Various

The word craft properly signifies art, ability, dexterity, skill, as well as cunning and dissimulation—and all these qualities have a close relation to discretion.

The pretended madness of Hamlet is therefore illustrative of the theme; just as the real madness of Lear is illustrative of the theme of that play. The dissimulation of Hamlet, however, is not such as to lessen our esteem for his character. Surrounded as he is with spies and enemies, we feel that it is a justifiable stratagem. It is worthy of remark that Edgar employs a similar means of defense in the Play of King Lear; and that as Shakspeare’s love of contrast has led him thus to oppose the assumed madness of Edgar to the real madness of Lear, so here we have the real madness of Ophelia opposed to the assumed madness of Hamlet.

Hamlet displays craft also (but still a justifiable craft,) in his device of the play, “to catch the conscience of the king.” And when he has succeeded, he triumphs in this proof of his own skill, with a very natural vanity. “Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, (if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,) etc., get me a fellowship in a cry of players?” In his interview with his mother, (the picture scene,) he dwells chiefly on her want of discernment; and, at the conclusion of the scene, alluding to his “two schoolfellows,” he boasts that he will “delve one yard below their mines, and blow them at the moon;” a feat which he very fully accomplishes. But after all he feels and acknowledges that he is a mere instrument in the hands of a higher power.

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them how we will.

And when Horatio endeavors to dissuade him from fencing with Laertes, because he acknowledges a foreboding of evil he replies: “Not a whit, we defy augury; there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come; the readiness is all.” These solemn sentiments were a fit prelude to the tragic fate upon which he was rushing.

Polonius frequently boasts of his own discernment. As when he says to the king:

Hath there been such a time (I’d fain know that,)

That I have positively said ’tis so;

When it proved otherwise.

And though he was mistaken as to the cause of Hamlet’s madness, he reasoned justly on the subject, and erred in his conclusion only because there was a supernatural cause at work, which he could not penetrate. The king also dwells on the same topic (skill or management,) in many places, and especially in his several conversations with Laertes.

But I must hasten to a conclusion; hoping that I have awakened sufficient interest in the reader’s mind to induce him to pursue the subject with the play before him; and assuring him that he will find the theme in some one of its various phases, ever present; from the sentinel’s challenge at the beginning, to the speech of Fortinbras on propriety at the end; in the love-letter of Hamlet; in the carol of Ophelia; in the doggerel song of the old grave-digger; and every where else.

A glance at the progress of the play will show that the theme, like the plot and the characters, is gradually developed. A brief notice of the contents of each act will make this apparent.

Act first.—This act is wholly occupied with matters of an inquisitive character, and lectures on reserve and prudence.

Act second.—Craft is the characteristic of this act. Reynaldo is appointed a spy upon Laertes: Hamlet begins to play the madman: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are appointed spies upon Hamlet: Polonius and the king resolve to secrete themselves where they can overhear Hamlet talking with Ophelia: and Hamlet conceives the project of using the players to make the king betray his own guilt. The object of all these plots, however, it will be observed, is merely to gain information.

Act third.—In this act the several plots formed in the last, are carried into execution.

Act fourth.—Here the subject assumes a more serious aspect; Ophelia’s indiscreet love ends in madness and death: Laertes, who has heretofore discoursed like a philosopher on moderation, now becomes furious, bearding the king on his throne; if craft is employed it is no longer for the mere purpose of finding out secrets, but for the destruction of life; as when the king sends Hamlet to England, to be put to death; and when, on his unexpected return, Laertes and the king concert his death by means of the treacherous fencing-match.

Act fifth.—Inquisitiveness now assumes a more intricate form in the old grave-digger’s riddles, and in Hamlet’s refined speculations. Credulity (as Horatio’s account of prodigies in the first act,) becomes bigotry in the priest who buried Ophelia, and faith in a special Providence in Hamlet. Foppery and affectation reach their height in Osric; discretion assumes its highest form in Hamlet’s frank apology to Laertes, and in his anxiety lest he should leave a “wounded name” behind him; Horatio crowns his constancy by resolving to die with his friend; and ungoverned passion produces the scandalous conflict at Ophelia’s grave, and the scuffle in fencing, which is the immediate forerunner of the bloody catastrophe. The change of rapiers has been condemned as a bungling device; but was it not most probably designed to illustrate the theme, showing, as it does, the blind and heedless rage of the combatants?

It is manifest that Ulrici’s method of reading these plays must lead to a re-consideration of the most important criticisms which have heretofore been made upon them. The propriety and relevancy of each part being considered with reference to the “central idea,” many apparent anomalies will be reconciled, and many imputed faults vindicated. A new value will also be given to them; for, viewed in this light, the masters of eloquence,—the Senator, the Advocate, and the Preacher,—may, from these models, learn how to discuss a theme, or conduct a discussion. The poet rambles through all nature, yet never for one moment forgets his purpose; now he convulses us with laughter, and now melts us to tears; now fires us with indignation, and now chills us with horror; yet ever, amidst these various and conflicting emotions, steadily pursues his argument. Every speech is to the same purpose, and yet there is no repetition; and, though he perseveres till the subject is wholly exhausted, our interest seldom for one moment languishes. Let him, therefore, who would see Logic, and Rhetoric, and Poetry in their most perfect form and combination, repair to the pages of Shakspeare.

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They came—like bees in summer-time,

When earth is decked with flowers,

And while my year was in its prime

They reveled in my bowers;

But when my honey-blooms were shed,

And chilling blasts came on,

The bee had with the blossom fled:

I sought them—they were gone.

They came—like spring-birds to the grove,

With varied notes of praise,

And daily each with other strove

The highest strain to raise;

But when before the frosty gale

My withered leaves were strown,

And wintry blasts swept down the vale,

I sought them—they were gone.

I. G. B.

———

BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

———

———

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

———

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” ETC.

———

It was on a sunny day in the winter of 183-, that we dropped down the Mersey and took our leave of Liverpool. Our vessel was a new ship of seven hundred tons; and as she spread, one after another, her folds of white canvas to the breeze, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight. The scene around was lively and inspiriting. Innumerable craft of all sizes covered the waters far and near: here, a large merchantman moving like a stately swan, there, a light yacht skimming along with the swiftness of a swallow. The sunlight sparkled and danced on the billows; the receding coast grew more picturesque as we left it astern; and the blue expanse of the Irish channel stretched away in front, until lost in a thin haze on the opposite horizon.

I had been reading below for several hours, but toward nightfall went on deck again. How I started at the change! It was yet an hour to sunset, but the luminary of day was already hidden in a thick bank of clouds, that lay stretched ominously along the western seaboard. The wind had increased to a smart gale, and was laden with moisture. The billows increased in size every minute, and were whitening with foam far and near. Occasionally as a roller struck the ship’s bows, the white spray flew crackling over the forecastle, and sometimes even shot into the top: on these occasions a foreboding, melancholy sound, like the groan of some huge animal in pain, issued from the thousand timbers of the vessel. Already, in anticipation of the rising tempest, the canvas had been reduced, and we were now heading toward the Irish coast under reefed topsails, courses, a spanker and jib.

“A rough night in prospect, Jack!” I said addressing an old tar beside me.

“You may well say that, sir,” he replied. “It’s bad on the Norway coast in December, and bad going into Sandy Hook in a snow-storm; but both are nothing to a gale in the channel here,” he added, as a sudden whirl of the tempest covered us with spray.

“I wish we had more sea room,” I answered musingly.

“Ay! I’d give the wages of the voyage if we had. How happy you all seemed in the cabin, sir, the ladies especially, an hour or two ago—I suppose it was because we are going home—ah! little did any of us think,” he added, with a seriousness, and in a language uncommon for a sailor, “that we might be bound to another, and a last home, which we should behold first.”

At this moment the captain shouted to shorten sail, and our conversation was of necessity cut short. The ship, I ought to have said, had been laid close to the wind, in order to claw off the English coast, to which we were in dangerous propinquity; and, as the gale increased, the heavy press of canvas forcing her down into the water, she struggled and strained frightfully. While the crew were at work, I walked forward. The billows, now increased to a gigantic size, came rolling down upon us one after another, with such rapidity that our good craft could scarcely recover from one before another was upon her. Each time she struck a head-sea she would stagger an instant, quivering in every timber, while the crest of the shattered wave would shoot to the fore-top like the jet of a fountain: then, the vast surge sinking away beneath her, she would settle groaning into the trough of the sea, until another billow lifted her, another surge thundered against her bows, another shower of foam flew over her. Now and then, when a more colossal wave than usual was seen approaching, the cry “hold on all” rang warningly across the decks. At such times, the vast billow would approach, its head towering in the gathering twilight, until it threatened to engulf us; but, just when all seemed over, our gallant ship would spring forward to meet it, like a steed started by the spur, and the mountain of waters would break over and around us, hissing, roaring and flashing by, and then sinking into the apparently bottomless gulf beneath us.

Meanwhile the decks were resounding with the tread of the sailors, as they hurried to and fro in obedience to the captain’s orders; while the rattling of blocks, the shouts of command, and the quick replies of the seamen, rose over the uproar of the storm.

“Let go bowlines,” cried the stentorian voice of the captain, “ease off the tack—haul on the weather-braces.”

Away went the huge sail in obedience to the order.

“Ease off the sheet—haul up to lee!”

