply the vintage with its pleasant
characteristics. The clatter of tongues is incessant. A fire of jokes
and jeers, of saucy questions, and more saucy retorts—of what, in fact,
in the humble and unpoetic but expressive vernacular, is called
“chaff”—is kept up with a vigor which seldom flags, except now and
then, when the butt-end of a song, or the twanging close of a chorus
strikes the general fancy, and procures for the _morceau_ a lusty
_encore_. Meantime, the master wine-grower moves observingly from rank
to rank. No neglected bunch of fruit escapes his watchful eye. No
careless vintager shakes the precious berries rudely upon the soil, but
he is promptly reminded of his slovenly work. Sometimes the tubs attract
the careful superintendent. He turns up the clusters to ascertain that
no leaves nor useless length of tendril are entombed in the juicy
masses, and anon directs his steps to the pressing-trough, anxious to
find that the lusty treaders are persevering manfully in their
long-continued dance.

Thither we will follow. The wine-press, or _cuvier de pressoir_,
consists, in the majority of cases, of a massive shallow tub, varying in
size from four square feet to as many square yards. It is placed either
upon wooden tressels or on a regularly built platform of mason-work
under the huge rafters of a substantial out-house. Close to it stands a
range of great butts, their number more or less, according to the size
of the vineyard. The grapes are flung by tub and caskfulls into the
cuvier. The treaders stamp diligently amid the masses, and the expressed
juice pours plentifully out of a hole level with the bottom of the
trough into a sieve of iron or wicker-work, which stops the passage of
the skins, and from thence drains into tubs below. Suppose, at the
moment of our arrival, the cuvier for a brief space empty. The
treaders—big, perspiring men, in shirts and tucked-up
trowsers—spattered to the eyes with splatches of purple juice, lean
upon their wooden spades, and wipe their foreheads. But their respite is
short. The creak of another cart-load of tubs is heard, and immediately
the wagon is backed up to the broad, open window, or rather hole in the
wall, above the trough. A minute suffices to wrench out tub after tub,
and to tilt their already half-mashed clusters splash into the reeking
_pressoir_. Then to work again. Jumping with a sort of spiteful
eagerness into the mountain of yielding, quivering fruit, the treaders
sink almost to the knees, stamping and jumping and rioting in the masses
of grapes, as fountains of juice spurt about their feet, and rush
bubbling and gurgling away. Presently, having, as it were, drawn the
first sweet blood of the new cargo, the eager tramping subsides into a
sort of quiet, measured dance, which the treaders continue, while, with
their wooden spades, they turn the pulpy remnants of the fruit hither
and thither, so as to expose the half-squeezed berries in every possible
way to the muscular action of the incessantly moving feet. All this time
the juice is flowing in a continuous stream into the tubs beneath. When
the jet begins to slacken, the heap is well tumbled with the wooden
spades, and, as though a new force had been applied, the juice-jet
immediately breaks out afresh. It takes, perhaps, half or three-quarters
of an hour thoroughly to squeeze the contents of a good-sized cuvier,
sufficiently manned. When at length, however, no further exertion
appears to be attended with corresponding results, the tubfulls of
expressed juice are carried by means of ladders to the edges of the
vats, and their contents tilted in; while the men in the trough,
setting-to with their spades, fling the masses of dripping grape-skins
in along with the juice. The vats sufficiently full, the fermentation is
allowed to commence. In the great cellars in which the juice is stored,
the listener at the door—he cannot brave the carbonic acid gas to enter
further—may hear, solemnly echoing in the cool shade of the great
darkened hall, the bubblings and seethings of the working liquid—the
inarticulate accents and indistinct rumblings which proclaim that a
great metempsychosis is taking place—that a natural substance is rising
higher in the eternal scale of things, and that the contents of these
great giants of vats are becoming changed from floods of mere mawkish,
sweetish fluid to noble wine—to a liquid honored and esteemed in all
ages—to a medicine exercising a strange and potent effect upon body and
soul—great for good and evil. Is there not something fanciful and
poetic in the notion of this change taking place mysteriously in the
darkness, when all the doors are locked and barred—for the atmosphere
about the vats is death—as if Nature would suffer no idle prying into
her mystic operations, and as if the grand transmutation and projection
from juice to wine had in it something of a secret and solemn and awful
nature—fenced round, as it were, and protected from vulgar curiosity by
the invisible halo of stifling gas? I saw the vats in the Château
Margaux cellars the day after the grape-juice had been flung in.
Fermentation had not as yet properly commenced, so access to the place
was possible; still, however, there was a strong vinous smell loading
the atmosphere, sharp and subtle in its influence on the nostrils;
while, putting my ear, on the recommendation of my conductor, to the
vats, I heard, deep down, perhaps eight feet down in the juice, a
seething, gushing sound, as if currents and eddies were beginning to
flow, in obedience to the influence of the working Spirit, and now and
then a hiss and a low bubbling throb, as though of a pot about to boil.
Within twenty-four hours, the cellar would be unapproachable.

Of course, it is quite foreign to my plan to enter upon any thing like a
detailed account of wine-making. I may only add, that the refuse skins,
stalks, and so forth, which settle into the bottom of the fermentation
vats, are taken out again after the wine has been drawn off, and
subjected to a new squeezing—in a press, however, and not by the
foot—the products being a small quantity of fiery, ill-flavored wine,
full of the bitter taste of the seeds and stalks of the grape, and
possessing no aroma or bouquet. The Bordeaux press for this purpose is
rather ingeniously constructed. It consists of a sort of a skeleton of a
cask, strips of daylight shining through from top to bottom between the
staves. In the centre works a strong perpendicular iron screw. The
_rape_, as the refuse of the treading is called, is piled beneath it;
the screw is manned capstan fashion, and the unhappy seeds, skins and
stalks, undergo a most dismal squeezing. Nor do their trials end there.
The wine-makers are terrible hands for getting at the very last
get-at-able drop. To this end, somewhat on the principle of rinsing an
exhausted spirit-bottle, so as, as it were, to catch the very flavor
still clinging to the glass, they plunge the doubly-squeezed _rape_ into
water, let it lie there for a short time, and then attack it with the
press again. The result is a horrible stuff called _piquette_, which, in
a wine country, bears the same resemblance to wine as the very dirtiest,
most wishy-washy, and most contemptible of swipes bears to honest porter
or ale. Piquette, in fact, may be defined as the ghost of wine!—wine
minus its bones, its flesh, and its soul! a liquid shadow!—a fluid
nothing!—an utter negation of all comfortable things and associations!
Nevertheless, however, the peasants swill it down in astounding
quantities, and apparently with sufficient satisfaction.

And now a word as to wine-treading. The process is universal in France,
with the exception of the cases of the sparkling wines of the Rhone and
Champagne, the grapes for which are squeezed by mechanical means, not by
the human foot. Now, very venerable and decidedly picturesque as is the
process of wine-treading, it is unquestionably rather a filthy one; and
the spectacle of great, brown, horny feet, not a whit too clean,
splashing and sprawling in the bubbling juice, conveys, at first sight,
a qualmy species of feeling, which, however, seems only to be
entertained by those to whom the sight is new. I looked dreadfully
askance at the operation when I first came across it; and when I was
invited—by a lady, too—to taste the juice, of which she caught up a
glassfull, a certain uncomfortable feeling of the inward man warred
terribly against politeness. But nobody around seemed to be in the least
squeamish. Often and often did I see one of the heroes of the tub walk
quietly over a dunghill, and then jump—barefooted, of course, as he
was—into the juice; and even a vigilant proprietor, who was
particularly careful that no bad grapes went into the tub, made no
objection. When I asked why a press was not used, as more handy,
cleaner, and more convenient, I was everywhere assured that all efforts
had failed to construct a wine-press capable of performing the work with
the perfection attained by the action of the human foot. No mechanical
squeezing, I was informed, would so nicely express that peculiar
proportion of the whole moisture of the grape which forms the highest
flavored wine. The manner in which the fruit was tossed about was
pointed out to me, and I was asked to observe that the grapes were, as
it were, squeezed in every possible fashion and from every possible
side, worked and churned and mashed hither and thither by the
ever-moving toes and muscles of the foot. As far as any impurity went,
the argument was, that the fermentation flung, as scum, to the surface,
every atom of foreign matter held in suspension in the wine, and that
the liquid ultimately obtained was as exquisitely pure as if human flesh
had never touched it.

In the collection of these and such like particulars, I sauntered for
days among the vineyards around; and utterly unknown and unfriended as I
was, I met everywhere the most cordial and pleasant receptions. I would
lounge, for example, to the door of a wine-treading shed, to watch the
movements of the people. Presently the proprietor, most likely attired
in a broad-brimmed straw hat, a strange faded outer garment, half
shooting-coat half dressing-gown, would come up courteously to the
stranger, and learning that I was an English visitor to the vintage,
would busy himself with the most graceful kindness, to make intelligible
the _rationale_ of all the operations. Often I was invited into the
château or farm-house, as the case might be; a bottle of an old vintage
produced and comfortably discussed in the coolness of the darkened,
thinly-furnished room, with its old-fashioned walnut-tree escrutoires,
and beauffets, its quaintly-panneled walls, and its polished floors,
gleaming like mirrors, and slippery as ice. On these occasions, the
conversation would often turn on the rejection, by England, of French
wines—a sore point with the growers of all save the first-class
vintages, and in which I had, as may be conceived, very little to say in
defense either of our taste or our policy. In the evenings, which were
getting chill and cold, I occasionally abandoned my room with
illustrations from the _Tour de Nesle_ for the general kitchen and
parlor of Madame Cadillac, and, ensconcing myself in the chimney
corner—a fine old-fashioned ingle, crackling and blazing with hard wood
logs—listened to the chat of the people of the village; they were
nearly all coopers and vine-dressers, who resorted there after the day’s
work was over to enjoy an exceedingly modest modicum of very thin wine.
I never benefited very much, however, by these listenings. It was my bad
luck to hear recounted neither tale nor legend—to pick up, at the hands
of my _compotatores_, neither local trait nor anecdote. The conversation
was as small as the wine. The gossip of the place—the prospects of the
vintage—elaborate comparisons of it with other vintages—births,
marriages, and deaths—a minute list of scandal, more or less
intelligible when conveyed in hints and allusions—were the staple
topics, mixed up, however, once or twice with general denunciations of
the niggardly conduct of certain neighboring proprietors to their
vintagers—giving them for breakfast nothing but coarse bread, lard, and
not even piquette to wash it down with, and for dinner not much more
tempting dishes.

In Medoc, there are two classes of vintagers—the fixed and the floating
population; and the latter, which makes an annual inroad into the
district, just as the Irish harvesters do into England and Scotland,
comprising a goodly proportion of very dubious and suspicious-looking
characters. The _gen-d’armerie_ have a busy time of it when these gentry
are collected in numbers in the district. Poultry disappear with the
most miraculous promptitude; small linen articles hung out to dry have
no more chance than if Falstaff’s regiment were marching by; and
garden-fruit and vegetables, of course, share the results produced by a
rigid application of the maxim that _la proprieté c’est le vol_. Where
these people come from is a puzzle. There will be vagrants and strollers
among them from all parts of France—from the Pyrenees and the
Alps—from the pine-woods of the Landes and the moors of Brittany. They
unite in bands of a dozen or a score men and women, appointing a chief,
who bargains with the vine-proprietor for the services of the company,
and keeps up some degree of order and subordination, principally by
means of the unconstitutional application of a good thick stick. I
frequently encountered these bands, making their way from one district
to another, and better samples of the “dangerous classes” were never
collected. They looked vicious and abandoned, as well as miserably poor.
The women, in particular, were as brazen-faced a set of slatterns as
could be conceived; and the majority of the men—tattered,
strapping-looking fellows, with torn slouched-hats, and tremendous
cudgels—were exactly the sort of persons a nervous gentleman would have
scruples about meeting at dusk in a long lane. It is when thus on the
tramp that the petty pilfering and picking and stealing, to which I have
alluded, goes on. When actually at work, they have no time for picking
up unconsidered trifles. Sometimes these people pass the night—all
together, of course—in out-houses or barns, when the _chef_ can strike
a good bargain; at other times they bivouac on the lee-side of a wood or
wall, in genuine gipsy fashion. You may often see their watch-fires
glimmering in the night; and be sure, that where you do, there are
twisted necks and vacant nests in many a neighboring hen-roost. One
evening, I was sauntering along the beach at Paulliac—a little town on
the river’s bank, about a dozen of miles from the mouth of the Gironde,
and holding precisely the same relation to Bordeaux as Gravesend does to
London—when a band of vintagers, men, women, and children, came up.
They were bound to some village on the opposite side of the Gironde, and
wanted to get ferried across. A long parley accordingly ensued between
the chief and a group of boatmen. The commander of the vintage forces
offered four sous per head as the passage-money. The bargemen would hear
of nothing under five; and, after a tremendous verbal battle, the
vintagers announced that they were not going to be cheated, and that if
they could not cross the water, they would stay where they were.
Accordingly, a bivouac was soon formed. Creeping under the lee of a row
of casks, on the shingle of the bare beach, the women were placed
leaning against the somewhat hard and large pillows in question; the
children were nestled at their feet, and in their laps; and the men
formed the outermost ranks. A supply of loaves was sent for and
obtained. The chief tore the bread up into huge hunks, which he
distributed to his dependents; and upon this supper the whole party went
coolly to sleep—more coolly, indeed, than agreeably; for a keen north
wind was whistling along the sedgy banks of the river, and the red blaze
of high-piled fagots was streaming from the houses across the black,
cold, turbid waters. At length, however, some arrangement was come to;
for, on visiting the spot a couple of hours afterward, I found the party
rather more comfortably ensconced under the ample sails of the barge
which was to bear them the next morning to their destination.

