* * * * *

THE FAVOUR OF THE MOMENT.

And so we find ourselves once more A ring, though varying yet serene, The wreaths of song we wove of yore Again we'll weave as fresh and green. But who the God to whom we bring The earliest tribute song can treasure? Him, first of all the Gods, we sing Whose blessing to ourselves is—pleasure! For boots it on the votive shrine That Ceres life itself bestows Or liberal Bacchus gives the wine That through the glass in purple glows— If still there come not from the heaven The spark that sets the hearth on flame; If to the soul no fire is given, And the sad heart remain the same? Sudden as from the clouds must fall, As from the lap of God, our bliss— And still the mightiest lord of all, Monarch of Time, the MOMENT is! Since endless Nature first began Whate'er of might the mind hath wrought— Whate'er of Godlike comes from Man Springs from one lightning-flash of thought! For years the marble block awaits The breath of life, beneath the soil— A happy thought the work creates, A moment's glance rewards the toil. As suns that weave from out their blaze The various colours round them given; As Iris, on her arch of rays, Hovers, and vanishes from heaven; So fair, so fleeting every prize— A lightning flash that shines and fades— The Moment's brightness gilds the skies And round the brightness close the shades.



EXPECTATION AND FULFILMENT.

O'er ocean with a thousand masts sails on the young man bold— One boat, hard-rescued from the deep, draws into port the old!

* * * * *

TO THE PROSELYTE—MAKER.

"A little Earth from out the Earth, and I The Earth will move"—so said the sage divine; Out of myself one little moment try Myself to take;—succeed, and I am thine.

* * * * *

VALUE AND WORTH.

If thou hast something, bring thy goods, a fair return be thine!— If thou art something—bring thy soul, and interchange with mine.

* * * * *

THE FORTUNE-FAVOURED. [10]

[Footnote 10: The first verses in the original of this poem are placed as a motto on Goethe's statue at Weimar.]

Ah! happy He, upon whose birth each god Looks down in love, whose earliest sleep the bright Idalia cradles, whose young lips the rod Of eloquent Hermes kindles—to whose eyes, Scarce waken'd yet, Apollo steals in light, While on imperial brows Jove sets the seal of might. Godlike the lot ordain'd for him to share, He wins the garland ere be runs the race; He learns life's wisdom ere he knows life's care, And, without labour vanquish'd, smiles the Grace. Great is the man, I grant, whose strength of mind, Self-shapes its objects and subdues the Fates— Virtue subdues the Fates, but cannot bind The fickle Happiness, whose smile awaits Those who scarce seek it; nor can courage earn What the Grace showers not from her own free urn!

From aught unworthy, the determined will Can guard the watchful spirit—there it ends. The all that's glorious from the heaven descends; As some sweet mistress loves us, freely still Come the spontaneous gifts of heaven!—Above Favour rules Jove, as it below rules Love! The Immortals have their bias!—Kindly they See the bright locks of youth enamour'd play, And where the glad one goes, shed gladness round the way. It is not they who boast the best to see, Whose eyes the holy apparitions bless; The stately light of their divinity Hath oft but shone the brightest on the blind;— And their choice spirit found its calm recess In the pure childhood of a simple mind. Unask'd they come—delighted to delude The expectation of our baffled Pride; No law can call their free steps to our side. Him whom He loves, the Sire of men and gods, (Selected from the marvelling multitude,) Bears on his eagle to his bright abodes; And showers, with partial hand and lavish, down The minstrel's laurel or the monarch's crown.

Before the fortune-favour'd son of earth, Apollo walks—and, with his jocund mirth, The heart-enthralling Smiler of the skies. For him grey Neptune smooths the pliant wave— Harmless the waters for the ship that bore The Caesar and his fortunes to the shore! Charm'd, at his feet the crouching lion lies, To him his back the murmuring dolphin gave; His soul is born a sovereign o'er the strife— The lord of all the Beautful of Life; Where'er his presence in its calm has trod, It charms—it sways as some diviner god.

Scorn not the Fortune-favour'd, that to him The light-won victory by the gods is given, Or that, as Paris, from the strife severe, The Venus draws her darling,—Whom the heaven So prospers, love so watches, I revere! And not the man upon whose eyes, with dim And baleful night, sits Fate. The Dorian lord, August Achilles, was not less divine That Vulcan wrought for him the shield and sword— That round the mortal hover'd all the hosts Of all Olympus—that his wrath to grace, The best and bravest of the Grecian race Fell by the Trojan steel, what time the ghosts Of souls untimely slain fled to the Stygian coasts.

Scorn not the Beautiful—if it be fair, And yet seem useless in thy human sight. As scentless lilies in the loving air, Be they delighted—thou in them delight. If without use they shine, yet still the glow May thine own eyes enamour. Oh rejoice That heaven the gifts of Song showers down below— That what the muse hath taught him, the sweet voice Of the glad minstrel teaches thee!—the soul Which the god breathes in him, he can bestow In turn upon the listener—if his breast The blessing feel, thy heart is in that blessing blest.

The busy mart let Justice still control, Weighing the guerdon to the toil!—What then? A god alone claims joy—all joy is his, Flushing with unsought light the cheeks of men. Where is no miracle, why there no bliss! Grow, change, and ripen all that mortal be, Shapen'd from form to form, by toiling time; The Blissful and the Beautiful are born Full grown, and ripen'd from Eternity— No gradual changes to their glorious prime, No childhood dwarfs them, and no age has worn.— Like Heaven's, each earthly Venus on the sight Comes, a dark birth, from out an endless sea; Like the first Pallas, in maturest might, Arm'd, from the Thunderer's brow, leaps forth each Thought of Light.

* * * * *

We have now, with few exceptions, translated all the principal poems comprised in the third, or maturest period of Schiller's life. We here pass back to the poems of his youth. The contrast in tone, thought, and spirit, between the compositions of the first and the third period, in the great poet's intellectual career, is sufficiently striking. In the former, there is little of that majestic repose of strength so visible in the latter; but there is infinitely more fire and action—more of that lavish and exuberant energy which characterized the earlier tales of Lord Byron, and redeemed, in that wonderful master of animated and nervous style, a certain poverty of conception by a vigour and gusto of execution, which no English poet, perhaps, has ever surpassed. In his poems lies the life, and beats the heart, of Schiller. They conduct us through the various stages of his spiritual education, and indicate each step in the progress. In this division, effort is no less discernible than power—both in language and thought there is a struggle at something not yet achieved, and not, perhaps, even yet definite and distinct to the poet himself. Here may be traced, though softened by the charm of genius, (which softens all things,) the splendid errors that belong to a passionate youth, and that give such distorted grandeur to the giant melodrama of "The Robbers." But here are to be traced also, and in far clearer characters, the man's strong heart, essentially human in its sympathies—the thoughtful and earnest intellect, not yet equally developed with the fancy, but giving ample promise of all it was destined to receive. In these earlier poems, extravagance is sufficiently noticeable—yet never the sickly eccentricities of diseased weakness, but the exuberant overflowings of a young Titan's strength. There is a distinction, which our critics do not always notice, between the extravagance of a great genius, and the affectation of a pretty poet.



FIRST PERIOD

HECTOR AND ANCROMACHE. [11]

[Footnote 11: This and the following poem are, with some alterations, introduced in the play of "The Robbers."]

ANDROMACHE.

Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain, Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain, Stalks Peleus' ruthless son? Who, when thou glidest amid the dark abodes, To hurl the spear and to revere the Gods, Shall teach shine Orphan One?

HECTOR.

Woman and wife beloved—cease thy tears; My soul is nerved—the war-clang in my ears! Be mine in life to stand Troy's bulwark, fighting for our hearths—to go, In death, exulting to the streams below, Slain for my fatherland!

ANDROMACHE.

No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall— Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall— Fallen the stem of Troy! Thou go'st where slow Cocytus wanders—where Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air Is dark to light and joy!

HECTOR.

Sinew and thought—yea, all I feel and think May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink, But my love not! Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls!—I hear! Gird on my sword—beloved one, dry the tear— Lethe for love is not!

AMALIA.