The crew redoubled their quickness; and soon the immense courses were stowed. In a few minutes the ship’s canvas was reduced to reefed topsails, spanker, and fore-topmast staysail. By this time evening had set in, though the long twilight of that latitude prolonged a sickly radiance.

But even this contraction of sail was not sufficient. The thick duck tugged at the yards, as if it would snap them in two. Every moment I expected to see the spanker go.

“We must take in that sail,” said the captain finally, “or she will tear herself to pieces. All hands in with the spanker.”

In an instant the men were struggling with the huge sheet of canvas; and never before had I been so forcibly impressed with the power and usefulness of discipline. In an incredibly short interval the gigantic sail, notwithstanding its struggles, was got under control, and safely stowed.

The ship now labored less for awhile, but, as the storm increased, she groaned and struggled as before. The captain saw it would not do to carry even the little sail now remaining, for, under the tremendous strain, the canvas might be continually expected to be blown from the bolt-ropes. And yet our sole hope lay in crowding every stitch, in order to claw off the English coast! The sailor will understand this at a word, but to the landsman it may require explanation.

Our danger, then, consisted in having insufficient sea room. If we had been on the broad Atlantic, with a hundred or two miles of ocean all around us, we could have lain-to under some bit of a head-sail, or fore-topmast sky-sail for instance, or a reefed fore-sail. But when a vessel lies-to, or, in other words, faces the quarter whence the wind comes, with only enough canvas set to steer her by, she necessarily drifts considerably, and in a line of motion diagonal to her keel. This is called making lee-way. Most ships, when lying-to in a gale, drill very rapidly, sometimes hundreds of miles if the tempest is protracted. It is for this reason that a vessel in a narrow channel dares not lie-to, for a few miles of lee-way would wreck her on the neighboring coast. The only resource, in such cases, is to carry a press of sail, and head in the direction whence the wind comes, but not near so close to it as in lying-to. This is called clawing off a lee-shore. A constant struggle is maintained between the waves, which set the vessel in the same track they are going themselves, and the wind, which urges her on the opposite course. If the canvas holds, and the ship is not too close to the shore under her lee, she escapes: if the sails part, she drives upon the fatal coast before new ones can be got up and bent. Frequently in such cases the struggle is protracted for hours. It is a noble yet harrowing spectacle to see a gallant ship thus contending for her life, as if an animated creature, breasting surge after surge, too often in vain, panting, trembling and battling till the very last.

The captain did not appear satisfied with taking in the spanker; indeed, all feared that the ship could not carry what sail was left. Accordingly, he ordered the topsails to be close-reefed. Yet even after this, the vessel tore through the waters as if every moment she would jerk her masts out. The wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane. It shrieked, howled and roared around as if a thousand fiends were abroad on the blast.

In moments of extreme peril strong natures gather together, as if by some secret instinct. It was in this way that the captain suddenly found himself near the old topman, whom I had been conversing with in the early part of the evening, and who, it appeared, was one of the oldest and best seamen in the ship.

The captain stood by the man’s side a full minute without speaking, looking at the wild waves that, like hungry wolves, came trooping down toward us.

“How far are we from the coast?” he said at last.

“Perhaps five miles, perhaps three, sir!” quietly replied the man.

“And we have a long run to make before we get sea-room,” said the captain.

“We shall all be in eternity before morning,” answered the man, solemnly.

The captain paused a moment, when he replied,

“Our only hope is in the topsail-clews—if they give way, we are indeed lost—God help us!”

“Amen!” I answered, involuntarily.

Silence now ensued, though none of us changed our positions. For myself, I was occupied with thinking of the female passengers, soon, perhaps, to be the prey of the wild waters. Every moment it seemed as if the topsails would give way, she strained so frightfully. It was impossible to stand up if exposed to the full force of the gale. So we sheltered ourselves in the waist as we best could. The wind as well as spray, however, reached us even here, though in diminished violence, the latter stinging the face like shot thrown against it. It seemed to me, each minute, as if we made more lee-way. At last, after half an hour’s suspense, I heard the surf breaking, with a noise like thunder, on the iron-bound coast to the eastward. Again and again I listened, and each time the awful sound became more distinct.

I did not mention my fears, however, for I still thought I might be mistaken. Suddenly the captain looked up.

“Hark!” he said.

He stood with his finger raised in the attitude of one listening intently, his eyes fixed on the face of the old sailor.

“It is the sound of breakers,” said the seaman.

“Breakers on the lee-quarter!” cried the look-out at this instant, his hoarse voice sounding ominously across the night.

“Breakers on the lee-beam!” answered another.

“Breakers on the lee-bow!” echoed a third.

All eyes peered immediately into the darkness. A long line of foam was plainly visible, skirting quite round the horizon to leeward.

“God have mercy on our souls!” I involuntarily ejaculated.

The captain sprung to the wheel, his eye flashing, his whole frame dilated—for he had taken a sudden and desperate resolution. He saw that, if no effort was made, we should be among the breakers in twenty minutes; but if the mainsail could be set, and made to hold for half an hour, we might yet escape. There were nine chances to one that the sail would split the instant it was spread, and in a less terrible emergency he would have shrunk from the experiment; but it was now our only hope.

“Keep her to it!” he shouted; “keep her well up. All hands to set the main-course!”

Fortunately we were strong-handed, so that it would not be necessary to carry the tack to the windlass, notwithstanding the gale. A portion of the crew sprung to man this important rope; the remainder hurried up the rigging, almost disappearing in the gloom overhead.

In less than a minute the huge sail fell from the yard, like a gigantic puff of white smoke blown from the top. It struggled and whipped terribly, but the good ropes held fast.

“Brace up the yard—haul out the bowline!” thundered the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir!” and it was done.

“Haul aft!”

The men ran off with the line, and the immense sheet came to its place.

This was the critical moment. The ship feeling the additional propulsion, made a headlong plunge. I held my breath. I expected nothing less than to see the heavy duck blown from the yard like a gossamer; but the strong fabric held fast, though straining awfully.

“She comes up, don’t she?” interrogated the captain of the man at the helm.

“Ay, ay, sir—she does!”

“How much?”

“Two points, sir!”

“If she holds for half an hour,” ejaculated the captain, “we may yet be saved.”

On rushed the noble ship, seeming to know how much depended on her. She met the billows, she rose above them, she struggled perseveringly forward. In five minutes the breakers were visibly receding.

But hope had been given only to delude us. Suddenly I heard a crack, sharper than an explosion of thunder, and simultaneously the course parted from its fastenings, and sailed away to leeward, like a white cloud driven down the gale.

A cry of horror rose from all. “It is over!” I cried; and I looked around for a plank, intending to lash myself to it, in anticipation of the moment for striking.

When the course went overboard, the head of the ship fell off immediately; and now the wild breakers tumbled and roared closer at hand each moment.

Suddenly the captain seized my arm, for we were holding on almost side by side.

“Ha!” he cried, “is not that dark water yonder?” and he pointed across our lee-bow.

I looked in the direction to which he referred. Unless my eyes deceived me, the long line of breakers came to an abrupt termination there, as if the shore curved inwards at that point.

“You are right—there is a deep bay ahead,” I cried, joyfully. “Look! you can see the surf whitening around the cape.”

The whole crew simultaneously detected this new chance of escape. Though unable to head to the wind as before, there was still a prospect that we could clear the promontory. Accordingly, the next few minutes were passed in breathless suspense. Not a word was spoken on board. Every eye was fixed on that rocky headland, around which the waters boiled as in the vortex of a maelstrom.

The ship seemed conscious of the general feeling, and struggled, I thought, more desperately than ever. She breasted the huge billows with gallant perseverance, and though each one set her closer to the shore, she met the next wave with the same stubborn resolution. Nearer, nearer, nearer we drilled toward the fatal cape. I could now almost fling a biscuit into the breakers.

I had noticed a gigantic roller coming for some time, but had hoped we might clear the cape before it reached us. I now saw the hope was in vain. Towering and towering, the huge wave approached, its dark side almost a perpendicular wall of waters.

“Hold on all!” thundered the captain.

Down it came! For an instant its vast summit hovered overhead, and then, with a roar like ten thousand cataracts, it poured over us. The ship was swept before it like a feather on a gale. With the waters dashing and hissing over the decks, and whirling in wild eddies under our lee, we drove in the direction of the cape. I held my breath in awe. A strong man might almost have leaped on the extreme point of the promontory. I closed my eyes shuddering. The next instant a hurrah met my ear. I looked up. We had shot by the cape, and miles of dark water were before us. An old tar beside me had given vent to the cheer.

“By the Lord!” he said, “but that was close scraping, sir. Another sich would have cracked the hull like an egg-shell. But this craft wasn’t made to go to Davy Jones’ locker!”

And with all the coolness imaginable, he took out a huge piece of pig-tail, leisurely twisted off a bit, and began chewing with as much composure as if nothing unusual had happened.

A year ago, when in New York, I met the captain again, unexpectedly, at the Astor. We dined together, when I took occasion to ask him if he remembered our winter night’s experience in the Irish Channel ten years before.

“Ay!” he said. “And do you know that, when I went out to Liverpool on my next trip, I heard that search had been made all along the coast for the fragments of our ship. The escape was considered miraculous.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve had enough of the Irish Channel.”

———

BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.

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———

BY S. SUTHERLAND.