The dinner-party formed every day, when the process of stripping the
vines is going on, is, particularly in the cases in which the people are
treated well by the proprietor, frequently a very pretty and very
picturesque spectacle. It always takes place in the open air, amongst
the bushes, or under some neighboring walnut-tree. Sometimes long tables
are spread upon tressles; but in general no such formality is deemed
requisite. The guests fling themselves in groups upon the ground—men
and women picturesquely huddled together—the former bloused and bearded
personages—the latter showy, in their bright short petticoats of
home-spun and dyed cloth, with glaring handkerchiefs twisted like
turbans round their heads—each man and woman with a deep plate in his
or her lap. Then the people of the house bustle about, distributing huge
brown loaves, which are torn asunder, and the fragments chucked from
hand to hand. Next a vast cauldron of soup, smoking like a volcano, is
painfully lifted out from the kitchen, and dealt about in mighty
ladlefulls; while the founder of the feast takes care that the tough,
thready _bouilli_—like lumps of boiled-down hemp—shall be fairly
apportioned among his guests. _Piquette_ is the general beverage. A
barrel is set abroach, and every species of mug, glass, cup, and jug
about the establishment is called to aid in its consumption. A short
rest devoted to chatting, or very often sleeping in the shade, over, the
signal is given, and the work recommences.

“You have seen our _salle à manger_,” said one of my courteous
entertainers—he of the broad-brimmed straw-hat, “and now you shall see
our _chambre à coucher_.” Accordingly, he led me to a barn close to his
wine-cellars. The place was littered deep with clean, fresh straw. Here
and there rolled-up blankets were laid against the wall; while all
round, from nails stuck in between the bare bricks, hung by straps and
strings the little bundles, knapsacks, and other baggage of the
laborers. On one side, two or three swarthy young women were playfully
pushing each other aside, so as to get a morsel of cracked mirror stuck
against the wall—their long hair hanging down in black elf-locks, in
the preliminary stage of its arrangement.

“That is the ladies’ side,” said my _cicerone_, pointing to the girls;
“and that”—extending his other hand—“is the gentlemen’s side.”

“And so they all sleep here together?”

“Every night. I find shelter and straw; any other accommodation they
must procure for themselves.”

“Rather unruly, I should suppose?”

“Not a bit. They are too tired to do any thing but sleep. They go off,
sir, like dormice.”

“_Oh, sil plait à Mossieu!_” put in one of the damsels. “The chief of
the band does the police.” (_Fait la gen-d’armerie_)

“Certainly—certainly,” said the proprietor, “the gentlemen lie here,
with their heads to the walls; the ladies there; and the _chef de la
bande_ stretches himself all along between them.”

“A sort of living frontier.”

“Truly; and he allows no nonsense.”

“_Il est meme éxcessivement severe_,” interpolated the same young lady.

“He needs be,” replied her employer. “He allows no loud speaking—no
joking; and as there are no candles, no light, why they can do nothing
better than go quietly to sleep, if it were only in self-defense.”

One word more about the vintage. The reader will easily conceive that it
is on the smaller properties, where the wine is intended, not so much
for commerce as for household use, that the vintage partakes most of the
festival nature. In the large and first-class vineyards the process goes
on under rigid superintendence, and is, as much as possible, made a cold
matter of business. He who wishes to see the vintages of books and
poems—the laughing, joking, singing festivals amid the vines, which we
are accustomed to consider the harvests of the grape—must betake him to
the multitudinous patches of peasant property, in which neighbor helps
neighbor to gather in the crop, and upon which whole families labor
merrily together, as much for the amusement of the thing, and from good
neighborly feeling, as in consideration of francs and sous. Here, of
course, there is no tight discipline observed, nor is there any absolute
necessity for that continuous, close scrutiny into the state of the
grapes—all of them, hard or rotten, going slap-dash into the
_cuvier_—which, in the case of the more precious vintages, forms no
small check upon a general state of careless jollity. Every one eats as
much fruit as he pleases, and rests when he is tired. On such occasions
it is that you hear to the best advantage the joyous songs and choruses
of the vintage—many of these last being very pretty bits of melody,
generally sung by the women and girls, in shrill treble unison, and
caught up and continued from one part of the field to another.

Yet, discipline and control it as you will, the vintage will ever be
beautiful, picturesque, and full of association. The rude wains,
creaking beneath the reeking tubs—the patient faces of the yoked oxen—
the half-naked, stalwort men, who toil to help the cart along the ruts
and furrows of the way—the handkerchief-turbaned women, their gay
red-and-blue dresses peeping from out the greenery of the leaves—the
children dashing about as if the whole thing were a frolick, and the
gray-headed old men tottering cheerfully a-down the lines of vines, with
baskets and pails of gathered grapes to fill the yawning tubs—the whole
picture is at once classic, venerable, and picturesque, not more by
association than actuality.

A strange feature in the wine country is the wonderously capricious and
fitful nature of the soil. A forenoon’s walk will show you the earth
altering in its surface qualities almost like the shifting hues of shot
silk—gravel of a light color fading into gravel of a dark—sand
blending with the mould, and bringing it now to a dusky yellow, now to
an ashen gray—strata of chalky clay every now and then struggling into
light only to melt away into beds of mere shingle—or bright,
semi-transparent pebbles, indebted to the action of water for shape and
hue. At two principal points these blending and shifting qualities of
soil put forth their utmost powers—in the favored grounds of Margaux,
and again, at a distance of about fifteen miles farther to the north, in
the vineyards of Lafitte, Latour, and between these latter, in the sunny
slopes of St. Jullien. And the strangest thing of all is, that the
quality—the magic—of the ground changes, without, in all cases, a
corresponding change in the surface strata. If a fanciful and willful
fairy had flown over Medoc, flinging down here a blessing and there a
curse upon the shifting shingle, the effect could not have been more
oddly various. You can almost jump from a spot unknown to fame, to
another clustered with the most precious vintage of Europe. Half-a-dozen
furrows often make all the difference between vines producing a beverage
which will be drunk in the halls and palaces of England and Russia, and
vines yielding a harvest which will be consumed in the cabarets and
estaminets of the neighborhood. It is to be observed, however, that the
first-class wines belong almost entirely to the large proprietors. Amid
a labyrinth of little patches, the property of the laboring peasants
around, will be a spot appertaining to, and bearing the name of, some of
the famous growths; while, conversely, inserted, as if by an accident,
in the centre of a district of great name, and producing wine of great
price, will be a perverse patch, yielding the most commonplace tipple,
and worth not so many sous per yard as the surrounding earth is worth
crowns.

How comes this? The peasants will tell you that it doesn’t come at all.
That it is all cant and _blague_ and puff on the part of the big
proprietors, and that their wine is only more thought of because they
have more capital to get it bragged about. Near Château Lafitte, on a
burning afternoon, I took refuge beneath the emblematic bush; for the
emblem which good wine is said not to require, is still, in the mid and
southern districts of France, in universal use; in other words, I
entered a village public-house.

Two old men, very much of the general type of the people of the
country—that is, tall and spare, with intelligent and mildly-expressive
faces and fine black eyes, were discussing together a sober bottle. One
of them had lost an arm, and the other a leg. As I glanced at this
peculiarity, the one-legged man caught my eye.

“Ah!” he said, “looking at our misfortunes; I left my leg on Waterloo.”

“And I,” chimed in his companion, “left my arm at Trafalgar.”

“_Sacré!_” said the veteran of the land. “One of the cursed English
bullets took me in the knee, and spoiled as tight a lancer as they had
in the gallant 10th.”

“And I,” rejoined the other, “was at the fourth main-deck gun of the
Pluton, when I was struck with the splinter while we were engaging the
Mars. But we had our revenge. The Pluton shot the Mars’ captain’s head
off!”—a fact which I afterward verified. Captain Duff, the officer
alluded to, was thus killed upon his quarter-deck, and the same ball
shattered two seamen almost to pieces.

“_Sacré!_” said the _ci-devant_ lancer, “I’d like to have a rap at the
English again—I would—the English—_nom de tonnerre_—tell me—didn’t
they murder the emperor!”

A rising smile, which I could not help, stopped him. I had spoken so few
words, that the fact that a son of _perfide Albion_ was before them was
only manifested by the expression of my face.

“_Tiens!_” continued the Waterloo man, “_You_ are an Englishman.”

The old sailor, who was evidently by no means so keen a hand as his
comrade, nudged him; a hint, I suppose, in common phrase, to draw it
mild; but the ex-lancer of the 10th was not to be put down.

“Well, and if you are, what then, eh? I say I would like to have another
brush with you.”

“No, no! We have had enough of brushes!” said the far more pacific man
of the sea. “I think, _mon voisin_—that you and I have had quite enough
of fighting.”

“But they killed the emperor. _Sacré nom de tous les diables_—they
killed the emperor.”

My modest exculpation on behalf of Great Britain and Ireland was
listened to with great impatience by the maimed lancer, and great
attention by the maimed sailor, who kept up a running commentary:

“_Eh! eh! entendez cela._ Now, that’s quite different (to his friend)
from what you tell us. Come—that’s another story altogether; and what I
say is, that that’s reasonable.”

But the lancer was not to be convinced—“_Sacré bleu!_—they killed the
emperor.”

All this, it is to be observed, passed without the slightest feeling of
personal animosity. The lancer, who, I suspect, had passed the forenoon
in the cabaret, every now and then shook hands with me magnanimously, as
to show that his wrath was national—not individual; and when I proposed
a bottle of rather better wine than they had been drinking neither
soldier nor sailor had a word to say in objection. The wine was brought,
and very good it was, though not, of course, first-class claret.

“What do you think of that?” said the sailor.

“I wish I had as good every day in England,” I replied.

“And why haven’t you?” said the fierce lancer. “You might, if you chose.
But you drink none of our wines.”

I demurred to this proposition, but the Waterloo man was down on me in
no time. “Yes, yes; the wines of the great houses—the great
proprietors. _Sacré_—the _farceurs_—the _blageurs_—who puff their
wines, and get them puffed, and great prices for them, when they’re not
better than ours—the peasant’s wines—when they’re grown in the same
ground—ripened by the same sun! _Mille diables!_ Look at that
bottle!—taste it! My son-in-law grew it! My son-in-law sells it; I know
all about it. You shall have that bottle for ten sous, and the Lafitte
people and the Larose people would charge you ten francs for it; and it
is as good for ten sous as theirs for ten francs. I tell you it grew
side by side with their vines; but they have capital—they have power.
They crack off their wines, and we—the poor people!—we, who trim and
dig and work our little patches—no one knows any thing about us. Our
wine—bah!—what is it? It has no name—no fame! Who will give us
francs? No, no; sous for the poor man—francs for the rich. Copper for
the little landlord; silver—silver and gold for the big landlord! As
our curé said last Sunday: ‘Unto him who has much, more shall be given.’
_Sacré Dieu de dieux!_—Even the Bible goes against the poor!”

All this time, the old sailor was tugging his comrade’s jacket, and
uttering sundry deprecatory ejaculations against such unnecessary
vehemence. The Trafalgar man was clearly a take-it-easy personage; not
troubled by too much thinking, and by no means a professional
grievance-monger. So he interposed to bring back the topic to a more
soothing subject, and said that what he would like, would be to see lots
of English ships coming up the Gironde with the good cottons and
woollens and hardware we made in England, and taking back in exchange
their cheap and wholesome wines—not only the great vintages (_crus_)
for the great folk, but the common vintages for the common folk.
“Indeed, I think,” he concluded, “that sitting here drinking this good
ten sous’ wine with this English gentleman—who’s going to pay for
it—is far better than fighting him and hacking him up, or his hacking
us up, with swords and balls and so forth.”

