Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 4, October 1842

by Various

ACT THE SECOND.

Scene I.—Preciosa’s Chamber. Morning. Preciosa and Angelica.

Pre. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile.

The poor too often turn away unheard

From hearts that shut against them, with a sound

That will be heard in Heaven. Pray tell me more

Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me.

What is your landlord’s name?

Ang. The Count of Lara.

Pre. The Count of Lara? O beware that man!

Mistrust his pity—hold no parley with him!

And rather die an outcast in the streets

Than touch his gold.

Ang. You know him, then!

Pre. As much

As any woman may, and yet be pure.

As you would keep your name without a blemish,

Beware of him!

Ang. Alas! what can I do?

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness,

Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor.

Pre. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair

Should have no friends, but those of her own sex.

What is your name?

Ang. Angelica.

Pre. That name

Was given you, that you might be an angel

To her who bore you! When your infant smile

Made her home Paradise, you were her angel.

O be an angel still. She needs that smile.

So long as you are innocent, fear nothing.

No one can harm you! I am a poor girl,

Whom chance has taken from the public streets.

I have no other shield than my own virtue.

That is the charm which has protected me!

Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it

Here in my heart! It is my guardian angel!

Ang. (rising.) I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady!

Pre. Thank me by following it.

Ang. Indeed I will.

Pre. Pray do not go. I have much more to say.

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her.

Pre. Some other time, then, when we meet again.

You must not go away with words alone. (Gives her a purse.)

Take this. Would it were more.

Ang. I thank you, lady.

Pre. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again.

I dance to-night—perhaps for the last time.

But what I gain, I promise shall be yours,

If that can save you from the Count of Lara.

Ang. O my dear lady! how shall I be grateful

For so much kindness!

Pre. I deserve no thanks.

Thank Heaven, not me.

Ang. Both Heaven and you.

Pre. Farewell!

Remember that you come again to-morrow.

Ang. I will. And may the blessed Virgin guard you,

And all good angels. [Exit.

Pre. May they guard thee too,

And all the poor: for they have need of angels.

Now bring me here, dear Dolores, my basquiña,

My richest maja dress—my dancing dress,

And my most precious jewels! Make me look

Fairer than night e’er saw me! I’ve a prize

To win this day, worthy of Preciosa!

Enter Beltram Cruzado.

Cruz. Ave Maria!

Pre. Oh God! my evil genius!

What seek you here to-day?

Cruz. Thyself—my child.

Pre. What is thy will with me?

Cruz. Gold!—gold!

Pre. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more.

Cruz. The gold of the Busné—give me his gold!

Pre. I gave the last in charity to-day.

Cruz. That is a foolish lie.

Pre. It is the truth.

Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child!

Hast thou given gold away, and not to me?

Not to thy father? To whom, then?

Pre. To one

Who needs it more.

Cruz. No one can need it more,

No one so much as I.

Pre. Thou art not poor.

Cruz. Not poor! not poor! what, I who lurk about

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes;

I who am housed worse than the galley slave;

I who am fed worse than the kenneled hound;

I who am clothed in rags—Beltram Cruzado⁠—

Not poor!

Pre. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands.

Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more?

Cruz. The gold of the Busné!—give me his gold!

Pre. Beltram Cruzado! hear me once for all.

I speak the truth. So long as I had gold,

I gave it to thee freely, at all times⁠—

Never denied thee; never had a wish

But to fulfill thine own. Now go in peace!

Be merciful—be patient—and, ere long,

Thou shalt have more.

Cruz. And if I have it not,

Thou shall no longer dwell here in rich chambers,

Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food,

And live in idleness; but go with me⁠—

Dance the romalis in the public streets,

And wander wild again o’er field and fell;

For here we stay not long.

Pre. What! march again?

Cruz. Aye, with all speed. I hate the crowded town!

I cannot breathe, shut up within its gates!

Air—I want air—and sunshine—and blue sky,

The feeling of the breeze upon my face⁠—

The feeling of the turf beneath my feet,

And no walls but the far-off mountain tops.

Then I am free and strong—once more myself:

Beltram Cruzado—Count of the Calés!

Pre. God speed thee on thy march—I cannot go.

Cruz. Not go!—thou shall go! or, remaining here,

Purchase thy freedom with red gold. Mark that!

I will return to-morrow. Until then

Reflect on what I say. Thou knowest me⁠—

Take heed. [Exit.

Pre. Alas! of what shall I take heed?

I have a strange misgiving in my heart!

But that one deed of charity I’ll do,

Befall what may; they cannot take that from me. [Exit.

---

Scene II.—A room in the Archbishop’s Palace. The Archbishop and a Cardinal seated.

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals,

And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten

By such excesses, we have sent to Rome,

Beseeching that his Holiness would aid

In curing the gross surfeit of the time,

By seasonable stop put here in Spain

To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage.

All this you know.

Car. Know and approve.

Arch. And farther,

That by a mandate from his Holiness

The first have been suppressed.

Car. I trust forever.

It was a cruel sport.

Arch. A barbarous pastime,

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself

Most Catholic and Christian.

Car. Yet the people

Murmur at this; and if the public dances

Should be condemn’d upon too slight occasion,

Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure.

As Panem et Circenses was the cry

Among the Roman populace of old,

So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain.

Hence I would act advisedly herein;

And therefore have induced your grace to see

These national dances, ere we interdict them.

Enter a Servant.

Servant. The dancing girl, and with her the musicians

Your grace was pleased to order, wait without.

Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold

In what angelic yet voluptuous shape

The devil came to tempt Saint Anthony.

Enter Preciosa, with a mantilla thrown over her head. She advances slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude.

Car. (aside.) O what a fair and ministering angel

Was lost to Heaven, when this sweet woman fell!

Pre. (kneeling before the Archbishop.) I have obeyed the order of your grace.

If I intrude upon your better hours,

I proffer this excuse, and here beseech

Your holy benediction.

Arch. May God bless thee,

And lead thee to a better life. Arise.

Car. (aside.) Her acts are modest, and her words discreet!

I did not look for this! Come hither, child.

Is thy name Preciosa?

Pre. Thus I am called.

Car. That is a gipsy name. Who is thy father?

Pre. Beltram Cruzado, Count of the Calés.

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man;

A bold and reckless character was he,

Who never once beheld the face of fear.

Car. Dost thou remember still thy earlier days?

Pre. In the green woodlands by the Darro’s side,

My childhood passed. I can remember still

The river, and the mountains capped with snow;

The villages, where yet a little child

I told the traveller’s fortune in the street;

The smuggler’s horse, the brigand and the shepherd;

The march across the moor; the halt at noon;

The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted

The forest where we slept; and, further back,

As in a dream or in some former life,

Gardens and palace walls.

Arch. ’Tis the Alhambra,

Under whose walls the gipsy camp was pitch’d.

But the time wears; and we would see thee dance.

Pre. Your grace shall be obeyed.

(She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the Cachucha is played, and the dance begins. The Archbishop and the Cardinal look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more pleased and excited; and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.)

---

Scene II.—The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening. Don Carlos and Hypolito meeting.

Don C. Halloo! good evening, Don Hypolito.

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend Don Carlos.

Some lucky star has led my steps this way.

I was in search of you.

Don C. Command me always.

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo’s dreams,

The miser who, upon the day of judgment,

Asks if his money-bags have risen?

Don C. I do:

But what of that?

Hyp. I am that wretched man.

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty?

Hyp. And amen! said the Cid Campeador.

Don C. Pray, how much need you?

Hyp. Some half dozen ounces,

Which with due interest—

Don C. (giving his purse.) What, am I a Jew

To put my moneys out at usury?

Here is my purse.

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse,

Made by the hand of some fair Madrileña;

Perhaps a keep-sake.

Don C. No, ’tis at your service.

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Saint Chrysostom,

And with thy golden mouth remind me often

I am the debtor of my friend.

Don C. But tell me,

Come you to-day from Alcalá?

Hyp. This moment.

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian?

Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well.

He is in love.

Don C. And is it faring ill

To be in love?

Hyp. In his case very ill.

Don C. Why so?

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost

Because he is in love with an ideal;

A creature of his own imagination;

A child of air; on echo of his heart;

And like a lily on a river floating

She floats upon the river of his thoughts!

Don C. A common case with poets. But who is

This floating lily? For in fine, some woman,

Some living woman—not a mere ideal,

Must wear the outward semblance of his thought.

Who is it? Speak!

Hyp. Who do you think it is?

Don C. His cousin Violante.

Hyp. Guess again.

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm

He threw her overboard with all her ingots.

Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is.

Hyp. Not I.

Don C. Why not?