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Florence Hastings sat alone in one of the spacious apartments of her uncle’s stately mansion in —— square. The luxuriously cushioned sofa was drawn quite close to the cheerful grate-fire, while the pale cheek of its occupant, and the slight form almost hidden in the folds of a large shawl, betokened an invalid. And such in reality was our young heroine. Fresh in her memory, and consequently in its effects upon her personal appearance, was a lingering and dangerous illness, and barely three weeks had elapsed since the crisis was safely past, and she had been pronounced convalescent.

Books and writing materials were now scattered carelessly upon a table beside her—but they did not claim her interest. She seemed in an unusually nervous, restless mood. At times her eyes would wander around the apartment with a strangely dissatisfied look, (for every thing before her wore an appearance of splendor very agreeable to the gaze of the beholder,) then she would bury her face in her hands, while something glittering and dewy—something greatly resembling a tear-drop, would trickle slowly through those slender fingers. Could it, indeed, be a tear-drop? What cause for sorrow had Florence Hastings, the young and accomplished heiress? Florence was an orphan. At the early age of ten years she had lost both the tender father, and the sweet mother who had watched over her steps in infancy, and since that period she had felt too deeply that there was no one to whom she could look for the true love and sympathy for which her spirit pined. Her uncle and guardian, absorbed in the duties of an extensive mercantile establishment, troubled himself little about his niece. He was well assured that her own goodly inheritance amply supplied all her desires—and the morning salutation with which he honored Florence as she took her accustomed seat beside him at the breakfast table, and the gracious smile of approbation when he beheld her at evening bending over her studies in the parlor, were generally sufficient to relieve his mind of all scruples concerning the duties of personal intercourse. On this point, however, no one who knew Mr. Hastings would have rested any blame upon him. He was to all a man of few words—naturally cold and calm in manner. His wife resembled him greatly in every respect—being of a quiet, placid temperament, which no emotion was ever observed to ruffle—pursuing the tenor of her way by rule rather than by impulse. So in this case, at least, it was plainly evident that “Love’s delight” had not consisted in “joining contrasts.” Casual observers might have said that a similar description would apply to Mr. Hastings’ niece—but in doing so they wronged her. Florence was, indeed, reserved, and apparently cold, but it was from habit and education—not by inheritance. Once she had been a sunny, glad-souled child, whose bounding footstep and merry laugh resounded gayly through a home where she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed, and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence. A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul

But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs. Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would have cared, that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest token of feeling.

Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate, it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr. Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank, gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence “the Iceberg;” and the society of the former was courted by all, while the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected, for they said she was cold and proud—

and when in the hour of recreation she sat apart from all, apparently absorbed in a book, and paying little heed to what passed around her, what token had they for suspecting that it was the indifference of a heart only too proud to seek for sympathy where she believed she would meet with no return. Ida Hamilton had been an orphan from infancy; but the place of her parents had been supplied by near and kind relatives, who had petted and cherished her as their own. Her first grief had been her separation from these relatives, when by the ill health of one of its members the family circle was broken up, and a residence in the South of Europe advised by the physicians. Ida was, meanwhile, left to the care of her guardian, Mr. Hastings; and deeply as she at first mourned the departure of her beloved friends, hope painted in glowing colors her reunion with them at some future day, and so by degrees the young girl became reconciled to the change. For awhile she felt, indeed, a restraint upon her happy spirit, for the constraint and formality which seemed the governing powers of her aunt’s domestic circle formed a vivid contrast with that free-hearted and universal cordiality of feeling to which she had been accustomed. But it was scarcely to be supposed that she would long be daunted at the unpromising aspect of things around her. Confiding, affectionate and yielding to those who loved her, Ida was “as careless as the summer rill that sings itself along” with those who had no claim upon her heart, and possessed withal of a certain independence of manner which rendered all caviling out of the question. If Mrs. Hastings felt any surprise when her niece gradually cast aside the awe with which her presence had at first inspired her, as usual, she gave no manifestation of it. But the servants, well-trained as they were, looked exclamation points at one another when, while engaged in active duties, they heard Miss Ida’s lively sallies to their master and mistress, and talked their astonishment when, while in their own distinct quarters, they caught the sound of her voice as it rang out dear and free in laughter, or warbled silvery and sweet, wild snatches of some favorite song.

It may be supposed that with such pleasant companionship the life of Florence Hastings had become more joyous. But it was not so. Though for more than three years Ida Hamilton and Florence had been domesticated beneath the same roof, upon the morning on which my sketch begins (the ever memorable Fourteenth of February, 1850,) they were to all appearance scarcely better acquainted than upon the day of Ida’s introduction to Mr. Hasting’s dwelling. Bending daily, as they had done, over the same studies, they had never sought one another’s sympathy; and when they left school, it could scarcely be expected that the bond of union would be more closely cemented. Mutually calculated though they were to become warm-hearted friends, beyond the common civilities of life, no intercourse had subsisted between them. Ida never jested with Florence, or strove to provoke a smile by the thousand little witcheries that she sometimes practiced upon others—not excepting her stately uncle and aunt, and at intervals even in this case with success. Florence often wished that she had but possessed a sister like Ida; her heart throbbed with a deep, irrepressible yearning whenever that little, soft hand by chance touched hers; but she had learned too perfectly the art of keeping her feelings in check to betray them now, even “by faintest flutter of a pulse, by lightest change of cheek, or eyelid’s fall.”

As I have said, Florence was but just recovering from a lengthened and dangerous illness, from the effects of which she was still weak. During that illness she had been constantly attended by Mrs. Hastings; and while deeply grateful for her care, she had, though unobserved, moments of irritability when the immobile features of her aunt were an absolute annoyance. And it was enhanced by the striking contrast of Ida’s bright face, who daily paid a ceremonious visit to the sick-room—Ida, who was never cold to any one but her! Then she would wish that Ida Hamilton would not come near her at all—she was never so wretched as after the reception of her unconscious visiter; and yet when Ida delayed her coming an hour later than usual, she was restless and uneasy! And these spells of feverish excitability greatly retarded her recovery. It was the return of one of them upon the present occasion, by which the tears that filled her eyes may be explained.

Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her, and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following, characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds previously.

Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world could have taken the trouble to write her a valentine? But the query was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for a reply.

When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to Florence.”

Accompanying this playful but deeply earnest little strain—doubly earnest, as coming from Ida to Florence—was an explanatory letter. Ida Hamilton wrote thus:

Florence Hastings closed that precious letter, upon which, as she read, her tears had fallen thick and fast. To her it was the first of those moments in life

“When such sensations in the soul assemble

As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep.”

And with scarce an instant’s delay, she traced the following reply.

Florence had just finished her answer when the servant came for it, and this time her voice trembled perceptibly, as she repeated to the messenger her desire to see Miss Hamilton as soon as she had perused it.

Five minutes elapsed; Florence, meanwhile, impatiently pacing the apartment, her usually colorless cheek deeply flushed, and her dark eyes glowing with an excitement that was destined speedily to end in happiness the most perfect she had known since early childhood. At length there was a light, hurrying tread upon the stair; nearer and nearer it drew—and in another instant the door of Florence’s apartment was hastily unclosed, and Ida Hamilton stood before her! There was a quick burst of tears on the part of each; then Florence Hastings sprung forward and clasped her newly found friend to her heart, returning her caresses with impassioned fondness, and in tones that thrilled to the inmost soul of her companion, murmuring, “Ida—my own Ida! Darling, darling Ida!”

The Iceberg was irremediably thawed.

There is a cosy family party assembled in the well-lighted parlors of Mr. Gordon’s dwelling, in —— street. It is the anniversary of his wedding-day. Upon the festival of St. Valentine, exactly nine-and-forty years ago, (for Mr. Gordon has passed the allotted “three score and ten,”) as his wife, he brought to his then humble abode a lovely and sunny-souled maiden of eighteen, now metamorphosed into the gray-haired matron by his side, who has proved his genial partner through all life’s joys and sorrows—the still blithe and sweet-voiced Grandma Gordon. From time immemorial, the members of Mr. Gordon’s family, from far and near, have gathered together upon this especial occasion. His own immediate household had consisted originally of five sons and as many daughters; and though some of these now rested beneath the sod, in their place had arisen a numerous flock of grandchildren—and a prouder boast still, he had lived to pet, and I had almost said spoil, no less than two bright-eyed and most wonderful great-grandchildren—to wit, Master Benjamin Franklin Gordon, or little Bennie, as everybody calls him, a promising young gentleman of some three or four summers, and Helen Gordon Bond, a most precocious young lady, who is now gliding rapidly onward toward her second birthday. Both these important juveniles are present upon this particular occasion. Grandfather Gordon, himself a silvery-haired, benevolent-featured old man, (in appearance precisely such a grandsire as the genius of a Waldmuller would have delighted to immortalize upon canvas,) was seated in a capacious and well-cushioned arm-chair by the fire. Occupying with becoming dignity the post of honor upon his knee is little Helen, while Bennie Gordon has perched himself upon one arm of his grandfather’s chair, and is teasing him for the information whether the little toy-watch he holds in his hand—his first assumption of manliness—is wound up or wound down.

It will be, perhaps, proper to introduce the reader to a portion of the assembled family group. Yonder, upon the sofa, sit the two elder sons of Mr. Gordon, busily engaged in a discussion upon the merits of last year’s Art-Union exhibition. Alfred, the senior, is the genuine grandfather of little Bennie.

