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[Illustration: A. E. Chalon, R.A.          W. H. Egleton
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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXVI.      April, 1850.      No. 4.

                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          April
          Kate Lorimer: Or The Pearl in the Oyster
          Loiterings and Life on the Prairies of the
            Farthest West
          The Lady of the Rock
          Fanny. A Narrative Taken from the Lips of a Maniac
          Gods and Mortals
          Minna
          Life of General Baron De Kalb
          The Housekeeping Husband
          The Darkened Casement
          Review of New Books
          Mount Prospect Institute, West Bloomfield, N. J.

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. III.
          Lines
          Aileen Aroon
          Sonnet
          Uriel
          Out of Doors
          Miss Dix, The Philanthropist
          Invocation to Sleep
          German Poets
          The Song of the Axe
          Le Follet
          The Shawl Designer Salaville
          Blanche and Lisette

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

         VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, April, 1850.     NO. 4.

                                 APRIL.

         “The shower is past, the birds renew their songs,
          And sweetly through its tears the landscape smiles.”

“APRIL,” says the author of the “Fairie Queene,” “is Spring—the
juvenile of the months, and the most feminine—never knowing her own
mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover;
toying it with the young sun till he withdraws his beams from her, and
then weeping till she gets them back again.” April is frequently a very
sweet and genial month, partly because it ushers in the May, and partly
for its own sake. It is to May and June what “sweet fifteen,” in the age
of woman, is to the passion-stricken eighteen, and perfect
two-and-twenty. It is to the confirmed Summer, what the previous hope of
joy is to the full fruition—what the boyish dream of love is to love
itself. It is, indeed, the month of promises—and what are twenty
performances compared with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays,
because it tells tales of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every
tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise,
the prophecy, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow
it—of all and more—of all the delights of Summer, and all the “pride,
pomp, and circumstance of glorious Autumn.” It is fraught with beauties
itself, which no other month can bring before us.

        “When proud, pied April, dressed in all his trim,
         Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.”

It is one sweet alternation of smiles, and sighs, and tears—and tears,
and sighs, and smiles—till all is consummated at last in the open
laughter of May.

April weather is proverbial for a mixture of the bright and gloomy. The
pleasantness of the sunshiny days, with the delightful view of fresh
greens and newly opened flowers, is unequaled; but they are frequently
overcast with clouds, and chilled by rough, wintry blasts. This month,
the most perfect image of Spring—

        “Looks beautiful as when an infant is waking
         From its slumbers;”

and the vicissitudes of warm gleams of sunshine and gentle showers, have
the most powerful effects in hastening the universal _springing_ of
vegetation, whence the season derives its appellation.

The influence of the equinoctial storms frequently prevailing, causes
much unpleasant weather; its opening is—

          “Mindful of disaster past,
        And shrinking at the northern blast,
        The sleety storm returning still,
        The morning hoar, the evening chill:
        Reluctant comes the timid Spring,
        Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
        Murmurs the blossomed boughs around
        That clothe the garden’s southern bound;
        Scarce a sickly, straggling flower
        Decks the rough castle’s rifted tower;
        Scarce the hardy ivy peeps
        From the dark dell’s entangled steeps,
        Fringing the forests devious edge,
        Half-robed, appears the privet hedge,
        Or to the distant eye displays,
        Weakly green, its budding sprays.”

An ancient writer beautifully describes one of those bright, transient
showers which prevail at this season.

        Away to that sunny nook, for the thick shower
        Rushes on strikingly: ay, now it comes,
        Glancing about the leaves with its first dips,
        Like snatches of faint music. Joyous bird,
        It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time
        To thy warbling notes. Now it louder falls,
        Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;
        And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps
        With a crash of many sounds; the thrush is still,
        There are sweet scents around us; the flow’ret hides,
        On that green bank, beneath the leaves;
        The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,
        And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses.
        And now the shower slopes to the warm west,
        Leaving a dewy track; and see, the big drops,
        Like falling pearls, glisten in the sunny mist.
        The air is clear again, and the far woods
        Shine out in their early green. Let’s onward, then,
        For the first blossoms peep about the path;
        The lambs are nibbling the short, dripping grass,
        And the birds are on the bushes.

The month of April not unfrequently introduces us to the chimney or
house-swallow, known by its long, forked tail and red breast. At first,
here and there only one appears glancing quickly by us, as if scarcely
able to endure the cold, which Warton beautifully describes—

        The swallow for a moment seen,
        Skims in haste the village green.

But in a few days their number is much increased, and they sport with
seeming pleasure in the warm sunshine.

        Along the surface of the winding stream,
        Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,
        Or round the borders of the spacious lawn,
        Fly in repeated circles, rising o’er
        Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,
        Easy and light. One snatches from the ground
        A downy feather, and then upward springs,
        Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,
        In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
        When all at once dart at the falling prize.

As these birds live on insects, their appearance is a certain proof that
some of this minute tribe of animals have ventured from their winter
abodes.

Thomson thus describes this busy month among the feathered tribes—

                          Some to the holly-hedge
        Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;
        Some to the rude protection of the thorn
        Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree
        Offers its kind concealment to a few,
        Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.
        Others apart, far in the grassy dale,
        Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave;
        But most in woodland solitudes delight,
        In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,
        Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
        Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day,
        When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots
        Of hazel, pendent o’er the plaintive stream,
        They frame the first foundation of their domes;
        Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
        And bound with clay together. Now ’tis naught
        But restless hurry through the busy air,
        Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps
        The slimy pool, to build the hanging house
        Intent. And often, from the careless back
        Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills
        Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,
        Steal from the barn a straw, till soft and warm,
        Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

Another celebrated poet completes the picture:—

        The cavern-loving wren sequestered seeks
        The verdant shelter of the hollow stump;
        And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,
        Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs
        The oriole, and the hoarse-voiced crow,
        Rocked by the storm, erect their airy nests.
        The ousel, long frequenter of the grove
        Of fragrant pines, in solemn depth of shade,
        Finds rest. Or mid the holly’s shining leaves,
        A simple bush, the piping thrush contents;
        Though in the woodland contest, he, aloft,
        Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,
        And scorns the humble quire. The wood-lark asks
        A lowly dwelling, hid beneath some tuft,
        Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:
        Songster beloved! who to the sun such lays
        Pours forth as earth ne’er owns. Within the boughs
        The sparrow lays her spotted eggs. The barn,
        With eaves o’er-pendent, holds the chattering tribe.
        Secret the linnet seeks the tangled wood,
        The white owl seeks some antique ruined wall,
        Fearless of rapine; or in hollow trees,
        Which age has caverned, safely courts repose.
        The velvet jay, in pristine colors clad,
        Weaves her curious nest with firm-wreathed twigs,
        And sidelong forms her cautious door; she dreads
        The taloned hawk, or pouncing eagle,
        Herself, with craft suspicion ever dwells.

As the singing of birds is the voice of courtship and conjugal love, the
concerts of the groves begin to fill all with their various melody. In
England the return of the nightingale in the spring is hailed with much
joy; he sings by day as well as night; but in the daytime his voice is
drowned in the multitude of performers; in the evening it is heard
alone, whence the poets have always made the song of the nightingale a
nocturnal serenade. The author of the “_Rime of the Ancient Mariner_,”
thus beautifully describes an April night, and the song of this siren:—

                            All is still,
        A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
        Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
        That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
        A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
        And hark! the nightingale begins his song;
        He crowds, and hurries, and precipitates,
        With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes,
        As he were fearful that an April night
        Would be too short for him to utter forth
        His love-chant, and disburden his full soul
        Of all his music!
                            I know a grove,
        Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
        Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
        This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
        And the trim walks are broken up; and grass,
        Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths;
        But never elsewhere in one place I knew
        So many nightingales. And far and near,
        In wood and thicket o’er the wide grove,
        They answer and provoke each other’s songs—
        With skirmish and capricious passagings,
        And murmurs musical and swift—jug, jug!
        And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all,
        Stirring the air with such a harmony
        That, should you close your eyes, you might almost
        Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes
        Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
        You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs,
        Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
        Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
        Lifts up her love-torch.
                              Oft a moment’s space,
        What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
        Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
        Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
        With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
        Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
        As if one quick and sodden gale had swept
        An hundred airy harps! And I have watched
        Many a nightingale perched giddily
        On blossoming twig, still swinging from the breeze,
        And to that motion tune his wanton song,
        Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Milton, too, in the first of his sonnets, has a beautiful address to
this success portending songster:

        O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
        Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
        While hours lead on the laughing month of May,
        Thou with fresh hopes the lover’s heart dost fill.

The fishes are now inspired by the same enlivening influence which acts
upon the rest of animated Nature, and in consequence, again offer
themselves as a prey to the art of the angler, who returns to his usual
haunt.

        “Beneath a willow long forsook,
         The fisher seeks his ’customed nook;
         And bursting through the crackling sedge
         That crowns the current’s caverned edge,
         He startles from the bordering wood
         The bashful wild-ducks early brood.”

A considerable number of plants flower in this month, which Bloomfield
beautifully describes.

        Neglected now the early daisy lies,
        Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom’st the only prize,
        Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad
        Flowers of all hues with sweetest fragrance stored,
        Where’er she treads Love gladdens every plain,
        Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;
        Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,
        Anticipating wealth for Summer skies.

In particular, many of the fruit-bearing trees and shrubs, the flowers
of which are peculiarly termed _blossoms_. These form a most agreeable
spectacle, as well on account of their beauty, as of the promise they
give of future benefits.

“What exquisite differences and distinctions, and resemblances,”
exclaims Warton, “there are between all the various blossoms of the
fruit-trees; and no less in their general effect, than in their separate
details.

“The almond-blossom which comes first of all, and while the tree is
quite bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose color; and when they are
fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head, instead of
being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some
fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various lands
of plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and
clustering as those of the almond. The peach and nectarine, which are
now preparing to put forth their blossoms, are unlike either of the
above; and their sweet effect, as if growing out of the bare wall or
rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush
color, and of a delicate bell-shape; the lips, however, divided and
turning backward, to expose the interior to the cherishing sun. But,
perhaps, the bloom that is richest, and most promising in its general
appearance, is that of the cherry, clasping its white honors all around
the long, straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a leaf
or bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as a
green finish at the extremity of each branch. The blossoms of the pears,
and, loveliest of all, the apples, do not come in perfection till next
month.”

It is, however, an anxious time for the possessor, as the fairest
prospect of a plentiful increase is often blighted. Shakspeare draws a
pathetic comparison from this circumstance, to paint the delusive nature
of human expectations:

        This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
        The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
        And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
        The third day comes a frost, a killing frost!

And Milton beautifully uses the same simile:

        Abortive as the first-born bloom of Spring,
        Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter’s frost.

Herrick indulges in the following “fond imaginings” to blossoms:

        Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
          Why do you fall so fast?
          Your date is not so past
        But you may stay yet here awhile
          To blush and gently smile,
          And go at last.

        What! were ye born to be
          An hour and half’s delight,
          And so to bid good-night?
        ’Tis pity Nature brought ye forth,
          Merely to show your worth,
          And lose you quite!

        But your lovely leaves where we,
          May read how soon things have
          Their end, though ne’er so brave;
        And after they have shown their pride,
          Like you away to glide
          Into the grave.

The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance to the aspirations of
many a bosom at this inspiring season:

                              Now from the town,
        Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,
        Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields,
        Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops
        From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze
        Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;
        Or taste the smell of daisy; or ascend
        Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
        And see the country far diffused around,
        One boundless blush of white empurpled shower
        Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye
        Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath
        The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

The farmer is busied in sowing early sorts of grain and seeds for
fodder, for which purpose dry weather is most suitable, though plentiful
showers, at due intervals, are desirable for feeding the young grass and
springing seeds:

        “The work is done, no more to man is given,
         The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven;
         Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,
         And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground;
         In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,
         His tufted barley yellow with the sun,
         Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,
         And all his harvest gathered around his door.”

                             KATE LORIMER:

                      OR THE PEARL IN THE OYSTER.

                        BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

                  “The pearl in ocean’s cavern lies,
                   The feather floats upon the wave.”

KATE LORIMER was neither a beauty, a wit, nor an heiress: she was only
one of those many commonplace young ladies, who are “brought out” every
winter to laugh, dance and flirt, for a season or two, then to marry,
and fulfill their destiny by immuring themselves in a nursery for the
rest of their lives. So said the world—but for once that many-eyed and
many-tongued gossip was mistaken. Kate was very unlike most young
ladies. With her Juno-like figure, and fine, though somewhat massive,
features, there needed only a careful study of the mysteries of the
toilet to make her appear what dandies call “a splendid woman.” But
Kate, though in reality she was neatness itself, generally seemed but
one degree removed from a sloven; so careless was she respecting the
color, make, and adjustment of her clothes. Then she had what Shakspeare
calls “a very pretty wit,” a certain shrewdness of intellect, and a
quiet sense of the ridiculous, which wanted only the piquant sauce of
boldness and ill-nature to make her what the witlings in primrose kids
would style “_bre-i-lliant_.” But Kate was equally indifferent to her
own looks and manners. She seemed like a kind of human machine, moved by
some invisible springs, at the volition of others, but by no positive
will of her own.

