CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V. (2)

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

THE WASHINGTON EAGLE. ( HaliAEtus Washingtonii. )

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXV.      September, 1849.      No. 3.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Other Articles

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

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

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXV.     PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1849.     No. 3.

By and by the quick rattle of wheels struck upon my ear, and looking in the direction of the sound, I saw a two-horse wagon coming furiously down the street with a collection of white, red, and black plumes, with bayonets and gun-barrels glistening above, and a great blue standard fluttering over the whole. A strain of martial music simultaneously struck up from amongst the warlike array, which array to my nearer vision, resolved itself into a dozen men, “armed and equipped as the law directs,” including a fifer, who was lengthening his visage into a puckered whistle upon his little yellow tube, a drummer, who was entangling his sticks in the loudest manner on the sounding sheep-skin, and a bass-drum player, who had hung his huge instrument, like a great barrel, at the end of the wagon, and who, being a little the worse for liquor, (shown by constant lurches,) came down upon the quivering circles each side with prodigious vigor at precisely the wrong times, thereby breaking up and almost overpowering the tune by an irregular succession of boom—boom—boom-boom-booms.

As the wagon pulled up with an emphasis at Wiggins’s, three huzzas rent the air from the occupants, a dozen shots, in which were mingled the round, deep tone of the musket, and the short, peevish crack of the ride succeeded—and the “sodgers” bounded upon the stoop, streamed into the bar-room, calling for “liquor,” and lo! the “premonitory symptoms” of General Training.

After this temporary ripple in the current, the village again settled down into its customary quiet. The sun disappeared—the golden glow crept up the western sky as if to greet the “hunter’s moon,” that looked in the sweet twilight like an orb of pearl, becoming, however, momentarily brighter, like the hope of a holy heart as the night of the grave approaches. And soon the gold was chased down by the silver, and the beautiful moonlight lay as if it was tangible sleep upon the village.

About ten o’clock I took one of my solitary walks along the single street. Nothing could be more silent and solitary. The soft yet splendid sheen streamed down upon the roof, and whilst the dwellings upon one side of the spacious thoroughfare were bathed in lovely light, those opposite were lying in the deepest blackness. The tricks of the moonlight were various. The old weather streaked Court-House looked as white and new as the smart Presbyterian “Meeting-House” just erected, whilst its belfry (so open that it seemed as if it would ring its own bell when the wind blew) cocked itself up with a pert air, like the upturned nose of a conceited man, and the red pimple of a clerk’s office between both Court and Meeting-House, looked redder than ever. Hamble’s rough stone wall was sleeked over very prettily, sending out from its summit gleams of light like silver flashes—the white chips about his wood-shed were like patches of snow—the shadow of a log, with an axe struck into it, seemed like a black pump lying prostrate—the shrubbery in the little enclosure along the side of the tavern, sparkled out into a million of eyes—the sign, with the red coach upon it, going so fast that its wheels were nothing but spokes, and the horses so fierce that they were galloping right up into the air, looked bright as a new button, whilst the broad village green seemed like an expanse of (if I may use the expression) solidified light. I turned to pursue my walk. The fluted pillars of St. John’s store looked “good enough to eat,” as a rather matter-of-fact girl once observed to me in a moonlight walk, and the “corner well,” with its long arm of a pole reared over its head, and its bucket tucked down at its front, seemed as if it had just drank and had put down its glass. I still made my way up the street. Not a single person abroad, not a light to be seen—it appeared as if the whole village had grown out, as it were, of the quiet and beautiful light that lay so broadly upon it. Tired at last of being the only watcher in the silent village, I retraced my steps, and (to speak vulgarly) “went to bed.”

I was awakened by martial music in full blast. I dressed myself and sallied out. A broad beam of the newly risen sun had settled like a yellow pool just in front of Wiggins’s tavern, and standing within it, were the three worthies who had awakened the Monticello echoes the evening before with their music from the wagon. The fifer was again spitting his breath most industriously into his “whistle,” as the boys called it, and keeping time with his foot, the drummer, who had a way of looking down upon his drum, and working his mouth to the motion of his sticks, was sending out his rattling tones by his side, and facing the two, with his shoulders drawn back, and supporting his instrument on his breast, the bass-drummer was bringing down his leathered knobs this time to the music, (he had only had two morning bitters, so Wiggins said,) but with such a terrific noise as to make even himself wince at every stroke.

There was quite a collection of men around the “musicianers;” several with brown cartridge-boxes and bayonet-sheaths, and one or two with gilt eagles in their hats, and plumes of white feathers, whilst one fellow was equipped with an old straw hat, the rim of which was shorn away at his forehead—a red flannel shirt, linsey-woolsey pantaloons, and a long, heavy rifle on his shoulder. This genius was fairly wrapped up in the music. He was evidently enchanted. Now he would listen with his mouth wide open, then he would look around the group and nod, as if to say, “isn’t that fine!” and then he would give birth to laughter, as though he couldn’t restrain himself any longer for the life of him.

Interspersed amidst this group were many of the village boys, edging their way at every practicable point nearer the musicians. One youngster, ragged as a saw, had succeeded in placing himself by the tenor drum, and was looking at the double performance of mouth and sticks, with the greatest admiration, whilst another, with open elbows and slouched hat, which was only prevented by a bulge in front from sliding entirely over his dirty face, was peering up into the twitching countenance of the bass-drummer, standing the thunder of the blows with all the nonchalance of a real veteran.

My attention was now, however, attracted toward the genius with the rifle, by his giving birth to a loud shout. Inflamed beyond bounds by the music which was now on a rattling quick-step, the red flanneled gentleman now made a spring in the air, and then dashed out into a “heel and toe” dance, flourishing his rifle as if it had been a walking-stick, now over his head, and now on each side of him, and making every thing fairly echo with his loud and frequent whoops. He at length became the lodestone of all eyes, except those of the musicians, fairly driving these worthies in the most ungrateful manner (they being the source of his inspiration) into the shade; becoming, as it were, the centre of a circle of grinning faces, until completely tired out with his exertions, he broke away, ascended the tavern stoop, and the next moment made the bar-room ring with his vociferation for “a small pull of some of the real grit!”

By and by the “trainers” began to appear at all points, some in groups, some singly, some by wagon loads. And one wagon came in so filled with bristling muskets, that it had the appearance of a huge steel porcupine.

The population of the surrounding country, men, women and children, commenced streaming in to gaze upon “the show,” and make merry amongst themselves. A number also of the surrounding farmers and their wives came as venders of pies, cake, small beer, cider, etc., turning their wagons into shops, wheeling them under the shadows of the trees, detaching the horses, flinging at the same time quantities of hay before them, and covering the seats of the wagons with cards of yellow gingerbread, mingled with pies, carved generally into quarters, and cider barrels at the ends, with faucets resembling hooked noses. Others again had erected booths of rough boards or hemlock boughs filled with articles of consumption. I looked at one for a few moments which Aunt Betsy Lossing had (as usual) erected.