That lady, who is just about leaving her station at the piano, is the parent of little Helen. She is a sweet, fair creature, so childlike in appearance, that it is difficult to recognize her as a wife and mother. She has just been singing, “Be kind to the loved ones,” with a grace and feeling that touched all hearts.

Next we behold a group of some half a dozen little girls, huddled together in a corner, in most sociable proximity to one another. Katie Wilmot, at present the “leading member,” a rosy, chatty little curly-pate, is detailing most eloquently her experience of Santa Claus’s last donation visit, while the others are patiently waiting their turn to relate how lavishly he supplied their stockings.

Those two maidens of “sweet sixteen,” or thereabouts, seated upon the ottoman, with their arms very lovingly entwined round one another, are Mabel Wilmot and Fanny Gordon, light-hearted school-girls and affectionate cousins—inseparable companions whenever a happy chance throws them together. But, alas! their opportunities of intercourse have as yet been “few and far between,” for Mabel’s home is in the country, many miles distant. The cousins have recently, however, laid their plans for removing this obstacle to their intimacy. They talk of becoming voluntary old maids, and of coaxing grandfather to build for their sole occupation an “Old Maid’s Hall.” Mabel has repeatedly declared her determination never to be such a goose as to get married; while Fanny, in one of her frequent letters to Mabel, has written, “Is it not a glorious thing to be an old maid? And what further recommendation can a lady need in the eyes of society if it is known that she is an old maid!” It may be well if their plans are eventually put into execution, for rumor says, though Mabel Wilmot disclaims the assertion with a most indignant toss of her glossy ringlets, that a certain Mr. Merritt, the high-souled, noble-looking, and wealthy rector of B——, has lately, for the first time, been suspected of interested motives in his intercourse with a member of his flock; while the bright eyes and witching smile of Fanny Gordon seem to argue for the future a prospectus of hearts beguiled, one of which may eventually cause the overthrow of the projected building.

A youth of nineteen or so, who is at present busily engaged entertaining several younger cousins, is Mr. Harry Gordon, a theological student, with whom social qualities and professional abilities, will always be happily blended. He is amusing his juvenile companions with a game of his own invention—a sort of play upon names, of which the following may be taken as examples:

What well known scriptural name might a mother use in requesting her son to escort home two young lady visiters?—Jeroboam. (“Jerry, bow ’em!”)

If an old gentleman told his son to crowd into an already well-filled omnibus, the name of what conspicuous personage present would form the command?—Benjamin. (“Ben, jam in!”)

The names of what popular authors of Great Britain might a person, while gazing at a large bonfire, with propriety repeat?—Dickens, Howitt, Burns. (“Dickens! how it burns!”)

The second of these was received with especial applause—not forgetting to mention the brilliant sparkle of Grandfather Gordon’s eyes at this original mode of bringing his pet, Bennie, into notice; while the third particularly attracted the laughter and approval of a group around the centre-table, consisting of Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Harry, Amy Carter, her niece, and Mrs. Clinton, her sister. Amy is an orphan, and has been so from infancy. But the tenderness of her grand-parents, with whom she has always resided, has shielded her from the evils of orphanage. She is a blithe, happy-hearted girl of seventeen, the very soul of mirth and music. She is grandma’s especial darling; and the dear old lady never gazes into that lovely, sunny face, never hears that sweet voice warbling its merry carols, but she thinks of her own bright youth, and says, with complacent fondness of her treasured grandchild, “She is just what I was at her age.” It is Grandfather Gordon’s firmly expressed opinion that Amy, more than any other member of their household, resembles his wife as he first knew her. Cousin Harry calls his favorite Amy the Household Witch, because she has managed to wind herself so closely about the hearts of all her relatives, that every eye invariably brightens as her light footstep is heard approaching. But this evening Amy seems for once herself to have been bewitched, for she has found an absorbing object of interest in a spirited volume now lying open before her, entitled, “Greenwood Leaves,” by Grace Greenwood. Amy Carter has long felt an appreciation of the authoress, and to-night is not the first time that, with all the fervor of a young, warm, generous heart, she has wished her God speed in her journeys through Authorland. Mrs. Clinton, who sits close beside her, with one of Amy’s hands resting lovingly in hers, appears to be equally interested in a splendidly bound and illustrated volume of Mrs. Osgood’s poems. She has just finished reading to her sister, Mrs. Gordon, a brief essay upon the productions of her favorite poetess, cut and preserved from a popular newspaper, and from which the ensuing is an extract.

“The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a spontaneous gushing forth of thoughts, fancies, and feelings, which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. In all her poems we find occasion to admire the author as well as the works. Her spontaneous and instinctive effusions appear in a higher degree than any others in our literature, to combine the rarest and highest capacities in art with the sincerest and deepest sentiments, and the noblest aspirations. They would convince us, if the beauty of her life were otherwise unknown, that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest characters in the histories of literature or society.”

And it was pleasant to see what a beautiful glow of sympathy and enthusiasm illumined the countenance of the reader as she concluded that most happy and fitting tribute to genius.

Mrs. Clinton is the youngest child of Grandfather Gordon. When only eighteen, she became the wife of one to whom she was devotedly attached, and two years afterward bent wildly over the death-couch of her idolized husband. Ten years have passed since then, and time has softened the sorrow which at first seemed too grievous for human endurance. Though now past her thirtieth birth-day, Mrs. Clinton looks much younger. You would scarcely suppose her more than two-and-twenty; and though not what the world calls a beautiful woman, it would be difficult to deny that there is something striking and noble in her appearance. She is somewhat above the medium height, with a form of faultless symmetry, and a step and carriage, though stately, yet eminently graceful. The contour of her head is certainly superb, and its effect upon the observer greatly enhanced by the arrangement of her abundant soft, brown hair, which is always wound about it simply, and with a grace the more perfect, because, while perfectly natural, it is unconsciously artistic. But her features are decidedly irregular and unimpressive; and it is only when those large, gray eyes are lighted, as upon the present occasion, from within, when some inner chord is touched, and the usually pale cheek is flushed and animated with the fire of feeling, that you are ready to accord to her the power of fascination. But once meet that peculiarly soulful look, and it will reflect itself continually, and haunt you forever after. You will probably gaze frequently again upon the same immobile features, but expressionless they will seem never more. By those to whom she deigns to reveal herself, Mrs. Clinton is worshiped as the personification of all that is lovely and lovable and intellectual. And there are many also who have caught accidental glimpses of that beautiful, noble, and impassioned spirit, and who would give worlds for the slightest token that the deep interest with which she inspires them is returned. Mrs. Clinton has had many offers of marriage; she has turned coldly yet tearfully from the homage of many a true and manly, ay, and gifted heart; for though she has long since laid aside the weeds of widowhood, her soul is still arrayed in mourning-garb for the husband of her bright, fresh youth. She is one of those beings, few and rare, indeed, with whom, having once passionately loved and survived the object of their attachment, no compensation, however heart-offered, could induce one moment’s oblivion of the past, or the most remote thought of yielding to another that place in their holiest affections which has been occupied by the departed. Though shut out from a sphere of usefulness which she might truly have called her own, the years of Mrs. Clinton’s widowhood had not been inactive. As she recovered from the effects of that well-nigh overwhelming affliction, her little niece, Amy, was approaching the most interesting stage of childhood. Her beautiful, bright face, and the daily revealings of a mind unusually intelligent, together with the sweet orphan’s naturally winning and bewitching ways, won more and more upon the heart of her aunt. And so, when Amy Carter was nine years old, Mrs. Clinton begged that her niece might be altogether withdrawn from school, and that she might herself be allowed to superintend the little girl’s education. So from that time Amy dwelt beneath the spiritual dominion of her aunt; and never was pupil more docile, or preceptress kinder or more fondly beloved. And Amy’s devotion to Mrs. Clinton is still as ardent and enthusiastic as in the days of her childhood. Wherever the latter has stationed herself, you may be sure that the former is not very many paces distant. Mrs. Clinton sometimes laughingly, but lovingly, styles Amy her shadow; and her eyes are often suffused with happy tears at some unobtrusive mark of the young girl’s earnest affection.

But upon the foregoing imperfect daguerreotypes, gentle reader, I have already lingered longer than my time admits; for, after all, my principal object in asking you to bear me company within the precincts of this pleasant household, was, that we might inspect some of the Valentines in yonder daintily-wrought basket resting upon the table, beside which fair Amy Carter is seated.

(As a particular secret, dear reader, I will whisper to you that the authorship of most of these little friendly missives is ascribed to Mrs. Clinton.)

The first Valentine within our reach is addressed to Harry Gordon.

Upon the reception of which, it may be as well to mention, our anticipated doctor of divinity had laid his hand most impressively upon his heart, in token of his appreciating divination of a passion so divine.

Next we have a Valentine upon the tiniest of all tiny sheets of gilt-edged note-paper. It is inscribed to little Helen Bond.

Here are two Valentines written upon the same sheet of paper—not for economy’s sake, gentle reader, but to convey an idea that the parties addressed are as they profess to be—one in spirit. The first is inscribed to Mabel Wilmot, and the following is its language.

Upon the opposite page are traced the ensuing lines to Fanny Gordon.