What, you will ask, was the secret of this cold abstraction in a young
and not ungifted girl? There was no mystery about it; Kate was only one
of the many instances of “a candle placed in the wrong socket,” as my
poor friend —— used to say. She was one of a large family, but she was
neither the oldest—the first inheritor of parental love—nor the
youngest—the recipient of its fond dotage. Her elder brother, a tall,
graceful youth, was the pride of both father and mother, and whatever
privileges Kate might have claimed as the _first_ of the troop of
damsels who chattered their days away in the nursery and school-room,
they were entirely forgotten in favor of the second daughter, who
chanced to be extremely beautiful. The fact was that Kate occupied a
most insignificant position between a conceited oldest son and a sister
who was a belle. Her brother Tom’s sententiousness overwhelmed her and
crushed her into nonentity, while Louisa’s beauty and vivacity threw her
completely into the shade.

At her very first entrance into society, Kate felt that she had only a
subordinate part to play, and there was a certain inertness of character
about her, which made her quietly adopt the habits befitting her
inferior position. Her mother, a handsome, stylish woman, with an
easiness of temper which won affection but not respect from her
children, and a degree of indolence which sadly interfered with the
regularity of her household—sometimes fretted a little at Kale’s
sluggishness, and wished she was a little less “lumpish” at a party. But
there was a repose in Kate’s manner, which, upon the whole, Mrs. Lorimer
rather liked, as it effectually prevented any rivalry between the two
sisters. Aunt Bell, a somewhat precise, but sensible old maid, was the
only one who was seriously dissatisfied. She remembered Kate’s ambition
as a schoolgirl; she preserved among her most precious mementoes all
Kate’s “prizes,” “rewards of merit,” etc. And she could not conceive why
this enthusiasm and eagerness for distinction should have died away so
suddenly and so completely. Aunt Bell suspected something of the truth,
but even she, who loved Kate better than any body in the world, could
not know the whole truth.

Kate Lorimer was like one of those still, quiet mountain lakes, which at
one particular spot are said to be unfathomable, but whether because
they are so deep, or because a wonderfully strong under-current carries
away the line and plummet in its descent, is never clearly ascertained
by those who skim over the surface of the sleepy waters. Almost every
one liked her; that is, they felt that negative kind of liking which all
persons have for a quiet, good-humored sort of a body, who is never in
the way. At a crowded party Kate always gave up her place in the
quadrille if there was a want of room on the floor; if beaux were
scarce, Kate was quite content to talk to some frowsy old lady in a
corner; if a pair of indefatigable hands were required to play
interminable waltzes and polkas, Kate’s long white fingers seemed
unwearied; in short, Kate never thought of herself, because she honestly
believed she was not worth anybody’s thinking about.

Was she so inordinately humble as to set no value upon herself? Not
exactly that; but she had so high a standard of excellence in her own
soul, and was so conscious of her utter inability to attain to that
standard, that she grew to feel a species of contempt for herself, and
therefore she neglected herself, not as a penance, but because she would
not waste thought or time upon any thing appertaining to herself. No one
understood poor Kate, and of course nobody appreciated her. When she
spent hours in dressing her beautiful sister for a ball, and then
twisting up her own fine hair in a careless knot, and slipping on a
plain white dress, was ready in ten minutes to accompany the belle to
the gay scene where she knew she could never shine, people only called
her slovenly and careless, but gave her no credit for the generous
affection which could lavish decorations on another, and be content
through a whole evening

                               “to hear
        Praise of a sister with unwounded ear.”

When she refused invitations to parties that she might stay at home and
nurse Aunt Bell through a slow fever, people said—“She is so indolent,
she is glad of an excuse to avoid the trouble of going out.” No one knew
that she was not too indolent to watch through the long hours of night
beside the sick-bed of the invalid, while her lovely sister was sleeping
off the fatigues of the dance. When she gave up a gay season at the
Springs, rather than disappoint her old grandmother, who had set her
heart upon a visit from one of the sisters—when she spent a long, dull
summer in a hot country-house, with no other companions than Aunt Bell
and the infirm old lady, and no other amusement than could be found in a
book-case full of Minerva-Press novels, then people—those wonderfully
knowing people—again said, “Kate Lorimer is turning her indolence to
account, and will earn a legacy out of it;” while the fact was, neither
Aunt Bell nor grandmother had a cent in the world beyond their
life-interest in their old country home.

“If Louisa makes an engagement this winter, I think I shall hurry Ella’s
education a little, so as to bring her out next season;” said Mrs.
Lorimer to her husband, during one of those “_curtain conferences_”
which are quite the opposite to “curtain lectures.”

“Why should you do that? You will have Kate still to provide for, and
Ella will be all the more attractive for another year’s study,” was the
reply of the calculating though kind father.

“Oh, Kate is a hopeless case; she will never be married, she is too
indifferent; no man will take a fancy to a girl who at the first
introduction shows by her manner that she does not care what he thinks
of her.”

“Then you think Kate is one of the ‘predestinate old maids?’”

“I am afraid so.”

“Well, Kate is a good child, and we shall want one of the girls to keep
house for us when we grow old; so I don’t know that we need regret it
much.”

“You don’t consider the mortification of bringing out two daughters at a
time and having one left on hand, like a bale of unsaleable goods, while
such a woman as that vulgar Mrs. Dobbs has married her four red-headed
frights in two seasons.”

“How was that done?”

“Oh! by management; but then the girls were as anxious as the mother,
and helped themselves along. As to Kate, I don’t believe she would take
the trouble to walk across the room in order to secure the best match in
the country.”

“She certainly is very indifferent, but she seems perfectly contented.”

“Yes, that is the trouble; she is perfectly satisfied to remain a
fixture, although she knows that she will have to rank with the
‘_antiques_’ as soon as I begin to bring out her four younger sisters.”

“Perhaps it would be better to bring out Ella next winter,” sighed the
father.

“Yes, Ella is lively and fresh-looking, and during the festivities which
will follow Louisa’s wedding, she can slip into her place in society
without the expense of a ‘_coming-out_’ party.”

“You speak as if Louisa’s marriage were a settled thing.”

“Because she can have her choice now of half a dozen, and by the time
the season is over she will probably decide.”

“Well, under your guidance, she is not likely to make an imprudent
choice.”

“I hope not. To tell you the truth, I am waiting for one more
declaration, and then there will be no more delay,” said the mother.

“Has she not admirers enough?”

“Yes, but if she can secure young Ferrers it will be worth waiting.”

“What! Clarence Ferrers? Why, he is worth almost half a million; is he
an admirer of Louisa’s?”

“He is a new acquaintance, and seems very much struck with her beauty;
but he is an odd creature, and seems to pride himself upon differing
from all the rest of the world; we shall see what will happen. One thing
only is certain, Louisa will be married before the year is out, and Kate
will, I think, resign herself to old-maidism with a very good grace.”

And having come to this conclusion, the two wise-acres composed
themselves to sleep.

Clarence Ferrers, so honorably mentioned by Mr. Lorimer as “_worth_ half
a million,” was a gentleman of peculiar tastes and habits. His father
died while he was yet a boy, and he had struggled with poverty and
hardship while acquiring the education which his talents deserved, and
which his ambition demanded. He had stooped his pride to labor, and he
had learned to submit to want, but he had never bowed himself to bear
the yoke of dependence. Alone he had toiled, alone he had struggled,
alone he had won success. His mother had been the first to encourage his
youthful genius, and to plant the seeds of honorable ambition within his
soul. He had loved her with an almost idolatrous affection, and when he
saw her eking out by the labors of the needle the small annuity which
secured her from starvation, in order that he might devote all his own
little stipend as a teacher to his own education, he felt that gratitude
and love alike required him to persevere until success should reward the
mother by crowning the son.

There is something ennobling and hallowing in such a tie as that which
existed between Mrs. Ferrers and Clarence. A gentle, humble-minded woman
herself, she was ambitious that her son should be good and great. She
knew the benumbing effect of poverty upon the soul, but she took care
that the genial warmth of affection should counteract its evil
influences upon the gifted mind of her darling son. She was his friend,
his counselor, his sympathizing companion, sharing all his hopes, his
aspirations, his pleasures, and his sorrows, as only a true-hearted and
loving woman can do. Long ere he reached the years of mature manhood the
bond between mother and son had been made stronger than death; and,
alas! far more enduring than life. Mrs. Ferrers lived to see Clarence
occupying a position of honor and usefulness as professor in one of our
most distinguished colleges. Her death left him a lonely and desolate
man, for so close had been their communion, so thorough had been their
mutual sympathy, that he had never till then felt the need of another
friend. But in the enthusiasm of his deep and fervent love, he felt that
he was not dissevered by the hand of death; and many an hour did he hold
converse in his secret soul with the “spirit-mother,” whom he felt to be
ever near him.

Clarence Ferrers had counted his thirtieth summer, when an old
great-uncle, who had suffered him to struggle with poverty during all
his early years, without stretching forth a finger to sustain him, died
very suddenly, leaving behind him an immense fortune, which he
distributed by will, among some dozen charitable associations, whose
very names he had never heard until they were suggested by his lawyer,
and making not the slightest mention of his nephew. Luckily for him, the
will was _unexecuted_, and the neglected Clarence learned that, as
heir-at-law, he was entitled to the whole of his miserly uncle’s hoarded
wealth. Years had passed since Clarence had even seen the old man; and
he certainly owed him no gratitude for the gift which would have been
withheld from him if death had not been more cruel even than avarice.
But Clarence was not a man to feel selfishly on any subject. One hundred
thousand dollars, the fifth part of his newly-acquired fortune, was
distributed among the charities named in the will, thus fulfilling the
supposed wish of the deceased. With another large portion he endowed a
“Home for Poor Gentlewomen,” as a tribute to the memory of his mother,
whose life had been one of struggle and care for want of such “a home”
in the early days of her widowhood. Then, after liberally providing for
all who had any claims upon the old miser, he placed his affairs in the
hands of a trusty agent, and sailed for Europe.

Clarence Ferrers set out upon his travels with no fixed purpose, except
that of acquiring knowledge of all kinds, and of compelling occupation
of mind to quiet yearnings of the heart. Eight years elapsed ere he
revisited his native land. During that time he had explored every part
of Europe, treading the greensward of its by-ways, no less than the dust
of its high-roads. From the islands of the Archipelago to the most
northerly part of Russia, he had traveled, commanding respect by his
scientific attainments, receiving attentions every where for his courtly
elegance of manner, winning love wherever he went by his suavity and
kindness. Then to the East, that land of sacred memories, he turned his
steps; Egypt, the land of mystery, too, was not forgotten, and when
Clarence returned to his own country, he bore with him treasures of
learning and wisdom from every land where the footsteps of man had trod.
Yet was he as modest as he was learned, and few would have suspected
that the quiet, gentlemanlike person, whose tall figure bent so
gracefully over some timid girl at the piano, or who so carefully
escorted some old lady to the supper-room at a party, was the celebrated
traveler and man of world-known science.

Such was the man whom Mr. Lorimer pronounced to be “WORTH _half a
million_!” I have sketched him at some length, because this is no fancy
portrait, and memory has been faithful to her trust in thus enabling me
to trace, though but in faint and shadowy outline, the noble character
of one of God’s noblest creatures.

But all this time I have forgotten poor Kate Lorimer. She would have
thought it strange that she ever should be remembered, especially when
Clarence Ferrers was in one’s mind. Kate had seen Clarence Ferrers
introduced to her beautiful sister, and had felt a glow of pleasure as
she marked his look of genuine admiration. She had listened to words of
graceful compliment, so unlike the vapid flattery of others. She had
heard the tones of that thrilling voice, whose musical accents had been
able to move alike the wild Arab, and the wilder Cossack, by their
melody. She sat alone in the only shadowy corner of a gay and crowded
saloon, but she would not have exchanged places with the most flattered
and courted of the guests; for she could listen unobserved to the gifted
traveler, and look unnoticed upon his expressive countenance. She had
heard of him from childhood; for Aunt Bell had been one of Mrs. Ferrers’
earliest friends, and the story of his early struggles, his devoted love
for his mother, and his subsequent good fortune, had been one of Aunt
Isabel’s favorite themes. But he was a man when Kate was still in the
nursery, and was but a shy girl of fourteen when, as she remembered, he
called to pay his farewell visit to his mother’s friend previous to his
departure. To the unappreciated girl, living in the midst of an ungenial
though not unhealthy moral atmosphere, the picture of perfect sympathy
and affection, as it had existed between the gentle mother and her
gifted son, was one which, unconsciously, left its reflection within her
soul, and became a sort of ideal to her half-developed nature. She did
not retain the slightest remembrance of his actual appearance, but so
vivid an image of his mental and moral gifts was traced upon her memory,
that she felt she needed not the intercourse of social life to make her
know him better. Yet as the beauty and vivacity of her sister attracted
him closer to her side, it was impossible for Kate, with all her
shyness, to avoid becoming acquainted with him; and it sometimes
happened that when the beautiful Louisa was led off to the dance by one
of her host of admirers, she would leave Kate to entertain Mr. Ferrers
till her return, thus flattering him by her evident desire to retain his
society, and, at the same time securing him from all rival belles.