It was composed of hemlock boards, with branches of the same tree. A rude counter had been placed athwart the entrance, behind which appeared Betsy’s red face and burly form, together with a boy and girl as assistants. Upon shelves were rows of casks lettered gin, brandy, whisky, etc.; on the highest shelf were two or three boxes of cigars, a dozen thick glass tumblers, and a small box of lemons, whilst below all, two barrels of cider (probably) looked out dimly from the shadow. The sunshine streamed richly in, lighting the lemons brilliantly, giving to the cigars a warm tint of brown, flashing upon the gilt letters of the casks, dancing on the glasses, and only failing to penetrate the recess where the barrels lay on their stomachs.

Still did the soldiery and country people stream in. By this time several pedlers had established their box wagons upon the grassy margins of the broad village street, and were as clamorous in their vocations as crows around a carrion.

The village was now a scene of active, noisy, bustling life. I amused myself for a short time by examining in detail the human current that flowed past my office steps. Now passed a pair of country lovers, the girl in the act of biting off a huge piece of mince pie, whilst the “he” was industriously engaged in puffing at a great black cigar, giving his rosy-cheeked sweetheart the benefit of the smoke gratis. Next a little rustic maiden alone, all beflowered and beribboned like a walking milliner shop; then a young woodsman, who had scarcely ever emerged from the forest before, but who had “left the saw-mill to-day to go a trainen,” sauntered past with his rusty old musket (which doubtless did service at Minisink in “granddaddy’s” hands) horizontal upon his shoulder; then a rough-looking check-shirted hunter, with his rifle in his grasp, and then a bumpkin from “Strong’s Settlement,” with his hands deep in his pockets, his “limpsey” hat upon one side of his head, minus half the crown and the whole of the rim, and opening his gray eyes so wide as fairly to pull his mouth open.

Succeeding this interesting specimen of humanity, minced along a youthful, undersized soldier, in an old blue artillery coat, made in the Revolution, the red-striped skirts striking his heels, the breast down to his hips, and the sleeves tucked up nearly to the elbows; and next strode a brawny hero, who crowded himself into a gray cavalry jacket, with its shadow of a skirt cocked up behind like the brush of a deer, and the breasts shrinking away nearly under his arms.

“I say there, hadn’t you two fellers better swap?” shouted a pedler from his box as the twain passed.

“Darn me,” added he, in an under tone, as they went regardless along, “if one of them are chaps don’t look loose enuff to run out of his coat like this ere old woman’s cider, whilst that are other crittur is screwed up so tight that he’ll sartenly bust up afore long. However it’s their business, not mine. Here’s a lot of fine spoons! no Garman silver about them. Come, roll up, tumble up, any way to get up—come, give us a bid!” etc. etc.

The rolling of drums now announced that the time for the mustering of the different companies composing the regiment (the bloody 185th) had arrived. Lines of soldiers were soon seen scattered along the street, and the loud voices of the sergeants calling the roll were heard. There were two uniform companies attached to the regiment, beside “the troop,” or light-horse company, viz., the artillery and rifle. The dress of the former was a blue jacket, with red tufts on the shoulders, and caps with red tufts in front, whilst that of the latter was a green hunting shirt fringed with black, with black plumes in their hats. The cavalry company were dressed in red coats faced and cuffed with black velvet. The rest of the regiment were clothed, some in odd uniforms, others in their every-day clothing, and presented a strange and motley array of colors and accoutrements.

The preliminaries being gone through, the arduous duty of forming the companies into line was now to be accomplished. A great stir was at this instant discernible amongst the crowd before Wiggins’s steps, and shortly I observed the figures of several officers waving and glittering with feathers and tinsel rising above the surface of heads as they mounted their prancing steeds. Spurring them through the throng, they succeeded after a while in clearing a long space and extending the breadth of the village street. The word was then given to form the line, and amidst the loud orders of the officers I could see the different squads arranging themselves into marching order. A few minutes elapsed, and then arose a din sufficient to drive one crazy, and yet of the most ludicrous character. Each company was furnished with its own drum and fife, and, in some instances, bass-drum and cymbals. The three or four companies near me commenced marching in columns at nearly the same moment, their respective bands striking up at the same time, each playing its own tune. The effect was laughable in the highest degree. “Hail Columbia” had its slow heels tripped up completely by the pirouettes of “Yankee Doodle;” the “Girl I Left Behind Me” and “Miller’s Quick Step,” locked themselves together in a perfect wrestling match, first one down, then the other—now a bar struggling convulsively, then a strain nearly throttled; then high and low notes, tug and tug, heard alternately, the whole at last mingling itself up into the strangest entanglement possible—a maelstrom, so to speak, of whirling music. A bass-drum would thunder down, breaking the back at a stroke of a long roll proceeding from a tenor one near by, whilst another of the latter species would rub-a-dub right into a pair of cymbals, and scatter their silver clashings into an entire route. New tunes would be constantly arriving as the distant companies came marching up to give fresh life to the wrangling discord, whilst to add to the uproar, the whole pack of pedlers, amounting to nearly a dozen, had given tongue at the first hurly-burly of the music, bursting out, as it were, in full cry. “Here’s your fine penknives, all a going at onst,” shouted a tall, ram-rod looking fellow, with a knob of a hat, and a nose that seemed stretching out on purpose to scent a good bargain. “Walk up, ladies and gentlemen,” bawled another, with a white broad-brim so weak and slouchy as to look as if about to faint away off his head. “How much for this splendid necklace!” yelled another, in a higher key, with the rim of his beaver cocked fiercely in front, and with a patch in the back of his coat, as though he had an eye there to look after his articles in that direction. “Come, gentlemen, can’t wait, onst, twice! wont you say sixpence more!” said a fourth, sinking from a shout gradually down to a coaxing whine, whilst a fifth, with straight, black hair and saturnine complexion, giving him quite a sanctimonious look, let his tongue run on in chase of “a penny, a penny, a penny, a penny,” with the perseverance of a bloodhound.

Elevated on one of the wagons was a member of the light-horse company. He had taken the post as a matter of joke, and was now holding up the different articles for sale with a merry smile on his face, and every now and then winking to the crowd as if to remind them what a capital jest his being there was. The pedler himself in the meanwhile, with an apple of a face perched upon a bean-pole of a form, was with great nonchalance seated upon his box, evidently quite content that the light-horseman should do the work, and he sit by and receive the profits. So exciting and pleasant did the soldier find his self-imposed task, so elated by the possession of this new accomplishment, which had remained undeveloped even to himself until now, and so intoxicated with the flattery which the laughter of the throng at his jokes offered, that he continued there all day, incurring a fine for non-attendance at the parade.

At the next “General Training” I saw the same fellow. Turned topsy-turvy by his success, he had abandoned his farm and “took to peddlen” on his own hook. But what a difference. Interested now in the occupation personally, and having the “keenest sort” of an eye to the profits, his selling was no longer a joke. The merry glance was replaced by a look of care, his dashing, off-hand manner was exchanged for an eager, beseeching air, his jokes were few and evidently forced; in short, in making his amusement his trade, he had made himself a very poor pedler.

What became of him I don’t know, but I heard casually once that he had after a while betaken himself again to his little farm, (which he had mortgaged to obtain his fitting out as a pedler,) quite broken-spirited and out at elbows.