Fair as an angel from his blessed hall— Of every fairest youth the fairest he! Heaven-mild his look, as maybeams when they fall, Or shine reflected from a clear blue sea! His kisses—feelings rife with paradise! Ev'n as two flames, one on the other driven— Ev'n as two harp-tones their melodious sighs Blend in some music that seems born of heaven; So rush'd, mix'd, melted—life with life united! Lips, cheeks burn'd, trembled—soul to soul was won! And earth and heaven seem'd chaos, as delighted Earth—heaven were blent round the beloved one! Now, he is gone! vainly and wearily Groans the full heart, the yearning sorrow flows— Gone! and all zest of life, in one long sigh, Goes with him where he goes.

* * * * *



TO LAURA.

THE MYSTERY OF REMINISCENCE. [12]

[Footnote 12: This most exquisite love-poem is founded on the Platonic notion, that souls were united in a pre-existent state, that love is the yearning of the spirit to reunite with the spirit with which it formerly made one—and which it discovers on earth. The idea has often been made subservient to poetry, but never with so earnest and elaborate a beauty.]

Who, and what gave to me the wish to woo thee— Still, lip to lip, to cling for aye unto thee? Who made thy glances to my soul the link— Who bade me burn thy very breath to drink— My life in thine to sink? As from the conquerors unresisted glaive, Flies, without strife subdued, the ready slave— So, when to life's unguarded fort, I see Thy gaze draw near and near triumphantly— Yields not my soul to thee? Why from its lord doth thus my soul depart?— Is it because its native home thou art? Or were they brothers in the days of yore, Twin-bound both souls, and in the links they bore Sigh to be bound once more? Were once our beings blent and intertwining, And therefore still my heart for thine is pining? Knew we the light of some extinguished sun— The joys remote of some bright realm undone, Where once our souls were ONE? Yes, it is so!—And thou wert bound to me In the long-vanish'd Eld eternally! In the dark troubled tablets which enroll The Past—my Muse beheld this blessed scroll— "One with thy love my soul!" Oh yes, I learn'd in awe, when gazing there, How once one bright inseparate life we were,

How once, one glorious essence as a God, Unmeasured space our chainless footsteps trode— All Nature our abode! Round us, in waters of delight, for ever Voluptuous flow'd the heavenly Nectar river; We were the master of the seal of things, And where the sunshine bathed Truth's mountain-springs Quiver'd our glancing wings. Weep for the godlike life we lost afar— Weep!—thou and I its scatter'd fragments are; And still the unconquer'd yearning we retain— Sigh to restore the rapture and the reign, And grow divine again. And therefore came to me the wish to woo thee— Still, lip to lip, to cling for aye unto thee; This made thy glances to my soul the link— This made me burn thy very breath to drink— My life in thine to sink: And therefore, as before the conqueror's glaive, Flies, without strife subdued, the ready slave, So, when to life's unguarded fort, I see Thy gaze draw near and near triumphantly— Yieldeth my soul to thee! Therefore my soul doth from its lord depart, Because, beloved, its native home thou art; Because the twins recall the links they bore, And soul with soul, in the sweet kiss of yore, Meets and unites once more. Thou too—Ah, there thy gaze upon me dwells, And thy young blush the tender answer tells; Yes! with the dear relation still we thrill, Both lives—tho' exiles from the homeward hill— One life—all glowing still!

* * * * *



TO LAURA.

(Rapture.)

Laura—above this world methinks I fly, And feel the glow of some May-lighted sky, When thy looks beam on mine! And my soul drinks a more ethereal air, When mine own shape I see reflected there, In those blue eyes of thine! A lyre-sound from the Paradise afar, A harp-note trembling from some gracious star, Seems the wild ear to fill; And my muse feels the Golden Shepherd-hours, When from thy lips the silver music pours Slow, as against its will. I see the young Loves flutter on the wing— Move the charm'd trees, as when the Thracian's string Wild life to forests gave; Swifter the globe's swift circle seems to fly, When in the whirling dance thou glidest by, Light as a happy wave. Thy looks, when there love sheds the loving smile, Could from the senseless marble life beguile— Lend rocks a pulse divine; Into a dream my very being dies, I can but read—for ever read—thine eyes— Laura, sweet Laura, mine![13]

[Footnote 13: We confess we cannot admire the sagacity of those who have contended that Schiller's passion for Laura was purely Platonic.]

* * * * *

TO LAURA PLAYING.

When o'er the chords thy fingers steal, A soulless statue now I feel, And now a soul set free! Sweet Sovereign! ruling over death and life— Seizes the heart, in a voluptuous strife As with a thousand strings—the SORCERY![14]

[Footnote 14: "The Sorcery."—In the original, Schiller has an allusion of very questionable taste, and one which is very obscure to the general reader, to a conjurer of the name of Philadelphia who exhibited before Frederick the Great.]

Then the vassal airs that woo thee, Hush their low breath hearkening to thee. In delight and in devotion, Pausing from her whirling motion, Nature, in enchanted calm, Silently drinks the floating balm. Sorceress, her heart with thy tone Chaining—as thine eyes my own!

O'er the transport-tumult driven, Doth the music gliding swim; From the strings, as from their heaven, Burst the new-born Seraphim. As when from Chaos' giant arms set free, 'Mid the Creation-storm, exultingly Sprang sparkling thro' the dark the Orbs of Light— So streams the rich tone in melodious might.

Soft-gliding now, as when o'er pebbles glancing, The silver wave goes dancing; Now with majestic swell, and strong, As thunder peals in organ-tones along; And now with stormy gush, As down the rock, in foam, the whirling torrents rush. To a whisper now Melts it amorously, Like the breeze through the bough Of the aspen tree; Heavily now, and with a mournful breath, Like midnight's wind along those wastes of death, Where Awe the wail of ghosts lamenting hears, And slow Cocytus trails the stream whose waves are tears.

Speak, maiden, speak!—Oh, art thou one of those Spirits more lofty than our region knows? Should we in thine the mother-language seek Souls in Elysium speak?



FLOWERS.

Children of Suns restored to youth, In purfled fields ye dwell, Rear'd to delight and joy—in sooth Kind Nature loves ye well! Broider'd with light the robes ye wear, And liberal Flora decks ye fair In gorgeous-colour'd pride. Yet woe—Spring's harmless infants—woe! Mourn, for ye wither while ye glow— Mourn for the soul denied!

The sky-lark and the nightbird sing To you their hymns of love; And Sylphs that wanton on the wing, Embrace your blooms above. Woven for Love's soft pillow were The chalice crowns ye flushing bear, By the Idalian Queen. Yet weep, soft children of the Spring, The feelings love alone can bring To you denied have been!

But me in vain my Fanny's [15] eyes Her mother hath forbidden; For in the buds I gather, lies Love's symbol-language hidden. Mute heralds of voluptuous pain, I touch ye—life—speech—heart—ye gain, And soul denied before. And silently your leaves enclose, The mightiest God in arch repose, Soft-cradled in the core.

[Footnote 15: Literally "Nanny."]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE.

Heavy and solemn, A cloudy column, Thro' the green plain they marching came! Measureless spread, like a table dread, For the wild grim dice of the iron game. The looks are bent on the shaking ground, And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound; Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt, Gallops the Major along the front— "Halt!" And fetter'd they stand at the stark command, And the warriors, silent, halt!

Proud in the blush of morning glowing, What on the hill-top shines in flowing? "See you the Foeman's banners waving?" "We see the Foeman's banners waving!" Now, God be with you, woman and child, Lustily hark to the music wild— The mighty trump and the mellow fife, Nerving the limbs to a stouter life; Thrilling they sound with their glorious tone, Thrilling they go, through the marrow and bone. Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er, In the life to come that we meet once more! See the smoke how the lightning is cleaving asunder! Hark the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder! From host to host, with kindling sound, The shouting signal circles round, Ay, shout it forth to life or death— Freer already breathes the breath! The war is waging, slaughter raging, And heavy through the reeking pall, The iron Death-dice fall! Nearer they close—foes upon foes "Ready!"—From square to square it goes, Down on the knee they sank, And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. Many a man to the earth it sent, Many a gap by the balls is rent— O'er the corpse before springs the hinder-man, That the line may not fail to the fearless van. To the right, to the left, and around and around, Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground. The sun goes down on the burning fight, And over the host falls the brooding Night. Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er, In the life to come that we meet once more! The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood, And the living are blent in the slippery flood, And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go, Stumble still on the corpses that sleep below. "What, Francis!" "Give Charlotte my last farewell." Wilder the slaughter roars, fierce and fell. "I'll give——Look, comrades, beware—beware How the bullets behind us are whirring there—— I'll give thy Charlotte thy last farewell, Sleep soft! where death's seeds are the thickest sown, Goes the heart which thy silent heart leaves alone." Hitherward—thitherward reels the fight, Darker and darker comes down the night— Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er, In the life to come that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go! The Adjutants flying,— The horsemen press hard on the panting foe, Their thunder booms in dying— Victory! The terror has seized on the dastards all, And their colours fall. Victory! Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight. And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night. Trumpet and fife swelling choral along, The triumph already sweeps marching in song. Live—brothers—live!—and when this life is o'er, In the life to come may we meet once more!