You should have seen, dear reader, with what exuberance of glee Katie Wilmot received her Valentine, which is the one we are now about to unfold. You should have caught the sound of her merry, ringing laughter, and the gayly triumphant tone in which, holding her newly-gained treasure to view, she exclaimed, “Sister Mabel—Cousin Fanny, can you guess who this is for? Ah, you can’t guess—you wouldn’t dream of such a thing? It’s for me—for me!” Then you should have witnessed how joyously the little fairy clapped her tiny hands together, and the impromptu polka which she accomplished round the apartment after the following all-important little missive was read to her.

Yes, Katie Wilmot was very proud of that; and she might have been heard from time to time, through the evening, repeating with peculiar satisfaction what seemed to be her two favorite lines,

These three appropriate little verses, addressed to Amy Carter, next demand our attention.

Dear Amy Carter! The ardent, impulsive kiss which your lips imprinted upon that well-known handwriting, told how precious was this pleasant tribute; that you recognized and blessed the traces of your childhood’s loving friend, of your girlhood’s guardian angel!

One more poetical heart-effusion and our recording space is filled even to overflowing. It is inscribed to Mrs. Clinton.

Ah, Mrs. Clinton! when you read that token of a never-fading attachment, your sorrowing spirit murmured in tones of subdued melancholy, “For years he has followed me, and though I have never encouraged his attentions, it has seemed as if I could not be forgotten—as though he could not bear to give me up. Yet I can never be grateful for his love, I must only regret that it has been bestowed upon me. I can make him no return—for still with me

And so with “tears, radiant emanations,” welling from the innermost depths of your soul, and glistening in your eyes, with intuitive delicacy, you placed that avowal of disappointed affection in your portfolio, deeming it there so safe from observation that not even Amy, your darling, would ever catch a glimpse of it. But, unfortunately, on the way to your own apartment, it escaped from its hiding-place, and was picked up upon the stair by one of your little nieces, who transferred it to the general Valentine-receptacle in the parlor. By and by you will doubtless ask yourself with regretful wonder, how it came there.

But the day is already too far spent to admit of a longer sojourn with the Gordons. And it is solely the fault of the recorder, gentle reader, if you are not able to bid them adieu with the firm conviction that theirs is one of those “homes of America” to whom Miss Bremer referred when she said so sweetly, “wherever there is a good husband and father, a true wife and mother, dutiful children, the spirit of freedom and peace and love, and that beautiful feeling of noble minds which makes them confer happiness on their fellow-creatures according to their gifts and wishes, there also would I fain be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed tears of delight that paradise still is to be found on this poor earth.”

———

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

———

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

———

BY C. F. ASHMEAD.

———

The Lady Arabella H—— was the reigning belle and beauty of a court not excelled, in the long annals of its previous history, for accomplished and fascinating women. Many stars, of no little magnitude, sparkled in the regal diadem of female loveliness, but she outshone them all. In the graces of her person, in wit, in accomplishments, she appeared without a competitor—not to say without a rival. Her own sex reluctantly yielded the palm to her indisputable pretensions, and the other proudly crowned her with its leaves. She was the Venus of the day.

Countless suitors knelt at her feet—from the gay nobleman to the grave statesman—for in the versatility of her attractions lay some charm for all. But the lady was strangely cold to the accents of love. One gallant after another retired with his suit rejected, and despair in his heart: and it might have been believed that the exquisite temple of her form enshrined a soul callous to the passion it was so peculiarly fitted to inspire.

A brilliant ball was in progress. It was graced by the presence of royalty, and the arrangements and decorations were worthy of the distinguished visiters. Beauty and fashion, and taste, conspired to lend a magic to the festive scene. Conspicuous among the admired of her sex shone the graceful figure of Lady Arabella H. Her loveliness on this evening surpassed itself: and there was a languishing tenderness in her eyes that bespoke a softer mood than her wont, and lent hope once more to her despairing suitors. With renewed energy, these crowded around her to seek her smiles, while new aspirants for her gracious favor added the meed of their respective homage. One gallant alone remained aloof from the idol of universal worship. This was the young Lord R—, remarkable for his handsome person, his general accomplishments, and more than all, his noble soul. It was but recently that he had appeared at court after an absence abroad. On his first return, he had seemed to share in the fascination caused by the charms of the Lady Arabella. But by degrees, he had shunned her society: and on this evening, he evidently avoided passing within the charmed circle of her blandishments. His very glances appeared schooled to prevent their resting on her, as he stood dejectedly within the door, with his eyes cast upon the ground.

“What aileth thee, my lord, that thou holdest thyself to-night beyond the attraction of yonder dazzling orb?” inquired Sir Charles G—, advancing close beside him.

“I may not approach without being singed by its fire, from which I have already suffered more than enough for my happiness.”

“By my troth, then, the star is resolved to approach thee: for lo! the lady nears us now, and takes her station not far from thy side, attended by some of her satellites.”

Lord R. did not trust himself with a single glance to ascertain the correctness of the assertion: but turned his face toward the ante-room.

“Thou art too diffident of thyself,” continued Sir Charles. “Attack the peace of the haughty belle even as she hath thine, and she will surrender her hand at thy discretion.”

“You flatter, my friend. How dare I to entertain hope, when so many have been rejected by her with less than indifference? Nay, there remains no alternative for my happiness save to shun her altogether.”

A stifled sigh here arrested the attention of the speakers, and the fair being who was the subject of their remarks passed within the door-way in which they stood. She leaned on the arm of a young nobleman who regarded her with looks of anxiety. A sudden indisposition had that instant seized her, and she was retiring to seek her recovery apart from the crowd.

“Leave me here alone,” said she to her companion, when they had reached the recess of a window in the ante-room. “It is but a slight faintness, and I shall be myself again presently.”

The gallant obeyed, and the lady occupied the ante-room in solitude.

Giving way to a burst of tears, she murmured, “Alas! he whom alone I love of all that seek my hand hath declared that he will in future shun me altogether; and yet the very declaration implies that he is not indifferent to me. Untoward fate! how hast thou permitted a misapprehension so cruel?——”

A succession of sobs interrupted her voice, and her soliloquy sunk into inaudible words. But her unhappy train of thought continued, and she remained for a considerable time with her emotion deepening rather than diminishing.

At length, by an effort, she recovered in some measure her self-possession. The surprise her absence from the dancers would occasion now suggested itself to her mind, and she had arisen for the purpose of rejoining them, when two persons entered the ante-room.

The projection of the window hid her from their observation: and it was fortunate for her that this was the case; for, on recognizing in one of the intruders the graceful figure and handsome countenance of Lord R., her former emotion returned with increased violence. Smothering her sensations to prevent her attracting their attention, until the effort almost choked her, she sank back again upon her seat, where the damask window-curtains afforded her an effectual screen from discovery.

Entirely unconscious of her presence, the two gallants drew a small side-table near the window, and sat down to a game of draughts.

The gentleman who accompanied Lord R. was the same with whom he had recently been conversing, and he had, with the charitable design of diverting his friend’s melancholy mood, suggested a trial against himself of the noted skill of Lord R. at the game in question—he being himself also a scientific and accomplished player.

They went through five or six successive games, and Lord R. was every time the winner.

As they played, the Lady Arabella, whose situation gave her an opportunity of viewing the board, though, as has been said, it was such as to prevent her being herself observed, gradually became interested in the moves, enlisting all her sympathies on the side of the successful combatant.

“Conquered completely,” said Sir Charles at length, pushing back the board and rising from the table. “You are more than a match for me, and yet I have ever been counted no mean player.”

“I have never met any one able to beat me since the first dozen games I played as a tyro,” replied Lord R., as he followed the example of the other in leaving the table, and linking his arm within that of his friend, they made their exit from the apartment.

It was not until some little time after their departure that our heroine arose from the seat she occupied. But when she did so, it would have seemed, from her countenance, that some bright and sanguine idea had struck her, possessing the power to dispel her previous desponding state of mind.

When she again appeared in the ball-room, Lord R. had quitted the scene. But her hope, whatever it was, evidently extended beyond the present into the future: and the reader, who is acquainted with her sentiments, may augur, from the beaming smiles which throughout the remainder of the evening she shed around her—too bright to be the result of aught else than heartfelt confidence and joy—that she had discovered some delicate mode of communicating her preference for him whose love for her, the words she had so lately heard from his own lips, left her no room to doubt.

The Lady Arabella suddenly grew extraordinarily partial to a pleasing, though not heretofore engrossing amusement. Hoyle had not at that day been published; but practice was her teacher, and she became an astonishing adept at Draughts. A passion emanating from so admired a source soon spread throughout the court circle, until checker-boards took the place of dancing and music, and conversation, in every festive concourse. For the remainder of the season, nothing else was in vogue. The ball-room continued empty, the drama remained unnoticed, and the worshipers at the shrine of Pleasure sought her only at the table of the fashionable game. The lady who was skillful at draughts, was deemed something more worthy to aspire to distant rivalry with the Lady Arabella, and the man who excelled at the same, was thought more fitting to become, however unsuccessfully, her suitor.

The excitement in the metropolis, caused by the retirement of lords and ladies to their country residences, was at its height. The atmosphere exhaled the balmy softness and fragrancy of an English June; and a succession of delicious days witnessed the arrival of a party of the first noblemen of the realm at the Castle of ——.