Hyp. (mysteriously.) Why? Because Mari Franca

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca!

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it?

Hyp. Preciosa!

Don C. Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me

She is not virtuous.

Hyp. Did I say she was?

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife

Whose name was Messalina, as I think;

Valeria Messalina was her name.

But hist! I see him yonder through the trees,

Walking as in a dream.

Don C. He comes this way.

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man

That money, grief and love cannot be hidden.

Pray stand this way, and let the dreamer pass.

(Enter Victorian in front.)

Vic. Where’er thy step has passed is holy ground!

These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking

Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked

At evening, and I feel thy presence now;

Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee

And is forever hallowed. [Exit.

Hyp. Mark him well!

See how he strides away with lordly air

Like that odd guest of stone—that grim commander

Who comes to sup with Juan in the play.

Don C. What ho! Victorian!

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us? [Exeunt.

---

Scene III.—Preciosa’s chamber. She is sitting near a table, working a scarf. A bird singing in its cage. The Count of Lara enters behind unperceived.

Pre. Thou little prisoner in a motley coat,

That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest,

Like thee I am a captive. In my cage

Imprisoned, bound with silken bands I stay,

And my heart sings in its captivity.

Would’st thou away? Is a grass-woven nest,

That swings among green boughs, a better home?

My cradle swung under the swinging forest,

As well as thine. We will go back together.

Dolores!

(Turning to lay her work down, perceives the Count.)

Ha!

Lara. Fair lady, pardon me!

Pre. How’s this? Dolores!

Lara. Pardon me—

Pre. Dolores!

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting.

If I have been too bold—

Pre. (turning her back upon him.) You are too bold!

Retire! retire, and leave me!

Lara. My dear lady,

First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak!

’Tis for your good I come.

Pre. (turning towards him with indignation.) Begone! begone!

What means this outrage? What gives you the right

Thus to insult an unprotected woman?

You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds

Would make the statues of your ancestors

Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor

To outrage thus the honor of a maid?

Is it Castilian pride to steal in here

Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong?

O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman,

Should have so base a soul!

Lara. I pray you, hear me!

Pre. Should be so little noble in your thoughts

As to send jewels here to win my love,

And think to buy my honor with your gold

As you would buy food in the market place!

I have no words to tell you how I scorn you!

Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me!

Begone, I say!

Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you.

Pre. Because you dare not.

Lara. I dare anything!

Therefore beware! You are deceived in me.

In this false world we do not always know

Who are our friends and who our enemies.

We all have enemies, and all need friends.

Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court,

Have foes, who seek to wrong you.

Pre. If to this

I owe the honor of the present visit,

You might have spared the coming. Having spoken,

Once more, I beg you, leave me to myself.

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you

What strange reports are current here in town.

For my own self I do not credit them;

But there are many who, not knowing you,

Will lend a readier ear.

Pre. There was no need

That you should take upon yourself the duty

Of telling me these tales.

Lara. Malicious tongues

Are ever busy with your name.

Pre. (in some agitation.) Alas!

I’ve no protectors here. I’m a poor girl,

Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests.

They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself.

I give no cause for these reports. I live

Retired; am visited by none.

Lara. By none?

O then indeed you are much wrong’d.

Pre. How mean you?

Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul

By the report of idle tales.

Pre. Speak out!

What are these idle tales? You need not spare me.

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me;

This window, as I think, looks towards the street,

And this into the Prado, does it not?

In yon high house, beyond the garden wall⁠—

You see the roof there just above the trees⁠—

There lives a friend, who told me yesterday,

That on a certain night—be not offended

If I too plainly speak—he saw a man

Climb to your chamber window. You are silent!

I would not blame you, being young and fair⁠—

(He tries to take her hand. She starts back and draws a dagger from her bosom.)

Pre. Beware! beware! I am a gipsy girl!

Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer

And I will strike!

Lara. Pray you put up that dagger.

Fear not.

Pre. I do not fear. I have a heart

In whose strength I can trust!

Lara. Listen to me.

I come here as your friend—I am your friend⁠—

And by a single word, can put a stop

To all those idle tales, and make your name

As spotless as the falling snow.

(Victorian enters behind.)

I love you,

Fair Preciosa! and will save your honor!

Give me some sign I do not love in vain!

Give me some token—but one word of promise⁠—

Let me but kiss your hand!

Pre. Avaunt! avaunt!

O save me from this demon!

(Rushes towards Victorian, who repulses her.)

Vic. Count of Lara!

What means this outrage?

Lara. First, what right have you

To question thus a nobleman of Spain?

Vic. I too am noble, and you are no more!

Out of my sight!

Lara. Are you the master here?

Vic. Aye, here and elsewhere, where the wrong of others

Gives me the right!

Pre. (to Lara.) Go! I beseech you, go!

Vic. I shall have business with you, count, anon!

Lara. You cannot come too soon! [Exit.

Pre. Victorian!

O we have been betray’d!

Vic. Ha! ha! betrayed!

’Tis I have been betrayed, not we!—not we!

Pre. Dost thou imagine—

Vic. I imagine nothing;

I see how ’tis thou whilest the time away

When I am gone!

Pre. O speak not in that tone!

It wounds me deeply.

Vic. ’Twas not meant to flatter.

Pre. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man

Is hateful to me!

Vic. Yet I saw thee stand

And listen to him, when he told his love.

Pre. Indeed, I heard him not.

Vic. Indeed thou did’st!

Pre. Such base suspicions are unworthy of thee!

Cast them away. Be not so angry with me.

Vic. I am not angry; I am very calm.

Pre. If thou wilt let me speak⁠—

Vic. Nay, say no more.

I know too much already. Thou art false!

I do not like these gipsy marriages!

Where is the ring I gave thee?

Pre. In my casket.

Vic. There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it!

I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted!

Pre. I call the Heavens to witness⁠—

Vic. Nay, nay, nay!

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips!

They are forsworn!

Pre. Victorian! dear Victorian!

Vic. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame,

My hopes of fortune, aye, my very soul!

And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on!

Laugh at my folly with thy paramour,

And sitting on the Count of Lara’s knee,

Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was!

(He casts her from him and rushes out.)

---

Scene IV.—The Count of Lara’s rooms. Enter the Count.

Lara. There’s nothing in this world so sweet as love,

And next to love the sweetest thing is hate!

I’ve learned to hate, and therefore am revenged.

A silly girl to play the prude with me!

The fire that I have kindled⁠—

(Enter Francisco.)

Well, Francisco,

What tidings from Don Juan?

Fran. Good, my lord;

He will be present.

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos?

Fran. He was not in.

Lara. How with the rest?

Fran. I’ve found

The men you wanted. They will all be there,

And at the given signal raise a whirlwind

Of such discordant noises that the dance

Must cease for lack of music.

Lara. Bravely done.

Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa,

What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close

Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and sword.

[Exeunt.

---

Scene V.—A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter Victorian and Hypolito.

Vic. Oh shame! oh shame! Why do I walk abroad

By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me,

And voices, and familiar sights and sounds

Cry hide thyself! O what a thin partition

Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge

Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness.

Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows

Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face

Expresses some suspicion of my shame,

And in derision seems to smile at me!

Hyp. Did I not caution thee? Did I not tell thee

I was but half persuaded of her virtue?

Vic. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong,

We may be over-hasty in condemning!

The Count of Lara is a damnéd villain.

Hyp. And therefore is she damnéd, loving him.

Vic. She does not love him! ’Tis for gold—for gold!

Hyp. Aye, but remember, in the public streets

He shows a golden ring the gipsy gave him,

A serpent with a ruby in its mouth.

Vic. She had that ring from me! God! she is false!

But I will be revenged!

The hour is passed.

Where stays the coward?

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward;

A villain, if thou will, but not a coward.

I’ve seen him play with swords: it is his pastime.

And therefore be not over-confident,

He’ll task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes.

(Enter Lara, followed by Francisco.)

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen.

Hyp. Good evening, count.

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting?

Vic. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared?

Lara. I am.

Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel

Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way

Left open to accord this difference,

But you must make one with your swords?

Vic. None! none!

I do intreat thee, dear Hypolito,

Stand not between me and my foe. Too long

Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel

End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count!

(They fight. Victorian disarms the Count.)

Vic. Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me

From sending your vile soul to its account?

Lara. Strike! strike!

Vic. You are disarmed. I will not kill you!

I will not murder you. Take up your sword.

(Francisco hands the Count his sword, and Hypolito interposes.)

Hyp. Enough! Let it end here! The Count of Lara

Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian

A generous one, as ever. Now be friends.

Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you,

Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing

To move you to extremes.

Lara. I am content.

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words

Spoken in the heat of blood have led to this.