To this most sensible opinion we had all the pains in the world to get
the doughty lancer to incline. He couldn’t see it at all. He would like
to have another brush. He wasn’t half done for yet. It was all very
well; but war was grand, and glory was grand. “_Vive la guerre!_” and
“_Vive la gloire!_”

“But,” said the sailor, “there is death in glory!”

“_Eh bien!_” shouted the warrior, with as perfect French sentiment as
ever I heard, “_Vive la mort!_”

In the end, however, he was pleased to admit that, if we took the
peasant wines, something might be made of us. The case was not utterly
hopeless; and when I rose to go, he proposed a stirrup-cup—a _coup de
l’itrier_—to the washing down of all unkindness; but, in the very act
of swallowing it, he didn’t exactly stop, but made a motion as if he
would, and then slowly letting the last drop run over his lips, he put
down the glass, and said, bitterly and coldly, “_Mais pourtant, vous
avez tué l’Empereur!_”

I have introduced this episode principally for the purpose of showing
the notions entertained by the small proprietary as to the boasted
superiority of the large vineyards; but the plain truth is, that the
great growers are perfectly in the right. I have stated that the quality
of the soil throughout the grape country varies almost magically. Well,
the good spots have been more or less known since Medoc was Medoc; and
the larger and richer residents have got them, by inheritance, by
marriage, and by purchase, almost entirely into their own hands. Next
they greatly improved both the soil and the breed of plants. They
studied and experimentalized until they found the most proper manures
and the most promising cultures. They grafted and crossed the vine
plants till they got the most admirably bearing bushes, and then,
generation after generation, devoting all their attention to the quality
of the wine, without regard to the quantity—scrupulously taking care
that not a grape which is unripe or over-ripe finds its way into the
tub.

                           =LIGHT OF NATURE.=

                          =BY WM. ALEXANDER.=

           How insufficient Nature’s light to guide
             Our world’s poor blinded, woful wanderers home!
             The wide spread universe—the azure dome—
           The stars which in their golden chariots ride,
           Divinity’s design and work proclaim—
             But can no further go. It may emit
             A sad, a sickening note of wo; yet it,
           When questioned of the “Great Restorer’s” name,
           Nor voice, nor answer e’er returns. ’Tis here
             Thy helplessness, O Nature! lies—
             Speakest thou but of Him who built the skies;
           “Things seen made not of things which do appear;”
           No Sun of Righteousness is ever known from thee;
           No vision and the people perish utterly.

                        =THE MOTHER’S PROPHECY.=

                      =BY MRS. JULIA C. E. DORR.=

                               CHAPTER I.

It was a cold, windy night in the winter of 179-. The tall pines that
had climbed to the highest summits of the Green Mountains, bent beneath
the rushing of the blast; and as the wind careered among their branches,
gave out moans and shrieks that seemed in the darkness like the wailing
of weird spirits. Ever and anon the air would be filled with tiny
particles of ice and snow, and the cold, fitful gleaming of the moon, as
it occasionally emerged from behind a cloud, only served to make the
scene more desolate, as the tall, gaunt shadows were rendered distinctly
visible.

But in the quiet little valley that lay nestling at the very foot of one
of the tallest peaks, there were no traces of storm. The strife of the
elements disturbed not its repose, for the encircling mountains bent
over it lovingly, and with their giant arms seemed to ward off all
dangers, and keep back all foes that might harass this—the pet lamb
that rested in their embrace.

A single farm-house, rudely constructed of logs, stood beneath the
shadow of forest-trees; and, indeed, but few of those ancient dwellers
in the valley had as yet bowed their haughty heads at the stroke of the
woodman’s axe. Every thing around the little dwelling betokened that it
was the abode of one of the hardy pioneers who had left the sunny banks
of the Connecticut for a home amid the wilds of Vermont. But there was a
ruddy light gleaming from the small window, that spoke invitingly of
peace and comfort within; and occasionally the sound of woman’s voice
singing a low, soft lullaby fell dreamily upon the ear; or rather, might
have done so, had there been an ear to listen.

In the principal apartment of the house—the one that served alike for
kitchen and parlor, sat Andrew Gordon and his fair and gentle wife—Amy.
A bright-eyed boy, apparently about four years old, played upon the
nicely-sanded floor, and in the mother’s arms lay a babe, very lovely,
but very fragile, upon whose face the eyes of Amy Gordon dwelt with a
long, yearning gaze. Few words were spoken by the little group. The
husband and father sat gazing thoughtfully upon the glowing embers; the
wife rocked the child that was cradled upon her breast; and little
Frederick silently builded his “cob-house,” stopping now and then to
scan with a pleased eye the progress of his work, or uttering an
exclamation of disappointment as the tottering fabric fell to the floor.

There was an air of refinement about the master and mistress of that
little domicil, that contrasted somewhat strangely with their rude home
and its appurtenances. The dress of the wife, although coarse and plain,
was arranged so tastefully, so _genteely_, as the young ladies of the
present day would say, that you would scarcely have noted its texture,
or the absence of ornament. Her slight figure, and the faint color upon
her cheek, spoke of a delicacy of constitution hardly suited for the
hardships and trials of an emigrant’s life; but the meek light within
her eye, her calm, broad forehead, and the slight smile that lingered
upon her lip, told that she possessed that truest of all
strength—strength of mind and heart.

There was something in the face of Andrew Gordon that, to a close
observer, was not exactly pleasing; and yet you could not have denied
that it was a very handsome face—quite sufficiently so to warrant the
unmistakable look of admiration that his wife occasionally cast upon it.
Intellect was there—courage was there—firmness of purpose, and a
resolute will; and there was a depth of affection in his eye whenever it
dwelt upon the group around him that proved him the possessor of a
kindly heart. Perhaps it was some early disappointment—some real or
fancied wrong—some never-to-be-forgotten act of harshness or injustice
on the part of another that, once in a while, cast such a shadow over
his fine face, and gave such a bitter expression to his well formed
mouth.

For half an hour they remained as we have pictured them above; and then
the mother tenderly placed her little one upon the bed that stood in one
corner of the room—cradles were a luxury unknown in those days—and
glancing at the clock that pointed to the hour of eight, said,

“Come, Frederick, put away your cobs, dear. It is bed-time for little
boys.”

“Oh, I wish it wouldn’t be eight o’clock so soon when I am making
cob-houses,” replied the child; “just wait one minute, mamma, until I
make a chimney—then my house will be done. There, now—isn’t it a nice
one?” So saying, Freddy gave the finishing touch to his edifice—looked
at it admiringly for a moment, then giving it a light pressure with his
hand, his evening’s work was demolished in an instant. Laughing heartily
at the havoc he had made, he hastily gathered the cobs in a basket near
him, and sprang to his mother’s side.

Ah, Freddy, Freddy! how like you are to many a “child of larger growth,”
who toils, month after month, year after year, building a temple, it may
be to love, or wealth, or fame; and then, when it is nearly or quite
completed, by a single false step, or a single ill-regulated action,
destroys the shrine he has been rearing with so much care and labor! But
here the similitude ceases. You laugh and clap your hands in childish
glee at the downfall of _your_ house, _he_ sits down desolate and alone
by the ruin he has made, and mourns over hopes and prospects buried
beneath it.

Thoughts somewhat like these may have passed through the mind of Andrew
Gordon, for there was a cloud upon his brow, as he watched his wife
while she undressed the playful child, and smoothed his dark curls
preparatory to the night’s repose. Then kneeling by her side, and
folding his little hands together, Frederick repeated after her a simple
prayer—a child’s prayer of love and faith, asking God’s blessing upon
those dearest to him—his father, mother, and little sister, and His
care and protection through the night.

“Now I must kiss papa good-night,” said the little boy; “and then,
mamma, wont you please to sit by me, and tell me a pretty little story?
I will shut my eyes up, and go right to sleep _so quick_ if you will.”

The good-night kisses were exchanged; Frederick soon nestled closely in
his soft, warm pillow, and true to his promise, closed his eyes, while
his mother, in a low, soothing voice, told him a story of the birds and
lambs and flowers. Presently he was fast asleep, and pressing the
tenderest of kisses upon his rosy cheek, Amy returned to her seat by the
fireside.

“Dear little fellow! how sweetly he sleeps,” said she, moving her chair
as she spoke nearer to her husband. “I wonder what the future hath laid
up in store for him,” she continued, musingly, with her eyes fixed upon
the bright blaze that went roaring and crackling up the broad chimney.
“And yet if the book of fate were laid open before me, I should fear to
turn to the page on which his destiny is inscribed.”

“I hope, at any rate, that the word _wealth_ is written there,” said
Andrew Gordon, speaking for the first time since he had taken his wonted
seat by the fire that evening. “I am not a very great believer in books
of fate or in irrevocable destiny. Man makes his own destiny, with some
little help from others—and Frederick shall be a rich man before he
dies, if my exertions are of any avail.”

“He may be taken from us, even in childhood, Andrew;” and the mother’s
eye turned anxiously toward the little bed, as if the bare thought of
death was enough to awaken her solicitude. “I would rather he would be
_great_ than _rich_—and _good_ than either.”

“He will be great if he is rich—that is, he will have influence, and be
looked up to; and as for goodness—pshaw! who ever heard of a rich man’s
doing wrong?” he continued, with that bitter smile, of which we have
before spoken, curling his thin lip. “If a man possesses wealth, he may
oppress the poor, strip the widow and the fatherless of their last
penny, cheat his neighbors, and rob his own brother—but it is all
_right_!”

“Then may God grant that our boy may never be a rich man, Andrew,” said
his wife, solemnly. “But you speak too bitterly, dearest. Your own
misfortunes have made you unreasonable upon this point.” And Amy lifted,
caressingly, the dark locks that fell over her husband’s high forehead.

“Unreasonable, Amy! Have I not cause to speak bitterly? Have I not been
defrauded of my just rights? Have I not been robbed—ay, literally
_robbed_ of the fortune my father left me when I was too young to know
its value? Can I forget that one, one of my own kith and kin, too, lives
in the dwelling of my forefathers, and calls their broad lands his, when
he knows, and I know, and the world knows, that I am the rightful heir?
Can I forget all this, and that I am _here_?” he added, glancing
contemptuously round upon the rough walls of his cottage. “And you, too,
Amy—you, who were born and reared in a home of luxury—you, whose
presence would grace the proudest drawing-room in the land; you, whom I
wooed and won before I dreamed that I was to tread a path like this; and
yet, angel that you are, you who have never breathed a word of reproach,
or a syllable of complaint, your home, too, is here in this rude
cabin”—and the proud man bowed his head, and something that looked
strangely like a tear, glittered a moment in the firelight.

“But you are here with me in this rude cabin as you call it, dearest,
you and our little ones; and how many times must I tell you that I would
rather be here, provided I am by your side, than to sit upon the throne
of the Indies without you? I believe you say these things,” she
continued, playfully, kissing his flushed brow as she spoke, for she
would fain have won him back to more cheerful thoughts, “I believe you
say these things just for the sake of hearing me tell you over and over
again how dearly I love you, and how happy I am with you. Is it not so,
darling?”

But Andrew Gordon was not to be cheered even by the tender caresses of
his wife. His mind would dwell upon themes, the contemplation of which
was destroying his peace of mind, and fast changing his very nature.

“I tell you, Amy,” he said, rising and pacing the apartment with a
hurried step, “I tell you, Amy, I will be rich! and Frederick shall be
as rich, ay, richer, than if his father had not been cheated out of his
inheritance. They think,” he added, with a flashing eye, “that they have
trampled me in the very dust, but they cannot keep me there. I will be
rich and influential; and as soon as Fred is old enough to learn the
lesson, I will teach him how to make money, and how to keep it, too.”

“No, no, Andrew—spare me that last blow, I implore you,” said Amy, and
tears were rapidly chasing each other down her pale cheeks. “If you will
give up your whole mind and soul to the pursuit of wealth, as you have
done for the last two years—if you will coin your very heart’s blood
for gold, and allow this feverish thirst for gain to become, as it were,
the very essence of your being, spare me this last blow. Teach not this
lesson to our child. Teach him to be prudent, industrious, economical as
you will, and my example and teachings shall be added to your own; but
impress not upon his young mind the doctrine that the acquisition of
wealth is the chief end of his existence, and its possession the chief
source of man’s enjoyment. Just as surely as you do is misery in store
for him. A mother’s heart is a prophetic heart, and I repeat it—just as
surely as you do is misery in store for him and you; just so surely will
his sun and yours set in darkness and in gloom. Oh, Andrew, Andrew! for
your own sake—for my sake—for the sake of these precious ones,” she
added, drawing him to the couch where their children lay, “cease this
struggle that is wearing your life away, and changing you so greatly,
that at times I can scarcely recognize the Andrew Gordon of my early
love.”