This castle was beautifully situated on the margin of a winding lake, surrounded by the most bewitching and graceful mountain scenery. Art, moreover, lent its aid to increase the attractions of the spot, and gardens, groves, grottos, arbors, and fountains, appeared at every turn in rich and tasteful variety. It was a residence worthy of a divinity. And such, indeed, Fortune had placed in it, for the magnificent domain was the inheritance of the father of the Lady Arabella, while his daughter was the goddess of the place.

It was a singular mandate which here congregated around her the chivalry of the day. She had caused it to be known that she desired her suitors, one and all, to meet her at this particular crisis, in trial of their skill against her own, at the late fashionable game of draughts. He who should prove her successful antagonist, the proclamation declared, was to take his revenge in claiming her hand. Three months had been given them for practice, and the time had at length expired. The aspirants day by day were arriving in numbers, and the castle became filled with guests.

England might well have been proud of the flower of her manhood, as they showed on this occasion. Stately and stalwort forms, and haughty brows, and eyes of intellectual fire, were to be seen among the motley but graceful crowd.

At length, the day which limited any further arrivals dawned. It was the same that was to decide the fate of those visiters already assembled.

At an early hour, clad in a dress of simple white, with a bodice of blue satin, the Lady Arabella descended among her palpitating guests.

“I am ready, gentlemen,” said she, with one of her radiant smiles. “I will retire to the adjoining colonnade, and let him who wishes to make the first trial join me there. When a single game with him is over, another can take his place. There is but one suggestion I would make,” she added, “which is, that those who are deemed the most skillful players remain until the last.” So saying, she turned and departed.

The colonnade which the Lady Arabella had thus dedicated to the singular contest, was situated so as to receive the breeze from the neighboring lake. A fountain of pure water, placed near, likewise contributed to refresh the atmosphere, while the picturesque mountain scenery in the distance delighted the eye, and the songs of birds in an adjoining grove made melody to the ear.

After a few moments’ consultation among her suitors, our heroine was speedily followed into this pleasing retreat, first by one and then by another in rapid succession. The only interruption the routine experienced was that caused by the necessity of her taking some refreshment. In this manner, the day wore away, and each of her antagonists retired in turn, crest-fallen and vanquished.

It was almost twilight, and there now remained but one gallant to be tested. He had unanimously been voted the best player present; and had therefore, according to the Lady Arabella’s suggestion, been preceded by all his companions. As he entered the colonnade with an embarrassed, though graceful step, the lady blushed, and her eyes grew soft and tender. Intent upon the great stake before him, these indications were lost upon the nobleman, who took his seat at the board. In fact, he dare scarcely trust himself with more than a glance at the fair being opposite him, lest the dazzling vision should disarm his skill.

But for the first time throughout the day, the gentle combatant played carelessly. Her eyes were riveted upon the countenance of her opponent, rather than as previously, fixed upon the board. Her moves seemed made without foresight, resembling those of a beginner more than an adept, and she failed to crown a single king. In a word, the meanest antagonist might have won the game at issue, and in a quarter of an hour her opponent gained an easy victory.

“Dare I,” asked he—gathering some suspicion of a preference on her part, which alone could have led to this result, after the skill she had previously manifested towards his rivals—“dare I presume to claim the rich reward?”

His voice grew lower—he drew his chair to her side, and ventured to raise his eyes to her countenance.

It beamed sweet affection; and as she extended her hand to meet his, the nobleman grasped the treasure as one which that gesture made willingly and confidingly his own.

The victorious gallant was Lord R., and ere another winter, the Lady Arabella H—— became his bride. Draughts went out of fashion in the beau monde, but, during their hours of privacy, the game continued, throughout their life-time, a favorite recreation of the happy pair whom it was instrumental in bringing to a blissful union.

———

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

———

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

“We missed you so much at Mrs. Fenton’s last evening, Cornelia; why did you not come?” asked Miss Lee.

“Because Miss Enna had just come to us, and was not well; nor did I feel very well myself.”

“Mrs. Fenton told us Miss Duval had partly promised to come also,” said Miss Ellen Lee, a younger sister of the first speaker.

“So I did,” I replied; “when Mrs. Fenton called at Miss Clemson’s yesterday morning, I told her if I felt well enough in the evening I would come.”

“What a very pleasant young person Miss Clemson is, Miss Duval,” drawled out young Colton, a dangling beau of the Miss Lees, “my sisters go to school to her, and I had no idea their school ma’am was such a nice young woman.”

The young ladies giggled at this would-be witty and patronizing remark, to which I only replied with a cold assenting bow of my head.

“I have never met with her before,” said Miss Ellen Lee, “but I really liked her very much.”

“She converses very well,” said the elder Miss Lee. “We had an opportunity of judging last evening, for she did the most of the talking.”

“She’s one of your talking women, I believe, but that’s her business, you know,” rejoined the dandy, in an affected languid tone of voice, as if the exertion of talking was too much for a person of gentility. A sharp retort trembled on my tongue, but I checked myself, as my eyes passed over his insipid, characterless face; and I returned with such animation to a little drawing I was making for Cornelia’s mother, that I snapped off the end of my pencil.

“I did not know that Miss Clemson visited this winter in society,” said Cornelia. “Is she not in mourning?”

“Oh! no,” exclaimed Miss Ellen Lee, “she is not in mourning, for she was dressed beautifully last evening, she had on a light silver-gray silk, very rich and expensive looking;—any thing but mourning.”

“She does not approve of mourning,” said the elder sister, “and although her brother and his wife died only a few weeks since, I suppose she does not approve of observing any of the customs of society on such occasions, no matter how sad they may be.”

“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Knowles, a purse-proud parvenue woman, “persons not properly in society, like Miss Clemson, are excusable in differing from its usual customs; it matters little what they do.”

I quietly permitted the conversation to proceed, for I felt too much contempt for the company, to take any trouble to defend my dear friend, Mary Clemson. I knew their remarks proceeded from willful malice, and that it would be of little use to set them right. My little pencil sketch, however, from my repressed temper, was growing quite as spirited under my quick, impulsive touches, as the original, from which I was copying it—the only good that resulted from the gossip; and I should have remained silent, had not my friend, Cornelia Payne—who was not acquainted with Miss Clemson, joined in the conversation, and animadverted pretty severely on Miss Clemson’s want of feeling.

“She might dress as she pleased,” said Cornelia, in reply to a flippant remark of Ellen Lee’s, that Miss Clemson dressed very expensively and extravagantly for one in her position and circumstances; “dressing is a matter that belongs to one’s own taste, and so far as circumstances and means are concerned, that is nobody’s business; but I think it argues a want of feeling, a coldness of heart, when one who has recently gone through so much trouble, can so readily throw it aside and make their appearance at an evening party.”

“Oh, Miss Clemson prides herself upon being above all such weaknesses,” said Miss Hill, another young lady present. “Little Sallie Foster, one of her pupils, told me the other day, that Miss Mary had given her quite a lecture because she cried at the prospect of a rainy day, which would necessarily put off a May party, and said she could scarcely conceive of the necessity of shedding tears, no matter how great the trial might be.”

My memory quickly recalled the scene Miss Hill alluded to. I had been visiting Mary Clemson the week before, and had been present at the conversation with little Sallie Foster. The remark quoted had been meant to apply merely to temporal trials; and as the sobbing Sallie left the room, I remembered the touching, sad expression of my noble, strong-minded friend’s countenance, as she turned to me, and said, “Heaven grant the poor child may never have real trials to weep for.”

“It’s well she is strong enough to overcome natural feeling,” said Cornelia Payne, in reply to Miss Hill’s remark, “that is, well for her own worldly comfort, I mean, but I do not admire such unfeeling persons.”

This was going a little too far for my patience, for I respected and loved Cornelia Payne, though I knew her to be somewhat uncharitable, and harsh in her judgments of others.

“Cornelia,” I said, “Miss Clemson is not unfeeling; she has as warm and sensitive a heart as any one I know.”

“Oh, we forgot,” exclaimed the Misses Lee in a breath, “that Miss Clemson was an intimate friend of Miss Duval’s.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at Mrs. Knowles, “my mother knew Miss Clemson’s mother, when she was the rich heiress, Miss Fleming; and your father Mrs. Knowles, made Miss Fleming’s carriage, which was the talk of the town, at the time of her marriage with Mr. Clemson. I have heard my mother frequently speak of it. You remember it, do you not, Mrs. Payne?” I asked, turning to Cornelia’s mother.

“Perfectly well, my dear,” replied this gentlest of all gentlewomen, smiling at my sudden arousing. My tongue was now unloosened, and I felt ready to measure swords, or the more feminine weapon, darning-needles, with them all. I continued—

“I must scold my pretty, thoughtless friend, Mrs. Fenton, for deceiving Miss Clemson. She assured us that only Mrs. Fay and ourselves would be with her last evening; and you, Cornelia, were only invited, because I had promised you and your mother to commence my visit here yesterday, and Mrs. Fenton wanted to secure me, to accompany Mary Clemson. Mrs. Fenton has been one of Miss Clemson’s most attentive friends, and Mrs. Fay knew Mary’s mother when she was a girl. Mrs. Fay wanted to see Miss Clemson on business, and was too infirm to go to her; she wishes Miss Clemson to take charge of her nieces, the Miss Foresters.”