Vic. Nay, something more than that.

Lara. I understand you.

Therein I did not mean to cross your path.

To me the door stood open, as to others,

But had I known the girl belonged to you

Never should I have sought to win her from you.

The truth stands now revealed; she has been false

To both of us.

Vic. Aye, false as hell itself!

Lara. In truth I did not seek her; she sought me;

And told me how to win her, telling me

The hours when she was oftenest left alone.

Vic. O cursed, cursed folly, to have loved her!

Say, can you prove this to me? O pluck out

These awful doubts, that goad me into madness!

Let me know all—all—all!

Lara. You shall know all.

Here is my page, who was the messenger

Between us. Question him. Was it not so,

Francisco?

Fran. Aye, my lord.

Lara. If farther proof

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me.

Vic. Pray let me see that ring! It is the same!

(Throws it upon the ground and tramples upon it.)

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring!

Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample

Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara,

We both have been abused, been much abused!

I thank you for your courtesy and frankness.

Though, like the surgeon’s hand, yours gave me pain,

Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you.

I now can see the folly I have done,

Though ’tis, alas! too late. So fare you well!

To-night I leave this hateful town forever. Once more, farewell!

Regard me as your friend.

Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count.

[Exeunt Victorian and Hypolito.

Lara. Farewell! farewell!

Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe!

I have none else to fear; the fight is done,

The citadel is stormed, the victory won!

[Exit with Francisco.

---

Scene VI.—Preciosa’s bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm-chair, in an undress; Dolores watching her.

Dol. Poor girl, she sleeps at last; yet hardly sleeps;

She lives her sorrows o’er again in dreams,

Doubling her grief.

Pre. I must go hence, I say!

Give me my cloak.

Dol. She murmurs in her sleep.

Pre. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night⁠—

I am too ill. Look at me! See the fever

That burns upon my cheek. I must go hence.

I am too weak to dance. If you’re a man

You will not ask it of me.

Dol. She dreams still

Of what has passed to-night.

Pre. Did you say must?

Then by the heavens I will not. Tell them so!

Have they no feeling? I am not their slave.

I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me!

Shame—shame! to treat a feeble woman thus!

Be you but kind, I will do all things for you.

I’m ready now—give me my castañets.

Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps!

They glare upon me, like an evil eye.

I cannot stay! Hark! how they mock at me!

They hiss at me, like serpents! Save me! save me!

(She wakes.)

Dol. Alas! poor girl!

Pre. How late is it, Dolores?

Dol. It is past midnight.

Pre. And he has not come?

He will not come to-night; and yet I thought

He stood here by my side, and held my hand.

We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me.

Thank thee.

(She sleeps again.)

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

---

THE SMILE.

I looked on Beauty when the sudden light

Of Intellect and generous Feeling high

Blazed on the Cheek and lightened in the Eye

And Genius flashed from every feature bright!

I looked on Beauty when a wild delight

Laughed from beneath her silken lashes fair;

And Mirth, awaking from her rosy lair,

Led forth his dimples like the waves of Night

When the full heaven of stars is shining there!

But not the flash of Genius may compare,

Nor the gay summer of the radiant cheek

With the soft Smile of twilight sweetness rare,

On Beauty’s brow, which thoughts of kindness wear

When the Eye looks, more than the tongue may speak.

---

SILENT LOVE.

———

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

Oh! call it by some better name,

For Friendship is too cold;

And love is now a worldly flame,

Whose shrine must be of gold;

And passion, like the sun at noon,

That burns o’er all it sees,

Awhile as warm, will set as soon—

Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay,

Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,

Yet human still as they.

Moore.

“Many are poets who have never penned their inspiration;” and still more truly might it be said, “Many are lovers who have never breathed their adoration.”

If there be much “unwritten poetry” in the world, there is also much unuttered love, much that should have been spoken to hearts where it would have found a response, much that would have contributed to honor and happiness, much that has existed in secrecy and silence, glimmering, like the lamp in an ancient sepulchre, only over the ashes of departed hopes.

Mr. Allison was one of those persons who are usually considered “lucky men,” though his luck lay in his industry, perseverance and economy, while the talisman which secured his success was most probably inscribed with the word, “Patience.” He had grown rich slowly, not from the sudden influx of speculative wealth, but by the gradual accumulations of toilsome years, and his progress from poverty to riches had been marked by no startling transitions. Upright in all his dealings, and justly conscious of his own native respectability, he sought no devious ways to fortune, and, when her favors were gained, he aimed at no ostentatious display of them. He lived in plain but handsome style, spared no expense in the education of his family, gratified them with every luxury that was consistent with his ideas of propriety, and, contrary to the practice of most American merchants, indulged himself with sufficient leisure even amid the cares of business, to enjoy the society of his wife, his children and his friends. Remembering his own early struggles, he was always ready to extend a helping hand to the young and unfriended, so that many a poor boy, who now enjoys the blessings of competence, has looked back with joy to the day which brought him within the notice of the benevolent merchant.

Among those whom Mr. Allison had most efficiently aided was a youth, named Ernest Melvyn, who, when scarcely fourteen years of age, had been so fortunate as to secure a situation in his warehouse. In little more than two years after he entered Mr. Allison’s employ the boy had the misfortune to lose his father, and thus the maintenance of a sick mother and an almost infant sister devolved upon him. Mr. Allison, with that promptness which always doubles the value of a generous act, immediately promoted Ernest to a more responsible station, and increased his salary, while he appropriated to the use of the widowed mother comfortable apartments in one of his own houses. But his kindness did not stop here. Finding that the family of his young clerk were highly respectable though now reduced to great indigence, and that the boy’s early education had been suited rather to his father’s former station than to his present fortunes, Mr. Allison determined to give him every advantage in the prosecution of his studies. He invited Ernest to his house, gave him the use of his library, directed him to the most instructive books, and, in short, left nothing undone which could contribute to his future welfare.

Deeply grateful to his benefactor for all his kindness, and fully sensible of the importance of such advantages, Ernest showed his thankfulness both by his close attention to his duties, and his ready acceptance of Mr. Allison’s offers. He became a regular resident in the family; a timid, quiet, unobtrusive haunter of that pleasant fireside, where he always found a kind welcome, cheerful companions and excellent books. Every body liked him, from the merchant, who was pleased with his fidelity to business, and Mrs. Allison, who found him very useful in the execution of those thousand little commissions of which husbands are so provokingly forgetful, down to the smiling servant maid who opened the door at the knock of the pale and pleasant-faced clerk. His quiet cheerfulness and unruffled good-temper made him a great favorite with Mr. Allison’s daughters, but his most especial friend in the family was the “youngling of the flock,” the petted and lovely little Mary. Though scarcely four years old when Ernest became so associated with them, Mary attached herself to him, with all the warmth of childish affection. Ernest loved her for her resemblance to his own little sister, who had been the idol of his boyhood, and who had early followed his father to the grave. He seemed to have transferred to Mary Allison the love which had once been lavished upon his lost darling, and fondly did the child respond to his tenderness. She was in truth one of the loveliest of creatures, with large, soft, blue eyes, a profusion of golden curls, and lips like the berries of the cornel-tree, while her frank and joyous temper, her sunny cheerfulness, and the overflowing affection which seemed ever gushing up from the depths of her innocent heart, added new charms to her infantine beauty. She was the idol of her parents, the delight of her elder sisters, the plaything of the servants, and, above all, the cherished pet of Ernest Melvyn. Hour after hour would he sit with Mary nestled upon his knee, while he displayed to her wondering gaze the beautiful engravings in her father’s costly volumes, or traced on her little slate many a rough but spirited sketch of castle and cottage, to be effaced and renewed with every childish whim. He carved fairy baskets of cherry-pits, fashioned clay models of Indian figures, and practiced, for the gratification of his favorite, those thousand little devices which can be accomplished by a skilful hand, good taste and patience. When infancy gave place to childhood, with its increasing cares, it was Ernest Melvyn who became the confidant of all little Mary’s anxieties and pleasures. It was he who wrought out the tedious sum, and explained the wonderfully abstruse rules of that hated grammar, and aided her in remembering those troublesome chronological tables, and, in short, removed every stumbling-block, while he lightened every burden of her school life.