The fire upon the hearth had burned low; but, at that moment, a broad,
ruddy glow filled the room, and Andrew Gordon stood with his eyes fixed
steadfastly upon his wife’s face. Who can tell the emotions that swept
over his soul during those few, brief moments? Good and evil spirits
were striving for the mastery upon the arena of his heart, and his
countenance worked strangely as one or the other prevailed. At last, he
turned hastily away, and muttering—as if to himself—“But Frederick
must be a rich man,” he sought his pillow.

He had chosen his part!

                              CHAPTER II.

Years, many years had passed since the conversation narrated in the
previous chapter, and Andrew Gordon was no longer the sole tenant of the
sweetest valley that slept beneath the shadow of the Green Mountains. A
small, but pleasant village had sprung up around the site of his old
log-house; and, upon the very spot where that had once stood, arose an
imposing brick mansion, that seemed to look haughtily down upon the
humbler dwellings around it. A small church—of simple, yet tasteful
architecture—lifted its spire a few paces farther on; two
merchants—rivals, of course—display their gilded signs on either side
of the street just below, and numerous little heads might have been seen
peeping from the windows of the schoolhouse over the river.

Andrew Gordon was a rich man. He had added acre to acre, and farm to
farm. The factory—whose machinery moved so steadily from morning till
night; and the grist-mill—whose wheels whirled round so incessantly,
belonged to him; and it was more than hinted, that one of the
stores—although managed in the name of another—was, in reality, his
property.

Yes, Andrew Gordon was a rich man; but was he satisfied? Was that
craving thirst for the “gold that perisheth” quenched at last? Ah! no;
it raged more fiercely than ever. Amy—his pure and gentle Amy, slept in
the little church-yard, where the white tombstones contrasted so
beautifully with the deep-green turf, and where the willow-trees made a
cool, refreshing shade even at noon-day.

She had pleaded and reasoned with him in vain. Day by day he became more
and more deeply engrossed in the pursuit of wealth. With a mind capable
of the highest things—with an intellect that might have soared above
the stars—with eloquence at his command, by which he might have swayed
the hearts of men, and led them captive at his will, he yet preferred to
hover near the earth, and offer up genius, talent, even love itself,
upon the altar of mammon.

Had any one told him that he had almost ceased to love his wife, he
would have spurned the idea, and have laid the “flattering unction to
his soul,” that he was indeed a pattern husband. Were not all his wife’s
wants most liberally supplied? Was not money ever at her command? In
short, did he ever deny her any thing?

Yes, Andrew Gordon! You denied her what was of more worth to her than
the gold and silver of Peru. You denied her a little of your precious
time. So absorbed were you in your own pursuits, so fearful were you
that every hour would not add something to your store, that you had no
time to devote to her whose happiness was in your hands. You had no time
for that sweet interchange of thought and feeling that she so valued;
you had no time for those little attentions that woman so dearly prizes;
you had no time for an occasional caress or word of endearment that
would have cheered her in many a long, lonely hour, and the mere memory
of which would have sustained her through suffering and through
weariness. No, you had no time for trifles like these; and you could not
remember—proud man that you were—that her nature was not like your
nature, and that those things were as necessary to her existence as dew
is to the drooping flower—as the warm sunlight to the ripening
grain—as the draught of cool water to the pilgrim, fainting in the
wilderness. You could not remember all this, and Amy pined day by day:
her cheek grew pale and her step more languid. Do you say she should
have had more strength of mind than to have been affected by such slight
causes? I tell you she could not help it. Talk of strength of mind to a
neglected wife! Woman’s true strength lies in her affections; and if
wounded there she will droop and wither, just as surely as does the
vine, when rudely torn from the tree to which it clung. She may struggle
against it long and, for a while, successfully; the eye of man may mark
no change upon lip or brow; but—_it will come at last!_

Amy slept in the church-yard; and the daughter who was cradled on her
breast that winter evening when we saw her last, slept beside her.
Frederick alone was left to Andrew Gordon, and he loved him with all the
love he had to spare from his coffers. Had the son learned the lesson
that the father was to teach him? We shall see.

One evening, at the close of a long, bright summer day, about sixteen
years from the date when our story commences, a young man—who appeared
as if he might be just entering the fifth lustrum of his life—might
have been seen loitering along by the banks of a stream that came
laughing and leaping down the mountain side, at some distance from the
dwelling of Andrew Gordon. He had a gun upon his shoulder, but his
game-bag was empty; and the pretty gray-squirrels hopped from tree to
tree, rabbits stared curiously at him with their bright, saucy eyes, and
even the wild partridge fluttered around him—unharmed, while he
wandered on, wrapped in a somewhat moody reverie.

His thoughts seemed to be very variable—partly sad and partly glad;
for, at one moment there would be a cloud upon his brow, a look of doubt
and irresolution—and the next, a smile would break over his face,
making it remarkably pleasing in its transient expression. His figure
was tall and graceful; and his hair—that was black as night—fell over
a forehead that would have been almost too white, had not the sun kissed
it rather warmly.

It would have been difficult to have recognized in him our old friend
Frederick Gordon, the hero of the cob-house—yet when that transient
smile, of which we have before spoken, played over his features, the
light in his dark eyes was the same as that which beamed there,
when—pleading for a story—he sprung joyfully to his mother’s side.

He sauntered along for an hour or two, deeply buried in thought. At
length—

“She is very lovely,” he murmured to himself, as if unconsciously. “She
is, indeed, very lovely! What a pity it is that Dame Fortune has not
added a few money bags to the list of her charms; for portionless as she
is, she sorely tempts one to play the fool. I came very near committing
myself last night at that boating party. What with the slow, dreamy
motion of the boat, the moonlight sparkling on the waters, the heavy
shadows on the opposite shore, in short, the exquisite beauty of the
whole scene, combined with Lily’s almost ethereal loveliness, all the
romance of my nature—and I really believe I possess a tolerable
share—was aroused, and I nearly lost sight of my fixed purpose to marry
a rich wife, if any. Yet, after all, does she not possess the truest
wealth?” he added, “and I am almost sure she loves me. Pshaw! I wonder
what my good father would say to nonsense like this?” and again he
became lost in thought.

For nearly an hour he remained sitting upon the stump of a large oak,
that had—together with many others—fallen a victim to the progress of
civilization, with his head resting upon his hand, and his eyes fixed on
a vacancy.

Suddenly, he was startled by the report of a gun—a moment, and a faint
scream fell upon his ear; there was the quick tread of bounding feet,
the crashing of branches, and a large deer rushed franticly through the
thicket, and paused a moment, panting and breathless, almost at his
side. He had only time to perceive that it was terribly wounded, when
the antlered head was raised for an instant, the quick ear caught the
distant baying of the hounds, and the poor creature again dashed onward,
with all the energy of despair.

Frederick Gordon immediately sprung toward the thicket from which the
deer had emerged; and with much difficulty succeeded in making his way
through the tangled underbrush and reaching the cleared space beyond.
But what a sight there greeted his vision! A sight that blanched his
cheek, and made him cling involuntarily for support to a wild vine, that
drooped over him, and nearly impeded his progress. Lily Grey—the
subject of his recent reverie, the being who had awakened the first
thrill of love that he had ever known, for he did love her, in spite of
himself—lay before him, with not the faintest shade of color upon cheek
or lip, and the blood slowly oozing from a wound upon her temple.

For a moment, Frederick gazed upon her as if spell-bound; then stealing
softly forward, as if she were sleeping, and he feared that he might
waken her, he knelt upon the green sward by her side. At first, he had
no thought but the dread one of death. She lay there so still, so pale,
so like death, that the idea of attempting to revive her did not even
occur to him; and, in truth, it would have been hard to have told whose
cheek was the palest—his, or that of sweet Lily Grey.

But, presently he fancied that her lips quivered a little, a very
little: and that there was the slightest perceptible tremor of the
deeply-fringed eyelids. Perhaps it was nothing but the dancing shadow of
the leaves that were frolicking in the sunlight above him; but it gave
him hope, and with that came the effort to restore her. He bound up the
wound upon her temple; he chafed her cold, moist hands, and raised her
in his arms, and bore her out from the shadow of the trees, that the
cool breeze might play upon her cheek.

A world of pure, warm emotions crept over his soul, as she lay there so
quietly in his embrace; he forgot the lessons of worldly wisdom that had
been impressed upon him from his very childhood; he forgot, for the
moment, all save his love—love, whose very existence he had hardly
admitted before; and when he saw by the slight flush that mounted to her
brow, that consciousness was returning, he murmured—

“Lily dear—dearest Lily—thank God that you are safe!”

The young girl started wildly, and he gently laid her upon the grass
again, speaking low, soothing words, such as a brother might breathe in
the ear of a younger and beloved sister, until she opened her eyes, and
raising her hands to her brow, said—

“Frederick—Mr. Gordon—where am I? How came I here?”

“That you can best tell yourself, Lily,” replied Frederick gaily, for he
wished to dispel all her fears. “I found you here in the woods, like the
‘faire ladyes’ we read of in the old romances, pale and breathless, with
the blood flowing from your temple; and, of course, as a good and loyal
knight should do, I did my best to restore you—that is all.”

“O, I remember now,” was the answer. “I had been to see old Mrs.
Forster, in the cottage yonder: she is very lame this week. It was very
warm, and I sat down under the shade of that maple to rest myself. I
suppose I must have fallen asleep, for I was suddenly aroused by the
report of a gun. In an instant, I felt a sharp blow upon my temple—a
large deer went bounding past me; and I must have fainted, for I
remember nothing more, until, until—”

Lily paused, and a burning blush overspread her neck and face, as she
recalled the words that had greeted her ear as consciousness returned.

Frederick drew her more closely to him, as he said—

“Go on, Lily—or shall I finish the sentence for you? Until you heard
words that must have convinced you—of what, indeed, you could not have
been ignorant before—that Frederick Gordon loves you. Was not that what
you would have said, Lily?”

There was no reply: but, although Lily’s lip trembled, and her eyes were
heavy with unshed tears, she did not shrink from his embrace, and
Frederick Gordon felt that he was beloved.

“Forgive me, Lily, you are growing pale again—you are still weak. I
should not have troubled you. Are you strong enough to walk home now,
think you—dear one?”

“O, yes,” replied Lily, rallying herself. “I am quite strong now. I
imagine my temple must have been cut by a sharp stone thrown up by the
hoof of the deer, as it rushed past me.”

Few words were spoken by the young pair as they walked through the
woods, in the dim twilight. Lily’s home—at least, her home for the time
being—was but a short distance off, and with a mute pressure of the
hand they parted at the gate.

                              CHAPTER III.

That same evening there was a clear light gleaming from the window in
Andrew Gordon’s mansion, usually occupied by himself. He—its owner—sat
there alone, with his folded hands lying upon the table, and his head
resting upon them. At length, he arose, and an observer might have seen
that there was a bright, red spot upon either cheek, while his brow was
knit, and there was an unusual, almost an angry gleam in his eye.
Stepping to the window, and shading his eyes with his hands, he looked
out for a moment, and then raising the sash, he called to a man who
stood in the yard:

“John, tell my son to come hither.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, and Mr. Gordon returned to his seat by the
table.

A few moments had elapsed when Frederick entered. His father did not
appear to notice his entrance, and, after pausing awhile, the young man
asked—

“Did you send for me, sir?”

“Yes,” was his father’s answer, as he pushed a chair toward him with his
foot, and motioned him to be seated. “I have a few things to say to you,
sir: I happened to be an eye-witness of the love-scene that took place
in the woods, down yonder, this evening. No, I was no spy or
eaves-dropper,” he continued, as the color flashed to Frederick’s face,
and he half-rose from his chair: “You may as well keep cool, young man.
I was passing near there, just as the girl was coming to her senses, and
I could not well avoid seeing and hearing what passed. You were so taken
up with her, that you had no ears for any one besides, else you must
have heard me. Permit me to congratulate you,” he added, with a mocking
smile, “upon enacting the lover most admirably. May I be allowed to
inquire who was the fair damsel who played Juliet to your Romeo?”

“Lily Grey, sir,” was the laconic reply.

“Lily Grey! And who, pray, is _she_?”