Foremost in the tempest of martial music, towering, as it were, the very genius of the scene, was Joe Lippett. Joe was a capital hand at a fife, his long chin serving as a resting-place for the instrument. He was therefore engaged to play for half a dozen companies. It was a sight to see him. Marching forward with immense strides, his puckered lips and promontory-like chin forming a deep nook into which his fife was thrust, he sent forth his piercing notes like a north-wester. After escorting a company “into line,” he would vanish, and in a minute would be seen at the head of another, blowing away like Tophet, and after performing the same service to it, presto! his shrill music would be heard, and his legs and chin seen coming from a different quarter.

At last, after great exertions, involving vast displays of horsemanship, and large, particularly guttural, words of command, continual risings in their stirrups, and occasional looks of deep ferocity, the junior officers of the day succeeded in getting the regiment into line, as it is called in military parlance, but in fact into a curve, as the middle sagged a good deal inward. Still it presented something of a front, and along it the young officers went into violent spasms of dexterous riding, spurring their horses and curbing them tightly at the same time, thus causing them to advance backward, as it were, and perform feats with their hoofs, somewhat dangerous to the pie-eating and cider-drinking spectators.

At length I discovered the cause of this great display by the youthful gods of war, by happening to observe them glancing at the windows opposite, where I discovered their dulcineas looking at the whole affair with immense interest.

It was amusing to note the various aspects of the soldiers composing the line. One had a nose like a triangle, another as if an oblong piece of dough had hit him in the face, and had clung there; the next had a little pair of eyes flying about as if anxious to hide away in their sockets, whilst the next appeared so determined to stare with his great goggle eyes that he seemed to suppose to wink would be time wasted. Here was a mouth with the corners turned up into a sculptured grin; there was another turned down, as if with a perpetual colic. Here were cheeks rounded out as if blowing a trumpet, whilst there were others so fallen in, that they seemed glued to their side teeth. In short, there was no end to the differences in the physiognomies of the “citizen soldiery,” as that patriotic and intellectual portion of our people, the politicians, (those particularly who wish to go to the “legislater,”) term them.

A file of men was now detached for the standard of the regiment—a great blue thing, as large nearly as a ship’s top-sail. The men were paraded in front of the tavern steps—the standard appeared on the stoop—a flourish of drum and fife—the standard waved, then descended, and borne by little Billy Waddle, went gayly to its appointed place under the inspiriting influence of a favorite quick step.

The reception of the colonel was now also gone through, and he rode in very stiff dignity, with his legs sticking out on each side of his steed, very much like a pair of open compasses, toward the line, with his peacock tail of a staff trailing behind him. Taking, then, his station, with his horse (tickled constantly by the spur) making uneasy motions, as if itching all over, he gave utterance to a few shouts, made hoarse for the occasion, which were followed by convulsions of carrying, presenting, and supporting arms, on the part of the soldiers, some together, and some not, just as it happened. Preparations were then made for the march to the village-green, where the exercises of the day were to take place. The music was all collected in front, and the order was given to wheel into platoons. Each man performed this manoeuvre at his own time and “on his own responsibility,” and consequently such a fluttering took place as to throw the whole scene into confusion. The feat was, however, at last performed, the drums began to mark time—the men ditto, (after a fashion,) and the order from the colonel was, “by platoons, march!” the last word uttered with most tremendous emphasis. The order was taken up and sent along from company to company in every variety of tone, from a growl to a squeak, ending at last like a faint echo at the extremity of the array. The whole regiment then moved, the drums still keeping up their preliminary tapping. At length the music burst out into a terrific explosion of sound, and onward marched the martial pageant. The sight was ludicrous enough. Some had started with the right foot foremost, and were entangling their legs in the most unjustifiable way, with those of their neighbors, endeavoring to change to the left foot; some, owing to the extreme tightness of their belts, (these were principally in the uniform companies,) hitched along as if their hips went on rusty hinges, and others, owing either to the want of a musical ear, or recklessness, sauntered along in their natural gait, which didn’t happen to suit the air, and consequently carried disorder along the whole rank. In the former class was a little irascible-looking fellow, who, starting the wrong way and endeavoring to get right, and who being met in his efforts at precisely the wrong times by a lank genius next him, kept hopping testily from one foot to the other, whilst his companion did the same at alternate moments, until the legs of both went backward and forward like a quick cat’s-cradle. On swept the array, the colonel looking sterner than forty Napoleons on a field of battle. Conspicuous in the front rank of “the music” was Joe Lippett, chinning his fife, whilst amidst a row of drums came my friend with the red feather, working his mouth in the most emphatic manner, and looking down upon his instrument as if he thought that the withdrawal of his eyes would cause an instant paralysis of his sticks.

Then followed the artillery and rifle companies, and in the midst of the regiment, who should appear but little Billy Waddle, staggering up under the enormous regimental standard. Billy, in being the bearer of the silken honor, had allowed his ambition to run away with his discretion. He was evidently supplying his strength from the very depths of his despair, humoring in a variety of ways the blue flaunting tyrant which held him completely under control, bracing against its frequent lurches with efforts that made him grin like a death’s-head, and struggling up convulsively as it plunged downward with pitchings and totterings worthy an animal afflicted with the blind staggers.

With wonderful efforts, however, he continued to keep the flag somewhat in order, until he arrived opposite my office. A beautiful basswood was growing there, on the outer verge of the side-walk, and spreading its broad branches considerably over the street. The regiment swept underneath these branches in its progress upward to the village-green. Billy saw the impediment and lowered his standard. He did it, however, with such quick effort, that he lost all control over its descending weight, which pitched the luckless manikin forward so irresistibly that the steel points of the staff struck with somewhat of an emphasis right into the calf of Jim Thompson’s leg, who happened to be marching directly before. Never shall I forget Jim’s hop on the occasion, or the terrified look he cast backward. It appeared as if he thought that the rear rank had suddenly taken it into their heads to charge bayonet upon those in front, and that he was to be the first victim. But his look changed as he perceived the cause, and the glance of contempt and vexation which he shot at poor Billy, as he commenced limping along rubbing the offended part, was ludicrous in the extreme.

The regiment now arrived at the green, where it was to be inspected. The Inspector was an imperturbable, square-built Dutchman, bestriding a horse as imperturbable and donkey-like as himself. He now appeared upon the ground, as the regiment, after performing half the circuit of the green, was halted in the order it had marched.

Dismounting, the inspector gravely commenced his task. Moving from man to man, he examined the musket and other accoutrements of each, the inspected bringing his piece to a present with a quick jerk as the inspector presented himself, and the latter trying the lock with a sharp click, and making the ramrod jump with a keen jingle in the barrel. Occasionally, some piece, loaded by its wag of an owner, would explode with a loud report as the inspector drew trigger, followed by a great snickering and chuckling on the part of those near by, but the inspector never relaxed his heavy muscles for a moment. Thus he went from man to man, and rank to rank, until the whole process was completed.

In the meanwhile the music had gathered in a cluster at a little distance, surrounded by the boys and “loafers” of the village. Now and then the muffled sound of a tattoo, beat upon the cords of the drum, arose, with the comic squeak of a fife accompanied by loud laughter from the idlers around, and sometimes a single “boom” from a blow upon the bass-drum.