Clarence Ferrers was now eight-and-thirty, an age when a man, however
gifted, will not be insensible to the evident admiration of a very young
and extremely pretty woman. He was still a fine looking man, but he was
no longer youthful in his appearance. His teeth were fine, and his eyes,
those soft, bright, tender eyes, were as beautiful as in boyhood, when
his mother loved nothing so well as to kiss those full, heavily-fringed
lids for the sake of the beaming look which rewarded the caress. But
Clarence had not escaped the touch of Time; his luxuriant locks were
thinned, and the silver threads were mingled among those dark chestnut
curls. He appeared full as old as he really was; but who could look on
his magnificent brow, watch the play of his flexible lips, or listen to
the tones of his exquisite voice, and think of the ravages of Time?

Kate Lorimer was one of the best _listeners_ in the world. There was a
certain negligent ease with which she inclined herself toward the
speaker, and a look of quiet attention on her countenance which always
gratified the self-love of those who conversed with her. To be sure, in
nine cases out of ten, this pleasant manner arose only from her indolent
good humor, which found a kind of luxurious repose in the monotonous hum
of a busy talker. But when listening to Clarence Ferrers, (for she
seldom talked with him, except as much as common politeness required,)
Kate soon found that his conversation did not afford her a mere cushion
for mental repose. Not that Clarence dealt much in the marvelous, or
excelled much in narration, although he abounded in illustrative
anecdotes and reminiscences on every subject; but he had the art—so
rare and so delightful—of waking up every faculty in the mind of those
with whom he conversed. He imparted knowledge in such a manner as to
make his hearer feel as if the _ideas_ were his own, and the
corroborative _facts_ only were the results of the traveler’s
observation. Yet he was no flatterer, he only, as I said before, had the
power of arousing and stimulating the intellect of his hearers.

If Clarence Ferrers had been at first struck with the extreme beauty of
Louisa, he was not less sensible to the “surprises of sudden joy” with
which he beheld the dawning of Kate’s peculiar qualities of character.
Her moral nature he had read at a glance, and it inspired him with
respect and esteem, but her intellectual being, which was a mystery even
to herself, became a study to the man of science and research. There was
so much freshness of thought in her hitherto slumbering mind; such
clearness of perception when she was unconsciously led to exercise her
mental vision; such harmony of movement between the reasoning and the
imaginative faculty, that Clarence became daily more interested in the
“lumpish” Kate, despite the attractions of her beautiful sister.

“Mamma, I do not believe I can put off Frank Dormer any longer; he is
desperately in love, and determined to make a declaration,” said Louisa,
one morning, as she sat assisting Kate to trim a ball-dress with which
she expected to charm all eyes.

“It would be a pity to lose so rich and generous an admirer, Lou,” was
the reply of the prudent mother.

“But suppose I should accept him, mamma?”

“That you would not do; Frank Dormer is only rich in expectancy, while
Clarence Ferrers has both wealth and fame.”

“I like Frank best;” said the young lady, coolly.

“My dear Louisa, have you lost your senses?”

“No, madam; but you may as well let me tell you now, that, for all his
fortune, I would not marry Clarence Ferrers.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he is so frightfully sensible, I should never dare do or say an
absurd thing for fear of seeing those great _lamping_ eyes looking
reproval at me. Besides, he does not seem inclined to offer himself.”

“How can you say so, Louisa? I am sure he never leaves us at a party,
and seems never so happy as when sitting near us and watching your
graceful movements when you are dancing.”

“Well, he can’t expect me to drop into his arms by the mere fascination
of his look. If he were not so rich, I should not think of him for a
moment, while I really like Frank. He is full of gayety and frolic, and
with him I should have a merry life. Clarence Ferrers is too old and
grave for me. Don’t you think so, Kate?”

Kate started at the question; she had evidently been in one of her
dreamy moods, and perhaps had not heard a word of their conversation.

Poor Kate! she bent over her sewing, and seemed intent only on placing
at proper distances the delicate white roses which looped the gauze
drapery of Louisa’s new dress; but she felt a sudden faintness come over
her, which required all her habitual self-control to subdue. Not until
the dress was finished and displayed upon the sofa to her mother’s
criticism; not until the pearl ornaments had been laid upon the beauty’s
dark curls by the skillful fingers of the all-enduring Kate; not until
she had listened to all her sister’s ideas respecting the sash, which
was to be tied at the side, with long floating ends; in short, not until
all the important trivialities of a belle’s ball-costume had been
discussed and decided upon by the aid of Kate’s taste, was she at
liberty to retire to her own room. At last she was released, and as
Louisa sprung up stairs, humming a lively Opera air, Kate, gathering up
her sewing materials, slowly followed till she arrived at the door of
her own apartment, which, in consideration of its being the smallest
room in the house, and in the fourth story, she was permitted to occupy
_alone_. This had long been poor Kate’s sanctuary, where she could think
and feel and act as she pleased. Now she quietly locked the door, and
then, when she had secured herself from intrusion, she sat down in the
rocking-chair which had been her companion from childhood, and gave way
to the tears which were pressing so painfully against her hot eye-lids.

Kate had often wept—much oftener than those who called her indifferent
and cold in temper, could have imagined—but never had she shed such
bitter, burning tears as now. There was grief and shame, and wounded
affection, and mortified pride, all blended in the emotion which now
agitated her. She could not have analyzed her own feelings; she only
knew she was very unhappy and very lonely.

That evening Kate was too unwell to accompany her sister to the ball. A
severe headache, arising from an attack of influenza, which accounted
for the humid eyes that would weep in spite of all poor Kate’s efforts,
was sufficient apology. So Mrs. Lorimer, with her tall son and beautiful
daughter, were whirled off to the gay scene, leaving Kate to read the
newspaper and play backgammon with her rheumatic father, who never went
out after sunset.

But the old gentleman’s evenings were generally short. By nine o’clock
he was comfortably fixed in bed, and Kate sat alone in the deserted
drawing-room, when she was startled by the sound of the door-bell. It
was too late for a visiter, and Kate’s first thought was that it might
be a message for a parcel for her brother. She did not alter her
position, therefore, but sat with her head bent, her hands listlessly
lying in her lap, and her whole attitude one of the deepest dejection. A
gentle footstep, and the tones of a well-known voice, startled her from
her painful dream, and as she looked up her eyes fell on the stately
form of Clarence Ferrers.

“I heard you were kept at home by indisposition, Miss Lorimer,” said he,
“will you pardon me if I have availed myself of this opportunity of
seeing you alone?”

Kate was a little bewildered, but she murmured something about “the
pleasure of seeing him,” etc. like a well-bred young lady.

“Kate—Miss Lorimer—will you answer me frankly? I have lately indulged
the hope that we may be united in a closer bond than even the friendship
with which you have honored me; have I deceived myself with vain
fancies?”

Kate’s heart seemed to stand still for a moment, and an icy coldness ran
through her veins. She saw it all in a moment. Clarence Ferrers wanted
to learn from her his chance of success with her beautiful sister. What
should she do? Louisa did not love Clarence, but it was a desirable
match. Should she sacrifice the prospects of her sister, or should she
betray the noble confidence of him who called her his friend? How could
she decide when her own heart was just awakened to a dim sense of its
own mad folly and weakness?

Clarence watched her countenance, and marveled at the lights and shadows
that flitted so rapidly across it. “I am afraid I have given you pain,
Miss Lorimer,” said he at length: “I meant not to distress you; only
tell me whether I have done wrong in believing that I might yet occupy a
nearer and dearer place in your esteem; whether I have been mistaken in
my hope of finding you my strongest advocate?”

Kate felt that she must speak. “You can scarcely need an advocate,” said
she timidly: “I presume I understand your meaning, and I can only say
that any woman might be proud to be the object of your choice.”

“And is this all you can say? Am I to think that on the empty gifts of
fame, or the paltry advantages of fortune, I must depend for that most
precious of earthly things, a sympathizing heart. ‘_Proud to be my
choice_’—oh! Kate, I did not expect such a cold rebuff from you.”

Tears rushed into Kate’s eyes; she felt herself growing weaker every
moment, and she determined to put an end to the conversation.

“Have you spoken to my sister, Mr. Ferrers?” said she, while she strove
in vain to check the quick gasps that almost suffocated her.

“To your sister!” said Clarence, in some surprise. “No, Miss Lorimer, I
preferred coming first to you.”

“I have but little influence over Louisa,” said the trembling girl, “but
all that I have shall be exerted in your behalf.”

“Louisa!—your sister!—I really do not comprehend you, Kate.”

A momentary feeling of wounded pride aroused Kate, and mastered her
coming weakness. She rose from her seat; “Did you not ask me to be your
advocate with my sister?” asked she, while her cheek and lip grew white
as ashes.

“My advocate with your sister!” exclaimed Clarence; “no indeed: Kate! my
own dearest Kate! it was with your own sweet self I wanted an advocate,
and hoped to find my strongest one in your heart.”

Kate grew dizzy and faint; a mist gathered before her eyes, and when it
cleared away she was sitting on the sofa, with a strong arm lovingly
twined about her waist, and on the soft white hand which lay in the
grasp of Clarence glittered the betrothal ring, though how or when it
was placed there she never clearly could remember.

“How strangely Clarence Ferrers disappeared from the ball to-night,”
exclaimed Mrs. Lorimer, as she puffed her way up to her room at two
o’clock in the morning.

“I was not sorry he went, mamma, for it gave Frank the chance he has so
long wanted. He offered himself last night, while we were in the midst
of that last polka; and I referred him to papa,” said Louisa, as she
turned toward her own room.

“Well, I only hope you have not been too hasty,” said the mother, too
sleepy just then to care much about the matter.

The next morning Mr. Lorimer was visited in his private office by the
young and handsome Frank Dormer. He was an only child; his father was
prepared to “come down” handsomely with the cash, and Mr. Lorimer gave a
ready assent to the proposition of the enamored youth. He had scarcely
finished his after-dinner nap, on the same day, when Clarence Ferrers
sought an interview. Matters were soon arranged with a man who was
“_worth half a million_,” and Mr. Lorimer chuckled and rubbed his hands
with infinite glee, as he reminded his wife of her prediction that
“_Kate was a predestinate old maid_.”

Kate has been more than two years a wife, and in the elegant,
self-possessed, dignified woman, whose statuesque repose of manner seems
now the result of the most perfect grace, no one would recognize the
dull, indifferent, “lumpish” Kate of former years. In the atmosphere of
affection every faculty of mind and body has attained perfect
development. She has learned to value herself at her real worth, because
such a man as Clarence Ferrers has thought her deserving of his regard.
She is not the less humble, but she is no longer self-despising and
self-neglectful. In order to do honor to her husband, she has striven to
be all he would have her, and the result is one of the most intellectual
and elegant women of whom our country can boast. The “light” which was
threatened with extinction has now found “its right socket,” and no
brighter luminary shines either in the world of fashion, or in the
circle of home.

              BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. III.

                    BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration: Monterey.]

    IT was early in September, in the morning of the day,
    When our army paused admiringly in front of MONTEREY;—
    Like Cortez, had our general led his gallant little band
    Through hosts of savage foemen to the centre of the land;—
    Guerilla and Ranchero had followed on his track,
    Like hungry wolves, but steadily our men had beat them back.

    There lay the noble city—its cathedrals, and its towers
    And parapets; its palaces, and gardens bright with flowers—
    With the sunlight falling on it, over tower and dome and spire,
    Through the mellow morning radiance, in a rain of golden fire:
    Never, even in dreams of Orient lands, had Saxon eyes looked down
    On so glorious a country, or so beautiful a town.

    Through the grove of San Domingo our general led the way,
    Reconnoitring in silence the city as it lay—
    When from the Citadel, which frowned scarce half a league before,
    We saw a flash of flame leap out, and heard a cannon’s roar:
    The enemy were there in force, and we braced us for the fray,
    Though retiring for the time before the guns of MONTEREY.