“She is a young lady from Massachusetts, I believe, who has been
spending the last three months with Mr. and Mrs. Mason. I presume she is
a niece of theirs, as she calls them uncle and aunt.”

“Poor as a church mouse then, of course,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly.
“Frederick, do you love this girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have been foolish enough to tell her so, I conclude, as I had the
pleasure of hearing the declaration a little while ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, sir, let me tell you, once for all, that this foolery must have
an end. I can never receive Miss Lily Grey as my daughter-in-law.”

“I have inherited so much of my father’s meek and docile disposition,”
said the young man proudly, with an ironical smile curling his lip,
“that I shall doubtless be lead as a lamb in this matter. Allow me to
say, that in matrimonial affairs I intend to do as I choose.”

Mr. Gordon must change his tactics. Frederick said rightly—he is too
much like his father to be driven.

There was silence between the two for many minutes, but they sat looking
in each other’s eyes as if reading the soul there. Then Andrew Gordon
rose, drew his chair nearer to his son’s, and taking his hand kindly in
his own, said—

“I wish you to do as you choose, Frederick—all I hope is that I may
induce you to choose wisely. Listen to me for awhile, and see if I do
not present this matter before you in a different aspect. I came here as
you know, my son, when this valley was an unbroken wilderness, a poor
man, poor through the fraud and injustice of others; and I at once
resolved, more for your sake than my own, to be rich. I toiled early and
late; I struggled, in the early part of my career, with hardships and
difficulties. But at length I was successful. My resources are ample;
_yours_ I should have said, but I cannot consent that the wealth, to the
accumulation of which I have devoted all the best years of my life,
should go to enrich a beggar. With your talents, your fine person, your
graceful and winning address, together with the fortune which I had
intended to place in your hands upon your next birth-day, (to say
nothing of your expectations at my decease,) with all these advantages,
I say, you might select a wife from the highest and wealthiest family in
the land. There is a young girl, the orphan daughter of one whom I knew
in my boyhood, whom I selected years ago as my future daughter-in-law.
Her fortune must be immense, and every advantage that wealth can give
will be lavished upon her. She is—let me see—she is about fifteen now,
and is said to be very beautiful. There is a clause in her father’s
will, I am told, that will prevent her marrying before she is
twenty-one. You have been long wishing to make the tour of Europe, and I
was thinking, just previous to my unfortunate discovery this afternoon,
that it would be well for you to start immediately, spend the next four
years in traveling, and still have a year or two at your disposal, after
your return, to secure you success with her. But of course it is useless
to say any thing about it now, as you have made your own choice.”

Mr. Gordon ceased, and for a long time Frederick sat silently revolving
his father’s words in his mind. He was not naturally the callous,
cold-hearted being which the reader might judge him to be from the
soliloquy we overheard in the woods. His noble and generous impulses had
for many years given his father a deal of trouble, and even yet, as we
have seen from his conduct this day, he occasionally acted without any
regard to the “almighty dollar.” But these instances had, of late, been
rare. Andrew Gordon was gradually moulding him to his will, and even
before receiving the summons to his presence this evening, the effect of
the lessons that he had been taking through his whole life was resuming
its sway, and Ambition or Avarice—call it by which ever name best
pleases you, was beginning to struggle with Love.

“What is the name of the young lady of whom you were speaking, sir?” he
finally asked.

“Elizabeth Munro,” was the reply, and again there was a long pause.

“Let me retire now, if you please,” said Frederick, rising; “I would
fain think over this matter in my own room.”

“Thank you—thank you, Frederick. That is spoken like my own son,” was
Mr. Gordon’s answer, as he cordially shook his hand. “I have no fears
that you will not gratify me, if you will but yield to the suggestions
of your own good sense.”

Frederick Gordon slept not that night. We will not attempt to follow the
workings of his mind. Suffice it to say, that the next morning, with a
pale cheek, but with a voice that did not falter, he signified to his
father his readiness to adopt the plan proposed by him the previous
evening.

“Then you must go at once, this very day,” said Mr. Gordon; “there must
be no time for foolish regrets and sentimental nonsense. The ‘Virginia’
sails for Europe upon the 20th of next month, and this—yes, this is the
17th. You have no time to lose—you must start for New York this
evening, and you will then hardly have time to make the necessary
preparations there.” And he hurried away to expedite his son’s
departure.

                              CHAPTER IV.

We must now return to sweet Lily Grey, whom we left so unceremoniously
at Mr. Mason’s gate, after her adventure in the woods with Frederick
Gordon. When she entered the house, she did not, as usual, repair
immediately to the common parlor or sitting-room as it was called, but
ascending the stairs she sought her own chamber. Hastily throwing off
her bonnet, she approached the small mirror, and slowly removing the
handkerchief which was fastened around her temples, endeavored to
ascertain the extent of the injury she had received. She found that it
was nothing but a tolerably deep incision, made, apparently, by a very
sharp stone. The bleeding had ceased, and she soon succeeded in closing
the wound by the help of some narrow strips of plaster.

She then seated herself by the low window, and tried to recall the
events of the day. Dear Lily Grey! what a fount of deep, pure,
exquisite, yet strange happiness had welled up in her young heart since
she went forth that summer afternoon upon her errand of mercy to old
Mrs. Forster’s cottage! Yet bright tear-drops were continually sparkling
in her beautiful eyes, and her hands trembled so that she could scarcely
smooth the shining curls that fell without restraint upon her shoulders.

For a long time she sat there by the window; darkness came on, but she
heeded it not; there was no darkness of the spirit there, and her heart
was illumined in its innermost recesses by light from within, light that
depended not upon outward objects—light clearer than that of the sun at
noonday.

“Why, Lily dear!” exclaimed the cheerful voice of Mrs. Mason, “are you
here? We thought you had not come in yet; and fearing you were lost or
in some trouble or other, George started in pursuit of you some time
ago. And now, while he is tramping through the woods in search of you,
here you are, ensconced in your own little room safe as a saint in her
niche. But bless me, child! why, what a wound upon your forehead,” and
dropping the bantering tone she had before used, and approaching quickly
to Lily’s side, the good lady asked seriously, “What _is_ the matter,
Lily? What has happened?”

“There is nothing of consequence the matter now,” replied Lily, and she
rapidly sketched the occurrences of the afternoon. She did not think it
necessary to tell the whole story, and was thankful that the blush she
felt rising to her very forehead, as she mentioned the name of Frederick
Gordon, was concealed by the increasing darkness.

“Really, quite a romantic adventure you have had,” said her aunt, as
Lily concluded her little story. “I suppose that, as in duty bound, you
intend falling in love with Mr. Gordon forthwith. I fancy your bright
eyes had done some mischief in that quarter already; and now wouldn’t it
be funny if we should have a wedding here, eh Lily?” And thus she
rattled on while they were descending the stairs, and proceeding to the
parlor where tea was waiting, never once dreaming that there was any
thing like truth in her playful jest. Had she done so she would have
been very serious, for she well knew it was no light thing for a maiden
to place that priceless treasure, her young heart’s pure love, in
another’s keeping.

Lily escaped from the family circle soon after tea that evening, under
plea of fatigue; and, in truth, she felt the need of rest. She longed to
be alone with her newly born happiness; to recall the looks and words
that had so thrilled her heart. She was young, very young, almost a
child in years; and she had not learned that the treasure she had found
that day was one to be received with fear and trembling. She took the
angel guest to her bosom, tearfully, it is true, but oh! most joyfully;
and she lay down upon her couch that night to dream only of long, long
days of bliss. She knew, indeed, that something of sorrow must fall to
the lot of mortals; but would not even _that_ be sweet if shared with
_him_? With such thoughts as these she knelt to offer up her evening
prayer, and to bless her Father in Heaven for the new well-spring of joy
that had sprung up in her pathway.

How bright and beautiful was every thing in the outer world when Lily
awoke next morning! There had been a shower during the night, and a
thousand gems were sparkling upon every tree and shrub and flower. The
mist was rolling up from the mountains, but it yet lay heavily above the
bed of the river, marking its windings as far as the eye could reach. It
seemed to Lily that earth was never so beautiful before; and there was
melody in her young heart as she stood by the open window, listening to
the trilling of the birds, the low murmur of the water-fall, and all the
sweet sounds with which Nature welcomes the approach of the May god.
When, her simple toilet completed, she descended to breakfast that
morning, old Mr. and Mrs. Mason noted with surprise her unwonted
loveliness. She was, indeed, as Frederick Gordon had said, very lovely
at all times; but now her face was radiant with happiness—that most
efficacious of all cosmetics—and her eyes beamed with added lustre.
Perhaps, too, she might have arranged her dress with rather more care
than usual; for in those primitive days it was not considered necessary
to attend to the duties of the toilet half-a-dozen times a day, and Lily
had whispered to herself, “Frederick will surely be here to-day.”

But the morning passed and no Frederick appeared. Hour after hour of the
afternoon rolled away, and still he came not. She listened, with a
beating heart to every approaching footstep, and wondered what could
keep him from her side. At length she heard in the distance the sound of
approaching wheels. She looked from the window and saw Mr. Gordon’s
carriage slowly toiling up the hill, and, shrinking behind the curtain,
she watched it as it drew nearer and nearer. There was a figure upon the
back seat, closely muffled in a cloak, which did not seem to be
particularly needed at that season of the year; and her heart told her
that it was the figure of him for whom she had watched and waited
through the day. But the noble steeds halted not; the carriage rolled
slowly by, and the muffled figure drew the folds of the mantle still
more closely about it, and shrank back still farther into its dark
corner.

The young girl gazed upon the vehicle until it faded from her sight;
then sinking back upon her seat she covered her face with her hands.
When she removed them, although her cheek was pale as marble there was
no other sign of suffering. She could not, even yet, doubt that the
mystery would be explained—perhaps after all it was not Frederick, and
with that thought her spirits returned.

Just at dusk Mr. Mason came in from the village, and turning to Lily,
said—“Lily, why did you not tell us that Fred Gordon was to leave us
to-day? Of course you knew, as you saw him yesterday?”

Lily was spared the necessity of replying, for her aunt immediately
exclaimed—“Fred Gordon left us! where is he going, pray?”

“Why, he goes to-night,” was the reply, “in their own carriage as far as
P——, and from that place takes the stage to-morrow for New York. His
father tells me that he is to sail for Europe in the ‘Virginia’ next
month, and will probably remain four or five years.”

Amid the hum of voices, the exclamations of surprise, the inquiries and
surmises to which this intelligence gave rise—for be it remembered, a
voyage to Europe was a much more formidable undertaking then than in
these days of steamships—no one noticed Lily. It was as we have said
just at dusk, and with a dread foreboding of she knew not what evil, she
had glided to the farthest corner of the room, and remained there
effectually concealed by the gathering shadows. When the words that to
her seemed the death-knell of every hope were pronounced, she did not
speak, she did not even sigh, but standing motionless for a moment, with
her eyes fixed wildly upon the speaker, she threw up her white arms
once, twice convulsively, and then sank slowly to the floor—breathless
and inanimate. Poor, poor Lily Grey.

                               CHAPTER V.

It had been a gala day in New York—a day of feasting and rejoicing—a
day of triumphal processions and martial pageantry—one of America’s
most honored sons, one whose days had been spent in the service of his
country, and whose blood had flown more than once upon the battle-field,
was the guest of the city, and its inhabitants laying aside for awhile
their accustomed avocations, had assembled _en masse_ to welcome him.
The old Park theatre had been converted, for that one night, into a
splendid ball-room, and as darkness came on, in hundreds of
dressing-rooms, the young and the lovely, ay, and many who were neither,
were decking themselves for the festive scene. At a later hour
innumerable carriages were rolling through the streets, bearing their
precious freight to the appointed place; and hosts of tiny,
satin-slippered feet tripped lightly up the broad stone steps and were
lost in the crowd within. It was a splendid pageant. There were dancing
plumes and sparkling gems—flashing eyes and flower-wreathed curls—the
waving of banners—and over all and surrounding all, a dazzling
radiance, shed from the massive chandeliers that were suspended, at no
distant intervals, from the lofty ceiling. Two young men—one of them,
from his foreign dress and ignorance of those around him, evidently a
stranger—were leaning against one of the large pillars, engaged in
earnest conversation. They used their opera-glasses quite freely, and
were apparently commenting on the beauties around them. At length their
attention was drawn toward the door by the hum of voices and murmurs of
admiration that greeted the entrance of a young lady, who appeared
leaning on the arm of a fine-looking man, old enough to be her father.
She was, indeed, surpassingly beautiful, but it was the swan-like grace
and elegance of her movements, the soul that breathed from her features,
the depth of feeling in her violet eyes, that involuntarily fixed the
attention of the observer, and awoke in his breast an interest for which
he could scarcely account. She was magnificently attired in a tunic
dress of light-blue satin, with a rich embroidery of silver—and costly
pearls were clasped about her throat, her rounded arms, and gleamed amid
the heavy masses of her braided hair.