* * * * *



THE LAST OF THE SHEPHERDS.

CHAPTER I.

I wish I had lived in France in 1672! It was the age of romances in twenty volumes, and flowing periwigs, and high-heeled shoes, and hoops, and elegance, and wit, and rouge, and literary suppers, and gallantry, and devotion. What names are those of La Calprenede, and D'Urfe, and De Scuderi, to be the idols and tutelary deities of a circulating library!—and Sevigne, to conduct the fashionable correspondence of the Morning Post!—and Racine, to contribute to the unacted drama!—and ladies skipping up the steepest parts of Parnassus, with petticoats well tucked up, to show the beauty of their ankles, and their hands filled with artificial flowers—almost as good as natural—to show the simplicity of their tastes! I wish I had lived in France in 1672; for in that year Madame Deshoulieres, who had already been voted the tenth muse by all the freeholders of Pieria, and whose pastorals were lisped by all the fashionable shepherdesses in Paris, left the flowery banks of the Seine to rejoin her husband. Monsieur Deshoulieres was in Guyenne; Madame Deshoulieres went into Dauphine. Matrimony seems to be rather hurtful to geographical studies, but Madame Deshoulieres was a poetess; and in spite of the thirty-eight summers that shaded the lustre of her cheek, she was beautiful, and was still in the glow of youth by her grace and her talent, and—her heart. Wherever she moved she left crowds of Corydons and Alexises; but, luckily for M. Deshoulieres, their whole conversation was about sheep.

The two Mesdemoiselles Deshoulieres, Madeleine and Bribri, were beautiful girls of seventeen or eighteen, brought up in all the innocent pastoralism of their mother. They believed in all the poetical descriptions they read in her eclogues. They expected to see shepherds playing on their pipes, and shepherdesses dancing, and naiads reclining on the shady banks of clear-running rivers. They were delighted to get out of the prosaic atmosphere of Paris, and all the three were overjoyed when they sprang from their carriage, one evening in May, at the chateau of Madame d'Urtis on the banks of the Lignon. Though there were occasional showers at that season, the mornings were splendid; and accordingly the travellers were up almost by daylight, to tread the grass still trembling 'neath the steps of Astrea—to see the fountain, that mirror where the shepherdesses wove wild-flowers into their hair—and to explore the wood, still vocal with the complaints of Celadon. In one of their first excursions, Madeleine Deshoulieres, impatient to see some of the scenes so gracefully described by her mother, asked if they were really not to encounter a single shepherd on the banks of the Lignon? Madame Deshoulieres perceived, at no great distance, a herdsman and cow-girl playing at chuckfarthing; and, after a pause, replied—

"Behold upon the verdant grass so sweet, The shepherdess is at her shepherd's feet! Her arms are bare, her foot is small and white, The very oxen wonder at the sight; Her locks half bound, half floating in the air, And gown as light as those that satyrs wear."

While these lines were given in Madame Deshoulieres' inimitable recitative, the party had come close to the rustic pair. "People may well say," muttered Madeleine, "that the pictures of Nature are always best at a distance. Can it be possible that this is a shepherdess—a shepherdess of Lignon?" The shepherdess was in reality a poor little peasant girl, unkempt, unshorn, with hands of prodigious size, a miraculous squint, and a mouth which probably had a beginning, but of which it was impossible to say where it might end. The shepherd was worthy of his companion; and yet there was something in the extravagant stupidity of his fat and florid countenance that was interesting to a Parisian eye. Madame Deshoulieres, who was too much occupied with the verses of the great D'Urfe to attend to what was before her, continued her description—

"The birds all round her praises ever sing, And 'neath her steps the flowers incessant spring."

"Your occupation here is delightful, isn't it?" said Madeleine to the peasant girl.

"No, 'tain't, miss—that it ain't. I gets nothink for all I does, and when I goes hoam at night I gets a good licking to the bargain."

"And you?" enquired Madeleine, turning to the herdsman, who was slinking off.

"I'm a little b-b-b-etter off nor hur," said the man, stuttering, "for I gets board and lodging—dasht if I doesn't—but I gets bread like a stone, and s-s-sleeps below a hedge—dasht if I doesn't."

"But where are your sheep, shepherd?" said Bribri.

"Hain't a got none," stuttered the man again, "dasht if I has."

"What!" exclaimed Madeleine in despair, "am I not to see the lovely lambkins bleating and skipping in the meadows on the banks of the Lignon, O Celadon?"

But Madame Deshoulieres was too much of a poetess to hear or see what was going on. She thought of nothing but the loves of Astrea, and heard nothing but the imaginary songs of contending Damons.

On their return to the chateau, Madeleine and Bribri complained that they had seen neither flock nor shepherdess.

"And are you anxious to see them?" enquired Madame D'Urtis, with a smile.

"Oh, very," exclaimed Bribri; "we expected to live like shepherdesses when we came here. I have brought every thing a rustic wants."

"And so have I," continued Madeleine; "I have brought twenty yards of rose-coloured ribands, and twenty yards of blue, to ornament my crook and the handsomest of my ewes."

"Well then," said the Duchess d'Urtis, good-naturedly, "there are a dozen of sheep feeding at the end of the park. Take the key of the gate, and drive them into the meadows beyond."

Madeleine and Bribri were wild with joy, while their mother was labouring in search of a rhyme, and did not attend to the real eclogue which was about to be commenced. They scarcely took time to breakfast.—"They dressed themselves coquettishly"—so Madame Deshoulieres wrote to Mascaron—"they cut with their own hands a crook a-piece in the park—they beautified them with ribands. Madeleine was for the blue ribands, Bribri for the rose colour. Oh, the gentle shepherdesses! they spent a whole hour in finding a name they liked. At last, Madeleine fixed on Amaranthe, Bribri on Daphne. I have just seen them gliding among the trees that overshadow the lovely stream.—Poor shepherdesses! be on your guard against the wolves."

At noon that very day Madeleine and Bribri, or rather Amaranthe and Daphne, in grey silk petticoats and satin bodies, with their beautiful hair in a state of most careful disorder, and with their crooks in hand, conducted the twelve sheep out of the park into the meadows. The flock, which seemed to be very hungry, were rather troublesome and disobedient. The shepherdesses did all they could to keep them in the proper path. It was a delicious mixture of bleatings, and laughter, and baaings, and pastoral songs. The happy girls inhaled the soul of nature, as their poetical mamma expressed it. They ran—they threw themselves on the blooming grass—they looked at themselves in the limpid waters of the Lignon—they gathered lapfulls of primroses. The flock made the best use of their time; and every now and then a sheep of more observation than the rest, perceiving they were guarded by such extraordinary shepherdesses, took half an hour's diversion among the fresh-springing corn.

"That's one of yours," said Amaranthe.

"No; 'tis yours," replied Daphne; but, by way of having no difficulties in future, they resolved to divide the flock, and ornament one-half with blue collars, and the other with rose-colour. And they gave a name also to each of the members of their flock, such as Meliboeus, and Jeannot, and Robin, and Blanchette. Twelve more poetical sheep were never fed on grass before. When the sun began to sink, the shepherdesses brought back their flocks. Madame Deshoulieres cried with joy. "Oh, my dear girls!" she said, kissing their fair foreheads; "it is you that have composed an eclogue, and not I."

"Nothing is wanting to the picture," said the Duchess, seating herself under the willows of the watering-place, and admiring the graceful girls.

"I think we want a dog," said Daphne.

"No; we are rather in want of a wolf," whispered the beautiful Amaranthe—and blushed.

CHAPTER II.