In the mean time Mr. Allison’s elder daughters were growing up to womanhood, as beautiful as they were gentle and good. Their personal attractions, their gracefully feminine characters, and the known wealth of their father, all contributed to draw around them a crowd of admirers, whose motives were as various as their minds. Amid such persons Ernest never mingled. Retiring in his manners, and humble in his feelings, he never obtruded himself into the gay circle which gradually formed itself around the young ladies. His visits were as frequent as ever, but his evenings were usually passed in the library, aiding Mary in her lessons, giving her such primary instructions in drawing, as his fine but uncultivated taste would permit, or reading some useful book, which, if rather above the child’s comprehension, was yet listened to with pleasure because Ernest was the reader. Mr. Allison beheld with pleasure the innocent attachment which existed between them. He believed it to be an advantage to both, since it gave Mary a new impulse and aid to mental cultivation, while it preserved Ernest from many of the temptations which assail the youth of a large city; and even the prudence of age could see nothing to fear from the affection which had thus been awakened in the days of infancy. But the love which had thus sprung up between the child of four summers, and the boy of sixteen, had lost none of its tenderness when Mary could count her twelfth birthday. “How I love,” says the Ettrick Shepherd, “how I love a little girl of twelve;” and those who have made children a study will heartily agree with him. It is the sweetest of all ages, the loveliest of all periods in woman’s life: because it is perhaps the only season when the developing mind and expanding heart display their beautiful feminine traits without one shadow from the coming cloud of passion, when the flowers of affection give out their richest perfume, unmingled with the envenomed sweets with which future years will imbue them.

Ernest Melvyn had grown up tall and handsome, but with the pale cheek and thoughtful brow of the habitual thinker. His eyes were usually veiled beneath their full and drooping lids, but they were full of intelligence and sweetness, while his form was as graceful and his step as free as if he had never trod other soil than that of the green hills where his sunny hours of childhood had been passed. His application to business had given him a degree of gravity beyond his years, and his love of reading had made him a quiet observer of society rather than an actor in its busy scenes. His time was divided between his duties in the warehouse, his attention to his infirm mother, and his visits to Mr. Allison’s family; the first tended to create stability of character, the second to cultivate the domestic affections, and quicken his delicate sense of duty, while the last gave him the inestimable advantage of polished and virtuous female society. Could he have overcome his reserve, and learned to think less humbly of himself, Ernest Melvyn might have shone in the gayest circles, for, even in a place where wealth too often determines a man’s social position, the protégé of the rich Mr. Allison would have found little difficulty in winning his way. Had Ernest understood the “art of pushing,” an art, by the way, which deserves to be made the subject of a course of lectures, he could easily have become a general favorite in society, and might, in all probability, by some fortunate marriage, have compassed what the world pleasantly calls “Independence,” in other words, a lifelong subsistence upon the alimony of a wife. But Ernest was too modest, too single-minded to think of such things. The liberal stipend which he received from Mr. Allison more than sufficed for all his mother’s necessities, and his own wants were very few. A small sum was annually left in his benefactor’s hands, to form a fund for his mother’s future support in case of his death, and with this provision he was perfectly content. As his tastes developed, his gradually increasing means enabled him to gratify them without encroaching upon this consecrated hoard. Books, purchased chiefly at auction, and remarkable rather for their solid worth, than their exterior decorations, had accumulated around him, a few choice paintings which he had found among the rubbish of a deceased picture dealer, now adorned the walls of his neat apartment, a collection of minerals, made with no other expense than that of healthful fatigue, a small but very complete cabinet of shells, miniature casts from the antique, moulded by himself in moments of leisure, and a portfolio of exquisite pencil-drawings by his own hand, all attested the elegance of his tastes and the innocence of his pursuits.

To Mr. Allison’s daughters Ernest Melvyn appeared in the light of a valued relative, a sort of “Cousin Tom,” useful on all occasions and obtrusive on none, universally liked, and allowed to come and go with all the freedom of a family friend, less noticed when present than missed when absent. But to the little golden-haired Mary he was an object of far more importance, and even when the flush of womanhood began to brighten the cheek of the little maiden, and her innocent bosom thrilled with those “impulses of soul and sense,” which mark the first step beyond the limit of girlish gayety, Ernest was still the friend, the confidant of all her joys and sorrows. Exceedingly sensitive in character, with feelings keenly alive to every emotion, full of affection and gentleness, and quick to receive impressions, Mary Allison was a creature of impulse rather than judgment. The circle which had long surrounded her sisters now opened to admit her also. Two of Mr. Allison’s daughters were on the verge of matrimony, while two still remained free to win new lovers to their feet, when Mary made her entrance into society. Conscious that she possessed no small share of the beauty which had made her sisters so attractive, vague dreams of future triumphs and successes began to mingle with her gentler feelings. The spirit which often leads a beautiful woman into the mazes of coquetry, was striving in the heart of the fair girl, and but for the quiet counsels of Ernest, who was now her mentor in the perilous days of womanhood, even as he had been her playfellow in the sunny hours of childhood, she might have become a vain and frivolous votary of fashion. But there was something in the calm reproach of Ernest’s thoughtful eye, which restrained the wayward follies of the flattered belle, and Mary felt, long ere she acknowledged even to herself the truth, that, whatever might be the charms of adulation, the approval of one noble heart was worth them all. When lovers came around her, Ernest gently withdrew from all apparent competition, content to watch from afar, lest danger or deception should touch the object of his hallowed interest. Keeping always aloof from the throng of admirers who now found their way habitually to a house where such varied attractions were ever to be met, Ernest seemed abstracted and indifferent. The incense offered by the professed danglers, the attentions of beaux, the heavy bon-mots of would-be witlings, fell on his ear unheeded; but when one of lofty mind and noble character, a man worthy of respect and affection, when such an one offered his homage at the shrine of youthful beauty, Ernest was all eye, all ear, aye, and all heart.

Was Ernest in love with Mary Allison? Who can tell? surely he was too unpresuming, too calm, too free from jealousy to be in love. Yet what meant his eager watchfulness over her every look and word, his keen perception of her every impulse, his deep devotion to her every wish? It was most strange, and yet might not a warm fraternal affection for one who had taken the place of his dead sister in his heart, account for all his feelings? Such was Ernest’s belief, and if he deceived himself, his was the punishment as well as the error.

One after another, the beautiful daughters of Mr. Allison were wedded, until only Mary, the lovely Mary, whose very changefulness of temper formed one of her brightest charms, alone was left. From her sixteenth year Mary had received the homage of flattery and affection. Some had wooed her for her fortune, some for her gayety, some for her warm-heartedness, but all had alike been unsuccessful. When questioned as to her motives for this indiscriminate coldness, she would only laugh, and toss back her golden locks with a look of mischievous mirth that seemed the index of a light and unfettered heart. Utterly free from the coquetry which can deliberately win hearts but to wound them, she yet loved admiration, and could seldom resist the temptation of making herself agreeable. Indeed she could scarcely avoid making conquests, for her usual sweetness of manner was sufficient of itself to attract all who came within its influence. As Miss Edgeworth has beautifully expressed it, “even from the benevolence of her own disposition she derived the means of giving pain, as the bee is said to draw the venom of its sting from its own honey.” Too sensitive for frivolous coquetry, Mary was in far more danger from those sentimental flirtations which are so fascinating to the romantic and the imaginative, and often so fatal to the peace of those who indulge in them. Few women—I mean warm-hearted, high-souled women—have escaped the influence of these “opium dreams of too much youth and reading,” as they are contemptuously called by the worldly and the cold. Few but have, at the early dawn of womanhood, cherished a pure and passionless affection, which the world may have sneered at as “Platonic,” and the prudent may have censured as indiscreet, but which was a source of infinite happiness while it endured, and which, perhaps, by the very anguish of its dissolution, afforded the best of all discipline for the future trials of the heart. Yet, like all other exquisite pleasures in this changing world, such joy is only to be bought at the price of future pain. Rarely does such an attachment terminate without suffering—rarely does that passionless dream fade into the splendors of a brighter reality—rarely does the heart awake from its trance of sublimated feeling to find loftier and sweeter impulses in actual life and perfect love.

From such perils, to which her romantic temper would probably have exposed her, Mary Allison was preserved by the watchfulness of Ernest. Indeed their mutual regard seemed to possess much of the character of such an affection as has just been described, but without its dangers. He was her friend, her counsellor, the guide of her wayward feelings; but there was none of that high-wrought sensibility, that fervent language which would be impassioned were it not so pure, that ardor of feeling which gives to such a friendship the semblance of love—but of love wingless, and with bow unbent. Ernest never ventured to be other than the friend, the honored, trusted and humble friend. Not that he was a servile, mean-spirited contemner of himself because of his property—for he was in truth as high-souled, lofty-minded, and proud-hearted a being as ever wrestled with fortune—but gratitude had quickened his perception of duty, and, in the echoes of his own heart, he learned the nature of his own humility.