The young men did not speak until she had crossed the room and was
hidden from their sight by the intervening crowd; then drawing a long
breath, the stranger asked of his companion—“Frank, in the name of all
that’s beautiful, who is that lovely creature?”

“That,” said Frank Stanley, “that is Miss Munro, our belle and heiress.”

“Miss Munro!” exclaimed the other, while his color was considerably
heightened, “is that Miss Munro?”

“Why yes. What is there so surprising about it? Do you know her?”

“No,” was the reply, “but I have often heard of her.” Then after a
pause, he added, “Can you present me?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” rejoined his friend, and they crossed the
apartment.

“Miss Munro, permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. Gordon.” There
was a low bow on the part of the gentleman, a courteous salutation on
that of the lady, and after a few commonplace remarks, Elizabeth Munro
was led to the dance by Frederick Gordon.

“The handsomest couple in the room by all odds,” said Frank Stanley. “I
should not wonder if that should be a match yet. Gordon is half in love
already, and if he undertakes to win her and does not succeed, I don’t
know who can.” And with these words he turned away to join a group of
friends who were chatting merrily at a little distance.

Arthur Talmadge, the young artist addressed, gazed upon the dancers
sadly and earnestly for a few moments, and then murmuring—“Stanley is
right—if he cannot win her who can?” he hurried from the ball-room.
Nobly gifted, but poor and proud, he felt that he had nothing in common
with that gay throng, and he bent his steps toward his own cheerless
room.

And Frank Stanley and Arthur Talmadge were not the only ones who arrived
at the same conclusion. One by one the admirers of Miss Munro—and their
name was legion—dropped off until the field was left entirely to
Frederick Gordon.

As may be supposed, he was not negligent in improving the advantage thus
given him. Yet at the end of six months he felt no more secure of her
favor than at the time of their first acquaintance. Her demeanor toward
him was always courteous, and such as became a lady; she received his
attentions frankly, but yet so calmly and quietly, that it was evident
she felt none of the timidity of dawning love. Her cheek never
brightened at his approach; her voice never faltered as she addressed
him; her eye never wandered in search of him, neither did she repulse
him, and so he hovered round her hoping that success would yet be his.
She listened with a pleased ear to his glowing descriptions of other
lands; her fine eyes were lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke of Italy,
with her sunny skies, her gems of art, and her oppressed and degraded
children; of Greece, with her temples, beautiful even in their decay; of
Egypt, that land of fable and mystery, and of the East, thronging as it
does with memories and associations that stir the heart to its innermost
depths. He was a fine reader, his voice was deep and thrilling, and when
he read or recited the finest passages from Shakspeare, Milton or
Wordsworth,

        “Lending the rhyme of the poet
         The beauty of his voice,”

Her cheek would glow, and her heart beat quickly. But all this might be
without one throb of love for him, and he felt it. He could but observe,
too, that she carefully avoided every thing like intimacy, and there was
no heart communion between them—she never spoke of themselves; there
was interchange of thought, but none of feeling, and strive as he might,
he could not lift the veil that seemed imperviously drawn between their
souls.

And when Frederick Gordon became aware of this, a shadow deeper and
darker than any that he had ever before known, rested upon his pathway.
He had returned from Europe fully determined to woo and win her for the
sake of her wealth. Love, or any congeniality of feeling that might
exist between them was but a secondary consideration. When he saw her
that night in the ball-room, more beautiful almost than his wildest
dream of beauty, emphatically “the star of the goodly companie;” when he
learned that the proudest in the land had sued humbly yet vainly for her
favor, pride came to the aid of his mercenary motives, and he resolved
to bear off triumphantly the prize for which so many were contending.
But when he was thrown almost daily into her presence the atmosphere of
purity and goodness which surrounded her, made him feel much as we may
suppose a fallen spirit might feel in the presence of an angel of light.
He could not meet the glance of her clear eyes, that glance so holy, so
unworldly, without a pang of remorse for the unworthy incentives that
had first led him to seek her. And he learned to love her
deeply—devotedly. His heart thrilled at the sound of her voice, the
lightest echo of her footsteps, the mere touch of her fair hand. He
would have taken her to his bosom, and called her his own sweet wife,
with no other dowry than the love of her pure, trusting heart. Yes, at
last even Frederick Gordon loved _disinterestedly_.

Alas, poor Lily Grey! While thy false lover was thus bowing at the
shrine of another, did thy image never haunt him? Did no thought of thee
ever awaken a sigh or a regret? Did he never drop a tear over thy
memory?

In the large and elegant drawing-room of one of the most splendid
mansions in Waverley Place, a fair girl had just listened to an
impassioned declaration of love from one who stood before her, waiting
breathlessly the faintest motion of her lips. But the lady spoke not;
her rapidly varying color was the only evidence that she had even heard
the eloquent words that had just fallen upon her ear. The young man
spoke again, and this time his voice was more low and tremulous than
before, for his heart was heavy with doubt and apprehension.

“Elizabeth—Miss Munro—this suspense is very, very terrible—will you
not speak to me?”

A strange expression, like a sudden spasm of pain, passed over the face
of the lady for a moment, and then she replied, calmly—“Did I hear you
aright, Mr. Gordon? Did I understand you to say that you had never
breathed words of love in the ear of another?”

The eyes of Elizabeth Munro were bent upon those of Frederick Gordon
with a steady, searching gaze, and his own drooped before them. At
length he said, falteringly—“Yes—no—that is, I was young—it was
nothing more than a passing fancy—a mere flirtation with a pretty girl
I met in the country.”

The red blood mounted to the lady’s brow, and her eye flashed as she
took a small shell-comb from her hair, and the long, brown curls that it
had confined fell over her neck and shoulders. Then pushing back the
ringlets from her forehead, and placing her finger upon a small scar
upon her temple, she said slowly—“Frederick Gordon—do you know me
now?”

The young man had not moved since he had last spoken, but remained with
his eyes fixed upon the carpet. At the lady’s words, however, he looked
up suddenly, and brow, cheek and lip grew white—white as those of the
dead. Then covering his face with his hand, as if to shut out some
hateful vision, he exclaimed—“Lily Grey—Lily Grey—have you come even
here to torment me?”

“She is even here,” was the quiet reply, “and I presume it is
unnecessary for me to say that the man whose pretended love for Lily
Grey was a ‘passing fancy,’ a ‘mere flirtation’—the man who for the
sake of paltry gold so cruelly deserted the young being he had won,
without a farewell word or line, can never claim the hand of Elizabeth
Munro. Nay, hear me, Mr. Gordon,” she added, as he would have
interrupted her, “entreaties are useless, I can never be your wife, but
I wish to explain some things which are probably mysteries to you. My
name is Elizabeth Grey Munro. My father always called me his Lily, and
by that pet name, too, I was called by Mr. and Mrs. Mason. When I went
into the country to visit them it was a childish freak of mine to be
called by my middle name, and be known as simple Lily Grey, rather than
as the heiress Elizabeth Munro. Had you called to see me before your
sudden departure, all would have been explained; but you chose to do
otherwise, and of course I could put but one construction upon your
conduct—that you were merely trifling with one whom you supposed your
inferior in point of wealth, and that, finding you had gone rather
farther than you intended, you wished to get rid of the affair as
speedily as possible. I do not hesitate now to say that I once loved
you, Frederick Gordon, as you did not deserve to be loved, but that
passed—passed with the knowledge of your unworthiness. When we met in
the ball-room I saw at once that you did not recognize me—five years
had changed the young and timid girl who blushed at your approach into
the woman, calm and self-possessed as yourself. You were blinded, too,
by the fashion and glitter around me, and, in short, you looked not for
Lily Grey in Elizabeth Munro.”

“Oh, Lily, forgive, forgive,” implored Frederick, throwing himself at
her feet. “For sweet mercy’s sake forgive and love me again as in other
days, I have erred deeply—deeply—but I have repented also.”

Tears rolled down the fair girl’s cheeks as she replied, at the same
time kindly extending her hand, “I do, I do forgive, for the sake of the
love I once bore you—but that love I can never give you again. The
chord is broken and will never vibrate more.”

The young man rose and gazed wildly upon her face, but he read nothing
there to give him hope, and clasping her hand for an instant, he rushed
from her presence.

Reader, upon one of those beautiful islands that, not far from Mackinaw,
lie on the breast of Lake Huron, like the purest of emeralds in a
setting of silver, there is a little, picturesque village where the
magnificent steamers, that plow the lakes from Buffalo to Chicago, stop
to take in wood and water. But a short distance from the village, and
yet half-concealed by overshadowing trees, there stands a plain but
strongly built house. There is nothing peculiar in its general
appearance, and you would pass it almost unheeded, unless you chanced to
perceive that the windows of the chamber in the south-east corner of the
building were guarded by strong iron bars. If you looked yet more
closely, you would see the form of a man, still in the prime of life,
with fetters upon his wrists, his hair closely shaven, and the wild
gleam of the maniac in his eye, pacing the apartment, or gazing between
the bars upon the broad expanse of waters. That face, once seen, will
haunt you forever! In the yard, slowly walking back and forth, with his
white hair streaming in the wind and his hands folded behind him, is
often seen an old man, whose bowed form and trembling limbs speak of
suffering even more plainly than of age. Anguish and remorse are stamped
in legible characters upon his brow, and as he moves to and fro, the
words come forth slowly and mournfully from his white lips—“Oh, Amy,
Amy, thy prophecy is fulfilled!”

One more scene—a more cheerful one we trust—and our story is ended. In
a small, pleasant room, furnished with exquisite taste, half-buried in
the crimson cushions of a luxurious chair, sat a young mother, and upon
her lap lay her first born, a fair and delicate babe, whose tiny face
seemed the miniature of the one that bent over it, save that the little
rings that lay upon its forehead were of a darker hue. Very lovely was
that young mother—more lovely than in the brightest days of her girlish
beauty, as she reclined there in the simple, yet tasteful robe of a
convalescent, her pale cheek half-shaded by the rich, brown curls that
escaped from beneath her cap. Her eyes wandered often from the face of
her babe to the door, and at length a glad smile sprang to her parted
lips as she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. The door opened,
and a fine-looking man, whose intellectual face bore the unmistakable
seal of genius, entered, and exclaiming joyously—“What—you here,
Elizabeth? I have no words to tell you how glad I am to see you in our
little sanctum again, my own sweet wife.” He bent to kiss the lips that
were raised lovingly to his. “And our precious little daughter, too—she
is six weeks old to-day, is she not?”

“Yes, Arthur—and it is about time she had a name, I think. What shall
we call her?”

The young husband paused for a moment, and tears gathered in his proud,
dark eyes as he replied—“Let her name be Lily Grey, dearest. Had you
never borne that name perhaps I could not call you mine now.” And Arthur
Talmadge—no longer poor and unappreciated, toiling for his daily
bread—but Arthur Talmadge, the courted and honored artist, whose fame
was in all the land, pressed his wife fondly to his bosom!

                       =“SETTLING TO A JEMIMA.”=

                       =SUGGESTED BY “MY NOVEL.”=

                          =BY ALICE B. NEAL.=

    Yet it was with a deep groan that I settled myself to a—Jemima.
    _Letter from Riccobocca to Lord L’Estrange._

“And how do you like ‘My Novel,’ Frank?”

It was a very natural question under the circumstances. We had just
finished two excellent cigars. St. Julian had an exquisite choice in the
article, which I could fully appreciate. The fire was shining glowing
red through the polished bars of the grate—the curtains were down, and
the gas lighted. The library-table was strewn with papers, and new
publications, and among the rest “Blackwood,” in its unpretending brown
cover, laid half open, and the paper-cutter thrust between the leaves.
That knife was a great favorite with my friend, who had brought it from
Switzerland. The blade was of burnished silver, the handle the delicate
foot of a chamois, preserved most perfectly. _I_ might have hunted from
Paris to Berne without lighting upon it; but these things always seemed
to fall in the way of St. Julian, as if by the magnetic attraction of
his refined taste.

The library could scarcely have been dignified by that title. It was a
small room, suited to my friend’s not over ample means, and fitted up
with more of the bachelor air than the lounging-rooms of most Benedicts
contrive to retain. Book-cases and tables of black walnut, the books
being more valuable as rare editions, than from the extent of the
collection, a few excellent engravings, and one beautiful head in oil,
completed the appointments. We had dined, and nuts and wine were on the
table before us. Mrs. St. Julian had absented herself on the plea of
nursery engagements, possibly she thought we might like to chat without
even her gentle restraint, of our old bachelor days. Considerate woman!
Would that more of my married friends had possessed themselves of such a
household treasure!