Not far from the Chateau d'Urtis, the old manor-house of Langevy raised its pointed turrets above the surrounding woods. There, in complete isolation from the world, lived Monsieur de Langevy, his old mother, and his young son. M. de Langevy had struggled against the storms and misfortunes of human life; he now reposed in the bosom of solitude, with many a regret over his wife and his youth—his valiant sword and his adventures. His son, Hector Henri de Langevy, had studied under the Jesuits at Lyons till he was eighteen. Accustomed to the indulgent tenderness of his grandmother, he had returned, about two years before, determined to live in his quiet home without troubling himself about the military glories that had inspired his father. M. de Langevy, though he disapproved of the youth's choice, did not interfere with it, except that he insisted on his sometimes following the chase, as the next best occupation to actual war. The chase had few charms for Hector. It perhaps might have had more, if he had not been forced to arm himself with an enormous fowling-piece that had belonged to one of his ancestors, the very sight of which alarmed him a mighty deal more than the game. He was so prodigious a sportsman, that, after six months' practice, he was startled as much as ever by the whirr of a partridge. But don't imagine, on this account, that Hector's time was utterly wasted. He mused and dreamed, and fancied it would be so pleasant to be in love; for he was at that golden age—the only golden age the world has ever seen—when the heart passes from vision to vision (as the bee from flower to flower)—and wanders, in its dreams of hope, from earth to heaven, from sunshine to shade—from warbling groves to sighing maidens. But alas! the heart of Hector searched in vain for sighing maidens in the woods of Langevy. In the chateau, there was no one but an old housekeeper, who had probably not sighed for thirty years, and a chubby scullion-maid—all unworthy of a soul that dreamed romances on the banks of the Lignon. He counted greatly on a cousin from Paris, who had promised them a visit in the spring. In the meantime, he paced up and down with a gun on his shoulder, pretending to be a sportsman—happy in his hopes, happy in the clear sunshine, happy because he knew no better—as happens to a great many other people in the gay days of their youth, in this most unjustly condemned and vilipended world. And now you will probably guess what occurred one day he was walking in his usual dreamy state of abstraction, and as nearly as possible tumbled head foremost into the Lignon. By dint of marching straight on, without minding either hedge or ditch, he found himself, when he awakened from his reverie, with his right foot raised, in the very act of stepping off the bank into the water. He stood stock-still, in that somewhat unpicturesque attitude—his mouth wide open, his eyes strained, and his cheek glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. He had caught a glimpse of our two enchanting shepherdesses on the other side of the stream, who were watching his movements by stealth. He blushed far redder than he had ever done before, and hesitated whether he should retreat or advance. To retreat, he felt, would look rather awkward: at the same time, he thought it would be too great a price to pay for his honour to jump into the river. And, besides, even if he got over to the other side, would he have courage to speak to them? Altogether, I think he acted more wisely, though less chivalrously, than some might have done in his place. He laid down his gun, and seated himself on the bank, and looked at the sheep as they fed on the opposite side. At twenty years of age, love travels at an amazing pace; and Hector felt that he was already over head and ears with one of the fair shepherdesses. He did not stop to examine which of them it was; it was of no consequence—sufficient for him that he knew he was in love—gone—captivated. If he had been twenty years older, he would perhaps have admired them both: it would have been less romantic, but decidedly more wise.

It is not to be denied that Amaranthe and Daphne blushed a little, too, at this sort of half meeting with Hector. They hung down their heads in the most captivating manner, and continued silent for some time. But at last Amaranthe, more lively than her sister, recommenced her chatter. "Look, Bribri," she said—"Daphne I mean—he is one of the silvan deities, or perhaps Narcissus looking at himself in the water."

"Rather say, looking at you," replied Daphne, with a blush.

"'Tis Pan hiding himself in the oziers till you are metamorphosed into a flute, dear Daphne."

"Not so, fair sister," replied Daphne; "'tis Endymion in pursuit of the shepherdess Amaranthe."

"At his present pace, the pursuit will last some time. If he weren't quite so rustic, he would be a captivating shepherd, with his long brown ringlets. He has not moved for an hour. What if he has taken root like a hamadryad?"

"Poor fellow!" said Daphne, in the simplest tone in the world; "he looks very dull all by himself."

"He must come over to us—that's very plain. We will give him a crook and a bouquet of flowers."

"Oh, just the thing!" exclaimed the innocent Daphne. "We need a shepherd: and yet, no, no"—she added, for she was a little jealous of her sister—"'tis a lucky thing there is river between us."

"I hope he will find a bridge per passa lou riou d'amor."

Now, just at that moment Hector's mind was set on passing the river of Love. In casting his eyes all round in search of a passage, he perceived an old willow half thrown across the stream. With a little courage and activity, it was a graceful and poetical bridge. Hector resolved to try it. He rose and went right onward towards the tree; but, when he arrived, he couldn't help reflecting that, at that season, the river was immensely deep. He disdained the danger—sprang lightly up the trunk, and flung himself along one of the branches, dropping, happily without any accident, on the meadow of the Chateau d'Urtis. Little more was left for him to do; and that little he did. He went towards the fair shepherdesses. He tried to overcome his timidity—he overwhelmed the first sheep of the flock with his insidious caresses—and then, finding himself within a few feet of Amaranthe—he bowed, and smiled, and said, "Mademoiselle."

He was suddenly interrupted by a clear and silvery voice.

"There are no Mesdemoiselles here—there are only two shepherdesses, Amaranthe and Daphne."

Hector had prepared a complimentary speech for a young lady attending a flock of sheep—but he hadn't a word to say to a shepherdess.

He bowed again, and there was a pause.

"Fair Amaranthe," he said—"and fair Daphne, will you permit a mortal to tread these flowery plains?"

Amaranthe received the speech with a smile, in which a little raillery was mingled. "You speak like a true shepherd," she said.

But Daphne was more good-natured, and more touched with the politeness of the sportsman. She cast her eyes on the ground and blushed.

"Oh—if you wish to pass through these meadows," she said—"we shall be"—

"We were going to do the honours of our reception room," continued Amaranthe, "and offer you a seat on the grass."

"'Tis too much happiness to throw myself at your feet," replied Hector, casting himself on one knee.

But he had not looked where he knelt, and he broke Daphne's crook.

"Oh, my poor crook!" she said—and sighed.

"What have I done?" cried Hector. "I am distressed at my stupidity—I will cut you another from the ash grove below. But you loved this crook," he added—"the gift, perhaps, of some shepherd—some shepherd? —no, some prince; for you yourselves are princesses—or fairies."

"We are nothing but simple shepherdesses," said Amaranthe.

"You are nothing but beautiful young ladies from the capital," said Hector, "on a visit at the Chateau d'Urtis. Heaven be praised—for in my walks I shall at least catch glimpses of you at a distance, if I dare not come near. I shall see you glinting among the trees like enchantresses of old."

"Yes, we are Parisians, as you have guessed—but retired for ever from the world and its deceitful joys."

Amaranthe had uttered the last words in a declamatory tone; you might have thought them a quotation from her mamma.

"You complain rather early, methinks," replied Hector, with a smile; "have you indeed much fault to find with the world?"

"That is our secret, fair sportsman," answered Amaranthe; "but it seems you also live retired—an eremite forlorn."

"I? fair Amaranthe? I have done nothing but dream of the delights of a shepherd's life—though I confess I had given up all hopes of seeing a good-looking shepherdess—but now I shall go back more happily than ever to my day-dreams. Ah! why can't I help you to guard your flock?"

The two young girls did not know what to say to this proposition. Daphne at last replied—

"Our flock is very small—and quite ill enough attended to as it is."

"What joy for me to become Daphnis—to sing to you, and gather roses, and twine them in your hair!"

"Let us say no more," interrupted Amaranthe, a little disquieted at the sudden ardour of Daphnis; "the sun is going down: we must return to the park. Adieu," she added, rising to go away.

"Adieu, Daphnis!" murmured the tender Daphne, confused and blushing.

Hector did not dare to follow them. He stood for a quarter of an hour with his eyes fixed first on them, and then on the door of the park. His heart beat violently, his whole soul pursued the steps of the shepherdesses.