    All day our parties scanned the place; and never had our eyes
    Beheld a spot so guarded from all danger of surprise;
    Its fortresses apparently all human force defied,
    For what nature left unfinished, consummate art supplied:
    We felt, while gazing on it, that many a bloody day
    Would pass before our gallant troops were lords of MONTEREY.

    Next morning came the order; and we saw chivalrous WORTH,
    With his regulars, march silently and determinedly forth.
    On the heights that overhung his road the Bishop’s Palace rose,
    Like a giant looking down on the columns of his foes;
    But his men pressed bravely on, led by HAYS and noble MAY,
    Till from their eyry in the hills they gazed on MONTEREY.

    Meanwhile we stood like restive steeds, fretful and full of fire,
    And anxious for the conflict which every hour brought nigher.
    Day waned, and morning came again, and then the word was given
    And answered by a thousand shouts that shook the vaults of heaven,
    For our troops, long curbed, now held the reins, and lightly leapt
      away,
    Sweeping with headlong fury toward defying MONTEREY.

    We saw brave WORTH, whose noble band was ordered to the right,
    Lead on his men through sheets of flame, and storm the castled height,
    And the Mexic flag go down, and the stars and stripes expand
    In the golden yellow sunlight, like a rainbow o’er the land,
    As, led by gallant BUTLER, our division fought its way,
    Foot by foot, and step by step, toward the town of MONTEREY.

    The Citadel had greeted us, but we passed along the plain,
    While its showers of grape and musket-shot deluged our ranks like
      rain;
    But fierce and hot as was its fire, ’twas naught to what ensued
    When in the suburbs narrow ways our little phalanx stood;
    But BUTLER led us on, and we swore to win the day
    Or die, like Yankee volunteers, in the streets of MONTEREY.

    The cannon of the Citadel still swept our falling flanks—
    The guns of Fort Teneria sent death throughout our ranks;—
    Every window, door and house-top concealed a hidden foe,
    Who sent his leaden welcome to the files that fought below:
    Death reigned supreme: we stood aghast; but not a man gave way,
    Though never yet was fight so fought as that at MONTEREY.

    Sudden! arose a cry—a yell! and we saw our banners wave
    Over Fort Teneria’s summit: God! what a shout we gave!
    QUITMAN and his brigade were there, and the enemy’s flag went down,
    As, with another rallying cry, we hurried through the town:
    Fort Diablo’s guns received us, and one third our columns lay
    Gasping—wounded—dying—dead—in the streets of MONTEREY.

    The rest grew sick at heart; but we closed our ranks and dashed
    Onward, with cheers, as all around our enemies’ muskets flashed;
    But BUTLER, tottering on his steed, staggered, and reeled, and sank,
    And with him, at the same discharge, went down our leading rank:—
    Human nature could endure no more, and the now departing day
    Saw us retreating slowly through the town of MONTEREY.

    Another day passed slowly by, and we made our bivouac
    Where we fought, for, though our foes were brave, they could not drive
      us back;
    But the morrow brought fresh orders, and our men with hurrying feet
    Pressed on again, troop after troop, contesting street by street;
    From door to door, from house to house, we fiercely fought our way,
    Determined that the night should see us lords of MONTEREY.

    Then came the deadly conflict, foot to foot and hand to hand,
    For at every nook and corner our foemen made a stand;
    From the barricades which swept the streets, from the roofs above our
      head,
    And the windows at our sides, descended showers of iron and lead;
    And the crash of tumbling timbers, and the clash of steel, that day,
    With the death-cries of the dying, rent the skies of MONTEREY.

    That night the conflict ceased, and the crimson morning sun
    Beheld the city in our hands—the bloody battle won.
    Next day our conquered foes marched out, and slowly over the plain
    Moved from our sight in silence—a sad, disheartened train;
    But many an eye glanced backward, remembering the affray,
    While we gazed on, like statues—the MEN OF MONTEREY.

[Illustration: woman weeping over a dead soldier]

[Illustration: THE SUNSHINE OF LOVE.]

                          LOITERINGS AND LIFE

                 ON THE PRAIRIES OF THE FARTHEST WEST.

                            BY J. M. LEGARE.

IN October of forty-six, while on a visit to St. Louis, I met a
college-mate, Charles G., who, after a two years’ ramble toward the
South, was now about to lace on his moccasin again, from a pure love of
adventure, and distaste for the so-called comforts of life in the
States. He had once before traversed the prairies skirting the
Mississippi, and even passed a winter among the Chippeways on the frozen
lakes, but his present design was to build a lodge somewhere in the
neighborhood of the head-waters of the Missouri, and run the risk of
losing his scalp, for the sake of the abundance of game of all sorts,
and freedom from the trammels of civilization, to be found on the
farther side of the Yellow-Stone river. As I had abundance of leisure,
and not a little fancy for stirring adventure myself, he readily made me
a convert to his way of thinking, and in three days we were steaming up
the Missouri for Fort Leavenworth, where we designed taking a canoe and
paddling the rest of the voyage. This outpost is fully six hundred miles
from St. Louis; but as these sketches are such as one would scrawl off,
lying full-length on the grass, with rifle within reach, and a blazing
fire in front, drawing savory steams from a haunch of antelope or deer,
or buffaloe-hump, I will describe nothing so commonplace as a voyage in
the high-pressure steamer which landed us in company with half a
regiment of raw dragroons en route for New Mexico.

We were all anxiety to begin our expedition in earnest, and the same day
purchased a dug-out of sufficient capacity from a couple of traders on
their way down stream, in which we embarked the next morning by
daylight, with a cargo consisting of a keg or two of powder, pig-lead,
Mackinaw blankets, biscuits, coffee, and liquor enough to take the
clayey taste out of a _few_ gallons of the river-water. Our party
consisted of four, Charlie G., myself, a Canadian trapper, named Jean le
Louche, from an outrageous squint in one eye, whom Charlie had hunted
with formerly, and hailed as an old acquaintance, and now hired to add
to the physical strength of the future little garrison, and lastly, a
woolly-headed servitor of mine, (Jock,) more honest than brilliant, (I
mean intellectually—for his face shone,) who had begged hard to
accompany me, in place of being sent back to Carolina. The true banks of
the Missouri are from two to twenty miles apart, and two or three
hundred feet in perpendicular height, sometimes rising in pinnacles and
terraces studded with glittering fragments of gypsum, making a splendid
show in the full blaze of the sun, and variegated with broad parallel
stripes of red, yellow, and gray, where the stratas of different soils
appear in their natural position laid bare by the heavy rains. The space
between is occupied by a rich plain, deposited by the river during its
frequent overflowings; and through this beautiful meadow, shaded as it
is here and there by forests and groves of cotton-wood, beech, sycamore,
and oak, the current flows, winding, from bank to bank, with an average
rate of speed of four or five miles. From the summit of the cliffs
stretches a vast level prairie quite to the falls of the Missouri, a
distance of perhaps 2,500 miles; but of this great pasture for game I
will say nothing for the present, but return to the region of the river,
which abounds with antelopes, deer, bears, and big-horns—the former
trooping down the grassy slopes in herds of from fifty to a hundred,
stamping their little feet and stretching out their necks, in their
impatience to learn the errand of the voyageurs, and the last-mentioned
making their appearance on the most inaccessible heights, often standing
motionless between the looker and the blue sky above, like images carved
out of the chalk which capped many of the peaks. These wild sheep or
goats, (for they resemble both,) I observed frequently perched on the
precipitous banks within reach, or very nearly, of a good rifle from the
shore, but on pointing this out to Jean, the Voyageur, he only laughed,
saying, “_Sacré!_ monsieur, dat vere true—a’most, tourjours a’most—but
nevare anyting else. _Monsieur bighorn a bien de connaissance_—all de
Injens call him ‘med’cine’—ha! Him stan’ vere quite—him not move an
pouce. Mais, tenez, him eye fix on you steady, not so much as make vink.
Ven you come assez close, you raise your fusil—oh, vere softly—den you
quite sure ob him rib for supper. Mais—dans l’instant—_sacré!_—where
him jomp? You look leetle more high up de cliff, and dare him stan’
a’most in de—de—how you call? Ah, in de shot-rifle. Nevare mind, you
say, I not so slow anoder time. Den you climb up leetle vay and take de
aim agen. Mais, come autrefois, him no longer dere—mais _a’most_—ah,
diable! toujours _a’most_!”

We laughed at Jean’s odd description of the habits of these wonderful
mountain-sheep, which he rendered more forcible by his extravagant
gestures, sometimes rising suddenly in our narrow canoe, at the risk of
turning it bottom upward.

“But,” said I, “what if one were to drive one of your ‘medicine’ goats
where he would have no higher place to leap to, and only a sheer
precipice before him?”

“Oh ho, monsieur, you tink you got him vere safe now—mais, monsieur,
med’cine not tink so—him laugh, oh vere much in him sleeve—diable! in
him hide! Eh bien, you much fatigué—you say to yourself, now or nevare!
Den you raise your rifle for de last time—your finger feel for de
trigger—_n’est-ce pas?_—Hola! sacré, diable, ventrebleu—were him? You
rub your eye, you open him wide—_so_ wide. Presently you look more
closer—you not see no terrace, noting but deep prec’pice—ha! Den you
smile vid yourself, you quite sure him break de neck at de bottom. You
creep down, creep down vere slow, dat your neck might not brake _aussi_.
Mais, ven you reach de bottom, you not see him novere!”

“How—you don’t mean to say that this devil of a goat can fall a hundred
feet or more without breaking every bone in his body?”

“Précisement, monsieur, précisement. Vhen him jump down, him fall on him
big horn—him not broke noting at all. Den à l’instant him on him four
foot—him cut caper—him say, _bec—bah_! And dat is de last you shall
see of monsieur vid de grandes hornes—eh bien!”

This was all very fine, but I credited about one-half of Jean’s
assertions, and determined to embrace the first opportunity of trying a
shot on my own account. Accordingly while the others were constructing
our usual night-camp one afternoon, I slipped quietly away, and after a
half hour’s prying about, discovered a big-horn, and crept cautiously
under the cliff upon which he was perched, but the animal discovered me
before I could get within long-shot. I followed, however, and to do so,
was obliged to begin the ascent, which was toilsome and sometimes
dangerous, from the narrowness of the ledges affording foot-hold.
Several times my eye glanced along the rifle-barrel, but before I could
draw trigger, a sudden leap would again place him out of reach; and in
this manner I persisted in creeping and clambering higher and higher,
until I found myself near the edge of the prairie above, and the
big-horn some distance _below_, with only a sloping ledge intervening
between us. I saw in a moment that he could not escape me this time,
unless he threw himself over the brink of the precipice, as Jean
related—a feat I placed no faith in.

To reach the nimble animal it was necessary to slide a portion of the
way down the inclined shelf, which I did sitting, with my eye fixed on
the game; the first part of the slope was hard clay, and I counted on
putting a stop to my descent a dozen or so yards below, where a stratum
of sand appeared; but when I reached what I had taken for sand, I found
it to be sand-_stone_ instead, and so smooth, that my velocity was
augmented rather than retarded. Away I went faster than ever—I quite
forgot the big-horn, and only thought of saving myself from a leap which
would certainly prove fatal without a pair of monstrous spiral horns.
Luckily, the ledge became horizontal before it terminated, which saved
my neck; but the seat of my trowsers, although of stout buckskin, were
grated away, and it was a great marvel I was not ground off to the
waist. As for the big-horn, he had thrown himself over even before I
touched the rock, and up the face of this last I was obliged to climb,
breaking holes in the slippery surface with my hatchet to serve as
steps, before I could regain my former position. I related my disaster
with the best grace I could to a grinning audience around the camp-fire,
and sought consolation in the broiled ribs of a fat doe Jean had brought
in, during a running fire of jokes and mock sympathy directed against
me, sitting _in naturalibus_ as to my legs, while Jock stitched in a new
piece of leather where it was most needed. A day or two after this we
came upon a herd of buffaloes for the first time. A party of Kanzas,
whom we met on their way to Fort Leavenworth, informed us that not many
leagues due west large game abounded—an assertion borne out by the long
strips of jerked meat with which their pack-horses were loaded. The same
day we arrived opposite Bellevue, and after a council held, determined
to land, drag our canoe and freight into the enclosure of the station,
and spend a week or two in collecting a good store of buffaloe-tongues
and pemican. Accordingly, we disembarked, and found no difficulty in
lodging our small vessel in a block-house not far from the water’s edge,
the main fort being situated on the brow of a hill of considerable
elevation. Here we purchased horses with the condition of returning them
to the traders from whom they were obtained, should we return in the
course of a few weeks, and desire to continue our voyage. On the second
or third day, (I forget which,) Jean, on mounting a steep eminence
somewhat in advance, cried out, “_Voilà des buffaloes!_” in a rapturous
manner, which quickly brought us to his side. Sure enough, some miles
off, a vast number of black specks were to be distinguished scattered
over the plain below, a semicircular range of low hills, separating the
prairie we had just traversed, and which terminated at the banks of the
Missouri, from that stretching to the Platte River. As a light wind was
blowing in the direction of the buffaloes, we retraced our steps down
the side of the hill, and following the direction of the range, after a
couple of hours’ ride, came into the immediate vicinity of the grazing
herds, but this time to leeward. From the thicket of dwarf bushes
bordering the ravine in which we stood, and extending into the plain a
short distance, was little more than three hundred yards to the nearest
group, and we could see all the cows and half-grown calves lying about
in the sunshine, or feeding by twos and threes, while the bulls paraded
themselves, occasionally tearing up the soil with their hoofs,
bellowing, and locking horns with a chance antagonist, all wholly
unsuspicious of the proximity of an enemy. We determined to descend the
ravine cautiously, and if possible get a standing shot from the
extremity of the cover before making a dash into the open plain; but our
care was thrown away, for before we had advanced fifty yards, a pack of
wolves, who were lurking about the skirt of the herd, in the hope
probably of making a meal of a sick individual, galloped off toward the
next line of thicket, and drew the attention of those closest to our
party. There was now no chance of approaching unperceived, so dashing
boldly out, we each selected a victim as we rode, and made straight for
it, regardless of the rest. The rest, however, were far from unmindful
of our presence, and such a bellowing roaring, and scampering, I never
saw or heard before. Some of the larger bulls stood for an instant
eyeing us through the shaggy mane in which their heads were buried, cast
earth into the air, lowered their horns as if for a rush, but
immediately after wheeled, and, tail on end, followed their companions
in an ungainly sort of race, which, when hard pushed, they exchanged for
a lumbering gallop.