“What, our cousins the Foresters?” exclaimed the two Lees. “Why I think Aunt Fay might have consulted with mamma about it,” continued the elder one, “however, it will be a great thing for Miss Clemson to have them, for the girls are immensely wealthy.”

“Yes, Miss Lee.” I replied, trying to be very calm. “But who would have thought, when your aunt, the now rich Mrs. Fay, and your mother kept the fashionable boarding school, at which Miss Fleming was educated, that Miss Fleming’s daughter would in turn be governess to the nieces of Mrs. Fay and her sister. Life has many strange reverses, Mr. Colton.”

Poor Steenie Colton, colored to the roots of his faded hair and whiskers. I suppose he thought I was going to tell him of his respectable old grandfather, who had kept a very nice meat and vegetable store, but I spared him, for I felt I had said enough to my discomfited gossips.

“Now tell me, Miss Lee,” I asked, “who all were at this evening party of Lizzie Fenton’s.”

“It was no evening party, Miss Duval,” replied the young lady sulkily. “Neither Ellen nor I have said so. Mr. Colton went in with us during the evening to see Aunt Fay.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but did you go by invitation?”

“Why, Miss Duval?” inquired the younger one pertly, as her elder sister answered me in the negative.

“Because,” I replied, “my friend has been accused of heartlessness and want of feeling by one whom I respect, and to clear Miss Clemson in Cornelia Payne’s opinion, is all I care for. Others may think as they please of her, but Cornelia can appreciate such a noble good woman as Mary Clemson.”

The conversation naturally flagged after this, and soon the morning visiters bade us good day.

“Bravo!” cried Cornelia, after they all left, clapping her little hands on my shoulders. “Bravo! Captain Duval, why you have routed my poor little gossiping brigade completely, put them all to flight.”

“They are the most disagreeable people that visit us,” said Mrs. Payne; “as for those silly Miss Lees, I wonder, Cornelia, how you can endure them.”

“Oh, my dear mother,” replied the daughter, “it takes all sorts of people to make up the world. You know old Patsie tells you that every day. But, Enna, I must know this paragon of yours; we will call on her together.”

I was about to remonstrate with Cornelia for her harsh and hasty judgment, during the preceding conversation, but the entrance of some other visiters prevented me.

I loved and respected Cornelia Payne; she was one of my dearest friends, and, unlike most girls of her age—we were only nineteen then—she had a strong, decided character. Her oddities did not spring from affectation, nor did her warmly expressed opinions proceed from a spirit of arbitrary obstinacy. She was true and sincere, and had a good, strong mind. She had faults,—who has not? And her principal fault was a sad one, she was harsh and uncharitable in her judgments of others. She had never known trouble or temptation; and honest, firm, and upright herself, she always judged every one by her own standard—a standard that had never been tested by a single trial. Whenever we remonstrated with her, her replies were such as “Nine times out of ten appearances are the best to judge by,” or, “There is so much cant and affectation, so much petty falsehood in society, that it makes one forget there is such a virtue as charity,” or, “There are certain bounds to charity beyond which it ceases to be a virtue, and becomes a weakness, and a cowardly shield to vice,” which replies generally silenced me.

The evening following the conversation which opened this sketch, we were all assembled in the cozie, comfortable library. Some friends had called in, and, according to the too usual custom, the conversation turned upon the absent. The subject of discourse was the conduct of two persons, a husband and wife, with whom the company assembled were sufficiently acquainted, to feel interested in their well or ill doings. A few weeks previous the husband had made a most disgraceful failure, and had been detected in various dishonorable transactions; whereupon his wife, with whom he had always lived happily, apparently, left him, and returned to her family; and since her desertion of him, her friends had made application for a divorce. This was commented upon pretty severely, and almost every one blamed the wife for her heartlessness; and circumstances were mentioned to prove the uniform kindness and lavish indulgence of the husband in the days of his prosperity. My friend Cornelia was almost the only one of the party who defended her.

“That’s so like you, Cornelia,” said her cousin, Harry Peters, laughing, “you always lake ‘the forlorne hope’ in an argument, and seize up the cudgels for the minority.”

“You are unjust, Harry,” replied Cornelia, a little piqued, “I always take the side of my opinion, and defend that which I think honest and right. I scarcely know Mrs. Barclay, therefore, neither am I prejudiced, for she is no favorite of mine; she always seemed to me a cold, selfish woman, even when everybody, and you particularly, Harry, admired her so much. But I do say, that I do not excuse, I uphold her conduct in this matter. Even thus should I have acted had I been thus placed, guided by a strict sense of duty. I could love as devotedly and truly as any of you, but my love would wither away, under the scorching breath of dishonor and crime.”

The conversation grew very animated, and all spoke at once, to express their decided opposition to Cornelia, but she stoutly defended her position.

“True, Cornelia,” said her mother, “your love might be weakened, but would that change of feeling justify desertion?”

“It would not be desertion, mother,” replied Cornelia, “it would be fleeing from the plague spot of sin. No one has a right to subject their spiritual nature to the degrading influence of daily association with crime.”

This was what Harry Peters playfully called, “one of Cornelia’s grand, solemn, rhetorical conclusions,” which generally silenced all further debate, without convincing any one; but often, in after hours of sorrow, Cornelia’s figure and countenance, as she looked during this conversation, would come before me, with painful distinctness. In her earnestness she had arisen from her seat, and her fine, tall figure seemed dilated with indignation, while her beautiful face was stern and severe as that of the avenging Archangel.

Poor Cornelia! then, she knew not what trouble was. Her father was a prosperous merchant, and her mother was a gentle, delicate woman, who rarely interfered with any one, except to do some sweet office of love. Cornelia was a complete contrast to both of her parents; for her father, a bright, joyous, warm-hearted man, was even weakly indulgent to others. They were a loving, happy family, and Cornelia, although stern and severe to what she called error, was enthusiastic in her love for her family, ready to sacrifice any thing for them, if occasion required. I always felt improved in spirit as well as in body, after a visit to them, for they all seemed to enjoy life so healthily and properly. Possessing ample means, and in the midst of a pleasant circle of friends, they appeared to be exempt from humanity’s penalty—trouble. But sunshine dwelleth not always with us, and every light hath its shadow.

I had not been many days with my friends when I observed that the kind, good natured father was not in his usual spirits. It was in the spring, following the winter of 183—, a sad winter to commercial men in ——; and long will it be remembered as a season of trying reverses. Mrs. Payne did not notice the change in her husband; his health was not so strong as usual, which would have accounted for his heaviness had she noticed it; then, fortunately, her younger children monopolized her attention; but Cornelia, I very soon saw, both noticed and felt the change in her father’s manner.

One pleasant, soft morning, Mrs. Payne being too much engaged with some home duties, to accompany us on a shopping or visiting excursion, Cornelia and I concluded to take a long drive out of the town, that we might enjoy the refreshing spring air. The trees were just budding, and Nature was unfolding a light, tender green mantle of foliage. We took long breaths of the delicious air, and it seemed as if the heavy cloud, which hung around us all in town, was dispelled completely, under the genial influence of the youthful spring. Cornelia was brighter, and as we pointed out to each other striking bits of the landscape, or noticed the graceful branches of the trees, and the delicate hues of the blossoms, we chanted aloud, passages from the old English poets, who so particularly rejoiced in, and welcomed so melodiously, the “Coming of the longed-for May.” How vividly does my memory recal every word uttered during that drive. I remember quoting with gleeful spirit, a verse from Herrick, which is full of that bounding, flowing melody that is heard in wild wood and dell, Nature’s own music.

As the horses’ heads turned homeward Cornelia’s gayety faded away, and after a few moments of serious silence, she looked up and said,

“My dear, own Enna, I am very much afraid we are about to have some heavy trouble to contend with.”

“Why, Cornelia?” was my reply, for as this was the first time she had spoken to me of her presentiment of sorrow, I did not wish to add to it, by letting her know that I likewise had observed the cause for it. She told me that she could not tell why she anticipated this trouble; that she knew nothing certain, but she had, like myself, noticed a change in her father—something of moment she was sure must be resting heavily on his mind, for he had not had his usual spirits for some time.

“At night,” said she, “when my dear mother is asleep, I hear him walking his dressing-room sometimes until day-dawn. Mother says he is not well, but I am very confident that it is not sickness of the body that affects him; it is, I fear, sickness of the mind; and yet how foolish, if it be pecuniary difficulties, to grieve so much about it and keep it from us.”

“He knows, dear Cornelia,” I replied, “how unfit his family are to bear reverses of fortune. You alone are able to bear up against loss of means.”

“That’s true,” she sighed, “God only knows what is coming, but I pray He may send strength when the dark hour of trial does burst upon us.”

Poor girl, she did not know how much her father needed her prayer at that very moment, for the hour of trial had arrived to him, and strength was indeed wanting.

At dinner Mrs. Payne received a note from her husband, in which he said, that he would not be at home, until late in the evening, as he was very busy at the counting-house. The meal was a silent one, for even Mrs. Payne looked serious, and expressed her anxiety for her husband’s health, which she feared might be injured by over-exertion. As we arose from the dinner table, Mrs. Payne put her arm affectionately around Cornelia, and said,

“Come, my daughter, give us some of your beautiful music, something that is very brilliant to enliven us, for we are rather heavy this evening.”