"'Adieu, Daphnis,' the lovely Daphne said to me. I hear her sweet voice still! How beautiful she is! how beautiful they are, both—Amaranthe is more graceful, but Daphne is more winning—bright eyes—white hands! sweet smiles! and the delicious dress, so simple, yet so captivating! the white corset that I could not venture to look at—the gown of silk that couldn't hide the points of the charming little feet. 'Tis witchery—enchantment—Venus and Diana—I shall inevitably go mad. Ah, cousin! you ought to have come long ago, and all this might never have occurred."

The sun had sunk behind a bed of clouds—the nightingale began its song, and the fresh green leaves rustled beneath the mild breath of the evening breeze. The bee hummed joyously on its homeward way, loaded with the sweets of the spring flowers. Down in the valley, the voice of the hinds driving their herds to rest, increased the rustic concert; the river rippled on beneath the mysterious shade of old fantastic trees, and the air was filled with soft noises, and rich perfumes, and the voice of birds. There was no room in Hector's heart for all these natural enjoyments. "To-morrow," he said, kissing the broken crook—"I will come back again to-morrow."

CHAPTER III.

Early in the following morning, Hector wandered along the banks of the Lignon, with a fresh-cut crook in his hand. He looked to the door of the Park d'Urtis, expecting every moment to see the glorious apparitions of the day before. And at stroke of noon, a lamb rushing through the gate, careered along the meadow, and the eleven others ran gayly after it, amidst a peal of musical laughter from Amaranthe. Daphne did not laugh.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she glanced stealthily towards the river. "I thought so," she murmured; "Daphnis has come back." And Daphnis, in a transport of joy, was hurrying to the shepherdesses, when he was suddenly interrupted by Madame Deshoulieres and the Duchess d'Urtis. When the sisters had returned, on the evening before, Amaranthe, to Daphne's great discomfiture, had told word for word all that had occurred; how that a young sportsman had joined them, and how they had talked and laughed; and Madame d'Urtis had no doubt, from the description, that it was Hector de Langevy. Amaranthe having added to the story, that she felt certain, in spite of Daphne's declarations to the contrary, that he would meet them again, the seniors had determined to watch the result. Hector would fain have made his escape; two ladies he might have faced, but four!—and two of them above thirty years of age! 'Twas too much; but his retreat was instantly cut off. He stood at bay, blushed with all his might, but saluted the ladies as manfully as if he had been a page. He received three most gracious curtsies in return—only three; for Daphne wished to pass on without taking any notice—which he considered a very favourable omen. He did not know how to begin a conversation; and besides, he began to get confused; and his blushing increased to a most alarming extent—and—in short—he held out his crook to Daphne. As that young shepherdess had no crook of her own, and did not know how to refuse the one he offered, she took it, though her hand trenbled a little, and looked at Madame Deshoulieres.

"I broke your crook yesterday, fair Daphne," said Hector, "but it is not lost. I shall make a relic of it—more precious than—than—", but the bones of the particular saint he was about to name stuck in his throat and he was silent.

"Monsieur de Langevy," said Madam d'Urtis kindly, "since you make such a point of aiding these shepherdesses in guarding the flock, I hope in an hour you will accompany them to the castle to lunch."

"I'll go with them wherever you allow me, madam," said Hector. (I wonder if the impudent fellow thought he had the permission of the young ones already.)

"Let that be settled then," said the Duchess. "I shall go and have the butter cooled, and the curds made—a simple lunch, as befits the guests."

"The fare of shepherds!" said Madame Deshoulieres, and immediately set out in search of a rhyme.

Daphne had walked slowly on, pressing the crook involuntarily to her heart, and arrived at the river side, impelled by a desire for solitude, without knowing why. There are some mysterious influences to which damsels of seventeen seem particularly subject. A lamb—the gentlest of the flock, which had become accustomed to her caresses—had followed her like a dog. She passed her small hand lightly over the snowy neck of the favourite, and looked round to see what the party she had left were doing. She was astonished to see her mother and Hector conversing, as if they had been acquainted for ages, while Madame d'Urtis and Amaranthe were running a race towards the park. She sat down on the grassy bank, exactly opposite the oziers where she had seen Hector the preceding day. When she felt she was quite alone, she ventured to look at the crook. It was a branch of ash of good size, ornamented with a rustic bouquet and a bunch of ribands, not very skilfully tied. Daphne was just going to improve the knot, when she saw a billet hid in the flowers. What should she do?—read it? That were dangerous; her confessor did not allow such venialities—her mamma would be enraged—some people are so fond of monopolies—and besides, she might be discovered. 'Twould be better, then, not to read it—a much simpler proceeding; for couldn't she nearly guess what was in it? And what did she care what was in it? Not to read it was evidently the safer mode; and accordingly she—read it through and through, and blushed and smiled, and read it through and through again. It was none of your commonplace prosaic epistles—'twas all poetry, all fire; her mamma would have been enchanted if the verses had only been addressed to her. Here they are:—

"My sweetest hour, my happiest day, Was in the happy month of May! The happy dreams that round me lay On that delicious morn of May!"

"I saw thee! loved thee! If my love A tribute unrejected be, The happiest day of May shall prove The happiest of my life to me!"

It is quite evident that if such an open declaration had been made in plain prose, Daphne would have been angry; but in verse, 'twas nothing but a poetical license. Instead, therefore, of tearing it in pieces, and throwing it into the water, she folded it carefully up, and placed it in the pretty corset of white satin, which seems the natural escritoire of a shepherdess in her teens. Scarcely had she closed the drawer, and double locked it, when she saw at her side—Hector and Madame Deshoulieres.

"My poor child," said the poetess, "how thoughtful you seem on Lignon's flowery side—forgetful of your sheep—"

'That o'er the meadows negligently stray!'

Monsieur de Langevy, as you have given her a crook, methinks you ought to aid her in her duties in watching the flock. As for myself, I must be off to finish a letter to my bishop.

'From Lignon's famous banks What can I find to say? The breezes freshly springing, Make me—and nature—gay. When Celadon would weep; His lost Astrea fair, To Lignon he would creep, But oh! this joyous air Would force to skip and leap A dragon in despair!'—&c. &c.

Madame Deshoulieres had no prudish notions, you will perceive, about a flirtation—provided it was carried on with the airs and graces of the Hotel Rambouillet. She merely, therefore, interposed a word here and there, to show that she was present. Daphne, who scarcely said a word to Hector, took good care to answer every time her mamma spoke to her. To be sure, it detracts a little from this filial merit, that she did not know what she said. But if all parties were pleased, I don't see what possible right anybody else has to find fault.

The shepherdess Daphne, or rather Bribri Deshoulieres, as we have seen, was beautiful, and simple, and tender—beautiful from the admirable sweetness of her expression—simple, as young girls are simple: that is to say, with a small spice of mischief to relieve the insipidity—and tender, with a smile that seems to open the heart as well as the lips. What struck people in her expression at first, was a shade of sadness over her features—a fatal presentiment, as it were, that added infinitely to her charm. Her sister was more beautiful, perhaps—had richer roses on her cheek, and more of what is called manner altogether—but if Amaranthe pleased the eyes, Daphne captivated the heart; and as the eyes are evidently subordinate to the heart, Daphne carried the day. Hector accordingly, on the first burst of his admiration, had seen nothing but Amaranthe; but when he had left the sisters, it was astonishing how exclusively he thought of Daphne.



CHAPTER IV.

The castle clock sounded the hour of luncheon. Hector offered his arm to Madame Deshoulieres; Daphne called her flock. They entered the park, and were joined by the Duchess d'Urtis and Amaranthe. The collation was magnificent. First course, an omelette au jambon, entree cakes, and fresh butter; second course, a superb cream cheese. Dessert, a trifle and preserves. All these interesting details are embalmed in the poetic correspondence of Madame Deshoulieres, in which every dish was duly chronicled for the edification of her friends.