The whole surface of the prairie, as far as eye could see, was now in
motion, the nearer masses thundering along amidst clouds of dust, and
making the plain quake with the dint of thousands of hoofs, while those
in the distance were just beginning to take the alarm, and stopped
frequently, fronting about to distinguish the cause of the disturbance.
We had only time to make these hasty observations, when our horses bore
us into the very midst of the melée, and as, of course, every thing was
literally lost sight of, as well as forgotten for a time, with the
exception of one’s own deeds and misdeeds, I will confine myself for the
present to what befell me in person. I cannot say whether the others
succeeded in reaching the buffaloes they had selected from the cover,
but for my part, I lost sight of the cow I had chosen before I was
fairly among the panic-stricken multitude; my horse, however, was a
thorough Indian hunter, and entering into the spirit of the thing,
presently brought me alongside of a huge bull, who, with his stump of a
tail elevated at an angle of forty degrees, head down, and small, red
eyes dilated with terror, was making the most of his time under the
circumstances. At first our course took us into a dense crowd of
fugitives, who would have been only too glad to afford us plenty of
space, had it laid in their power to do so; as it was, I saw myself at
one hasty glance, surrounded on all sides by the flying throng, some
ahead, striving their utmost to keep out of harm’s way, others on each
side jostling and pressing their fellows, and others again, those we had
passed in our career, bringing up the rear, and laboring to overtake
their more vigorous companions, and all seen dimly through a cloud of
dust, and in the midst of an uproar which I never saw equaled. I think
this must have been the last general observation I made, for a moment
after, the bull to whom we had attached ourselves broke from the flank
of the moving mass, toward which he had been by degrees edging, and made
across the prairie at an acute angle to the line of flight pursued by
the greater number. This manœuvre gave him a start of some yards, as it
was no easy matter to extricate ourselves at a moment’s warning; but
when we did, the superior speed of my horse rapidly decreased the
distance between us. Now that there was only one object to engross my
attention, I entered heart and soul into the wild excitement of the
chase, and as far as my individual senses were concerned, the world was
compressed in a single buffalo, hotly pressed by a half-mad horseman,
the one endeavoring as strenuously to preserve his life, as the other to
take it. Away we went—sometimes over the short-tufted sward, then into
a wooded hollow, and out again on the other side—up hills and down, at
the same furious pace at which we had parted from the herd. I was soon
enabled to use my rifle which the denseness of the throng in which we
had at first ridden had prevented me from doing to advantage, as there
was no room to wheel, and to have attempted a halt would have been a
sure means of finding ourselves run down and possibly trampled to death
by the press behind. We were now running abreast, and holding my rifle
across the saddle, and braced against my left arm, I fired without
sighting, and lodged the ball in his bushy neck instead of behind the
fore-shoulder, as I intended.

At the report, my steed, who knew well what he was about, dashed off at
a tangent just in time to avoid a furious charge from the horns of the
huge brute, but in a short while we had recovered the lost ground, and
were bearing hard upon his flank. This time I used my pistol, and, as it
happened, with success; for my finger pressing the trigger sooner than I
designed, the charge hamstrung the bull and brought him down headlong in
an instant, rolling over in a whirlwind of dust. As he was now safe
enough, I dismounted, reloaded, and approached with the bridle over my
arm, to give the coup de grace; and this I was glad to do, for the poor
brute had raised himself on his fore legs and was making violent efforts
to regain his feet, his eyes blood-shot and rolling, and a bloody foam
flying from his nostrils, while he bellowed as much from terror and rage
as pain. A third bullet put an end to his sufferings, and after cutting
out the tongue, I looked about for the rest of the party. Nothing
whatever was to be distinguished moving on the great level, but far away
to the north, a low, gray mist showed the route pursued by the herds. A
perfect stillness had fallen over all nature, and this sudden change
from the recent life and tumult was startling and even oppressive. No
idea can be formed of the solitude of these vast tracts from that
experienced in the midst of a forest; for in the latter there are either
birds, or living creatures of some sort, or if there be none of these,
every trunk aids in creating an echo, and the very motion and rustling
of leaves convey an idea of existence; but alone in the open prairie,
the voice is lost in the vast space if a shout is attempted, and a
solemn hush succeeds which overawes the rudest heart. I felt much
relieved, then, when from the summit of a mound some hundred yards
removed, I perceived on the farther side of a low ridge, a number of
buffaloes which had been headed off, and were now making straight for
where I stood. They must have been nearly two miles distant, and it was
not until they were near enough to distinguish my presence and wheel as
I approached, that I perceived any one in pursuit. It was Charlie, who
fired at the moment, and brought down a fat cow, as I discovered when I
reached the spot. I assisted in cutting off the choicest portions of the
meat, after which we rejoined the others half a mile farther on. Jean’s
horse was loaded with thin strips of meat, two or three tongues, and a
couple of humps, the greatest delicacy of the prairies; and on these we
feasted that night, building our camp at the foot of the ravine down
which we had descended some hours before. Every one had some exploit or
misadventure to relate. Jean had killed two bulls and a cow, and Charlie
a couple of cows, but the last had received a fall and bruised his
shoulder in rather an odd manner. When a herd of buffaloes are excited
and begin running, a number of the bulls are usually found in the rear,
and these, in the first panic, rushing blindly onward, and being more
clumsy than the cows, not infrequently stumble in some of the numerous
holes in the surface, and roll over and over before they can recover
their legs; although occasionally the violence of the shock is such that
they are maimed and unable to make much progress afterward. Charlie had
just finished his first cow, and was in the act of pursuing another,
when one of these accidents occurred directly in his path, and both he
and his horse were precipitated over the shaggy monster on the instant.
Fortunately, he was not at full speed, or the fall might have been
fatal; and he possessed presence of mind enough to retain fast hold of
the bridle, so that, although dragged a short distance, he was enabled
to prevent his hunter from following the throng and ultimately to regain
his seat. But the worst off of all was Jock, who had begged so hard to
be allowed to try his chance also, that we had given him a heavy
horseman’s pistol, and left him to tie the pack-horse in the ravine when
we sallied forth from cover. It seemed that having done so securely, as
he thought, he galloped after a cow, which, from frequently facing about
to protect the retreat of her calf, had fallen behind the others. This
female buffalo turned out to be a regular vixen, for either exasperated
at the _color_ of her pursuer, or unwilling to abandon her offspring
without a struggle, contrary to their usual custom, instead of scouring
off the faster when pushed hard, she wheeled and made a determined rush
at the terrified Jock. He managed to fire full at her breast, but
without the least apparent success, for the next instant his horse was
knocked over broadside by the impetus of her charge, and he himself
projected through the air, and landed on his head with a shock which
would have fractured the skull of any but a negro.

However, on rising, he had the satisfaction of seeing his late
antagonist lying quite dead, the ball having entered her heart, and the
effort which overthrew her enemy being the last of life. There was a
slight drawback to this self-gratulation in the fact, that his horse had
taken advantage of the moment of liberty to dart after a detachment of
the great herd which had thundered by, and could now be distinguished
afar off, the flapping of Jock’s Mackinaw-blanket, which had been tied
about the steed’s neck, and served the rider in place of a saddle, every
instant accelerating his speed. When he came to look about,
nevertheless, his face expanded into a grin of delight, for the calf had
stopped short when the dam was slain, and now returned, stamping his
feet and eyeing the sable hunter with some signs of anger, and certainly
very few of fear. Jock from the first moment had coveted the calf, and
now, in his charming ignorance, thought nothing easier than to catch it
by the ears and drag it into the ravine, where he could secure it alive
with a cord. With this design he marched directly up to his proposed
prisoner, who stood his ground by the side of the carcase, his small,
red eyes watching the enemy from under his shaggy brows; but the instant
Jock stretched out his hands to clutch him, the undaunted little brute
plunged forward and gave the former a thump in the stomach, which
knocked the breath fairly out of his body, and laid him flat on his back
in the grass. Greatly indignant, the discomfited aggressor scrambled up
and began a search for his pistol, which in the fall from his horse he
had lost possession of, but before he could recover it, the calf,
emboldened by success, made a second attack on him, and taking Jock at a
disadvantage in that portion of his body which is most prominent in
stooping over, cleverly caused him to perform an involuntary somerset.
This was the last of Jock’s adventure, for as soon as he could recover
his perpendicular, he took to his heels, and now related his ill-luck
with a crest-fallen air enough. We all went to see this sturdy calf, but
the little fellow had no sooner caught sight of our white (or what
passed for white) faces, than he scampered off, and we saw no more of
him. Jock profited by this retreat to find his pistol, but when we
returned to the ravine, we discovered a worse misadventure had occurred;
the pack-horse had broken loose, and gone off at full speed, to judge
from the numerous cups, pans, and a dozen other miscellaneous articles
scattered for some yards along his track until he got clear of the
bushes. If he chanced to cross the path of the wolves we started up
earlier in the day, I am sorry for him.

                                 LINES.

                          BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

    THE sunset’s sweet and holy blush
      Is imaged in the sleeping stream,
    All nature’s deep and solemn hush
      Is like the silence of a dream;
    And peace seems brooding like a dove
      O’er scenes to musing spirits dear—
    Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    The myriad flowers of every hue
      Are sinking to their evening rest,
    Each with a timid drop of dew
      Soft folded to its sleeping breast
    The birds within yon silent grove
      Are dreaming that the spring is near—
    Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    On yon white cloud the night-wind furls
      Its lone and dewy wing to sleep,
    And the sweet stars look out like pearls
      Through the clear waves of heaven’s blue deep;
    The pale mists float around, above,
      Like spirits of a holier sphere—
    Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    The pale full moon, in silent pride,
      O’er yon dark wood is rising now,
    As lovely as when by thy side
      I saw it shining on thy brow;
    It lights the dew-drops of the grove
      As hope’s bright smile lights beauty’s tear—
    Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    Ah! as I muse, a strange, wild thrill
      Steals o’er the fibres of my frame—
    A gentle presence seems to fill
      My heart with love and life and flame;
    I feel thy spirit round me move,
      I know thy soul is hovering near—
    Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
      And I am blest, for thou art here.

                            AILEEN AROON.[1]

                       BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.

    GIRL of the forehead fair,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Girl of the raven hair,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Girl of the laughing eye,
    Blue as the cloudless sky,
    For thee I pine and sigh,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Girl of the winning tongue,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Flower of our maidens young,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Sad was our parting day,
    Fast flowed my tears away,
    Cold was my heart as clay,
          Aileen, aroon.

    When o’er the heaving sea,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Sailed the ship fast and free,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Wailing, as women wail,
    I watched her snowy sail
    Bend in the rising gale,
          Aileen, aroon.

    I watched her course afar,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Till rose the evening star,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Then fell the shades of night,
    Wrapping all from my sight
    Save the stars’ pensive light,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Stranger to grief is sleep,
          Aileen, aroon!
    What could I do but weep?
          Aileen, aroon!
    Worlds would tempt in vain,
    Me, to live through again
    That night of bitter pain,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Oh! but my step is weak,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Wan and pale is my cheek,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Come o’er the ocean tide,
    No more to leave my side,
    Come, my betrothed bride,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Come, ere the grave will close
          Aileen, aroon!
    O’er me and all my woes,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Come with the love of old,
    True as is tested gold,
    Pet lamb of all the fold,
          Aileen, aroon.