I knew well that Cornelia was unfit for any exertion, and as we entered the gay, light drawing-room I seated myself at the piano, and asked Mrs. Payne if my music would not answer the purpose as well as Cornelia’s. Cornelia’s eyes expressed such a world of thanks, that I felt quite repaid for the effort—for effort it was—and soon after I noticed that she quietly slipped out of the room. Mrs. Payne was passionately fond of music, and I sang and played for her, nearly two hours. She was a fine harpist, though she seldom played, but I even prevailed upon her, to play with me some harp duets. While we were in the midst of a brilliant piece, the waiter entered, and said that Mr. Payne wished to see me in the library.

“Mr. Payne at home?” inquired Mrs. Payne.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the man, “he has been in some time, but has been busy with some gentleman in the library.”

“Some news for you from home, Enna, dear,” said Mrs. Payne quietly. “I suppose Mr. Payne thinks we have company with us, we are so musical, and he feels too tired to come up.”

“Very likely.” I answered with forced calmness, glad that her easy, happy disposition prevented her from feeling the sad apprehensions which had chilled my heart at the summons. I knew, from the expression of the waiter’s face, that something was wrong, and as I reached the lower hall he said to me, as he left me,

“Miss Cornelia’s very sick in the library, Miss Enna.”

I opened the library-door, and Heaven grant such another sight may never be presented to me again. On a lounge lay Cornelia, partly insensible, and before her knelt her father, not in trouble for her sickness only, but in anguish, deep, heart-rending anguish. In low tones he besought his child to open her eyes, to look at him, and tell him she did not despise him. I saw the insensibility was passing off, and I raised her head and moistened her lips with some water. As I took the water from the table, I saw on it a case of pistols, over which I hastily threw my handkerchief, though chilled and trembling with fear of I scarcely knew what. When I raised Cornelia, and Mr. Payne saw her returning consciousness, he shrunk, like a guilty thing, behind a large, old-fashioned screen, that stood partly in front of the lounge. Cornelia stared wildly around.

“Where is father?” she exclaimed, and before I could answer, she darted from the lounge, and was about leaving the room, when she heard his low, suppressed groan; quick as thought she was beside him. She covered his hands, that hid his face, with kisses—she soothed him with every affectionate endearing word, and as he cowered to the ground, she raised him as a mother would a child. They sat on the lounge together, her arms encircled him tenderly, while her lips rested on his brow, that was wrinkled with heavy lines of anguish.

“My dear, dear father,” she said, “have you forgotten your daughter, your Cornelia, who could not live without you? Come, come, I was only a little sick; it is all over now, and Enna Duval is here, to take care of us both. Come, cheer up; think of mother, and Tom, and Cassy, and all the dear ones. We are all left to you yet.”

Thus she tenderly soothed him, and I, seeing that she was so much stronger, thought I had better leave the room. As I put my hand on the door, Cornelia gave a low cry of alarm, I turned and saw that Mr. Payne was in violent convulsions. In a little while the best physicians in town were summoned, and Mr. Payne declared to be in great danger, for his disease was a raging brain fever. For days we watched beside his bed—Cornelia and I—for with nervous anxiety she kept every one from her father that she could. He raved incessantly of disgrace and crime, and during his agonized ravings, my poor friend would weep bitterly. I never saw such devoted tenderness as Cornelia displayed during this fearful illness. At one time death seemed almost inevitable, but as Mr. Payne possessed a good constitution, and had always been a man of regular habits, he rallied under this sickness, which would have proved fatal to most men. But when the delirium left him, and he opened his languid eyes beaming, though dimly, with the light of reason, their expression of anguish was painful indeed. Cornelia was beside him, her arms around him, and the sweetest, tenderest words of love fell from her lips to greet his returning senses.

“Then, my daughter,” he said in a low, feeble whisper, “you do not hate and despise your father.”

No words could express the deep love of Cornelia’s embrace, and with soothing, tender expressions she sought to quiet him, which succeeded, for he sunk back in her arms with a calm, peaceful smile on his sad, care-worn face.

Mr. Payne grew gradually better, dear reader, and during the hours of convalescence, when I was at different times alone with him, he told me the sad scene which had occurred previous to his sending for me to the library. He had been staggering under a load of business difficulties for some time, as Cornelia had suspected, but could not bear to look upon his affairs as they really were. He could not summon strength and courage to come to his wife, and tell her that all the fine fortune her father had left, was gone, that she and her children were penniless. Day after day he struggled on,—difficulties increased, and in a moment of desperation, to relieve himself of a pressing demand, he added the crime of forgery to the load of debt; hoping to relieve himself before he should be discovered.

This happened on the day, at the very time of our drive, when Cornelia was praying for strength. He had some days before written to a business firm in a neighboring town for assistance. Upon them he had some, yes, great claims, for ten years before his capital had established them in business; and he anxiously looked for an answer to his demand, in order to relieve himself before any one could discover his weak act. Late in the afternoon he received, instead of the frank, friendly aid he expected, a cold, short refusal. He staggered home. The enormity of his offence increased upon him, and as he reached his home, the consciousness of having added disgrace to poverty, almost set him wild. He went first into the library, which was in the lower part of the house, because, as he said, the sound of music and gayety that came from the drawing-room, maddened him. He had scarcely entered the room when the hall-bell rang, and the servant ushered into the dimly lighted library, a gentleman; and as he heard his name announced, Mr. Payne shuddered,—it was the very name he had used unlawfully, a few hours before. It was a young merchant of great property, which he had inherited from his father.

“I have come, Mr. Payne,” said the young man, as the servant closed the door, “to return to your hands a paper which you must destroy. No human being knows of it, but you and myself—and believe me, my dear sir,” he added, in a voice trembling with feeling, as the guilty man buried his face in his hands, groaning aloud, “believe me, I am certain, that great, great must have been the temptation—the trial that goaded Hartley Payne to such an act; and I thank God! it was upon me—upon the son of Jacob Hallett you did it. You befriended my father in the dark hour of poverty, you helped him up on the stepping-stone to fortune, and had you come to me in your emergency for this money,—that and double, and thrice treble the amount, should have been freely yours.”

Young Hallett then tore the note into a thousand pieces and burned it.

“I thank you,” said Mr Payne in a hoarse voice, “you have saved me from disgrace which is worse than death; but you must leave me now, and when I am more composed I will express to you my gratitude.”

“Not until you will promise me,” answered young Hallett, “that you will let me come to you to-morrow, and give me the satisfaction of assisting you in your trouble.”

Mr. Payne took the kind young man’s proffered hand, and pressing it, assured him, in broken words, that he would accept his offer; and young Hallett seeing that Mr. Payne was really suffering from the humiliation and mortification which his presence caused him, left him.

Mr. Payne walked up and down the room once or twice. He felt like a maniac. The crime he had committed stood before him in letters of fire. Maddened with remorse, he opened an escritoir, and taking from it a case of pistols, which were loaded, he laid it upon the table. Calmly he snapped the spring of the case, and throwing back the lid, took out one of the pistols, which he held deliberately to his head. As he did this, he heard a low shriek beside him, and with a strong grasp, the pistol was taken from his hand. He turned—and beside him stood Cornelia.

She had been in the library all the while. She had come there from the drawing-room after dinner, to watch for her father’s return, and had fallen asleep on the lounge, which was hidden by the large old screen that stood between it and the door. Her sleep was heavy from exhaustion, and she had not awakened until Mr. Hallett had entered; this aroused her, and with chilling horror she heard the whole conversation between them. After he left the room, she lay stunned, and was only aroused by the click of the escritoir lock. This startled her, and she sprang to her feet, just in time to save her father’s life. The revulsion was so great, that she sank to the floor, insensible, and then it was he sent for me.

Mr. Payne knew Cornelia’s stern, severe opinions; he remembered also how she always shrunk from all those who had been guilty of even venial sins, and he felt more keenly, the mortification of his crime before her, than before any other living being. But so beautifully, so tenderly, and respectfully did she bear herself toward him, that one might have fancied she had forgotten every thing but the fear of losing her father. He grew stronger, and as soon as his health was restored he courageously examined his affairs.

Young Hallett, who during Mr. Payne’s sickness had been an excellent and efficient friend, was of great service. Every thing was given up, the magnificent town house, the carriages and horses, the plate, and every luxury; but my friends looked very happy in their pleasant country home, and though quite humble was their style of living, they scarcely seemed to miss their former splendor.

Even the tender, delicate Mrs. Payne, who had been born and reared in luxury, and for whom we had all trembled, bore the reverse of fortune as brightly and philosophically as Cornelia. But the most beautiful sight was the great change that had taken place in my friend Cornelia’s character. All sternness, all severity had vanished, and the gentlest spirit of Christian, loving charity displayed itself in every word, every act of hers.

“Sweet are the uses adversity,” I often repeated to myself, when looking at her. Toward her father she always displayed the most delicate and affectionate respect, and the children no longer found in her a stern, close judging Mentor, but a kind, loving, indulgent companion.

Three years after, a gay party assembled at Mr. Payne’s little country house. It was the wedding party of our dear Cornelia, who was the bride of Mr. Hallett. She is now the mistress of a fine establishment, and had the satisfaction of seeing her father once more comfortable. He was for many years associated in business with his son-in-law, and no one ever knew or dreamed that the highly respected Hartley Payne, of the wealthy firm of Hallett & Payne, was once on the verge of disgraceful ruin.

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BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

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