Mary had attained her twenty-second year when she received another offer of marriage from a gentleman whose character and standing in society made him a most eligible match. He was refused, but so kindly and gently, that he resolved not to be repulsed. He persevered in a course of delicate attentions which even Mary’s fastidiousness could not reject, and he demanded the consideration due to friendship till he could make good his claims to a warmer interest. He was certainly not distasteful to Mary, and had she been called to choose one from among her professed lovers, Charles Walton would probably have been the object of her choice. But she was conscious that she was capable of a much stronger emotion than he had inspired, and a very slight examination into her heart showed her one sealed recess which she dared not venture to unlock. Within that holy of holies, which every mortal shrouds within his bosom, she knew that an image was enshrined on which maiden pride forbade her to look, and the fair girl turned away dismayed from her self-imposed task. But her lover was patient and persevering, and, after months of assiduous wooing, he sought her father’s aid. Mr. Allison had never interfered to control the inclinations of his children. If the suitor was only a man of integrity and honor, mere pecuniary disparity was never allowed to influence his opinions, but, in this case, he certainly was disposed to wish that Mary might decide in Mr. Walton’s favor. He wished to retire from business, and Walton was very competent to supply his place in a concern which might still be conducted for the benefit of the family, if Mary would become the wife of the new partner. Actuated by these motives he promised his influence to the ardent lover; but the more he reflected upon his task the more reluctant he felt to perform it. He could not bear to influence the affections of his favorite child, and yet he earnestly wished her to think as he did. Like most men in a similar predicament, he adopted a middle course, and quieted his scruples by committing the trust to another.

One evening, just at twilight, Mary was in a small apartment communicating with the drawing-room, when her father approached in close conversation with Ernest Melvyn. They took a seat in the parlor, and, as the door was ajar, Mary could not avoid hearing her own name several times repeated. She was about entering the room when she heard her father say, “I wish, Ernest, you would use your influence with Mary. I am sure she prefers Mr. Walton, and it is only a woman’s whim which prevents her acceptance of him.”

“Are you sure she is attached to Walton?” asked Ernest, in a low and hurried tone.

“Oh, I cannot be mistaken about it; she likes him better than any lover she has ever had, for she confessed as much to me yesterday. It is full time she came to some decision, and I wish she would accept him. He is exactly the kind of person whom I should have selected for her, and I am sure he will make her happy. She is greatly influenced by your opinions, Ernest, and I really wish you would advise her to marry Walton.”

Mary listened breathlessly for Ernest’s answer. After a long pause she heard him say, “Certainly, sir, if you wish it, I will do so.” Mary staid for no more. Hurrying to her room, she flung herself on the floor in an agony of excited feeling. The secret of her heart was now revealed to her, and the anguish which overwhelmed her proved how fondly she had cherished the delusion. She now knew what before she more than suspected; she no longer doubted that her heart and happiness had long been in the keeping of the modest and gentle Ernest. But with this knowledge came the startling fact that Ernest loved her not.

“He could coldly promise his influence to give me to another—me, whom he has cherished from childhood—me, who have loved him from my very infancy! Yes, his is but a brother’s love, and never shall my nature be disgraced by the disclosure of an unrequited passion. It shall be plucked away even if entwined with the very fibres of my heart.” Such were the reflections of the unhappy girl, as the violence of her emotions subsided. Could she have seen the bitter struggle in the breast of Ernest—could she have divined the hidden agony of his spirit when he controlled his voice to utter those cold words—could she have known the sudden wretchedness of that moment which first revealed to him the depth and breadth of his own absorbing passion, she would have decided differently. One word then would have secured the happiness of both; but the word was unspoken, and the destiny of both was sealed.

That very night Charles Walton renewed his suit to Mary and was accepted—the next morning Mr. Allison informed Ernest that his influence was no longer necessary in the matter. The next week preparations for the marriage were commenced.

For several days Ernest absented himself from Mr. Allison’s house, but just as every body was beginning to wonder what could ail him, he came, and took his accustomed seat, as quiet and perhaps rather more silent than was his wont. He looked pale and care-worn, but his mother’s renewed paroxysm of illness was sufficient to account for his appearance, and though his lip quivered and his hand trembled as he offered his congratulations to Mary, yet no one could have dreamed that beneath his calm seeming he concealed an immolated heart. Mary’s pride rose to her aid when she beheld Ernest’s undisturbed demeanor. She almost despised herself for the weakness which made her shudder as with an ague, when he offered his wishes for her future happiness; and, resolutely closing her bosom against all such emotions, she determined to perform the duties she had undertaken with a firm and unyielding spirit.

The increasing illness of the invalid, Mrs. Melvyn, soon confined Ernest so closely to his home, during his leisure hours, that he thus escaped the torture of witnessing the arrangements for Mary’s marriage. It was perhaps fortunate for both, since the tie between them was now to be severed, that it should be done thus gradually, and from a sense of duty to others, rather than from selfish feelings. At times Mary half suspected that Ernest loved her, but the stern, self-sacrificing devotion of him who believed that she had chosen wisely and well, destroyed the fancy ere it became a hope. “She has fulfilled the wishes of her father—she has found love and happiness,” said Ernest to himself, “and not one shadow from the cloud which impends over my fate shall ever darken her path.” And with a courage far more exalted than that which binds the martyr to the faggot and the stake, did this noble-hearted being crush his own heart within him, lest he should mar the hopes of her whom he loved better than life.

Ernest did not see Mary wedded. On the very night of her bridal his mother died, and, in the awful stillness of the death-chamber, the voice of passion was hushed into silence. It was not until his only companion was laid in her humble grave, and the quiet of exhaustion had gradually stolen over the tortured feelings of the bereaved and heart-sick Ernest, that he ventured to approach the dwelling of Mr. Allison. Amid their festivities the family had not been regardless of his sorrow, and many an act of unobtrusive kindness had shown him that he was affectionately remembered among them. But he had learned some sad and solemn truths as he watched beside his dying mother. The nothingness of human cares, the vanity of human hopes, the fruitlessness of human affections had been deeply impressed upon his heart. His mother’s last lesson, imparted in the peacefulness of her dying hour, came with thrilling power to his bosom, and in the loneliness of his deep grief he learned life’s hardest lesson—“to suffer and be still.”

One more trial yet awaited him. Not long after his mother’s death, Mr. Allison took him aside and offered him a partnership in his lucrative business.

“I am old,” said the merchant, “and want to be released from toil; Charles Walton is to be the principal in our firm, and we wish to secure your future services, as well as to reward a fidelity which has never once failed in twenty years of duty. Indeed, Mary insisted that her husband should accept no proposition which did not include you. I require no capital from you; the profits arising from your yearly deposit in my hands have swelled your little fund to some ten thousand dollars, which I am ready to pay over to you before commencing our new arrangement.”

“You are kind—very kind, my dear sir,” was Ernest’s reply, while tears filled his eyes, and his emotions choked his utterance; “believe me, I am not ungrateful, and while life and health remain I shall ever be devoted to your service. But I cannot accept your noble offer—let me still be your clerk—your servant, if you will—I am no longer fitted for the responsibilities of a partner.”

“My dear fellow, you are as healthy, active, and industrious as ever you were; you are in the very prime of life, and must not talk of want of fitness.”

“The spring of life is gone,” said Ernest, mournfully, “I have no motive now for exertion.”

“You are dispirited, Ernest—the loss of your mother has saddened and depressed you. Think over my proposition in a calm and dispassionate manner, and I am convinced you will not refuse it.”

Ernest did think long and deeply on the subject, but his decision was unalterable.

“It comes too late; my life is now an aimless one, and riches might only tend to make it a useless one also; there are none to share my fortunes, and why should a solitary and isolated man heap up riches when he knows not who shall gather them? it comes too late!”

Alas! how often has that thought paralized the energies and stricken the heart of the patient sufferer. Even he, who in the flush of manhood can proudly exclaim, “I bide my time,” as if in defiance of fortune’s frowns, is often heard, when all was gained, to sigh mournfully in after life over the chilling reflection, “it comes too late!"—too late for the fulfilment of hope—too late for the attainment of happiness.

Ernest Melvyn never rose above the station of confidential clerk, but the respect and esteem of his employers testified his integrity and usefulness. Mr. Walton learned to regard him with as much friendship as Mr. Allison, and it was not long before he was as welcome a guest in Mary’s new home as he had ever been in the scenes of her joyous childhood. Whatever might have been her feelings towards Ernest, his perfect self-possession and calm demeanor, by convincing her that he had never loved her, aided her in the subjugation of her own rebellious heart. Her husband was kind, affectionate, and good. She had always respected his talents and esteemed his virtues, and now, as time wove the new and strong ties of parental affection between them, the quiet happiness of domestic life gradually effaced the brightest tints of her youth’s romance. It may be that a shadow rested long on her path—it may be that the spectre of blighted love sometimes stood beside the shrine of her household gods—but Time, the true exorciser of all such ghosts, wrought his work of kindness, slowly but surely, and Mary became a cheerful, useful and happy woman.