“How do I like Bulwer’s last? Just the question you asked years ago, St.
Julian, in the days of Pelham and Earnest Maltravers, when maiden aunts
held up their hands in pious horror at the mere mention of his name, and
young ladies doted on the “dear wicked books,” just because they were
proscribed.”

“Exactly,” nodded St. Julian, knocking the silvery ashes from the tip of
his Figaro.

“Bulwer is older now—and so are we, eh! and may be said to have sown
the wild oats of authorship. I was bored to death by Harold.”

“And so was I. When I saw the announcement on the cover that Bulwer was
about to take leave of fiction, I thought it was quite time.”

“Harold being ‘the last of the Saxons,’ a new era commenced. The
Caxton’s took me by surprise—at first I did not like it. The opening
chapter was a cross of Tristrim Shandy and ‘The Doctor’—the coarseness
of the one, and metaphysics of the other being a little
tempered—‘weakened,’ I called it, and threw the book aside. I heard
everybody talking of it, and wondered how they could praise such trash.”

“Trash! the Caxton’s trash!”

“Hold—I read it afterward; it was the only thing I could find on the
counter of a country bookseller to solace and support me through a long
journey, otherwise, I candidly confess, I should not have chosen it. You
know the route, the winter of my Floridian jaunt. Shut up in the cars
passing through those North Carolina pine-lands, without interest or
variety, with not a soul that I knew, or any physiognomy that I liked
well enough to make acquaintance with—how I blessed the dogged
obstinacy that had hitherto made it a sealed book to me. I read till the
twilight deepened, and then I borrowed the conductor’s lantern, and read
again.”

“And liked it as much as I do, no doubt.”

“More than I can tell you. You know I never was given to enthusiastic
criticism. It was so new, so varied—the sentiment more than the
incident, I mean. When ‘Alice’ was written, I should not have fancied
the Caxton’s. I could not have understood the author’s reasonings—for
you know it is, after all, more a philosophy than a romance.”

“Sound philosophy, too—nothing harsh or cynical in it, as one might
naturally have expected from the domestic life of the author.”

“And that is the charm of ‘My Novel,’ it is the same subject continued;
a homily against worldliness and selfishness, in the most charming
guise, example as well as precept—and that so naturally drawn. Who does
not pity Audley Egerton—giving life and soul to political ambition, or
despise his sycophant Leslie, with his scheming, plotting brain.”

“Outwitted at last, of course. ‘Honesty the best policy,’ is the burden
of the tale. Yet I pity Randall more than his dupe, your namesake,
Frank; the one has _mens conscia recti_ to support him in all his
difficulties. I can fancy Leslie’s situation exactly. Ambitious by
descent, as it were, and for the honor of his ancestors, as well as for
personal ease and distinction, stung by the destitution and utter
neglect of his home, refined in taste, one scarcely wonders that he
becomes unscrupulous of means to the end.”

“And there is Frank, as you say, so honest and honorable, so generous—I
have heard many objections to the possibility of his attractions to the
brilliant Marchesa. But I can understand that, too. The world-wearied
woman, longing for the honorable, generous love, for the repose of just
such a heart, won most of all by the _genuineness_ of the proffered
love, accustomed as she had been so long to constant but unmeaning
adulation.”

“Yes, I don’t think it at all unnatural; there is another thing some
might think inconsistent, the union of the accomplished and elegant
Riccobocca and his Jemima.”

“I confess, _I_ cannot quite understand that. There is the same doctrine
in the Caxtons—Mrs. Caxton, you know; and yet Pissistratus found
sympathy in a mind attuned to his own; and L’Estrange must have his
Violante, after all. In this, I think, our author contradicts himself a
little.”

“I do not think so,” St. Julian said, more warmly. “Bulwer’s theory
seems to me, that in the close friendship of domestic life, some natures
need restraint, some repose, while others, on the contrary, would be
ruined without stimulus. Harley’s was one of these—Riccobocca, on the
contrary, _needed_ his Jemima.”

“I see the theory, and I see it carried out in daily life. For my part,
if ever I marry”—and here I involuntarily touched the rapidly thinning
locks on my temples—“if ever I marry, it must be a brilliant,
cultivated woman, one that would command general admiration—I hate your
jealous, selfish men—one that would force me to keep up to her mark. I
must confess, I wonder at half the marriages now-a-days—men of talent
united to women who do not look as if they had ever opened a book in
their lives, or would have the courage to criticise it if they had—good
enough—amiable enough—but lacking spirit—originality.”

Here I paused in my energetic disclaimer—it was getting a little
awkward; our acquaintances had often remarked the same of St. Julian,
and he must know it; indeed, I had often wondered at his choice
mentally; I found his eyes fixed on mine, as I faltered, with a
peculiar, penetrating expression, and I fancied I saw his color
heighten.

He was the first to relieve the embarrassing silence; with one of his
own fine smiles he said,

“Yes, just such a wife would suit you—I know it, and you have not found
her. I thought so once of myself. I am wiser now. Acknowledge”—and here
the smile came and went again—“that you were thinking of my Minny that
moment. Come, tell the truth, Frank—you wont offend me by doing so, I
assure you.”

“Well, on oath then, I was; though I never should have said so if you
had not asked me. Even intimate friendship has no right to touch on such
points. Every one must decide for themselves, is my theory; and no one
has a right to question the choice. I confess, I have often thought I
should like to know all about it though—how, with all your fire and
imagination, you could have been content with simple amiability.”

“Minny has more than that,” St. Julian said, warmly. “She has great
depth of feeling, cultivation, and correct judgment. I grant she is not
what the world calls brilliant—a brilliant woman never would have
suited me for a wife.”

“Your opinion has changed since our college days,” I could not help
saying.

“Many of my opinions,” said Frank. “But in this I was aided by one of
the most brilliant women I have ever met.”

“She rejected you, I suppose, and taught you wisdom through wounded
self-love.”

“No—yes—if it can be called rejection when I never offered any thing
but admiration. But you shall hear all about it, if you would like it.”

“Of all things.”

“Well, then, you must not interrupt me, or ever mention it again. I
believe it is a little pride in the support of my theory that urges me
to the confession. Sometimes I like to bring her before me, however—but
I always turn to the thought of Minny with _such_ satisfaction.”

I believed him as he said it. His face was lighted by an honest heart; I
did not believe Mrs. St. Julian herself would have been
wounded—tenacious as all women are of predecessors—could she have
heard the conclusion.

“Beatrice—that was her name,” said St. Julian, stretching his slippered
feet more comfortably toward the fire; “and I always thought no other
would have suited her. She came to pass the winter in St. Louis, the
first year I commenced practice there. Such an arrival, of course, made
some stir in our circle; society was not as good, or as large there then
as it is now. She was a widow—don’t look alarmed, Frank, you never
would have believed she had been married, but for a certain ease and
assured manner, not the bold, pushing way, assigned to widows
generally—and vulgarly, too, let me say. They told me she was about
twenty-four, with a small but comfortable income, and had married a man
she could not love. He proved to be dishonorable in business
transactions, though a man of fascinating manner and cultivated mind. I
know a dozen such men, and could see that while she had gained much
intellectually by the association, her heart must have been starved.

“I remember distinctly the first time I saw her. Anthon, my partner,
visited her, and from him I had taken a dislike to her. I fancied she
was in the old style, a cautious, calculating coquette, expecting
general homage. I was determined she should receive none from me.

“So I rather avoided her—and we met quite by accident at the house of a
mutual acquaintance. The introduction startled me—she was so unlike
what I imagined—a small, coquettish figure, and face marked by
vivacity; on the contrary, she was tall and stately, a superb head, well
set, curved red lips, a fine quivering nostril, excuse the expression,
and eyes—that haunted me for years. Those are her eyes”—and he pointed
to the picture I had before remarked over the mantle—“except that no
painter could ever give their changeful, thrilling light. The picture is
an Italian head—I saw it in Florence, and could not resist the
purchase.

“She was quiet, and rather reserved in manner. Afterward her face
changed when the conversation turned upon something that interested her.
I controverted some opinion she had advanced. I was a little piqued at
her total neglect of me, when I had expected a display of attractions
for my benefit. I shall never forget the first brilliant flash of those
eyes, as they turned full upon me.

“‘You have thought much upon this subject, then,’ she said, quietly, but
I fancied with a covert sarcasm.

“My comment must have betrayed my utter ignorance of the matter—but I
had not expected such quick detection. I spoke at random, as I often did
in those days, more to draw her attention upon myself than for any
interest I had in the conversation. But I rallied, and tried to sustain
my ground with all the sophistry I could command; the rest listened, and
I saw all my powers of argument and wit called forth by her close and
simple reasoning. She was naturally sarcastic. I saw she controlled the
spirit in a measure, still her repartee humbled me not a little; pride
as well as vanity was roused at the encounter. Yet she held out her hand
to me in parting, with a beautiful smile, intended to be conciliating, I
saw, as she said,

“‘When we meet again, I hope we shall agree more readily.’

“Anthon had often asked me to call with him at her house, for she had
decided to remain with us, and her late husband’s aunt superintended her
household. After this encounter, I was more determined than ever not to
go, but an indescribable fascination impelled me. Her face haunted
me—in business, in leisure; her eyes rose up before me; I found myself
trying to recall the tones of her voice. I wished so much to hear her
sing—I had been told she was an accomplished musician—I was sure she
must sing enchantingly. Even in conversation, her low, clear voice
thrilled you.

“She welcomed me pleasantly; almost with marked warmth, at least Anthon
thought so, and rallied me afterward upon my conquest. She proposed
music herself in the pauses of conversation, and sung—not with any
apparent desire to win admiration, but because it was a pleasure to
herself, and to us. At least, I was obliged to confess this to myself,
and I felt my prejudice giving way, with every bar of her delicious
music. Perhaps she counted on the power the harp possessed of old to
exorcise evil spirits.

“I could but think of Lady Geraldine—the poem had just appeared then,
and had been the subject of our discussion.

        ‘Ah! to see or hear her singing, scarce I know which is divinest.
         For her looks sing too—she modulates her gestures on the tune,
         And her mouth stirs with the song-like song: And where the notes
           are finest—
         ’Tis the eyes that shoot out oreal light, and seem to swell them
           on.’

“I could go on with the next stanza,” St. Julian added, taking up the
volume he had referred to again.

        ‘Then we talked—O, how we talked! Her voice so cadenced in the
          talking,
         Made another singing of the soul—a music without bars.’

“And so for many and many an evening, for there never was moth more
fascinated than I became, and yet she had never shown me any decided
preference. She was a great favorite in society, and always surrounded
by admirers. I wondered she could have endured half their fulsome
flatteries. I used to turn from the circle in perfect disgust, mentally
accusing her of coquetry and vanity. Yet, after all, it was perhaps but
jealousy in me.

“So the winter passed—meeting her constantly, and we became what is
called good friends.

“Sometimes she claimed my services as her escort in walks or rides. I
was only too glad to be near her. I knew that those around her did not
understand her as I did. That she often turned from them all to her
books and music for companionship. The pride and ambition of my nature
found a response in hers—the vague dissatisfaction with tame
reality—the thirst for change and variety—the search for sympathy with
these wild visions—all that made up my inner life.

“Every one passes through this mood in early life. With some, it is
scarcely more than depression or dissatisfaction; with me, it had long
been a wild unrest. This was often her mood—I was sure of it when the
chords of her music deepened, or that tremulous quivering of the lip,
betrayed the inward strife.

“Once we were riding—the active exercise suited her spirit, she needed
the rapid excitement of a bounding steed. So we came dashing homeward,
our horses covered with mud and foam, for she was more than usually
self-absorbed, and seemed to forget how rapidly we rode. It was a dreary
November afternoon, the sky closed in with chill, gray clouds, the
fading sunlight sickly and uncertain. We were passing a recent clearing
for a new bye-road to some little town. Many noble trees lay felled
beside our path, and, at a little distance, we noticed a flickering
flame. Some freak had prompted the woodman to fire a tall ash, that
stood relieved in graceful outline. One half of the trunk was completely
consumed, the fire burning upward steadily from the roots, had hollowed
out a channel for itself, and, while the tree stood up bare and tall,
was eating out its very heart and life. It startled me for a moment; but
Beatrice reined in her horse suddenly, and pointing to it with her
riding-whip, said—

“‘There—do you know what that is? Have you ever felt it?’