At nightfall—for Hector lingered as long as he could—the young shepherd quitted the party with great regret; but there was no time to lose, for he had two leagues to go, and there was no moon, and the roads were still broken into immense ruts by the equinoctial rains. On the following day, Hector returned to the Chateau d'Urtis through the meadow. When he arrived near the willow that served for his bridge across the river, he was surprised to see neither shepherdess nor flock in the field. He tripped across the tree, lamenting the bad omen; but scarcely had he reached the other side when he saw some sheep straggling here and there. He rushed towards them, amazed at not seeing either Amaranthe or Daphne; and what was his enchantment when, on advancing a little further, he perceived his adored shepherdess by the margin of the Lignon, which at that point formed a pretty little cascade. The tender Daphne had thrown her beautiful arm round one of the young willows in flower, and, trusting to its support, leaned gracefully over the waterfall, in the shadow of its odoriferous leaves. She had allowed her soul to wander in one of those delicious reveries, of which the thread—broken and renewed a thousand times—is the work of the joy which hopes, and the sadness which fears. She was not aware of Hector's approach. When she saw him, she started, as if waking from a dream.

"You are all alone," said Hector, drawing near.

She hurriedly told him that her sister would soon join her. The two lovers kept silence for some time, looking timidly at each other, not venturing to speak, as if they feared the sound of their own voices in the solitude.

"There seems a sadness," said Hector at length, but his voice trembled as he spoke—"there seems a sadness on your brow?"

"'Tis true," replied Daphne. "Mamma has heard from Monsieur Deshoulieres. He is going to pass through Avignon soon, and we are going away to see him on his passage."

"Going away!" cried Hector, turning pale.

"Yes! and I felt myself so happy," said Daphne, mournfully, "in these meadows with my sheep, that I loved so well."

When Daphne spoke of her sheep, she looked at Hector.

"But why should you go? Madame Deshoulieres could return for you here" —

"And take me away when I had been longer here—my grief would only be greater. No—I must go now or stay always."

On hearing these words Hector fell on one knee, seized her hand and kissed it, and, looking up with eyes overflowing with love, said—

"Yes—always! always!—you know that I love you, Daphne—I wish to tell you how I will adore you all my life long."

Daphne yielded to her heart—and let him kiss her hand without resistance.

"But alas!" she said, "I can't be always guarding a flock. What will the poor shepherdess do?"

"Am I not your shepherd? your Daphnis?" cried Hector, as if inspired—"trust to me, Daphne—to my heart—to my soul! This hand shall never be separated from yours: we shall live the same life—in the sane sunshine—in the same shadow—in the same hovel—in the same palace; but with you, dearest Daphne, the humblest hut would be a palace. Listen, my dearest Daphne: at a short distance from here there is a cottage—the Cottage of the Vines—that belongs to the sister of my nurse, where we can live in love and happiness—no eye to watch and no tongue to wound us."

"Never! never!" said Daphne.

She snatched her hands from those of her lover, retreated a few paces, and began to cry. Hector went up to her; he spoke of his affection—he besought her with tears in his eyes—he was so eloquent and so sincere, that poor Daphne was unable to resist, for any length of time, those bewildering shocks of first love to which the wisest of us yield: she said, all pale and trembling—

"Well—yes—I trust myself to you—and heaven. I am not to blame—is it my fault that I love you so?"

A tender embrace followed these words. Evening was now come; the sun, sinking behind the clouds on the horizon, cast but a feeble light; the little herdsman was driving home his oxen and his flock of turkeys, whose gabbling disturbed the solemnity of the closing day. The flock belonging to the castle turned naturally towards the watering-place.

"Look at my poor sheep," said Daphne, throwing back the curls which by some means had fallen over her forehead—"look at my poor sheep: they are pointing out the road I ought to go."

"On the contrary," replied Hector, "the ungrateful wretches are going off very contentedly without you."

"But I am terrified," rejoined Daphne: "how can I leave my mother in this way? She will die of grief!"

"She will write a poem on it; and that will be all."

"I will write to her that I was unable to resist my inclination for a monastic life, and that I have gone, without giving her notice, to the nunnery of St. Marie that we were speaking of last night."

So said the pure and candid Bribri, hitting in a moment on the ingenious device; so true it is, that at the bottom of all hearts—even the most amiable—there is some small spark of mischief ready to explode when we least expect it.

"Yes—dearest," cried Hector, delighted at the thought, "you will write to her you have gone into the convent; she will go on to Avignon; we shall remain together beneath these cloudless skies, in this lovely country, happy as the birds, and free as the winds of the hill!"

Daphne thought she heard some brilliant quotation from her mother, and perhaps was, on that account, the more easily led by Hector. After walking half an hour, with many a glance by the way, and many a smile, they arrived in front of the Cottage of the Vines—the good old woman was hoeing peas in her garden—she had left her house to the protection of an old grey cat, that was sleeping in the doorway. Daphne was enraptured with the cottage. It was beautifully retired, and was approached by a little grass walk bordered by elder-trees; and all was closed in by a pretty orchard, in which luxuriant vines clambered up the fine old pear-trees, and formed in festoons between the branching elms. The Lignon formed a graceful curve and nearly encircled the paddock.

"At all events," said Daphne, "if I am wretched here, my tears will fall into the stream I love."

"But you will have no time to weep," replied Hector, pressing her hand, "all our days will be happy here! Look at that window half hidden in vine-leaves; 'tis there you will inhale the fragrance of the garden every morning when you awake; look at that pretty bower with the honeysuckle screen, 'tis there we will sit every evening, and talk over the joys of the day. Our life will be bright and beautiful as a sunbeam among roses!"

They had gone inside the cottage. It had certainly no great resemblance to a palace; but under these worn rafters—within these simple walls—by the side of that rustic chimney—poverty itself would be delightful, in its tidiness and simplicity, if shared with one you loved. Daphne was a little disconcerted at first by the rough uneven floor, and by the smell of the evening meal—the toasted cheese, and the little oven where the loaf was baking; but, thanks to love—the enchanter, who has the power of transforming to what shape he likes, and can shed his magic splendours over any thing—Daphne found the cottage charming, and she was pleased with the floor, and the toasted cheese, and the oven! The good old woman, on coming in from the garden, was astonished at the sight of Hector and Daphne.

"What a pretty sister you have, Monsieur Hector!" she said.

"Listen to me, Babet—since your daughter married, nobody has used the little room up stairs. This young lady will occupy it for a few days; but you must keep it a secret from all the world—you understand."

"Don't be afraid, Master Hector—I am delighted to have so pretty a tenant for my daughter's room. The bed is rather small, but it is white and clean, and the sheets are fresh bleached. They smell of the daisies yet. You will sup with me, my fair young lady?" continued Babet, turning to Daphne; "my dishes are only pewter, but there is such a flavour in my simple fare—my vegetables and fruits—I can't account for it, except it be the blessing of heaven."

Babet spread a tablecloth like snow, and laid some dishes of fruit upon the table. Hector took a tender farewell of Daphne, and kissed her hand at least a dozen times. At last he tore himself away, with a promise that he would be with her at daybreak next morning.



CHAPTER V.

Daphne hardly slept all night in her chamber. She was disturbed by many thoughts, and became alarmed at the step she had taken. At earliest dawn she threw open her window. The first sun-rays, reflected on a thousand dewdrops on the trees; the chirping of the birds, which already began their matin song; the joyous voice of the cock, which crowed in a most satisfactory and majestic manner in the paddock of her hostess; all these sights and sounds, to which she was so little accustomed, restored her serenity of mind once more. She dwelt more on the attractions of her love—so adventurous, so romantic. Love's ways, like those of wickedness, are strewed at first with roses, and Daphne was only at the entrance of the path.

While she was repelling from her heart the miserable fancies that had crowded on her at night, she all of a sudden perceived Hector by the whitethorn hedge.

"Welcome! welcome!" she cried, "you come to me with the sun."

"How lovely you are this morning!" said Hector to her, with a look of admiration which there needed no physiognomist to discover was profoundly real. She looked at herself when he spoke, and perceived she was but half dressed. She threw herself on the foot of her bed.

"What am I to do?" she thought, "I can't always wear a silk petticoat and a corset of white satin?"

She dressed herself notwithstanding, as last night, trusting to fate for the morrow. Hector had brought her writing materials, and she composed a tender adieu to her mamma.

"Admirably done!" cried Hector; "I have a peasant here who will carry it to Madame Deshoulieres—as for me, I shall go as usual to the Park d'Urtis at noon. When they see me they will have no suspicion. Your mamma goes away this evening, so that after to-day we shall have nothing to fear."

The lovers breakfasted in the spirits which only youth and love can furnish. Daphne had herself gone to the fountain with the broken pitcher of the cottage. "You perceive, Hector," she said, on seating herself at the table, "that I have all the qualifications of a peasant girl."