Ernest experienced the usual changes which come upon a solitary man. He lived alone among his books, and pictures, and shells, until they became actually objects of tender interest to him. Regularly, every afternoon, he visited Mr. Allison, and read the newspapers for his benefactor, whose failing sight rendered the perusal of his favorite journals a task of some difficulty. This done, Ernest returned to his home and passed the remainder of the evening in study—aimless it is true, but still pleasing; or in a dreamy and vague reverie so enticing to a reserved and imaginative man. But on one certain evening in each week, he always took his seat at Mrs. Walton’s tea-table, and as regularly ensconced himself in the chimney-corner as soon as tea was over. To the isolated man this weekly visit, and those claspings of the hand with which he was always greeted, were as dear as the “memorable kiss” with which the “apostle of passion” fed his wild idolatry; aye, full as precious and far more pure was the joy thus imparted than any refinement of infidel philosophy and illicit love. Mary’s children climbed his knee, even as Mary had done in her own glad infancy, and loved him with all the fervent affection which had once characterized her feelings. Like all old bachelors, he became somewhat of a humorist, and, at last, was voted by the dandies of the rising generation, to be decidedly eccentric. But his kindliness of heart, his firm integrity, and his purity and delicacy of feeling never forsook him.

To the day of his death he never disclosed the secret of his early love. When the frosts of three-score winters had whitened his locks, the solitary old man withdrew to his lonely room, and there, amid those inanimate objects which had been his solace through so many weary years, he yielded up his gentle spirit to the God who gave it. He was found one morning lying in the quiet sleep of death—his arms crossed upon his breast, his bible on the table at his bedside, and his features settled in such sweet repose that none looked upon them without feeling that Death had indeed dealt mercifully with the righteous.

His will was found in his cabinet, and Mary Walton was made the sole heiress of his little fortune; although no reason was assigned for this exclusive preference. Perhaps the little casket which was discovered in a secret recess of the same cabinet disclosed somewhat of the truth to her conscious heart. It contained a lock of golden hair, marked: “given me by Mary on her twelfth birthday,” together with a withered bouquet, which, from the silken band around it, Mary remembered to have given him the night preceding her betrothal, and a penciled sketch in which she had no difficulty to recognize her own girlish beauty.

Reader, does my tale seem tame and trite? it is the history of a blighted heart; and if the secrets of that strange world of mystery were more frequently revealed, many such a tale of simple pathos would enlist the sympathies of the glad and gay. The picture of that self-forgetting being, subduing his love, at first, from the very humility of true affection, and, afterwards, crushing it within his heart lest its living presence should mar the happiness of his beloved, is to me one of ineffable tenderness. That he was mistaken in his views of her happiness does not destroy the beauty of his self-devotion; and what shall we say of the moral courage which could relinquish all claims to posthumous sympathy, by bearing his secret to the grave, lest a shadow from the past should fall upon her present peacefulness?

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THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

———

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

———

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,

For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;

Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,

Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,

And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak,

And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong

Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,

Shuddering to feel their shadow o’er thee creep;

A path, thick-set with changes and decays,

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;

And they who walked with thee in life’s first stage,

Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,

Thou seest the sad companions of thy age⁠—

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,

Nor deem that glorious season e’er could die.

Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;

Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;

Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand

On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet

Than when at first he took thee by the hand,

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,

Life’s early glory to thine eyes again,

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill

Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?

Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear

A gentle murmur of the morning gales,

That sweep the ambrosial groves of that bright shore,

And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear,

And voices of the loved ones gone before,

More musical in that celestial air?

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SKETCH OF A CASE,

OR A PHYSICIAN EXTRAORDINARY.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “A NEW HOME,” ETC.

———

Doctor R—— sat alone in his study when a lady was announced.

“Mrs. Waldorf, sir,” and the doctor laid down his pen and received his visiter very cordially. She was the wife of a rich German merchant, and a distant cousin of his own; a handsome woman of about five and thirty, with sufficient repose of manner, but too spirited an eye to pass for a mere fashionable machine.

“I have come to you, doctor, instead of sending for you,” began the lady, “because I do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know I have thought it necessary to consult you. He is so easily alarmed, that if he knew you had prescribed for me he would watch me so closely and insist so much upon my observance of your directions to the very letter, that I should have no peace.”

The doctor smiled, as if he thought Mr. Waldorf would not be so far wrong as his lady might suppose.

“But what is it, my dear madam?” he said, taking Mrs. Waldorf’s hand and giving a look of professional scrutiny to her face. “You look well, though there is a slight flaccidity about the eyes, and not quite so ruddy a nether lip as one might wish to see. What is it?”

“Oh! a thousand things, doctor; my health is miserable—at least I sometimes think so; I have pains in the right side—and such flutterings at my heart—and such lassitude—and such headaches—and sleep so miserably—”

“Are your pains very severe? are they of a heavy, dull kind, or sharp and darting? and how often do you experience them?”

“They are not very constant—no, not constant, certainly, nor very severe—but, doctor, they fill me with apprehensions of future evil. It is not present suffering of which I complain, so much as a fear of worse to come. I dread lest disease should make such progress, unnoticed, that it will be vain to attempt a cure.” And Mrs. Waldorf’s eyes filled with tears at the very thought of her troubles.

“You are wise to take it in time,” said Doctor R⁠——. “But tell me more of these symptoms. At what time of the day do you generally feel most indisposed?”

“Oh! I can scarcely say. When I wake in the morning, I am always very miserable. My head is full of dull pain, especially about the eyes. My lips are parched; I find it a great exertion to dress myself, and never have the slightest appetite for breakfast.”

“Ah! indeed!” mused the doctor, “you breakfast as soon as you arise, I presume. At what hour do you retire?”

“We make it a rule to be in bed by twelve, unless we happen to be engaged out, which is but seldom. Waldorf detests parties and late hours. We spend our evenings with music or books, very quietly.”

“At what hour do you sup?”

“We have nothing like a regular supper, but for mere sociality’s sake we have a tray brought up about ten. I take nothing beyond a bit of chicken or a few oysters, or a slice of cake, and sometimes only a cracker and a glass of wine. You look as if you thought even this were better omitted; but I should scarcely know how to cut off one of my husband’s few social pleasures. He would touch nothing if I did not partake with him. He thinks as ill of suppers as you do.”

“I beg your pardon—I interrupted your detail of symptoms to ask these questions as to the evening. You say you have no appetite for breakfast—how long do these feelings of languor and exhaustion continue to trouble you?”

“Oh! I generally feel better after a cup of coffee; and after practicing at the harp or the piano-forte for an hour or two, or sometimes three when I have new music, I generally drive out, and perhaps shop a little, or at any rate take a turn into the country for the air, and usually return somewhat refreshed.”

“Do you take your airings alone?”

“Yes—perforce, almost. There are none of my intimate friends who can go with me. They drive out regularly, and take children with them, or they have other objects; and one cannot ask a mere acquaintance. So I go alone, which is not very exhilarating.”

“Your own children are not at home?”

“No—if they were, I should need no other company for the carriage. The society of young people is pleasant to me, but Adelaide is at Madame ——’s and Ernest is with a German clergyman, a friend of his father’s. I fancy my rides would be of much greater service to me if I had a pleasant companion or two.”

“Undoubtedly—and I know a lady and her daughter to whom a regular morning airing with such society as that of Mrs. Waldorf would be the very breath of life! What a pity that etiquette comes in the way of so many good things! But go on, I beg.”

“Etiquette! say not another word, doctor—who and where are these friends or patients of yours? I should be happy if I could offer any service. I will call with you on them this very day if you like, and invite them to ride with me daily.”

“Thank you a thousand times, my dear madam,” said Doctor R——, “it is what I could not venture to ask. Yet I am not afraid you will not find my friends at least tolerably agreeable—but will you proceed with the account you were giving me of your daily habits—you dine at four, I believe?”

“That is our hour, but Mr. Waldorf is often detained until five, and I never dine without him. For my own part I should not care if dinner were stricken from the day. I lunch about one, and with tolerable appetite, and I never wish to eat again until supper time. We take tea, however, at seven, and—”

“Green tea, I presume—do you take it strong?”

“Oh! not very, if I take it too strong, I do not sleep at all.”

“You sleep but indifferently, you tell me?”

“Yes, generally; and wake many times in the night; sometimes in the horrors, so that I am full of undefinable fears, and dare not open my eyes lest the objects in the room should assume terrific shapes. The very shades cast by the night-lamp have power at such times to appal me.”