“Her tone—her glance conveyed all her meaning. I, too, had thought the
emblem truthful. I was sure now that I understood her. But we neither of
us spoke again until we reached home.

“Yet I would not tell her that I loved her—I had no right to think it
was returned. Sometimes I thought so, when she turned to me with more
than her usual confidence, or welcomed me with one of her loving smiles.
I would have given worlds for the power to ask her, but something always
repelled me. So I thought of her alone—I sought her society day after
day, and from the very intensity of my feelings came a coldness and
reserve that I did not feel.

“One night, she had been asked in a small circle of intimate friends to
read ‘Lady Geraldine,’ aloud. Miss Barret then was almost an unknown
name, even in literary circles, and Beatrice was her warm admirer.
Already familiar with every line of the poem, it received new grace and
power from her lips. It suited her spirit, and her presence. She lost
herself in the heroine, and I hung near her, carried away by the poet’s
expression of all I felt for the beautiful creature before me.

“I suppose ‘my heart was in my eyes.’ Once, she looked up; and, for an
instant, her glance met my own.

“Here is the passage—

        ‘But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with
          thunder,
           Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a
             caul.
         Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in
           wonder,
           With tears beaded on her lashes, and said—‘Bertram!’ it was
             all.’

“Yes—that instant glance ‘was all;’ and yet it thrilled me with love
and hope. Its yearning—almost agonized—tenderness, I cannot describe
to you. I never saw such a glance from woman before or since.”

St. Julian rose, and began pacing the carpet before me, as he spoke,
more rapidly.

“Yet, that very night, we spoke coldly and proudly to each other. She,
perhaps—well I cannot tell for what reason; but it stung me, and I
answered bitterly and hastily, and said to myself I would never see her
again.

“We did not meet again for more than a year, strange as it seems, moving
in the same small orbit. I passed her now and then with a beating heart,
as I recognized her face or form upon the side-walk: she—with the same
calm smile of recognition; I—with a cold and hasty bow. I grew almost
to hate her—yet I could not: in the depth of my heart, I yearned to
speak to her again; though I called her selfish and a coquette, most of
all, in memory of that look.

“But, at last, we met; as unexpectedly as at first, and in the same
house. There was every thing to remind me of the past. She was
unchanged, save a softened manner, and that her dark dress was relieved
by crimson ornaments, which suited her wonderfully well.

“She came toward me with extended hand, and as if we had just met from a
journey.

“‘Will you come and see me?’ she said: ‘we shall find a great deal to
talk about, and I have some new songs I am sure you will like:’ and I
was surprised into acquiescence. All that evening I watched her—as she
moved, the centre of admiration, when she smiled, or spoke; she was so
very, very beautiful!—the eloquent color, the constant play of
features. Once, I _fancied_ her eyes turned toward me, with something of
that remembered glance.

“I went home like one in a delirium; all my love rushed back—the
stronger, that the current had been so long checked. I murmured her
name—with the fondest intonations—the silence echoed ‘Beatrice!
Beatrice! My arms seemed to clasp her to my heart! I seemed to shower
kisses on those loving eyes! It was a mad, intoxicating dream!

“Every fibre of my frame thrilled to the welcoming pressure of her hand.
She was alone, in the little winter parlor I remembered so well. A warm,
crimson carpet muffled the tread, the glass doors of the conservatory
stood slightly ajar, filling the atmosphere with the odorous breath of
the heliotrope and sweet-scented daphne. Crimson curtains fell in heavy
folds to the floor, her piano and harp stood in the accustomed places,
the fire burned low, and wax lights, in massive silver candlesticks,
stood at one end of the room. It was all so familiar, the gleaming of
the single bust in the corner, upon its marble pedestal, the Magdalen,
her favorite picture—which I wondered at at first—hung near it, and
there was her own portrait, faithful to the life, with _those eyes_
looking down upon me. Perhaps she thought me sad, for she proposed
music, and I leaned on the mantle and listened. At first it was a gay
song; but that was not suited to her mood, and gradually she glided into
those mournful strains of Schubert and Mendelssohn, which she knew to be
my favorites of old.

“When she ceased—the last chords of voice and instrument still
vibrating in the silence—she rose, and came slowly toward me. It was in
my heart to tell her all; but she said—

“‘You have often told me I was unlike other women. It is a dangerous
compliment. No woman can be happy who is unlike her sex: I have come to
that conclusion at last. But, to show you that you were not mistaken in
the past, I am going to tell you something about myself.’

“Here she held out her hand to me—oh! how impressive that touch, yet
how kind!—and raised her eyes to mine, with a calm, searching look as a
sister might have done.

“‘I understood you when we first met. We were so much alike—skeptic
perhaps in heart and creed. Restless, wandering, seeking rest and
finding none. It was not strange that I turned toward you—that I
thought I loved you—close sympathy was the element of love I longed
for. I was unhappy away from you; your words, and tone, and glance had
more power over me than you ever dreamed of. I longed sometimes—in my
loneliness and solitude—to hear you tell me that my love was returned,
to feel your arm about me, your kiss upon my forehead, your eyes fixed
on mine—as once I saw them—above all, to hear your voice murmur
Beatrice, dearest! all wild passionate words—that my heart yearned for.
Had you sought me then, I, no doubt, should now have been your wife!’

“Beatrice, my wife! My head swam, she must have seen my frame tremble
with the thought.

“‘But we were separated,’ she said, still calmly; I wondered at her
calmness, when I was so shaken, ‘and since then I am changed. Life has
assumed a different hue: I am calmer’—yes, I could see that and almost
curse her calmness—‘I can be thankful that you did not ask me to be
your wife; we shall both be happier; and, as friends, we may still be of
much use to each other.’

“‘Last night was the test of all my resolutions—at first, when I met
your hand, your glance, they wavered: the old time rose before me—the
old yearning for sympathy with my mad moods; but I fortified them by new
purposes, and I was thankful for the trial. Shall we be friends?’

“‘But why, O, why, Beatrice,’ I said for the first time—‘why not more?’

“‘Because our natures are _too much_ alike. Both too impulsive—too
sensitive—too imaginative. Life, and its trials, and associations are
real. I need something to oppose the blast—we should both bend one way.
The fire that raged so fiercely could but soon die out, or consume all
that fed it. Do you not see this?’

“Yes, I knew, she was true, she was right; I have felt it a hundred
times since, but then I only felt all I had lost—all I was so near
possessing—that all hope was past. I knew it by her tone, her manner,
the gentle pressure of her hand. I knew her self-control must be the
effect of an irrevocable judgment—it was a mood foreign to her, and
could not be long sustained.

“What more wild words I said, I can easily imagine, and her flushed
cheek told me the struggle that they caused within; but I had no right
thus to act upon her generous confession, and at length I listened to
her gentle reasoning.

“‘If I ever marry,’ she said, ‘it must be one whose judgment is not
controlled by his feelings, who can understand, yet not share, in these
wild moods you would only encourage. It must be strength of will and
tenderness combined that can control me. You need repose as much as I.
We are friends you know—I read your heart better than you can
yourself—your wife must also be firm and gentle. I should in the end
only make you miserable.’”

“Well,” I said, as St. Julian paused in apparent forgetfulness of my
presence.

“Well, as you say—I did not cease to hope from her impulsive moods
until I knew that she was to be married. When she found it was so, she
avoided me; it _was_ base to presume on her generous frankness.”

“So she is married?”

“To a man others say the very reverse of herself—but I understand it,
and believe her to be happy—and I took her advice, at length, and
sought out a Jemima! no, my Minny is more like Mrs. Caxton of the two,
and is far too good a wife for me. Beatrice would have made me
miserable, I believe.”

I smiled as he settled himself complacently in the lounging chair from
which he had risen, and returned to a quiet contemplation of the fire,
the very picture of the contented husband, after all that utterance of
enthusiastic feeling—but when Mrs. St. Julian came quietly into the
room, a few moments after, with her pretty basket of needle-work, and
her cheerful, household face, I could not but think that my friend was
right after all in his choice, and that I, too, after a few more
hesitating years, might be glad to find myself settled to _such_ a
Jemima.

                             =SNOW FLAKES.=

                         =BY MRS. L. G. ABELL.=

                  They fall, as one by one they come
                    A silent gift of starry light,
                  Concealing every spot and stain
                    With robe of purest white—

                  As Charity, with words of peace,
                    Her downy mantle covers o’er
                  The little faults of those we love—
                    So fall the snow flakes evermore.

                       =A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.=

                          =BY G. P. R. JAMES.=

    [Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
    George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the
    District Court of the United States for the District of
    Massachusetts.]

                      (_Concluded from page 618._)

                         THE DREAMS FULFILLED.

I slept not one wink that night. I can compare the state of my mind to
nothing but a still, deep piece of water, suddenly stirred by a strong
wind. Thought was a confused mass of waves, flowing one into the other,
and hurrying away into some new form, ere they could be measured or
defined. Toward morning, however, one of the memories the most prominent
became that of the surprise which had been shown by the Count and
Countess de Salins at my having seen and conversed with the Marquis de
Carcassonne. I dwelt upon it. I pondered. I scrutinized it. “The
murderer of my father!” I thought; “how did he murder him? Was it in a
duel: by an act which good Father Bonneville, with his strong
principles, might look upon as murder?” No—there must have been
something more. What the count had said in regard to the other’s guilt
showed that it was by no common occurrence my father fell. There must
have been something more; and what that was I determined to ascertain.
Not that I thought of taking vengeance on the pitiful dying worm I had
seen—he was not worthy of it. The extinction of his few short hours of
life would offer but poor satisfaction. “Better leave him in the hand of
God,” I thought, “who knows all and sees all, and is just as well as
merciful.” Nevertheless, I was determined to know how my father fell,
and that without any long delay. I knew that where there is a strong
will, means are rarely wanting to accomplish even the most improbable
ends: but, after long meditation, I saw but one way of arriving at my
object: “I will go to the old man,” I thought, “and drive him to tell me
all. I will strengthen my mind, and harden my heart, and compel him to
divulge the dark secret within his breast.”

Such was my first resolution, and it was that to which I recurred; but,
in the mean time, another plan suggested itself, which I tried, but
which failed. I thought that, very probably, the Count de Salins himself
would give me information; and as the mind—especially of youth—is
always fond of accomplishing more than one object at a time, I resolved
to go down the very next day, and pass an hour or two with Mariette, at
the same time I sought the information I required. There was one thing,
however, which embarrassed me a good deal—not that it presented itself
to my mind in any definite shape; but it had crossed my thoughts like a
vague, unpleasant shadow more than once during the night. I do not know
that I can very well explain myself distinctly—that I can make any one
else, even those for whom these pages are written, and who understand me
best, comprehend fully the state of my mind at that moment. I should
perhaps have said, in common parlance, the state of my heart, but mind
had something to do with it likewise. Let me try, however.

The Mariette of the past, the Mariette of the present, seemed to me, as
it were, two beings in one. The long interval which had occurred between
our parting and meeting again, rendered them, as it were, distinct—a
child and a woman. But yet that interval had been bridged over by
constant remembrance. I had never forgotten her. I had never ceased to
think of her. She had taken such a hold of my young affections, that
nothing had ever been able to remove them from her, and thin, filmy
lines of thought had been carried backward and forward, between the past
and the present, like the threads of a spider’s web. When we had been
boy and girl, I had often looked forward to the period when we should be
man and woman, and I had again and again fancied that Mariette would be
my wife—my own for ever. Now we were man and woman, the process was
reversed; and fancy ran back to childhood. I saw in her the sister of my
early days, my dearly loved play-fellow and plaything. I began to think,
indeed, that I loved her better now—not that the least particle of the
former love was lost: it was the foundation of all, but another love was
being built up upon it. I did not know, indeed, how far that edifice was
completed. I would not examine, I would not inquire, I would not scan my
own heart and its feelings, although I was conscious that all the
thought and anxiety I had lately bestowed upon her could hardly arise
without deeper feelings than those of boyhood, or exist without
increasing them. I must not say that I _resolved_ or that I _intended_
any thing; for where Mariette was concerned, I did not pause to resolve
or to intend. All I desired or looked for was, to make her happy by any
means, to remove her for ever from poverty, and to share with her all I
had to share. But there was one difficulty, and it was this: I knew not
how to explain to her the source of my present affluence—to tell her,
or her father, or her mother, that even for a short few days I had been
wedded to another. In my present feelings toward her, it seemed as if I
had been unfaithful to her—as if I had robbed her of a part of the
affection which was her due, in giving any share of my love to poor
Louise.

If I felt so, what—I asked myself, might she not feel? How might she