    By the strand of the sea,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Still I’ll keep watch for thee,
          Aileen, aroon!
    There with fond love I’ll hie,
    Looking with tearful eye
    For thee until I die,
          Aileen, aroon.

-----

[1] Aileen, aroon—pronounced Ileen a roon—Ellen, darling, Anglice.

                                SONNET.

                            BY CAROLINE MAY.

      LOVE before admiration! Yes, oh yes!
        Far sooner than give up the quiet love
      Of a few warm, strong hearts, or even less,
        Of one true heart alone, where like a dove,
      To her own nest, I may for comfort press,
        I’d yield the admiration of the world,
      Were the world’s admiration mine! Confess,
        Thou, over whom Fame’s banner is unfurled,
      Can that broad banner hide thee from distress?
        Thou, in whose ears the trumpet-peals of Fame
      Forever sound, can those loud peals suppress
        The secret sigh that trembles through thy frame?
      Ah no! Take empty Fame away, and give
    Love before admiration, or I cannot live.

                         THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

                        A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.

                         BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.

                      (_Continued from page 181._)

                               CHAPTER V.

                The convent bells are ringing,
                  But mournfully and slow;
                In the gray, square turret swinging,
                  With a deep sound, to and fro,
                  Heavily to the heart they go!
                Hark! the hymn is singing—
                  The song for the dead below,
                  Or the living who shortly shall be so!
                                       BYRON’S PARISINA.

THE thirtieth of January, memorable in history, rose gloomy and dark, as
though the heavens would express their sympathy with the tragedy about
to be enacted.

Three days only had been allowed the condemned prisoner between his
sentence and his execution. This interval, during the day, he had spent
chiefly in reading and prayer. On each night he had slept long and
soundly, although the noise of the workmen employed in framing his
scaffold, and making other preparations for his execution distinctly
reached his ears.

On the morning of the fatal day he rose early, and calling his
attendant, desired him to employ great care in dressing and preparing
him for the unusual solemnity before him.

At length he appeared attired in his customary suit of black, arranged
with more than his wonted neatness. His collar, edged with deep lace,
set carefully round his neck, and was spotless in color, and accurate in
every fold, while his pensive countenance exhibited no evidence of
emotion or excitement.

Bishop Juxon assisted him at his devotions, and paid the last melancholy
duties to the king. After this, he was permitted to see such of his
family as were still in England. These consisted only of his two younger
children, the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester.

Notwithstanding the tender years of the young Elizabeth, she seemed
fully to appreciate her father’s unhappy situation, and her young heart
appeared well nigh bursting.

“Weep not for thy father, my child,” said Charles, kissing her tenderly;
“he but goeth where thou mayest one day meet him again.”

She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed aloud. He pressed her to
his bosom and soothed her gently, but seemed for the first time since
his interview with Alice Heath, on the night previous to his sentence,
half unmanned. “It is God, my love, who hath called thy poor parent
hence, and we must submit to his will in all things. Bear my love to
your mother, and tell her that my last thoughts were with her and our
precious children.”

Separating himself from her by a great effort, and then pressing the boy
to his heart, he motioned to the attendants to remove them, lest the
trial of this interview might, at the last, unnerve his well-sustained
resolution and courage.

The muffled bells now announced with mournful distinctness, that the
fatal moment was approaching. The noisy tramp of the excited
populace—ever eager to sate their vulgar gaze on any bloody spectacle,
but anticipating extraordinary gratification from the novel sight of the
execution of their king—was plainly audible. Presently, the guard came
to lead him out. He was conducted by a private gallery and staircase
into the court below, and thence conveyed in a sedan-chair to the
scaffold, followed by the shouts and cries of the crowd.

About the time that these sounds were dying away from the neighborhood
of Lisle’s house, William Heath hastily entered the library, and taking
pen and paper, wrote the following brief letter.

    MY DEAR ALICE,—I cannot but rejoice, that after finding, as we
    believed, all hope for Charles Stuart at an end—your visit to
    Cromwell having been unsuccessful—I removed you to a distance,
    until the tragical scene should, as we thought, be ended. The
    tumult and noise which fill the city, together with the
    consciousness of the cause creating it, would have been too much
    for your nerves, unstrung as they have been of late, by the
    feeling you have expended for the unhappy king. There is yet,
    though—I delight to say, and you will delight to hear—a single
    hope remaining for him, even while the bells now ring for his
    execution. Lord Fairfax, who though, like myself, friendly to
    his deposition, still shudders at the thoughts of shedding his
    blood, will, with his own regiment, make an attempt to rescue
    him from the scaffold. There is, in fact, scarce any reason to
    doubt the success of this measure; and this evening, Alice, we
    will rejoice together that the only cloud to dim the first
    blissful days of our union has been removed—as I shall rejoin
    you at as early an hour as the distance will permit.

    I write this hastily, and send it by a speedy messenger, in
    order to relieve, by its agreeable tidings, the sorrowful state
    of mind in which I left you a few hours since. I am, my own
    Alice, your most affectionate husband,

                                                   WILLIAM HEATH.

The street before Whitehall was the place prepared for the execution.
This arrangement had been made in order to render the triumph of popular
justice over royal power more conspicuous, by beheading the king in
sight of his own palace. All the surrounding windows and galleries were
filled with spectators, and the vast crowd below were kept back by
soldiery encircling the scaffold. Charles mounted it with a steady step,
and the same dignified resolution of mien which he had all along so
admirably maintained. Uncovering his head, he looked composedly around
him, and said, in a clear, unfaltering voice, though only sufficiently
loud to be heard by those near him, owing to the buzz of the crowd,

“People of England, your king dies innocent. He is sentenced for having
taken up arms against Parliament. Parliament had first enlisted forces
against him, and his sole object—as God is his judge, before whom he is
momently to appear—was to preserve, as was his bounded duty, inviolate
for himself and his successors, that authority transmitted to him by
royal inheritance. Yet, although innocent toward you, and in that view
undeserving of death, in the eyes of the Omniscient his other sins amply
merit his coming doom; in especial, having once suffered an unjust
sentence of death to be executed against another, it is but meet that he
should now die thus unjustly himself. May God lay not his death in like
manner to your charge; and grant that in allegiance to my son, England’s
lawful sovereign at my decease, you may speedily be restored to the ways
of peace.”

Lord Fairfax, with his regiment, prepared for the rescue of Charles, was
proceeding toward the place of execution by a by-street, at the same
time that the king was being conducted thither. On his way, he was
passed by Cromwell, who then, for the first time, became aware of his
purpose.

Much disturbed in mind at the discovery of a project so likely to thwart
his own ambitious views, just ripe for fulfillment, the latter walked on
for some moments in deep reflection. Presently quickening his pace, he
turned a corner, and stepped, without knocking, into a house near by.
His manner was that of a person perfectly at home in the premises,
which, indeed, was the case; for James Harrison, the tenant, was one of
his subservients, chosen by him in consequence of his austere piety, and
great influence with his sect, of whom it will be recollected that
Fairfax was one. Harrison’s appearance, though coarse, was not actually
vulgar. He was a middle-aged man, tall and strongly made, and his
manner, rough and military, might command fear, but could not excite
ridicule. Cromwell found him in prayer, notwithstanding all the tumult
of the day.

“I have sought thee, Harrison,” he said, “to beseech thee engage in
prayer with Lord Fairfax, who is now on his way to rescue this Saul from
the hands of the Philistines. He should first crave the Lord’s will in
regard to his errand. Wilt thou not seek him and mind him of this?”

“I will e’en do thy bidding, thou servant of the Most High,” said
Harrison, rising and accompanying him to the door. “Where shall I find
Fairfax?”

“Thou wilt overtake him by turning speedily to the right,” replied the
other, parting from him.

“One of his lengthy supplications at the throne of grace,” said Cromwell
to himself, as he walked on, “will detain Fairfax until this son of
Belial is destroyed.”

Meanwhile, upon the scaffold, Charles, after delivering his address, was
preparing himself for the block with perfect equanimity and composure.

“There is but one stage more, sire,” said Juxon, with the deepest
sympathy of look and manner. “There is but one stage more. Though
turbulent, it is a very short one; yet it will carry you a long
distance—from earth to heaven.”

“I go,” replied the king, “from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown,
where no downfall can transpire.”

So saying, he laid his head upon the block, and the headsman, standing
near, in a visor, at one blow struck it from his body. Another man, in a
corresponding disguise, catching it and holding it up, exclaimed,
“Behold the head of a traitor!”

At this moment Lord Fairfax and his regiment came up. His humane
purpose, so artfully defeated, becoming known, with the strange
perversity of mankind, now that its benefits were too late to reach the
king, an instant revulsion in the feelings of the populace took place;
and the noise of quarrels—of reproaches and self-accusations rent the
air, until the tumult grew terrific.

But the reverberation of no thunder-clap could have reawaked the
dissevered corpse of the dead monarch. Charles Stuart, the accomplished
scholar and elegant poet—Charles Stuart, the husband, father,
friend—Charles Stuart, the descendant of a long line of sovereigns, and
legitimate king of the most potent nation upon earth—was no more; and a
human life was blotted from existence! That life, what was it? Singular
and mysterious essence—capable of exquisite pleasure and intense
pain—held by such a precarious tenure, yet valued beyond all price—the
gift of God, and destroyed by man—a moment past here, and now gone
forever—tell us, metaphysician, what was it, for we cannot answer the
question.

                              CHAPTER VI.

                          Patience and sorrow strove
                  Which should express her goodliest.
                                          SHAKSPEARE.

We pass over that brief period in history during which the new form of
government established by Cromwell flourished, and the usurper and his
successor, under the title of Protector of the Commonwealth, enjoyed a
larger share of power than had previously been attached to the regal
dignity. It will be remembered that the deficiency of the latter in
those qualities requisite to his responsible position soon led him
formally to resign the Protectorship, and his abdication speedily paved
the way for the restoration of Charles II. to the throne of his
ancestors. Unfortunately for the chief characters of our tale, one of
the first and most natural aims of the new king on his accession, was to
seek the conviction and punishment of the Court who had so
presumptuously, although in many instances, so conscientiously, passed
that sentence against his father, which we have seen reluctantly carried
into execution.

Many of those had fled at the first rumor of the restoration, in
anticipation of the worst, so that, on the command of Charles, only
twenty-seven persons—judges and accomplices inclusive—could be
arrested. These had now been incarcerated three weeks awaiting their
trial, which was deferred from time to time in the hope that more of the
regicides might yet be brought to justice.

Among those thus imprisoned were Henry Lisle and William Heath, whose
fates are interwoven with this narrative.

Leaving this needful preface to what is to follow, let us again visit
Lisle’s mansion—the same which witnessed the marriage of his daughter.
Several years have elapsed since that event; and after the mournful
impression caused by the death of the ill-fated king had been
obliterated from her mind—for Time has the power speedily to heal all
wounds not absolutely inflicted upon the affections—till within the
last few weeks, the life of Alice Heath had flowed in as smooth a
current as any who beheld her on her wedding-night, could, in their most
extravagant wishes, have desired. In their untroubled union, her husband
had heretofore forestalled the wife’s privilege to minister and prove
devotion—a privilege which, however, when the needful moment demanded
it, no woman better than Alice was formed for exerting. Trouble had not
hitherto darkened the young brow of either; nor pain, nor sorrow, nor
the first ungratified wish, come nigh their dwelling. Under the same
roof with her pious and austere but still affectionate father, the
daughter had been torn from no former tie in linking herself to another
by a still nearer and more indissoluble bond. There had been nothing to
desire, and nothing to regret. The life of herself and husband had been
as near a type as may be of the perfect happiness we picture in
Heaven—save that with them it was now exchanged for sorrow—more
difficult to bear from the bitter contrast.

It is an afternoon in September. Alice, not materially changed since we
last saw her—except that the interval has given, if any thing, more of
interest and character to her features—is in her own room, busily
engaged in arranging articles in a traveling-trunk. Her countenance is
sad—with a sadness of a more engrossing and heartfelt kind than that
which touched it with a mournful shadow when she grieved for the fate of
Charles Stuart—for there is an incalculable difference between the
sorrow that is expended between a mere object of human sympathy, and
that which is elicited by the distress and danger of those we love. And
the sadness of Alice was now connected with those dearer to her than
life itself. No tear, however, dimmed her eye, nor shade of despair sat
upon her brow. Feeling that the emergency of the occasion called upon
her to act, not only for herself but for others, the bravery of true
womanly resolution in affliction—resolution which, had she alone been
concerned, she might perhaps never have evinced, but which, for the sake
of others, she had at once summoned to her aid—was distinguishable in
her whole deportment as well as in her every movement.