But the inspector, having left his last man, the word “attention the whole,” was loudly sounded, and the scene was changed in an instant. Those who had been lounging “at ease” upon their guns, stood erect and soldier-like—those seated upon the grass sprung to their places—the band hurried to its station at the head, and, in a short time the whole regiment was in marching order.

The time had now arrived to pass in review before the colonel. With his staff upon either hand, that redoubtable hero had now stationed himself at the head of the green for the regiment to march past him. The command of “march” was given, the music struck up, and the regiment moved. Playing most obstreperously, the band passed the colonel, who sat, chapeau in hand, and then fell upon one side. The sight now became comic. The officers as they approached, prepared with great solemnity and very apparent consciousness of the importance of the manoeuvre, to salute with their swords the puissant presence of the commandant, and the “rank and file” to perform the same ceremony with their presented guns. The first officer, who was a captain from the wilds of Lumberland, was so taken up by the immensity of the act he was to perform, that he forgot to perform it at all until quite past the colonel. Remembering himself then, in his nervous hurry, he brought his sword up so quickly to his face that he knocked his hat off, and stooping to recover it, he received such an impetus from his front rank, who were too intent upon their part of the performance to see any thing, that he was pitched without ceremony, in the most headlong and sprawling manner, after his hat.

The next officer was but a little more fortunate. He had witnessed the performance of his predecessor, and being nervous, was thrown into a considerable flurry thereby. Determined not to be caught in the predicament of delaying his manoeuvre, he went to the opposite extreme. Miscalculating his time in his agitation, and seeing the colonel’s eye fixed upon him, he, some distance before he reached that functionary, brought his sword up with a great flourish, and saluted. By the time he reached the colonel, his part was, of course, performed, and the air of sneaking and deprecating consciousness with which he slunk past was so marked, as to cause a smile even upon the grim features of the commandant himself. After this, things went on pretty well, until a tall, awkward, rawboned lieutenant, who “tended saw-mill for a liven” on the Sheldrake Brook, approached the colonel. Fixing his eyes on his officer, he thrust his sword out horizontally, as if to charge bayonet. Not seeing where he was going, so intent was he upon his staring, that, meeting with some obstruction, he stumbled, pitched forward, and before he could recover himself, he had run his sword half way into the soft turf of the green, with the hilt striking against his breast with an emphasis that made him gasp like a frog in an exhausting receiver. He was the last officer, and with this interesting exhibition of soldierly grace and dignity, the ceremony closed. The colonel clapped his chapeau on his head, and, attended by his staff, once more took his place in the regiment, and, after a short march, the order was given to form a “hollow square,” for prayer and a speech from the judge advocate. After considerable trouble the square was formed, with all the officers in the middle. The prayer was offered by the “learned and pious” Dr. Stubbornthought, and at the conclusion, the colonel proclaimed, in a pompous tone, that the judge advocate would now commence his address. Instantly this functionary spurred from the side of his superior to perform this duty. He was an ambitious young sprig of the law, always on the look-out for distinction, and seeking where he could make a speech turn up with all the keenness and avidity of a hound on the track of a deer. He was withal very irascible. With his usual ambition, he had now selected the most fiery and run-away steed in the village, being convinced that he was as good a horseman as he was a speaker, and that, let me tell you, is saying a great deal. Direct upon his announcement, as before observed, he made his way in the midst of the square, and endeavored to settle himself in his saddle to commence his address. But this was more difficult than he imagined. Having given a severer dig with his spur into the side of his animal than the latter bargained for or relished, it began to testify its anger by a series of prancings and curvettings decidedly more ornamental than either useful or agreeable. Grasping his bridle, however, firmly, and knowing that delay in endeavoring to soothe his horse might ruin his speech, the youngster, after giving birth to a loud preliminary h-e-m, commenced.

“Fellow-soldiers, (whoe, Jim,) I appear before ye, (whoe, I say,) on this occasion to address you briefly upon the duties of the citizen soldiery of our country. The duty of defending our homes and firesides, (whoe, whoe, you brute you,) our homes and firesides, (whoe, you rascal,) homes and, (well, I never saw such a devilish creature in my life, whoe, I say,) homes and firesides is a paramount duty. Who—would—evade—it! Who—wou-wou-wou-wou-would, (whoe, whoe, who-o-o-e—you most infernal of all devils,) who would sh-sh-sh-shun or fly”—here the question bolted out at broken intervals, occasioned by the thumping in his saddle from the prancing of his excited horse, was to the great horror of the square, answered practically by the questioner himself. If no body else would fly he, or rather his steed, showed that he would. Giving a tremendous leap, Spitfire (the horse’s name, and a capital one, too,) broke through an opening in the square and “rattle-te-clatter,” (as Loafing Joe, in describing the scene afterward to a knot of the village young men in Wiggins’s bar-room said,) “the way he streaked it over the green, was nothen to nobody’s folks. He went like a shot from a shovel past Old Cheese’s as if he was a goen to pitch right into John P.’s donyard. But old Spitfire catty-cornered round so quick that “little Blackberry” (the rider’s nickname in the village, from his dark complexion,) swung sideways like old Lummocks when he’s slewed, and then, Lordjersees Massies, if he didn’t slap it down the turnpike in a hurry, with little Blackberry a hold of the mane, and a grinning like a wild-cat, you may say to my face that I’m a liar, that’s all. Howsever, Spitfire couldn’t git past Wiggins’s, no how you can fix it, for he’s eat too many oats there, so he gives another sheer so that little Blackberry’s right leg stuck out like a pump-handle, and bolt he went under the shed, and brought up all standen. Little Blackberry pitched into the manger, and the hoss began to eat hay as if nothen had been the matter, and that, boys, is the eend on’t. Who’s a goen to treat!”

In the meanwhile, the regiment had been again arranged in marching order, and with a blithesome quickstep, had left the green, swept up the little village to its outskirts, and then turning, was now on its way back to its starting place before Wiggins’s tavern-porch. A cloud of dust gave token to those at the porch that the martial show was approaching. The piercing fife—the rub-a-dub of the drum—and the deep blows of the bass-drum, were next heard; the arms broke glistening from the dusty cloud—down came the column with its hasty tread, and fronted before the tavern in one long line. After a few words of command, the magic words, “you’re dismissed,” sounded upon the air, and with a wild hurrah, the ranks broke into scrambling confusion, and “General Training” was ended. Wagon after wagon filled with the soldiery, rattled away; throng after throng of those on foot hurried off by the numerous roads leading into the adjacent country, and at sunset, the village had once more relapsed into its customary quiet. So have we seen a pool, shaken by a breeze, tossing its waters in confusion, and then calming itself into its usual tranquillity, uniting the scattered fragments of rock, tree and sky, again into the soft, reflected picture of its quiet and beautiful mirror.

And hence it was, perhaps, that Durzil Bras-de-fer had, as it were, two different natures—one fierce, rash, bitter, scornful, heedless of human praise or human censure, pitiless to human sorrow, reckless of human life, merciless, almost cruel—the other generous, and soft, and sympathetic, and full of every good and gentle impulse.