"And all the gracefulness of a duchess," added the youth.

At one o'clock Hector had found his way to the meadow. Nobody was there. He opened the gate of the park, and before he had gone far was met by Madame Deshoulieres.

"My daughter!" she cried in an agitated voice; "You have not seen my daughter?"

"I was in hopes of seeing her here," replied Hector, with a start of well-acted surprise.

"She is gone off," resumed the mother; "gone off, like a silly creature, to some convent, disguised as a shepherdess—the foolish, senseless girl!—and I am obliged to depart this very day, so that it is impossible to follow her."

Hector continued to enact astonishment—he even offered his services to reclaim the fugitive—and, in short, exhibited such sorrow and disappointment, that the habitual quickness of Madame Deshoulieres was deceived. The Duchess, Amaranthe, and the mamma all thanked him for his sympathy; and he at last took his leave, with no doubt in his mind, that he was a consummate actor, and qualified for any plot whatever.

He went back to Daphne, who had sunk into despondency once more, and consoled her by painting a brilliant picture of their future happiness. But on the following day he came later than before—he seemed dull and listless—and embraced his shepherdess with evident constraint. Things like these never escape the observations of shepherdesses, gentle or simple.

"Do you know, Hector, that you are not by any means too gallant?—A shepherd of proper sentiments would waken his sweetheart every morning with the sound of his pipe. He would gather flowers for her before the dew was gone, and fill her basket with fruits. He would carve her initials on the bark of the tree beneath the window, as her name is written on his heart. But you! you come at nearly noon—and leave me to attend to myself. 'Twas I, you inattentive Daphnis, who gathered all these fruits and flowers. Don't you see how the room is improved? Hyacinths in the window, roses on the mantelpiece, and violets every where—ah! what a time you were in coming!"

They went out into the garden, where the good old Babet was at breakfast, with her cat and the bees.

"Come hither," continued Daphne, "look at this little corner so beautifully worked—'tis my own garden—I have raked and weeded it all. There is not much planted in it yet, but what a charming place it is for vines!—and the hedge, how sweet and flourishing! But what is the matter with you, Hector? You seem absent—sad."

"Oh! nothing, Daphne, nothing indeed—I only love you more and more every hour; that's all."

"Well, that isn't a thing to be sad about"—said Daphne, with a smile that would have dispelled any grief less deeply settled than that of her young companion. He parted from Daphne soon; without letting her into the cause of his disquiet. But as there is no reason why the secret should be kept any longer, let us tell what was going on at the Chateau de Langevy.

His cousin Clotilde had arrived the evening before, with an old aunt, to remain for the whole spring! Monsieur de Langevy, who was not addicted to circumlocution in his mode of talk, told his son point-blank, that his cousin was a pretty girl, and what was more, a considerable heiress—so that it was his duty—his, Hector de Langevy—the owner of a great name and a very small fortune, to marry the said cousin—or if not, he must stand the consequences. Hector, at the first intimation, had revolted indignantly against the inhuman proposal, and made many inaudible vows of undying constancy to his innocent and trusting Daphne; but by degrees, there is no denying that—without thinking of the fortune—he found various attractions in his cousin. She was beautiful, graceful, winning. She took his arm quite unceremoniously. She had the most captivating small-talk in the world. In short, if it had not been for Daphne, he would have been in love with her at once. As he was obliged, of course, to escort his cousin in her walks—or break with her altogether—he did not go for two whole days to the Cottage of the Vines. On the third day Clotilde begged him to take her to the banks of the Lignon, and as the request was made in presence of his father, he dared not refuse. He contented himself—by way of a relief to his conscience—with breathing a sigh to Daphne. The straightest road from the Chateau de Langevy to the Lignon, led past the Cottage of the Vines—but Hector had no wish to go the straightest road. He took a detour of nearly two miles, and led her almost to the Park D'Urtis. While Clotilde amused herself by gathering the blossoms, and turning aside the pendent boughs of the willows that hung over the celebrated stream. Hector looked over the scene of his first meeting with the shepherdesses, and sighed—perhaps without knowing exactly wherefore. He was suddenly startled by a scream—Clotilde, in stretching too far forward, had missed her footing, and fallen upon the bank; she was within an inch of rolling into the river. Hector rushed to her, raised her gently up, and begging her to lean her head upon his shoulder, assisted her up the bank. "She's like a naiad surprised by a shepherd"—he thought—and it is not improbable that at that moment he pressed his lips pretty close to the pale cheek that rested almost in his breast. When he lifted up his head, he perceived, half hidden among the willows, on the other side of the river—Daphne! She had wandered to see once more the cradle of her love, to tread the meadow where, two days only before—could it be only two days?—she had been so happy. What did she see? What did she hear? As her only reply to the kiss to which she had so unfortunately been a witness, she broke her crook in an excess of indignation. But it was too much to bear. She fell upon the bank, and uttered a plaintive cry. At that cry—at sight of his poor Daphne fainting upon the grass, he rushed like a madman across the stream, buoyant with love and despair. He ran to his insensate shepherdess, regardless of the exclamations of the fair Clotilde, and raised her in his trembling arms.

"Daphne, Daphne," he cried, "open your eyes. I love nobody but you—nobody but you."

He embraced her tenderly; he wept—and spoke to her as if she heard: Daphne opened her eyes for a moment with a look of misery—and shut them again—and shuddered.

"No, no!" she said—"'tis over! You are no longer Daphnis, and I Daphne no more—leave me, leave me alone—to die!"

"My life! my love! my darling Daphne! I love you—I swear it to you from my heart. I do not desert you: you are the only one I care for!"

In the meantime Clotilde had approached the touching scene.

"'Pon my word, sir! very well"—she said—"am I to return to the Chateau by myself?"

"Go, sir, go!" said Daphne, pushing him away, "You are waited for, you are called."

"But, Daphne—but, fair cousin"—

"I won't listen to you—my daydream is past—speak of it no more," said Daphne.

"Do you know, cousin," said Clotilde, with a malicious sneer, "that this rural surprise is quite enchanting! I am greatly obliged to you for getting it up for my amusement. You did not prepare me for so exquisite a scene; I conclude it is from the last chapter of the Astrea."

"Ah! cousin," said Hector, "I will overtake you in a moment—I will tell you all, and then I don't think you'll laugh at us."

"Excuse me, sir," cried Daphne, in a tone of disdainful anger— "let that history be for ever a secret. I do not wish people to laugh at the weakness of my heart. Farewell, sir, let every thing be forgotten—buried!"

Large tears rolled down the poor girl's cheek.

"No, Daphne, no!—I never will leave you. I declare it before heaven and earth, I will conduct my cousin to the Chateau, and in an hour I will be with you to dry your tears, and to ask pardon of you on my knees. Moreover, I am not to blame, I call my cousin to witness. Is it not true, Clotilde, that I don't love you?"

"'Pon my word, cousin, you have certainly told me you loved me; but as men generally say the contrary of what is the fact, I am willing to believe you don't. But I beg you'll not incommode yourself on my account; I can find my way to the Chateau perfectly well alone."

She walked away, hiding her chagrin under the most easy and careless air in the world.

"I must run after her," said Hector, "or she will tell every thing to my father. Adieu Daphne; in two hours I shall be at the Cottage of the Vines, and more in love than ever."

"Adieu, then," murmured Daphne in a dying voice; "adieu," she repeated on seeing him retire; "adieu!—as for me, in two hours, I shall not be at the Cottage of Vines."



CHAPTER VI

She returned to the cottage of old Babet. On seeing the little chamber she had taken so much pains to ornament with flowers and blossoms, she sank her head upon her bosom. "Poor roses!" she murmured—"little I thought when I gathered you, that my heart would be the first to wither!"

The poor old woman came in to her. "What! crying?" she said— "do people weep at eighteen?"

Daphne threw herself into Babet's arms, and sobbed.

"He has deceived me—left me for his cousin. I must go. You will tell him that he has behaved cruelly, that I am——but no!—tell him that I forgive him."