As she was engaged with great seeming interest in the task we have
described—the articles alluded to consisting of the clothing suitable
for a female child of tender age—the little creature for whose use it
was designed was sitting at her feet tired of play, and wondering
probably why she was employed in this unusual manner. Alice frequently
paused in her occupation to cast a look upon the child—not the mere
hasty glance with which a mother is wont to satisfy herself that her
darling is for the moment out of mischief or danger—but a long,
devouring gaze, as though the refreshing sight were about to be removed
forever from her eyes, and she would fain, ere the evil moment arrived,
stamp its image indelibly on her memory. Who shall say what thoughts,
what prayers were then stirring in her bosom?

The little object of this solicitude had scarcely told her fifth year;
and the soft ringlets which descended half way down the shoulders, the
delicate bloom, the large, deep blue eyes and flexile features made such
an ideal of childish beauty as artists love to paint or sculptors model.

When Alice had finished her employment, she took the little girl in her
arms, and strained her for some moments to her heart, with a feeling, as
it would seem, almost of agony. The child, though at first alarmed at
the unusual vehemence of her caresses, presently, as if prompted by
nature, smiled in reply to them. But the artless prattler had no power
to rouse her from some purpose on which her thoughts appeared deeply as
well as painfully intent. Putting the little creature aside again, she
drew near to her writing-desk, and seating herself before it, penned the
following letter:

    MY DEAR FRIEND,—It is now some weeks since the imprisonment of
    my husband and father, who are still awaiting their trial. The
    active part which the latter is known to have taken in the
    punishment of the late unhappy king, precludes all hope of their
    pardon. But I have matured a plan for their escape, which I am
    only waiting a fitting moment to put into execution. When this
    is effected, we will take refuge in your American Colonies. I
    have the promise of influential friends there to assist in
    secreting us until it shall be safe to dwell among you
    publicly—for this country can never again be our home.

    In the meantime, as some friends are about embarking, after a
    struggle with myself, I have concluded to send my little
    daughter in advance of us, lest she might prove an incumbrance
    in the way of effecting the escape alluded to, inasmuch as she
    has already been a great hindrance to detain me at home many
    hours from the dear prisoners—to both of whom my presence is so
    needful, especially to my husband, who is extremely ill in his
    confinement.

    I need not say that I feel all a mother’s anxiety in parting
    with my child. But I have confidence that you, my friend, will
    faithfully supply my place for as long a time as may be
    necessary. It has occurred to me that it would be well to let
    the impression go abroad among you that my daughter is the young
    relative whom you were to receive by the same vessel, and of
    whose recent death you will be apprised. This may shield her in
    some measure from the misfortunes of her family; and I would be
    glad, therefore, if you would humor the innocent deception even
    with all of your household, until such time as we may reclaim
    her. With a firm reliance on my Heavenly Father, I commit my
    precious infant to His protection.

                                                     ALICE HEATH.

She had just concluded, when a servant appeared at the door. “Some
ladies and a gentleman, madam,” said he, “have called, and are awaiting
you in the drawing-room. They came in a traveling-carriage, and are
equipped as if for a long journey.”

“Remove this trunk into the hall,” replied Alice, “and then say to the
visiters that I will see them presently. They have already come to bear
away my darling,” added she to herself. “I scarce thought that the hour
had yet arrived.”

As she spoke, she set about attiring the child with great tenderness,
seemingly prolonging the act unconsciously to herself.

“Now the Lord in Heaven keep thee, precious one!” she exclaimed, as, at
length, the motherly act terminated; and imprinting on her face a kiss
of the most ardent affection, though without giving way to the weakness
of a single tear, she bore her from the chamber.

We leave the reader to imagine the last parting moments between that
mother and her child. She who had framed the separation as an act of
duty, was not one to shrink at the last moment, or betray any faintness
of spirit. With a nobly heroic heart she yielded up the young and
helpless treasure of her affections to the guardianship of others, and
turned to expend her capacities of watchfulness and care upon another
object. How well she performed this labor of love, notwithstanding the
trial she had just experienced—how far she succeeded in dismissing the
recollection of it from her mind sufficiently to enable her to sustain
the weight of the responsibilities still devolving upon her—we shall
now have an opportunity to determine.

Within another half hour Alice entered the cell of a prison. It was one
of those constructed for malefactors of the deepest cast, being
partially under the ground, and partaking of the nature of a dungeon.
The mighty stones of the walls were green and damp, and together with
the cold, clay floor, were sufficient of themselves to suggest speedy
illness, and perhaps death, to the occupant. Its only furniture
consisted of a single wooden stool, a pallet of straw, and a rude table.

On the pallet alluded to lay a man in the prime of life, his eyes closed
in sleep, and the wan hue of death upon his countenance. One pallid
hand, delicate and small as a woman’s, rested upon the coarse coverlet,
while the other was placed beneath his head, from which streamed forth a
profusion of waving hair, now matted and dull, instead of glossy and
bright, as it had been in recent days.

When Alice first entered, the sleeper was breathing somewhat
disturbedly, but as she approached and bent over him, and raising the
hand which lay upon the quilt, pressed it to her lips, his rest suddenly
seemed to grow calm, and a faint smile settled upon his mouth.

“Thank God!” whispered she to herself, as she replaced the hand as
quietly as she had raised it, “my prayer is heard—the fever has left
him, and he is fast recovering.”

Seating herself on the wooden stool by his side, she remained watching
him with looks of the most devoted interest and affection. In about half
an hour he heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, looked around to
the spot where she was sitting.

“You are a guardian angel, dear Alice,” said he; “even in my dreams I am
conscious of your presence.”

“Saving the little time that I must steal from you to bestow upon my
poor father, I shall now be ever present with you,” answered Alice. “I
have placed our little one in safe-keeping, and henceforth, while you
remain here, I shall have no other care but yourself.”

“Methinks I have already been too much your sole care, even to the
neglect of your own health. Yet, except that sad look of sympathy, you
seem not the worse for the tending me, else I might, indeed, reproach
myself for this illness.”

Well might William Heath say she had nursed him with unselfish care—for
never had it fallen to the lot of sick man to be tended with such
untiring devotion. For weeks she had watched his every movement and
look—anticipated his every wish—smoothed his pillow—held the cup to
his parched lips—soothed him with gentle and sympathizing words when in
pain—cheered him when despondent—and seized only the intervals when he
slept to perform her other duties as a mother and daughter. It is no
wonder, therefore, that it appeared to him that she had never been
absent from his side.

Gently repelling his insinuation that she had been too regardless of
herself, she turned the conversation to a topic which she was conscious
would interest and cheer him.

“Continue to make all speed with this recovery, which has thus far
progressed so finely,” said she, “for the opportunity for your escape
from this gloomy place is only waiting until your strength is
sufficiently recruited to embrace it.”

“That prospect it is alone,” replied the invalid, “held up before me so
constantly as it has been during my illness, which has had the power to
prevent my sinking joyfully into the grave from this miserable bed,
rather than recover to die a more violent and unnatural death.”

“It waits alone for your recovery, dearest,” repeated his wife; “and
once in the wild woods of America, you will be as unconfined and free as
her own mountain air, till the very remembrance of this dungeon will
have passed away.”

“Sweet comforter,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it gratefully,
“thou wouldst beguile my thoughts thither, even before my footsteps are
able to follow them.”

“Thank me for nothing,” said Alice; “I am but selfish in all. The rather
return thanks to the Lord for all his mercies.”

“True, He is the great fountain of goodness, and his greatest of all
blessings to me, Alice, is bestowed in thyself.”

“I fear thou art conversing too much,” said Alice, after a moment’s
pause, “and I would not that a relapse should retard this projected
escape a single day. Therefore I will give thee a cordial, and thou must
endeavor to rest again.”

So saying, she administered a soothing potion, and, seating herself by
his side, she watched him until he fell into a peaceful slumber. Then,
stealing so noiselessly away from his pallet that her footsteps were
inaudible, she gently approached the door, and groped along a
gallery—for it was now dark—until she reached another door. It
communicated with a cell similar in all respects to that we have
described.

Within this, before a table, sat the figure of a solitary man. He was
elderly, but seemed more bent by some recent sorrow than by the actual
weight of years; yet his brow was somewhat wrinkled, and his locks in
many places, much silvered with gray. But his countenance was
remarkable, for it evinced a grandeur and dignity of soul even through
its trouble. Beside him, upon the table, burned a solitary candle, whose
long wick shed a blue and flickering light upon the page of a Bible open
before him.

Unlatching the door, Alice paused, for the clear and deep voice of the
inmate fell upon her ear: “Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth:
therefore, despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty: for he
maketh sore, and bindeth up; he woundeth, and his hands make whole. He
shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven, there shall no evil
touch thee.”

Advancing, Alice threw her arms affectionately round the neck of the
person we have described, and interrupted the reading, which, even more
than her occasional visits, was his chief stay and solace in his
imprisonment.

“Thou wilt rejoice with me, my father, that William is recovering. All
that is needful now is for him to gather strength sufficient to quit
this place. I trust that ere six weeks have elapsed, we shall be on our
way to America.”

“Forget not, my child, Him to whom thy thanks are due for thy husband’s
prospect of recovery. Remember the Lord in the midst of his mercies.”

“I do, my father, and we will return praises together ere I leave you.”

“Saidst thou, Alice,” asked the old man, after a short silence, “that
before six weeks have passed away, we may be freed from this
prison-house?”

“Yes, even so; and I have this day sent my infant in advance of us.”

“The Lord hath indeed been gracious to us, my daughter. Let us arise at
once and give thanks to his holy name.”

At these words they arose together, after the manner of their sect, and
in an earnest, pathetic tone, the voice of the aged Puritan ascended to
Heaven. No palace-halls or brilliant ball-rooms, or garden walks, or
trellised bowers have ever shown so interesting a pair—no festive
scenes, or gorgeous revels, or glittering orgies ever rose upon so
beauteous an hour as did the captive’s cell in that season of prayer!

                              CHAPTER VII.

            A lovely child she was, of looks serene,
            And motions, which, on things indifferent shed
            The grace and gentleness from whence they came.
                                                   SHELLEY.

            The child shall live.
                                          TITUS ANDRONICUS.

            Here are two pilgrims,
            And neither knows one footstep of the way.
                              HEYWORD’S DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK.

            With equal virtue formed, and equal grace,
            The same, distinguished by their sex alone.
                                                  THOMPSON.

A short gap in this narrative places the present action of our story in
America. It is needless here to narrate the first settlement of the New
England Colonies. The landing of the Pilgrim Fathers has been
immortalised both in prose and verse until it has become as familiar to
each American as any household word. We will not, therefore, ask the
reader’s detention at the perusal of a thrice-told tale. It is likewise
known that that landing was but the herald of a succession of
immigrations, and the establishment of numerous colonies. Owing to the
talent and liberal education, not less than the enterprise of the early
settlers, this wilderness was not long, in spite of repeated obstacles,
ere it grew up into flourishing villages and towns, some of them fairer
than had ever graced the stalwort ground of Old England.

We introduce the reader into one of those villages, situated some twenty
miles distant from New Haven. It might somewhat surprise him when we
say, were it not for the frequent instances of the rapid growth of
cities in our western wilds, which we would remind him have sprung up
within his own recollection, that the latter place was, even at the
period to which we refer, a flourishing and important town. Yet,
notwithstanding the superior size and consequence of New Haven, the
village of L—— was the place in which the governor of the colony chose
to reside.

Had the course of our narrative not led us thither, we could have
selected no better sample than L., of the truth of what we have asserted
regarding the existence of neat and attractive villages in New England
at that early day. It was situated on the high-road, in a small valley,
through which wound down certain rocky falls, a clear rivulet, that
afforded excellent opportunities of fishing to such of the inhabitants
as were fond of the occupation of the angle. These, however, were few,
for then, as now, the people of Connecticut possessed much of the same
busy spirit which is one of their distinguishing characteristics. The
glassy brook alluded to, served yet another purpose during the season
when the sportive inhabitants of the watery element had disappeared. In
the winter-time, when thickly frozen over, it formed, out of their
school-houses, the grand resort of the children of the village for the
purpose of skating and sliding. There, at those times, on a clear,
bracing day, such as no country but New England ever shows in
perfection, might always be seen a crowd of these happy beings, of both
sexes, and of various ages, all collected together, some to partake and
others merely to observe the amusements mentioned.