And it was in the latter of these only, that Theresa Allan knew him.

It must not be supposed from what I have written, that Durzil was a pirate, or a buccaneer—far from it. For though, at times, he and his comrades assumed the initiative in warfare, and smote the Spaniards and the Dutchmen, and the French unsparingly, beyond the Line, and made but small distinction between the meum and the tuum, especially if the tuum pertained to the stranger and the papist, still neither public opinion, nor their own consciences condemned them—they were regarded, as Cavendish, and Raleigh, and Drake, and Frobisher and Hawkins had been, a reign or two before, as bold, headlong adventurers; perhaps a little lawless, but on the whole, noble and daring men, and were esteemed in general rather an ornament than a disgrace to their native land.

As men are esteemed of men, such they are very apt to be or to become; and, having the repute of chivalrous spirit, of generosity and worth, no less than of dauntless courage, and rare seamanship, the adventurous free-traders of that day held themselves to be, in all respects, gentlemen, and men of honor; and holding themselves so, for the most part they became so.

It was, therefore, by no means either wonderful or an exception to a rule, that Durzil Bras-de-fer should have been such as I have described him, awake to gentle impulses, alive to good impressions, easily subject to the influences of the finest female society, and in no respect a person either from his habits, his tastes, or his profession to be rejected by men of honor, or eschewed by women of refinement.

And now, as he followed slowly on the steps of his beautiful cousin, the young man was more alive than usual to the higher and nobler sensibilities of his mind. The information which he had gained concerning his own father’s feelings, at the moment of his death, had greatly softened him, and it began to occur to him—which was, indeed, true—that he might have been during his whole life conjuring up phantoms against which to do battle, and attributing thoughts and actions to the world at large, of which the world might well be wholly innocent.

Up to this moment, although he had long been aware of his constantly increasing passion for his fair cousin, he had rested content with the mild and sisterlike affection which she had ever manifested toward him; and, having been ever her sole companion, ever treated with most perfect confidence and sympathy, having found her at all times charmed to greet his return, and grieved at his departure; knowing, above all things, that at the very worst he had no rival, and that her heart had never been touched by any warmer passion than she felt toward himself, he had scarcely paused to inquire even of himself, whether he was beloved in turn, much less had he endeavored to penetrate the secrets of her heart, or to disturb the calm tenor of her way by words or thoughts of passion.

Now, however, the words, the questions of the old cavalier had awakened many a doubt in his soul; and with the doubt came the desire irrepressible to envisage his fate, to learn and ascertain, once and for all, whether his lot was to be cast henceforth in joy or in sorrow; whether, in a word, he was to be a wanderer and an outcast, by sea and by land, unto his dying day, or whether this very hour was to be to him the commencement of a new era, a new life.

Now, as he walked forth in the beautiful calm morning, in that old, pleasant garden, which had been the scene of so much peaceable and innocent enjoyment, he felt himself at once a sadder and a better man than he had ever been before; and while determined to delay no longer, but to try his gentle cousin’s heart, he was supported by no high and fiery hope; he seemed to have lost, he knew not how or wherefore, that proud heaven-reaching confidence, which was wont to count all things won while they were yet to win, still less did his heart kindle and blaze out with that preconceived indignation at the idea of being unappreciated or neglected, which would a few hours before have goaded him almost to frenzy.

I have written much of his character to little purpose, if it be not plain that humility was the frame of mind least usual to the youthful seaman, yet now, for once, he was humble. He had discovered, for the first time in his life, that he had erred grossly in his estimate of others, and was beginning to suspect that that false estimate had led him far away from true principles, true conceptions; he was beginning, in a word, to suspect that he was himself less sinned against than sinning; and that his was, in fact, a very much misguided and distempered spirit.

He clasped his brow closely with a feverish and trembling hand, as he walked onward slowly, pondering, with his whole soul intent upon the future and the past. He was inquiring of himself, “Does she, can she love me?” and he could make no answer to his own passionate questioning. While he was in this mood, bending his steps toward the favorite bower wherein he half hoped half feared to find Theresa, a soft voice fell upon his ear, and a light hand was laid upon his arm, as he passed the intersection of another shady walk with that through which he was strolling.

“Good-morrow, Durzil,” said the young girl, merrily. “I never thought to see you out so early in the garden; but I am glad that you are here, for I want you. So come along with me at once, and tell me if it be not a nest of young nightingales which I have found in the thick syringa bush beside my arbor. Come, Durzil, don’t you hear me? Why what ails you, that you look so sad, and move so heavily this glorious summer morning? You are not ill, are you, dear Durzil?”

“Dear Durzil,” he repeated, in a low, subdued tone. “Dear Durzil! I would to God that I were dear to you, Theresa—that I were dear to any one.”

So singular was the desponding tone in which he spoke, so strange and unwonted was the cloud of deep depression which sat on his bold, intelligent brow, that the young girl stared at him in amazement, almost in alarm.

“You are ill,” she cried, in tones of affectionate anxiety; “you must be ill, or you would never speak so strangely, so unkindly; or is it only that you are overdone with watching by that poor youth’s sick bed? Yet no, no, that can never be, you who are so strong and so hardy. What is it, dearest cousin? Tell me, what is it makes you speak so wildly—would that you were dear to me! why, if not you, you and my good, kind father, who on the face of the wide earth is dear to poor Theresa! That you were dear to any one! You, whom my father looks upon and loves as his own son; you, whose companions hold you as almost more than mortal—for have I not marked the inscriptions on your sabre’s guard, and on the telescope they gave you? You, who have saved the lives of so many fellow mortals; you, to whom those ladies, rescued at Darien from the bloodthirsty Spaniards, addressed such glowing words of gratitude and love; you, cousin Durzil, you, who are so great, so brave, so wise, so skillful, and above all, so generous and kind; you talk of wishing you were dear to any one! Good sooth! you must be dreaming, or you are bewitched, gentle Durzil.”

“If I be,” he replied with a smile, for her high spirits and gay enthusiasm aroused him from his gloomier thoughts, and began to enkindle brighter hopes in his bosom, “if I be, thou, Theresa, art the enchantress who has done it.”

“Ay! now you are more like yourself; but tell me,” she said, caressingly, “what was it made you sad and dark but now?”

“Only this, dear Theresa, that I am again about to leave you.”

“To leave us—to leave us so soon and so suddenly. Why you have been here but three little weeks, which have passed like so many days, and when you came you said that you would stay with us till autumn. Oh, dear! my father will be so grieved at your going. You do not know, you do not dream how much he loves you, Durzil. He is a different person altogether when you are at home—so much gayer, and more sociable! Oh! wherefore must you leave us so quickly, and after so long an absence, too, as your last? Oh, truly, it is unkind, Durzil.”

“And you, Theresa, shall you be sorry?”

“I will not answer you,” she replied, half petulantly, half tearfully. “It is unkind of you to go, and doubly unkind of you to speak to me thus. What have I done to you now, what have I ever done to you, that you should doubt my being sorry. Are not you the only friend, the only companion I have got in the wide world? Are you not as near and dear to me, as if you were my own brother? Do not I love you as my brother, even as my father loves you as his son? Ah, Durzil! if you are never less loved than you are by poor Theresa Allan, you will ne’er need to complain for lack of loving.”