The doctor’s professional inquiries extended to a still greater length, but he had guessed Mrs. Waldorf’s complaint before he arrived at this point in the list. He had found solitude, inactivity, late hours, suppers, coffee, green tea, music and books—with not one counterbalancing item of that labor—effort—sacrifice—which has been affixed as the unchanging price of health and spirits. Mrs. Waldorf was one of the hundreds if not thousands of ladies in our land who walk through the world without ever discovering the secret of life. She had abundant wealth and a most indulgent husband, with all that this world can offer in point of comfort, and she imagined that health alone was wanting to complete her happiness. Passive happiness! what a dream!

Doctor R—— was at the head of his profession, and he had some medicines at his command which are not known at the hospitals. He thought he could cure Mrs. Waldorf, but he hinted that he feared he should find her but a poor patient.

“You do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know you are under my care lest he should object to your neglecting my remedies⁠—”

“Oh, indeed doctor, I shall be very faithful! Try me! You cannot prescribe anything too difficult. Shall I travel to the Pyramids barefoot, and live on bread and water all the way? I am only afraid Waldorf should insist upon my taking odious drugs, and—You know cautions meeting one at every turn are so tiresome!”

“Then you are willing to undertake any remedy which is not at all disagreeable, and which may be used or omitted à discretion⁠—”

“No, no—indeed you mistake me. I only beg that it may not be too unpleasant. I will do just as you say.”

Mrs. Waldorf now had a fine color, and her eyes sparkled as of old. She had every confidence in the skill of Dr. R——, and the effort of recalling and recounting her symptoms had given an impetus to her thoughts and a quicker current to her blood.

The doctor apologized. He had an appointment and his hour had come.

“But before I leave you thus unceremoniously,” he said, “it strikes me that there is a root in my garden which might be of essential service to you, to begin with at least. You know I have a little spot in which I cultivate a few rare botanical specimens. Might I venture to ask you to search for the root I speak of? It is in that little square compartment in the corner, which appears nearly vacant.”

“Oh, certainly—but had I not better call John, as your own man is going away with you?”

“John! Bless my soul, my dear Madam, there is not a John in the world that I would trust in my sanctum! No hand but mine, and that of a gardener whom I employ occasionally under my own direction, ever intrudes among my pets. Let me entreat you, since I have not another moment to spare, to take this little trowel and search with your own hands until you discover an oblong white root like this—” opening a book of botanical plates and exhibiting something that looked very much like a Jerusalem artichoke—“Take that and have it washed and grated into a gill of Port, of which try ten drops in a little water three times a day. I will see you again very soon—but now I must run away—” and Doctor R⁠—— departed, leaving Mrs. Waldorf in a musing mood.

She cast a look at the garden, which lay just beneath the window, full of flowers; then at the trowel—a strange implement in her hand. She thought Doctor R—— very odd, certainly, but she resolved to follow his directions implicitly. She went down stairs and was soon digging very zealously. Her glove was split by the first effort, of course; for a fashionably fitted glove admits not the free exercise of the muscles—but all was of no avail. Every corner of the little square was disturbed, but no talisman appeared. Weary at length of her new employment, Mrs. Waldorf gave up in despair, and sat down in a little arbor which offered its shade invitingly near her. Here she sank into a pleasant reverie, as one can scarcely help doing in a garden full of sweet flowers, and so pleasant was the sense of repose after labor, that she thought not of the lapse of time until she was startled by the voice of Doctor R——, returned from his visit and exceedingly surprised to find her still trowel in hand.

“Why, my dear Madam,” he exclaimed, “you are forgetting your wish that Mr. Waldorf should not discover your visit to me! If he walks much in town he has had ample opportunity to observe his carriage at my door these two hours. You must learn to carry on clandestine affairs better than this! Have you the medicine?”

Mrs. Waldorf laughed and related her ill success, which the doctor very much regretted, although he did not offer to assist in the search.

“You are feeling tolerably well just now, I think,” he said; “your color is better than when you came in the morning.”

“Oh yes! much better just now! But how charming your garden is! I do not wonder that you make a pet of it. We too have a few square inches of garden, but it gives me but little pleasure, because I have never done any thing to it myself. I think I shall get a trowel of my own.”

“You delight me! You have only to cultivate and bring to perfection a single bed of carnations, to become as great an enthusiast as myself. But it must be done by your own hands—”

“Yes, certainly; but now I must be gone. To-morrow I will hold myself in readiness to call on your friends at any hour you will appoint.”

“What say you to eleven? Would that be too barbarous? The air is worth a good deal more at eleven than at one.”

“At seven, if you like! Do not imagine me so very a slave to absurd fashions! I am determined you shall own me a reasonable woman yet.”

Mrs. Waldorf called from the carriage window—“You’ll not forget to send the medicine, doctor?”

“Certainly not! you shall have it at seven this evening, and I trust you will take it with exact regularity.”

“Do not fear me,” she said, and the doctor made his bow of adieu.

The medicine came at seven, with a sediment which looked not a little like grated potato, and without the slightest disagreeable taste. Accompanying directions required the disuse, for the present, of coffee and green tea; and recommended to Mrs. Waldorf a daily walk and a very early bed-hour.

The lady took her ten drops at nine, and felt so much better that she could not help telling her husband all about her visit to Doctor R⁠——.

The next morning proved cloudy, and Mrs. Waldorf felt rather languid, but, after her dose, found an improved appetite for breakfast. She sat down to her music, but looked frequently at the clouds and at her watch, thinking of her appointment. When the hour arrived the envious skies poured down such showers as will damp any body’s ardor. The drive must be given up for that day, and it passed as usual, with only the interlude of the magic drops.

The next day was as bad, and the day after not a great deal better. Mrs. Waldorf’s pains and palpitations almost discouraged her. She was quite sure she had a liver complaint. But on the fourth morning the sun rose gloriously, and the face of nature, clean washed, shone with renewed beauty. At eleven the carriage and the lady were at Doctor R⁠——’s door.

“Have you courage to see an invalid—a sad sufferer?” said the doctor.

“Oh, certainly! I am an invalid myself, you know.”

“Ah! my dear lady, my invalid wears a different aspect! Yet I hope she is going to recover, and I shall trust to your humanity if the scene prove a sad one. Sickness of the mind was, I think, the origin of the evil, but it has almost overpowered the frail body. This young lady and her mother have been giving lessons in music and in Italian, and have had but slender success in the whirl of competition. As nearly as I can discover, they came to this country hoping to find reverse of fortune easier to bear among strangers; and their course was determined hitherward in consequence of earlier family troubles which drove a son of Madame Vamiglia to America. He was a liberal, and both displeased his father and put himself in danger from government, by some unsuccessful attempt at home. The father is since dead, and the old lady and her daughter, left in poverty and loneliness, determined on following the young man to the new world. But here we are.”

And they stopped before a small house in a back street. Mrs. Waldorf was shown into a very humble parlor, while the doctor went to prepare his patient. He returned presently with Madame Vamiglia, a well-bred woman past middle age. She expressed her grateful sense of Mrs. Waldorf’s kindness, but their communication was rather pantomimical, for the lady found her song-Italian of little service, and the signora had not much conversational English. However, with some French, and occasional aid from Doctor R——, their acquaintance was somewhat ripened before they went to the bedside of the sufferer. Mrs. Waldorf turned pale, and felt ready to faint, at the sight which presented itself.

There was a low, narrow couch in the centre of the room, scarce larger than an infant’s crib, and on it lay what seemed a mere remnant of mortality. Large dark eyes, full of a sort of preternatural light, alone spoke of life and motion. The figure had been always extremely small, and was now wasted till it scarce lifted the light covering of the mattress. Madame Vamiglia went forward and spoke in a low tone to her daughter, and Mrs. Waldorf was glad to sink into the chair set for her by Doctor R⁠——. The ghastly appearance of the poor girl had quite unwomaned her.

The mother introduced her guest to her daughter, who could only look an acknowledgment; and then asked the doctor if he thought it possible that Ippolita could bear the motion of a carriage.

“She seems weaker to-day,” he replied; “very weak indeed. Yet, if Mrs. Waldorf will allow the mattress to be put in, I think we may venture.”

Madame Vamiglia seemed full of anxiety lest the experiment should prove too much for the flickering remnant of life; but, after much preparation, John was called, and the poor sufferer transferred, mattress and all, to the back seat. Mrs. Waldorf and her mother took the front, and in this way they drove slowly out towards the country.