Upon a certain day, the neighborhood of the brook was thronged even to a
greater extent than usual, owing to the exceeding brightness of the
weather, which had led some of the tenderest mothers to withhold their
customary mandate enjoining immediate return from school, lest the
beloved object of the command might suffer from playing in the cold.
Among those who had thus had their ordinary restrictions remitted, was a
little girl whose extreme loveliness must have arrested the attention of
any observer. Her features were not merely beautiful, but there was a
charm in her countenance more attractive still—that purity and mildness
which our fancy attributes to angels. There was a bewitching grace,
moreover, in her attitudes that might have furnished delighted
employment to the painter and sculptor, had there been any time or
inclination among the colonists to bestow upon the cultivation of the
arts.

This child was seemingly about five years old. She was standing, with a
number of other little ones of her own age, looking on with great
apparent delight—now at the larger boys, who were skating dexterously,
and describing many a circle and angle, unknown in mathematics, upon the
smooth surface of the brook, and then at a number of girls merrily
chasing each other upon a slide at one side.

As one of the large boys spoken of passed her, he said, “Come, Jessy, I
will give you a ride upon the ice;” and taking her in his arms, he was
soon again gliding rapidly along.

“Take care!” shouted a noble-looking youth, whose glowing complexion and
sparkling eye shone with the excitement of the exercise. “Take care, the
ice is slightly cracked there, and it will scarcely bear the double
weight.”

It was too late. Ere the words were well spoken, the ice gave way, and
the boy who bore the fair burden sunk beneath the congealed element.

One loud shriek from the mingled voice of the young spectators announced
the frightful accident.

With the speed of lightning, the youth who had uttered the words of
warning darted forward, and plunging under the ice, disappeared from
view.

Great consternation prevailed for some moments. Many of the children
gave way to loud cries; others quietly wept; while a few of the older
and more considerate ran toward their homes, in order to summon
assistance.

In less time than it has taken to represent the state of feeling which
prevailed during his absence, Frank Stanley rose to the surface, bearing
in his arms the unconscious form of the young creature he had saved.
Recovering his position on the ice, he speedily regained the shore, and
overcome with the exertion, laid her gently on the ground.

The heart in his bosom was frozen with cold, but a quickening thrill
passed through it, boy as he was, as he gazed upon those sweetly
composed features. Her hair was dripping, and her long, wet lashes by
upon her cheek as quietly as upon that of a dead child. Her garments
hung heavily around her, and her tiny hands, which were half lost in
their folds, were cold and still, as well as beautiful as gems of
classic sculpture.

As his companions came up bearing the other sufferer, Frank Stanley
hastily snatched off his own saturated coat, and spread it over her
senseless body, ere he again, with recovered strength, raised her in his
arms.

The alarmed villagers by this time came flocking to the spot, among whom
was the governor of the settlement, whose venerable and striking
countenance manifested peculiar anxiety.

“Your niece is safe, Governor H——,” said Frank Stanley, pressing
forward and exposing his fair burden. “She is merely insensible from
fright.”

“Thank God that she is saved!” exclaimed the governor, receiving her in
his arms. “But whose rash act was it,” continued he, looking sternly
around among the boys, “that exposed my Jessy to such peril?”

Something like a flush of indignation passed over the countenance of
young Stanley, as he replied, “It was an accident, sir, which might have
happened in the hands of more experienced persons than ourselves.”

“Thou hast been in danger thyself, Frank, hast thou not?” asked the
governor, his stern mood giving way immediately at the sight of the
youth’s dripping clothes. “And is there no one else more dangerously
injured?” inquired he, casting an anxious, scrutinizing glance among the
collected group.

“Frederick, here, is wet too, but not otherwise the worse for the
accident.”

“Let him and Frank, then, immediately return to their homes, and don dry
garments; and I must look to my little girl here, that she do not suffer
for this.”

So saying, the governor turned and departed, pressing the little
lifeless one more closely in his arms.

His disappearance was the signal for the dispersion of the group, the
young members of which turned toward their homes, much sobered in
spirits from the accident here related.

Following Governor H. to his home, we will leave him a moment and pause
to describe that rustic dwelling. It was situated at some little
distance from the main village, and was of larger size than most of the
cottages there. Like them, however, it bore the same rural name, though
it looked more like an English villa of some pretensions. On each side
of a graceful portico stretched piazzas, covered in summer with roses
and woodbine, while the neat enclosure in front, surrounded by its white
paling, bloomed richly with American plants and shrubbery. At this
season, however, the roses were dead, and the shrubbery lifeless; and
the frozen ground of the well-kept walk rung under the tread of the
stout governor, as he flung open the gate and rapidly approached the
house.

The brilliant lustre of the brass-knocker, the white and spotless
door-step, and the immaculate neatness of every thing around, were types
of the prevailing habits of the proprietors.

At the door, awaiting Governor H.’s arrival with great anxiety depicted
on their faces, stood two female figures, the one being a genteel
matron, somewhat advanced in years, and the other a young lady of less
than twenty summers.

“Relieve yourselves of your apprehensions,” said the governor, in a loud
voice, as soon as he came within speaking distance. “She had merely
fainted from fright, and seems to be even now gradually recovering.”

“The Lord be praised!” exclaimed the ladies, advancing to the steps of
the portico to meet him.

They entered the house together. In a moment the fainting child was laid
upon a couch, and being quickly attired in dry clothing, restoratives
were actively applied. The elder female chafed her small, chilled palms
in her own, while the younger administered a warm drink to her frozen
lips.

After a short time she unclosed her eyes, smiled faintly, and throwing
her dimpled arms around the neck of the young lady who bent over her,
burst into tears. “My dear sister,” she said, faintly, “I dreamed that I
had gone to Heaven, where I heard sweet music, and saw little children
like myself, with golden crowns upon their heads, and beautiful lyres in
their hands.”

“God has not called thee there yet. He has kindly spared thee to us a
little longer,” said the young person to whom she spoke, stooping down
and kissing her tenderly, while she, in like manner, relieved herself by
a flood of tears.

“The Almighty is very merciful,” said the matron, wiping her eyes, while
something like a moisture hung upon the lashes of the governor’s
piercing orbs, and dimmed their usual keenness.

“I am not ill, uncle, aunt, Lucy, and we need none of us cry,” said the
child, with the fickleness of an April day and the elasticity of her
years, instantly changing her tears for smiles. “See, I am able to get
up,” she added, disentangling herself from the embrace of her whom she
had called her sister, and sitting upon the side of the couch.

At that moment a shadow without attracted her attention. “There is Mr.
Elmore, Lucy!” she exclaimed, with childish glee.

The young lady had barely time to wipe away the traces of her recent
emotion, when a tall figure crossed the portico and entered the room
without ceremony. The new comer was a young man in the bloom of youth.
As he entered, he lifted his hat, and a quantity of fair brown hair fell
partially over a commanding forehead. His features were handsome, and
his aspect both manly and prepossessing.

The governor and his wife advanced and greeted him cordially, while the
blush that mantled on the of Lucy Ellet, as she half rose and extended
her hand to him, told that a sentiment warmer than mere friendship
existed between them.

“Where is the young heroine of this accident, which I hear had well nigh
proved fatal?” asked the stranger, after he had exchanged
congratulations with the rest.

The little Jessy, who had at first shrunk away with the bashfulness of
childhood, here timidly advanced. The stranger smiled, stroked her soft
ringlets, kissed her fair brow, and she nestled herself in his breast.

The whole party drawing near the fire, an interesting specimen was now
exhibited of those social and endearing habits of the early settlers
peculiar to their intercourse.

The simple room and furniture were eloquent of the poetry of home. Not
decorated by any appendages of mere show, whatever could contribute to
sterling comfort was exhibited in every node and corner of the
good-sized apartment. The broad, inviting couch on which the rescued
child had lain was placed opposite the chimney. The heavy book-case,
containing the family library, occupied a deep recess to the right. On
the left was a side-board, groaning with plate, the remains of English
wealth. The large, round dining-table, polished as a mirror, stood in
its customary place in the centre of the room. Two great arm-chairs,
covered with chintz and garnished with rockers—the seats belonging to
the heads of the family—filled a space on either side of the hearth,
within which burned a huge turf fire, that threw its kindly warmth to
the remotest walls. Over the mantel-piece hung a full-length miniature
portrait of the first Protector of the British Commonwealth. Coiled on a
thick rug before the fire lay a large Angola cat. A mastiff dog had so
far overcome his natural antipathy to her race, as to keep her company
on the other side; while the loud breathings of both evinced the depth
of their slumbers.

The huge arm-chair on the left was the throne of the governor. There he
received and dispatched the documents pertaining to his office. There
also he wrote his letters, read his papers, received his visiters,
conversed with his friends, and chatted with his family. There, besides,
he gave excellent advice to such of the members of the settlement as
needed it: and there, above all, arose morning and evening the voice of
his pious worship.

The lesser arm-chair on the right was the seat of Mrs. H., who, in like
manner, had her established routine of duties which she discharged
there, with not less laudable exactness and fidelity. Nor was there at
any time a more pleasing feature in the whole apartment than her
motherly figure and cheerful visage fixed within its comfortable
embrace.

While the party were agreeably engaged in conversation they were
suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

“Who can that be?” said the governor. “Will you ask who knocks, Mr.
Elmore?”

The latter rose and unlatched the door, when two figures crossed the
threshold.

“Pray pardon us,” said one of the new comers, in a courteous voice, “but
having business of importance with the governor, we have ventured to
intrude,” and he lifted his hat with something of foreign urbanity.

The speaker was not handsome, but there was a certain elegance in his
air, and intelligence in his countenance that were agreeable. He was
clad in a velvet traveling-dress, and possessed an address greatly
superior to any of the villagers, at the same time that his height and
the breadth of his muscular limbs were calculated to induce that
admiration which the appearance of great strength in his sex always
inspires.

His companion was totally different in all outward respects—being a man
of about fifty years of age, attired in a garb which was chiefly
distinguished by an affectation of ill-assorted finery. A colored silk
handkerchief, in which glittered a large paste brooch, was twisted
around his neck, and his breeches were ornamented with plated buckles.
His harsh countenance was traced with furrows, while his hair fell over
a low and forbidding brow, on which hung a heavy frown, unrelieved by
any pleasing expression of the other features.

“Walk in, gentlemen, and approach the fire,” said Governor H., rising
and eyeing the strangers with a keen and rather dissatisfied glance.

In drawing near the younger gallant cast an unsuppressed look of
admiration upon Lucy Ellet, that caused her to bend down her sparkling
eyes, which had previously been fixed on himself and his companion with
an arch expression of penetrating curiosity.

It was not surprising that the attention of the stranger had been
attracted by the appearance of this young lady, for, like the little
Jessy, she was endowed with a more than ordinary share of personal
attractions. Yet it must be admitted that the styles of their beauty
were of an exactly opposite cast. One of those singular freaks of Nature
which sometimes creates children of the same parents in the most
dissimilar mould, seemed to have operated in their case to produce two
sisters as unlike in every particular relating to outward appearance as
possible.

While the young countenance of Jessy was of the tenderest and softest
Madonna cast, her eyes of a delicate azure, and the light golden locks
parted upon a fair brow, like a gleam of sunshine upon a hill of snow,
her sister’s face was precisely the opposite. Lucy’s complexion, indeed,
was of the darkest hue ever seen in maidens of English birth, yet
mantled withal by so rich a shade of color, that for many it might have
possessed a greater charm than the fairness of a blonde. Her hair was
black as night; and her eyes, of the same hue, were never excelled in
lustre or beauty by the loveliest damsels of Spain. Her countenance was
of a lively and expressive character, in which spirit and wit seemed to
predominate; and the quick, black eye, with its beautifully penciled
brow, seemed to presage the arch remark to which the rosy and half
smiling lip appeared ready to give utterance.

“We have ridden far,” said the younger stranger, breaking the silence
which ensued when they had taken seats, and turning his eye again on
Lucy, as though he hoped to elicit a reply to his remark.

He was not disappointed. “May I ask,” said she, “what distance you have
come?”

“We left Massachusetts a couple of days ago,” he replied, “and have been
at hard riding ever since.”

“You spoke of business, gentlemen,” remarked the governor, rather
impatiently; “will you be so good as to proceed with the object of your
visit?”

“I address Governor H., sir, I presume?” said the ill-looking stranger,
speaking for the first time.

He signified ascent.

“Our business is official and private,” continued the speaker, in a
voice harsh and unpleasant, looking around uneasily at the spectators.

“All affairs with me are conducted in the presence of my family,” said
the governor drily.

“It is imperative, sir, that we see you alone,” urged the other, in a
dictatorial tone.

“Will you look whether there is a good fire in your little sanctum?”
said her uncle to Lucy, giving her at the same time a significant
glance, and having referred in his remark to a small room adjoining,
where Lucy not unfrequently repaired, surrounded by numbers of the
village children—with whom she was a general favorite—to dress their
dolls, cover their balls, and perform other similar acts. Here, too, she
retired for the purpose of reading, writing, and other occasions of