And she burst into tears as she ended her rapid speech; for she did not comprehend in the least at what he was aiming, and her innocent and artless heart was wounded by what she fancied to be a doubt of her affection.

“And if you feel so deeply the mere temporary absence which my profession forces on me, Theresa, how, think you, should you feel were that absence to be eternal?”

“Eternal!” she exclaimed, turning very pale. “Eternal! What do you mean by eternal?”

“It may well be so, Theresa; and yet it rests with yourself, after all, whether I go or not—and yet be sure of this, if I do go, I go forever.”

“With me—does it rest with me?” she cried, joyously. “Oh! if it rests with me, you will not go at all—you will never go any more. I am always in terror while you are absent; and the west wind never blows, howling as it does over these desolate bare hills, with its mournful, moaning voice, which they say is the very sound of a spirit’s cry, but it conjures up to my mind all dread ideas of the tremendous rush and roar of the mountain billows upon some rock-bound leeward coast, as I have heard you tell by the cheerful hearth; and of stranded vessels, creaking and groaning as their huge ribs break asunder, and of corpses weltering on the ruthless waves; oh! such dread day-dreams! If it rest with me, go you shall not, Durzil, ever again to sea. And why should you? You have won fame enough, and glory and wealth more than enough to supply your wants so long as you live. Why should you go to sea again, dear Durzil?”

“I will not go again, Theresa, if such seriously be your deliberate desire.”

“If such seriously be my deliberate desire!” the fair girl repeated the words after him, with a sort of half solemn drollery. Was it the native instinct of the female heart, betraying itself in that innocent and artless creature, scarcely in years more than a child—the inborn, irrepressible coquetry of the sex, foreseeing what was about to follow from the young man’s lips, yet seeking all unconsciously to delay the avowal, to protract the uncertainty, the excitement, or was it genuine, unsuspecting innocence? “You are most singularly solemn,” she continued, “this fine morning, Durzil, wondrously serious and deliberate; and so, as you are so precise, I must, I suppose, answer you likewise in due set form. Of course, it is my desire to have the company of one whom I esteem and love, of one to whom I look up for countenance and protection, of my only relative on earth, except my dear old father, as much as I can have it, with due regard to his interests and well-being. My father is getting very old, too, and infirm; and at times I fancy that his mind wanders. I cannot fail, therefore, to perceive that he needs a more able and energetic person near him than I am. I can, moreover, see no good cause why you should persist in following so perilous and stormy a profession, unless it be that you love it. Therefore, as I have said, of course, if it rest with me to detain you, I would do so—but always under this proviso, that it were with your own good will; for I confess, dear Durzil, that I fear, if you were detained against your wish, if you still pant for the strong excitement, the stormy rapture, as I have heard you call it, of the chase, the battle, and the tempest, you never could be happy here, whatever we might do to please you. Now, Durzil, seriously and deliberately, you are answered.”

“I could be happy here. I am weary of agitation and excitement. I feel that I have erred—that the path I have taken leads not to happiness. I want tranquillity, repose of the heart, above all things—love!”

“Then do not go—then I say positively, Durzil, dear Durzil, stay with us—you can find all these here.”

“Are you sure—all of them?”

“Sure? Why, if not here in this delicious, pastoral, simple country, in this dear cottage, with its lovely garden and calm waters, where in the world should you find tranquillity, if not here, in the midst of your best friends, in the bosom of your own family, where should you look for love?”

“Theresa, there be more kinds of love than one—and that I crave is not cold, duteous, family affection.”

Now, for the first time, it seemed that the young man’s meaning broke clearly upon her mind; now a sudden and bright illumination burst upon all that seemed strange and wild and inconsistent in his conduct, in his speech, in his very silence. Unsuspected before, it was now evident to her at once that deep, overmastering passion was the cause to which she must refer all that had been for some time past to her an incomprehensible enigma in her cousin’s demeanor.

And now that she was assured, for the first time in her life, that she was really, deeply, ardently beloved—not as a pretty, childish playmate, not as an amiable and dear relative, but as herself, for herself, a lovable and lovely woman, how did the maiden’s heart respond to the great revelation?

Elevated on the instant from the girl to the woman, a strange and thrilling sense, a sort of moral shock affected her whole system—was it of pleasure or of pain?

It has been often said, and I presume said truly, that no woman—no, not the best and purest, the most modest and considerate of their sex—ever receive a declaration of love from any man, even if the man himself be distasteful to her, even if the love he proffer be illicit and dishonest, without a secret and instinctive sense of high gratification, a consciousness of power, of triumph, a pride in the homage paid to her charms, a sort of gratitude for the tribute rendered to her sex’s loveliness. She may, and will, repulse the dishonorable love with scorn and loathing, yet still, though she may spurn the worthless offering, and heap reproach upon the daring offerer, still she will be half pleased by the offer—if it be only that she has had the power, the pleasure—for all power is pleasure—of rejecting it. She may, and will, gently, considerately, sympathetically decline the honest offers of a pure love which she cannot reciprocate or value as it should be valued; but even if he who made the tender be repulsive, almost odious, still she must be gratified, perhaps almost grateful for that which he has done.

To a young girl more especially, just bursting from the bud into the bloom of young womanhood, scarce conscious yet that she is a woman, scarcely awake to the sense of her own powers, her own passions—a creature full of vague, shadowy, mysterious fancies, strange uncomprehended thoughts, and half perceived desires, there is—there must be something of wondrous influence, of indescribable excitement in the receiving a first declaration.

And so it was with Theresa Allan. She was, in truth, no angel—for angels are not to be met with in the daily walks of this world—she was, indeed, neither more nor less than a mere mortal woman, mortal in all the imperfection, and narrowness, and feebleness, and inability to rise even to the height of its own best aspirations, which are peculiar to mortality—woman in all the frailty and vanity and variety, no less than in all the tenderness, the truth, the constancy, the loveliness, the sweetness of true womanhood. She was, in a word, just what a great modern poet has described in those sweet lines,

and no one who is a true judge of human, and yet more of woman nature will regret that she was such; for he must be a poor judge indeed, he must know little of the real character of womanhood, who does not feel that one half of her best influences, one half of her sweetest power of charming, soothing, controling, winding herself about the very heart-strings, arises from her very imperfections. Take from her these, and what she might then be we know not, but she would not be woman, and until the world has seen something better and more endearing, until a wiser artificer can be found than He who made her, even as she is, a help meet for man—away with your abstractions! give her to us as she is, at least if not perfect, the best and brightest of created things—a very, very woman.

She heard his words, she felt his meaning, yet the sense of the words seemed to be lost, the very sounds rang in her ears dizzily, her breath came so painfully that she almost fancied she was choking, the earth appeared to shake under her feet, and every thing around her to wheel drunkenly to and fro.

She pressed one hand upon her heart, and caught her cousin’s arm with the other to support herself. Her whole face, which a moment before had been alive and radiant with the warm hues of happiness and youth, became as white as marble. Her very lips were bloodless; her whole frame trembled as if she had an ague fit.