At first the poor little signorina seemed exhausted almost unto death, and her mother watched her with the most agonized solicitude; but after awhile she became accustomed to the gentle motion, and seemed revived by the fresh air. As the road wound through a green lane shaded with old trees, Ippolita looked about her with animation, and made a sign of pleasure with her wasted hand. Tears started to her mother’s eyes, and she looked to Mrs. Waldorf for sympathy, and not in vain.

At length the invalid murmured, “Assia!” and they turned about. When they reached the lodging-house, Ippolita was in a quiet sleep, and they carried her back to her own room almost undisturbed.

“To-morrow at eleven!” whispered Mrs. Waldorf, at parting. Madame Vamiglia pressed her hand, but could not speak.

We need not describe the morning rides which succeeded this auspicious commencement. We need not trace, step by step, the slow amendment of the young Italian, nor attempt to express, by words, the gratitude of both mother and daughter. They felt words to be totally inadequate. We may mention, however, the rapid improvement of Mrs. Waldorf’s health and spirits, which must of course be ascribed to that excellent medicine of Doctor R⁠——’s. This enabled that lady to study Italian most strenuously, both at home and by familiar lessons from Madame Vamiglia and her daughter, during their prolonged excursions. This pursuit was never found to increase the palpitations, and seemed also a specific against headache.

Before Ippolita had so far recovered as to be independent of the daily airing, Mrs. Waldorf picked up a new object of interest. We say picked up, for it was a road-side acquaintance, and, as Mrs. Waldorf has since observed, one which she never would have made if she had been reading during her ride, as was her custom formerly. She had, every morning for some time, observed a poor woman drawing a basket-wagon of curious construction, in which lay a child much larger than is usually found in such vehicles. The child was pretty, and tastefully, though plainly, drest; but the whole establishment bespoke any thing but abundant means, so that Mrs. Waldorf was puzzled to make out the character of the group. The woman had not the air of a servant, and yet the child did not look as if it could be her child. In short, after seeing the same thing a dozen times, Mrs. Waldorf’s curiosity was a good deal excited.

She did not, however, venture to make any inquiries until it so chanced that, in the very green lane we have spoken of—the favorite resort of the grateful Ippolita—they found the poor woman, with the child fainting in her arms. Grief and anxiety were painted on her honest face, and she was so absorbed in her efforts for the recovery of the child that she scarcely answered Mrs. Waldorf’s sympathizing inquiries.

“Oh don’t trouble yourself, ma’am! It is nothing new! She’s this way very often. It’s the hoopin’-cough, ma’am; and I’m afeard it’ll be the death of her, poor lamb! in spite of all we can do!” And she tossed the child in the air, and fanned its face till the breath returned.

“Is it your own?” asked Mrs. Waldorf.

“No indeed, ma’am! mine are other guess lookin’ children, thank God! This dear babe’s mother is a delicate young lady that lives neighbor to me, as has a sick husband that she can’t leave. I’m a washerwoman, ma’am, if you please, and I have to go quite away down town every day almost, and so I take this poor thing in my basket—it’s large enough, you see—and so gives her a turn in the open air, ’cause the doctor says it’s the open air, if any thing, that’ll do her good.”

“You are very good,” said Mrs. Waldorf, who had listened in a kind of reverie, her thoughts reverting to her lonely rides.

“Oh no, ma’am! it’s far from good I am! The Lord knows that! But a little bit of neighborly kindness like that, is what the poor often does for one another, and don’t think any thing of it, neither! To be sure this babe’s mother isn’t the likes of me, ma’am, but she’s far worse off than she has been. Her husband is what they call an accountant—a kind of clerk, like; and he can’t get no employ, and I think it’s breakin’ his heart pretty fast.”

Here Mrs. Waldorf fairly burst into tears. “Tell me where you live,” she said, “and say nothing to this lady you speak of, but come to me to-morrow, will you?” and she put a card into the poor woman’s hand.

“Surely I will, ma’am,” said the washerwoman, “and it’s a kind heart you have!”

Mrs. Waldorf rode home with her heart and head full. “How could I ever content myself with giving money,” she said to herself, “when there is so much to be done!”

---

“How do you find yourself, this morning, my dear madam?” said Doctor R⁠——, shortly after this.

“Oh, quite well, thank you!”

“What! no more lassitude! no more headaches.”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you! I never felt better.”

“When did your symptoms abate?”

“I can scarcely tell; I have been too much occupied of late, to think of symptoms. I am so much interested in the study of Italian that I am going to ask Madame Vamiglia and her daughter to come to us for awhile, and we shall have Adelaide at home to take advantage of so good an opportunity for learning to converse.”

“And your ardor in searching out the distressed has been the means of restoring the son to the mother! How happy you must be!”

“That is a happiness which I owe to you! and Mr. Waldorf is going to employ Mr. Vamiglia, who understands and writes half a dozen different languages, and will be invaluable to him. But first the family are to go to the sea-shore for a month, to recruit; and I imagine they will need a good deal of preparation—so that I have really no time to be ill.”

“Then you have given up the going to the Pyramids?”

“Ah! my dear sir! I must thank you for showing me better sources of interest and excitement. I believe it must have been a little ruse on your part—say! was not that famous medicine of yours only a trick—an inganno felice?”

“A trick! Oh! excuse me! ‘Call it by some better name!’ I beseech you,” said the doctor laughing, “it was a most valuable medicine! Indeed the whole Materia Medica would be often powerless without the placebo! But I confess I could not think of sending you to the Pyramids, when there are not only pyramids but mountains of sorrow and suffering at home, which shun the eye of common charity, but which must be surmounted by just such heads, hearts and purses as those of Mrs. Waldorf!”

---

THE FIRST AND LAST PARTING.

SUGGESTED BY THE LUCKLESS AMOUR OF A FRIEND.

———

BY C. F. HOFFMANN.

———

We parted at the midnight hour,⁠—

We parted then as lovers part.

The stars which pierced that trellis’d bower,

They saw me press her to my heart!

I left her with no fear—no doubt!

I left with her my hopes—my all⁠—

I left her then,—oh! God!—without

A dream of what would soon befall.

I went to toil—far from her sight,

Far from her blessed voice away⁠—

But still she haunted me by night,

Still murmured in my ears by day.

The hours flew by in dreams of her,

Those hours which claimed far other care,

I wasted them—fond worshiper⁠—

In dreams, whose waking was despair!

A month—no, not a month,—by Heaven!

Had fled since she was pledged to me⁠—

Since I love’s parting kiss had given

To seal her vows of constancy!

The very moon was not yet old,

Whose crescent beam our loves had lighted⁠—

Yet ere those few short weeks were told,

She had forgot the faith she plighted!

I heard her lips that faith forswear⁠—

And, while those lips revealed the tale,

My very soul it blushed that e’er

It could have loved a thing so frail!

Yet scorn—it was not scorn that stung⁠—

’Twas pity—horror—grief, that moved me⁠—

I felt the wrong—the shameless wrong,

But spared the heart that once had loved me!

Yes, faithless, false, as now I found it,

That heart had beat against my own,

And I—I could not bear to wound it,

When all its shielding worth was flown.

What though I could believe no more

In such as her own lips revealed her!

Yet still when all Love’s faith was o’er,

Love’s tenderness remained to shield her.

And when the moment came to break

The subtle chain around me cast,

Like me she seemed in soul to ache

At riving of its links at last.

Could they betray my mind once more,

Those pleading looks? yes! even then,

So sweet the guise of truth they wore,

I wished to be deceived again.

Ay! strangely, as at first we met⁠—

There did, by Heaven! around her hover

Such light of warmth and truth, that yet

I, at the last, was still her lover!

And when I saw her brow o’ercast⁠—

Saw tears from those soft eyelids melt,

I recked not, cared not for the past,

But there, adoring, would have knelt!

That moment to her lip and eye

There came that calm and loveless air,

Light Beauty, when its triumph’s nigh,

Will tow’rd its easy victim wear.

No test—no time—no fate had wrought

O’er soul like mine so strong a spell,

As in that moment chilled to naught

Love that did seem unquenchable!

We parted—not as lovers part—

No kind farewell—no fond regret

Was uttered then from either heart⁠—

We parted only to forget!

We parted, not as lovers part,

As lovers we can meet no more.

Let Time decide in either heart

Which most such parting shall deplore.

---

TO A LADY SINGING.

———

BY GEORGE HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” “THE RUINS OF ATHENS,” ETC.

———

When to my closing eye this world

And all its bright illusions fade,

And at my heart the dull, cold hand

Of Death, to still its throb, is laid;

O! Lady, let some voice like thine

Breathe, as from Heaven’s own blissful air,

One cheering tone, and I shall deem

My spirit is already there.

---

SHAKSPEARE.

———

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

———