He gazed on her in wonder, almost in terror. For a moment he thought that she was about to faint, almost to die; and so violent, in truth, was the affection of her nerves, that, had she not been relieved by a sudden passion of tears, it is doubtful what might have been the result.

They were standing when Durzil Bras-de-fer uttered the words which had wrought so singular a change in Theresa’s manner, within a pace or two of the sylvan bower, of which she had spoken, and without a moment’s pause, or a syllable uttered, he hurried her into its quiet recess, and placing her gently on the mossy seat within, knelt down at her feet, holding her left hand in his own, and gazing up anxiously in her face.

He was amazed—he was alarmed. Not for himself alone, not from the selfish fear of losing what he most prized on earth—but for her.

He knew not, indeed, whether that strange and almost terrible revulsion arose from pleasure or from pain. He knew not, could not even conjecture whether it boded good or evil to his hopes, to his happiness. But the scales had fallen from his eyes in an instant. He had discovered now, what her old father, recognizing genius with the intuitive second-sight of kindred genius, had perceived long before that this young, artless, inexperienced, child-like girl, was, indeed, a creature wonderfully and fearfully made.

He had never before suspected that beneath that calm, gentle, tranquil, unexciteable exterior there beat a heart, there thrilled a soul full of the strongest capabilities, the most earnest aspirations, the most intense imaginings, that ever were awakened by the magic touch of love, into those overwhelming passions, which can tend to middle state, but must lead to the perfect happiness or utter misery of their possessor.

But he saw it, he knew it now; and he felt that so soon as the present paroxysm should pass over, she too would feel and know all this likewise. Whether for good or for evil, for weal or for wo, he perceived that he had unlocked for her whom he truly and singly loved, the hitherto sealed fountain of knowledge.

And he almost shuddered at the thought of what he had done—he almost wished that he had stifled his own wishes, sacrificed his own hopes.

For though impetuous and impulsive, though in some degree warped and perverted, he was not selfish. And when he observed the terrible power which his words had produced upon her, and judged thence of the character and temper of her mind and intellect, a sad suspicion fell upon him that hers was one of those over delicate temperaments, one of those spirits too rarely endowed, too sensitively constituted ever to know again, when once awakened to self-consciousness, that quietude in which alone lies true happiness.

Several minutes passed before a word was spoken by either. But gradually the color returned to her lips, to her checks, and the light relumed her beautiful blue eyes, and the tremor passed away from her slight frame; but her face continued motionless, and so calm that its gravity almost amounted to severity. It was not altogether melancholy, it was not at all anger, but it was, what in a harder and less youthful face would have been sternness. Never before had he seen such an expression on any human face—never, assuredly, had hers worn it before. It was the awakening of a new spirit—the consciousness of a new power—the first struggling into life of a great purpose.

Her hand lay passive in his grasp, yet he could feel the pulses throbbing to the very tips of those small, rosy fingers, so strongly and tumultuously, that he could not reconcile such evidence of her quick and lively feeling with the fixed tranquillity of the eye which was bent upon his own, with the rigidity of the marble brow.

At length, and contrary to what is wont to happen, it was he who first broke silence.

“Theresa,” he said, “I have grieved—I have pained—perhaps offended you.”

And then she started, as his voice smote her ears, so complete had been the abstraction of her mind, and recovering all her faculties and readiness of mind on the instant,

“Yes, Durzil,” she said, very sweetly, but very sorrowfully, “you have grieved me, you have pained me, very, very deeply; but oh, do not imagine that you have offended—that you could offend me. No; you have torn away too suddenly, too roughly, the veil that covered my eyes and my heart. You have awakened thoughts, and feelings, and perceptions in my soul, of whose existence I never dreamed before. You have made me know myself as it were, better within the last few minutes than I ever knew myself before. It seems to me, that I have lived longer and felt more, since we have sat here together, than in all the years I can count before. And, oh, my heart! my heart! I am most unhappy.”

“You cannot love me, then, Theresa,” he said, tranquilly; for he had vast self-control, and he was too much of a man to suffer his own agitation or distress to agitate or distress her further. “You cannot love me as I would be loved by you—you cannot be mine.”

“Durzil,” she said, in tones full of the deepest emotion, “until the moment in which you spoke to me, I never thought of love, I never dreamed or imagined to myself what it should be, other than the love I bear to my father, to you, to all that is kind, and good, and beautiful in humanity or in nature. But your words, I know not how nor wherefore, have awakened me, as it were, into a strange sort of knowledge. I do not love, I almost hope that I never may love, as you would wish me to love you; but I do feel now that I know what such love should be; and I tremble at the knowledge. I feel that it would be too strong, too full of fear, of anxiety, of agony, to allow of happiness. Oh, no, no! Durzil, do not ask me, do not wish me to love you so; pray, rather pray for me to God rather, that I may never love at all—for so surely as I do love, I know that I shall be a wretched, wretched woman!”

That was a strange scene, and it passed between a strange pair. Great influences had been at work in the minds of both within the last few hours, and it would have been very difficult to say in which the greatest change had been wrought.

In her, the tranquil, innocent, unconscious girl had been aroused into the powerful, passionate, thoughtful woman. A knowledge of that whereof she had been most ignorant before “her glassy essence” had awakened her, as the breeze awakens the lake from repose into power.

In him, the violent, hot-headed, stubborn, and impetuous man of action had been tamed down by a conversion almost as sudden and convincing into the slow, self-controlled, self-denying man of counsel. As the discovery of power had aroused her into life, so had the discovery of long cherished, long injurious error, tamed him into tranquillity.

One day ago he would have raved furiously, or brooded sullenly and darkly over her words. Now, even with the fit of passion all puissant over him, with the wild heat of love burning within his breast, with the keen sense of disappointment wringing him, he had yet force of temper to control himself, nay, more, he had force of mind enough to see and apprehend, that this Theresa, was no longer the Theresa whom he loved; and that, although he still adored her, it was impossible either for him to meet the aspirations of her glowing and inspired genius, or for her to be to him what he had dreamed of, the tranquillizing, soothing spirit which should pour balm upon his wounded, restless, irritable feelings—the wife, whose first, best gift to him should be repose and tranquillity of soul.

He pressed her hand tenderly, and said, as he might have done to a dear sister,

“I have been to blame, Theresa. I have given you pain, rashly, but not wantonly. Forgive me, for you are the last person in the world to whom I would give even a moment’s uneasiness. I did not suspect this, dear little girl. I did not dream that you were so nervous, or moved so easily; but you must not yield to such feelings—such impulses, for it is only by yielding to them that they will gain power over you, and make you, indeed, an unhappy woman. You shall see, Theresa, how patiently I will bear my disappointment—for that it is a disappointment, and a very bitter one, I shall not deny—and how I will be happy in spite of it, and all for love of you. And in return, Theresa, if you love poor Durzil, as you say you do, as your true friend and your brother, you will control these foolish fancies of your little head, which you imagine to be feelings of your heart, and I shall one day, I doubt not, have the pleasure of seeing you not only a very happy woman, but a very happy wife.”

“Oh, you are good, Durzil,” she said, tearfully and gently. “Oh, you are very good and noble. Why—why cannot I—” and she interrupted herself suddenly, and covering her eyes with both her hands, wept silently and softly for several minutes. And he spoke not to her the while, nor even sought to soothe, for he well knew that tears were the best solace to an over-wrought over-excited spirit.

After a little while, as he expected, she recovered herself altogether, and looking up in his face with a wan and watery smile.

“You are not hurt, you are not wounded by what I have done,” she said, “dear Durzil. You do not fancy that I do not perceive, do not feel, and esteem, and love all your great, and good, and generous, and noble qualities. I am a foolish, weak little girl—I am not worthy of you; I could not, I know I could not make you happy, even if I could—if I could—if—you know what I would say, Durzil.”

“If you could be happy with me yourself,” he answered, smiling in his turn, and without an effort, although his smile was pensive and sad likewise. “No, my Theresa, I am not hurt nor wounded. I am grieved, it is true, I cannot but be grieved at the dissipating of a pleasant dream, at the vanishing of a hope long indulged, long cherished—a hope which has been a solace to me in many a moment of pain and trial, a sweet companion in many a midnight watch. But I am neither hurt nor wounded; for you have never given me any reason to form so bold, so unwarranted hope, and you have given me now all that you can give me, sympathy and kindness. Our hearts, our affections, I well know, let men say what they will, are not our own to give—and a true woman can but do what you have done. Moreover, even with the sorrow and regret which I feel at this moment, there is mingled a conviction that you are doing what is both wise and right; for although you have all within yourself, though you are all that would make me, or a far better man than I, ay, the best man who ever breathed the breath of life, supremely happy; still, if you could not be happy with me, and in me yourself—how could I be so?”

She looked up at him again, and now, with an altered expression, for there was less of sadness and more of surprise, more of respect for the man who spoke so composedly, so well, in a moment of such trial, on her fair features. Perhaps, too, there might have been a shadow of regret—could it be of regret that he did not feel more acutely the loss which he had undergone? If there were such a feeling in her mind—for she was woman—it was transient as the lightning of a summer’s night—it was gone before she had time even to reproach herself for its momentary existence.

“You are astonished,” he said, interpreting her glance, almost before she knew that he had observed it, “you are astonished that I should be so calm, who am by nature so quick and headlong. But I, too, have learned much to-day—have learned much of my own nature, of my own infirmities, of my own errors—and with me to learn that these exist, is to resolve to conquer them. I have learned first, Theresa, that my father, whom I have ever been forced to regard as my worst enemy, died conscious of the wrong he had done me—done my mother—and penitent, and full of love and of sorrow for us both. And therein have I convicted myself of one great error, committed, indeed, through ignorance, which has, however, been the cause, the source of many other errors—which has led me to charge the world with injustice, when I was myself unjust rather to the world, which has made me guilty of the great offence, the great crime of hating my brother men, when I should have pitied them, and loved them. Therefore I will be wayward no more, nor rash, nor reckless. I will make one conquest at least—that of myself and of my own passions.”

“I know—I know,” said the girl, suddenly blushing very deeply, “that you are every thing that is good and great; every thing that men ought to admire and women to love, and yet—”

“And yet you cannot love me. Well, think no more of that, Theresa. Forget—”

“Never! never!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly together. “I never can forget what you have made me feel, what I must have made you suffer this day.”

“Well, if it be so, remember it, Theresa; but remember it only thus. That if you have quenched my love, if you destroyed my hope, you have but added to my regard, to my affection. Promise me that whereever you may be, however, or with whomsoever your lot shall be cast, you will always remember me as your friend, your brother; you will always call on me at your slightest need, as on one who would shed his heart’s blood to win you a moment’s happiness.”

“I will—I will,” she cried affectionately, fervently. “On whom else should I call. And God only knows,” she added, mournfully, “how soon I shall need a protector. But will you,” she continued, catching both his hands in her own, “will you be happy, Durzil?”

“I will,” he replied, firmly, returning the gentle pressure, “I will, at least in so far as it rests with man to be so, in despite of fortune. But mark me, dear Theresa, if you would have me be so, you can even yet do much toward rendering me so.”

“Can I—then tell me, tell me how, and it is done already.”

“By letting me see that you are happy.”

“Alas!” and again she clasped her hand hard over her heart, as if to still its violent beating. “Alas! Durzil.”

“And why, alas! Theresa?”

“Can we be happy at our own will?”

“Independently of great woes, great calamities, which we may not control, which are sent to us for wise ends from above—surely, I say, surely we can.”

“And can you, Durzil?”

“Theresa, this is to me a great wo—yea, a great calamity; and yet I reply, ay! after a time, after the bitterness shall be overpast, I can, and more, I will. Much more, then, can you, who have never felt, who I trust and believe will never meet any such wo or grief—much more can you be happy. Wherefore should you not, foolish child—have you not been happy hitherto? What have you, that you should not be happy now?”

“Nothing,” she replied, faintly. “I have nothing why I should be unhappy, unless it be, if I have made you so.”

“Theresa, you have not—you shall see that you have not—made me unhappy.”

“And yet, Durzil, yet I feel a foreboding that I shall be, that I must be unhappy. A want—I feel a want of something here.”

“You are excited, agitated now; all this has been too much for your spirits, for your nerves; and I think, Theresa, I am sure that you are too much alone—you think, or rather you muse and dream, which are not healthy modes of thinking—too much in solitude. I will speak to my uncle about that before I go—”

“Before you go!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Go, whither?”

“To sea. To my ship, Theresa.”

“Then you are hurt, then you are angry with me. Then I have no influence over you.”

“Cease, cease, Theresa. It is better, it is necessary—I must go for awhile, until I have weaned myself from this desperate feeling, until I shall have accustomed myself to think of you, to regard you as a sister only; until I shall have schooled myself so far as to be able to contemplate you without agony as not only not being mine—but being another’s.”

“Would it—would it be agony to you, Durzil? Then mark me, I never, never will be another’s.”

“Madness!” he answered, firmly; “madness and wickedness, too, Theresa. Neither man or woman were intended by the great Maker to be solitary beings. God forbid, if you cannot be mine, that I should be so selfish as to wish your life barren, and your heart loveless. No; love, Theresa, when you can, only love wisely; and the day shall come when it will add to my happiness to see and know you happy in the love of one whom you can love, and who shall love you as you must be loved. Never speak again as you did but now, Theresa. And now, dearest girl, I will leave you. Rest yourself awhile, and compose yourself, and then go if you will to your good father.”

“Shall I—shall I tell him,” she faltered, “what has passed between us?”

“As you will, as you judge best, Theresa. I am no advocate for concealment, still less for deceit—but here there is none of the latter, and to tell him this might grieve his kind spirit.”

“You are wise—you are good. God bless you.”

“And you, Theresa,” and he passed his arm calmly across her shoulder, and bending over, pressed his lips, calmly as a father’s kiss on her pure brow. “Fare you well.”

“You are not going—going to leave us now?”

“Not to-day—not to-day, Theresa.”

“Nor to-morrow?” she said, beseechingly.

“Nor to-morrow,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation, “but soon. Now compose yourself, my dear little girl. Farewell, and God bless you.”

——