Daphne loved Hector with all her heart, and with all her soul. There never was an affection so blind, or a girl so innocent. Before leaving Paris, she had had various visions of what might happen in the country—how she might meet some graceful cavalier beside the wall of some romantic castle, who would fling himself on his knees before her, like a hero of romance. And this dream, so cherished in Paris, was nearly realized on the banks of the Lignon. Hector was exactly the sort of youth she had fancied, and the interest became greater from their enacting the parts of shepherdess and shepherd. She had been strengthened in this, her first love, by the former illusions of her imagination; and without one thought of evil, she had lost her common sense, and had followed her lover instead of attending to her mamma. Oh, young damsels, who are fond of pastorals, and can dream of young cavaliers and ancient castles!—who hear, on one side, the soft whisperings of a lover, and on the other, the sensible remarks of your mother!—need I tell you which of the two to choose? If you are still in doubt, read to the end of this story, and you will hesitate no longer.

Hector rejoined his cousin, but during their walk home, neither of them ventured to allude to the incident in the meadow. Hector augured well from the silence of Clotilde—he hoped she would not speak of his secret at the chateau. Vain hope! the moment she found an opportunity, it all came out! That evening, M. de Langevy saw her more pensive than usual, and asked her the cause.

"Oh, nothing," she said, and sighed.

The uncle persisted in trying to find it out.

"What is the matter, my dear Clotilde?" he said. "Has your pilgrimage to the banks of the Lignon disappointed you?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Has my son—-but where is Hector?"

"He has gone on the pilgrimage again."

"What the devil is he doing there?" "He has his reasons, of course," said Clotilde.

"Indeed!—Do you know what they are?" enquired the father.

"Not the least in the world—only—"

"Only what? I hate these only's—out with it all!"

"My dear uncle, I've told you I know nothing about it—only I have seen his shepherdess."

"His shepherdess? You're laughing, Clotilde. Do you believe in shepherdesses at this time of day?"

"Yes, uncle—for I tell you I saw his shepherdess fall down in a faint on the side of the Lignon."

"The deuce you did? A shepherdess!—Hector in love with a shepherdess!"

"Yes, uncle; but a very pretty one, I assure you, in silk petticoat and corset of white satin."

The father was petrified. "What is the meaning of all this? It must be a very curious story. Bring me my fowling-piece and game-bag. Do you think, my dear Clotilde, that infernal boy has returned to his shepherdess?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Well—has the shepherdess any sheep?"

"No, uncle."

"The devil! that looks more serious. You went past the withy bed?"

"Yes, uncle; but I fancy the gentle shepherdess is nearer the village."

"Very good," grumbled the old Baron, with a tone of voice that made it difficult to believe he saw much good in it. "Silk petticoats and satin corsets! I wonder where the rascal finds money for such fineries for his shepherdess."

He went straight on to the Cottage of the Vines, in hopes that Babet would know something of Hector's proceedings. He found the old woman in her porch, resting from the labours of the day.

"How do you do, Babet?" said the old Baron, softening his voice like any sucking dove. "Anything new going on?"

"Nothing new, your honour," replied Babet, attempting to rise.

"Sit still," said the Baron, putting his hand kindly on the old lady's shoulder; "here's a seat for me on this basket of rushes." At this moment M. de Langevy heard the upstairs casement closed. "Oho!" he thought, "I've hit upon it at once—this is the cage where these turtles bill and coo. Have you seen my son this week, Babet?" he said aloud.

"Oh, I see him often, your honour; he often comes sporting into my paddock."

"Sporting in your preserves, Babet—a pretty sort of game."

"Oh, very good game, your honour; this very day he sent me a beautiful hare. I did not know what to do with it; but at last I put it on the spit."

"The hare wasn't all for you, perhaps. But, listen to me, Babet—I know the whole business—my son is in love with some shepherdess or other—and I don't think she is far from here."

"I don't understand you, sir," said the old lady—a true confidante, though seventy years of age.

"You understand me so perfectly," said the Baron, "that you are evidently ashamed of your behaviour. But do not be uneasy, there is no great harm in it—a mere childish frolic—only tell me where the girl is?"

"Ah, your honour," cried Babet, who saw there was no use for further pretence—"she's an angel—she is—a perfect angel!"

"Where does the angel come from, Babet?" enquired the Baron, "she has not come fresh from heaven, has she?"

"I know nothing more about her, your honour; but I pray morning and night that you may have no one else for a daughter."

"We shall see—the two lovers are above, are not they?"

"Why should I conceal it? Yes, your honour, you may go up stairs at once. An innocent love like theirs never bolts the door."

When the Baron was half-way up the stair, he stopped short, on seeing the two lovers sitting close to each other, the one weeping, and the other trying to console her. There was such an air of infantine candour about them both, and both seemed so miserable, that the hard heart of sixty-three was nearly touched.

"Very well!"—he said, and walked into the room. Daphne uttered a scream of terror, and her tears redoubled.

"There is nothing to cry about," said M. de Langevy; "but as for you, young man, you must let me into the secret, if you please."

"I have nothing to tell you," said Hector, in a determined tone.

Daphne, who had leant for support on his shoulder, fell senseless on her chair.

"Father," said Hector, bending over her, "you perceive that this is no place for you."

"Nor for you, either," said the old man in a rage. "What do you mean by such folly? Go home this instant, sir, or you shall never enter my door again."

But Hector made no reply. His whole attention was bestowed on Daphne.

"I ask you again, sir," said the father, still more angry at his son's neglect. "Think well on what you do."

"I have thought, sir," replied Hector, raising the head of the still senseless Daphne. "You may shut your door for ever."

"None of your impudence, jackanapes. Will you come home with me now, or stay here?"

"If I go with you, sir," said Hector, "it will be to show my respect to you as my father, but I must tell you that I love Mademoiselle Deshoulieres, and no one else. We are engaged, and only death shall part us."

"Deshoulieres—Deshoulieres," said the Baron, "I've heard that name before. I knew a Colonel Deshoulieres in the campaigns of Flanders; a gallant fellow, with a beautiful wife, a number of wounds, many medals, but not a sou. Are you coming, sir?"

Daphne motioned him to go, and Hector followed his father in silence. He was not without hopes of gaining his permission to love his poor Daphne as much as he chose. M. de Langevy bowed to her as he went out of the room; and wishing Babet a good appetite as he passed the kitchen door, commenced a sermon for the edification of poor Hector, which lasted all the way. The only attention Hector paid to it was to turn round at every pause, and take a look at the little casement window.

When Daphne saw him disappear among the woods at the side of the road, she sighed; and while the tears rolled down her cheek, she said, "Adieu, adieu! I shall never see him more!"

She looked sadly round the little apartment—now so desolate; she gathered one of the roses that clustered round the window, and scattered the leaves one by one, and watched them as they were wafted away by the breeze.

"Even so will I do with my love," said the poetical shepherdess; "I will scatter it on the winds of death."

"Adieu," she said, embracing poor old Babet; "I am going back to the place I left so sillily. If you see Hector again, tell him I loved him; but that he must forget me, as I forget the world, and myself."

As she said these words, she grew pale and staggered, but she recovered by an effort, and walked away on the path that led to the Chateau d'Urtis. When she came to the meadow, she saw at her feet the crook she had broken in the morning. She lifted it, and took it with her as the only memorial of Hector. The sun was sinking slowly, and Daphne knelt down and said a prayer, pressing the crook to her bosom—poor Daphne!



CHAPTER VII.

She did not find her mother at the chateau: Madame d'Urtis was overjoyed to see her.

"Well, my lost sheep," she said, "you have come back again to the fold."

"Yes," said Daphne, sadly; "I am come back never to stray again. See, here is my broken crook, and Daphnis will never come to cut me another."

She told every thing to Madame d'Urtis. The Duchess did not know whether to laugh or scold; so she got over the difficulty by alternately doing both.

In the Chateau de Langevy, Hector continued firm in the presence of his father, and even of his cousin. He told them every thing exactly as it occurred; and spoke so enthusiastically and so sincerely, that the old Baron was somewhat softened. Clotilde herself was touched, and pled in Hector's behalf. But the old Baron was firm, and his only answer was, "In eight days he will forget all about her. I am astonished, Clotilde, to see you reason so absurdly."

"Oh, my dear uncle!" said Clotilde, "I believe that those who reason the worst on such a subject are the most reasonable."

"I tell you again, in a week he will have changed his divinity—you know that very well; or I don't see the use of your having such beautiful eyes."

"Be sure of this, uncle," replied Clotilde, in a more serious voice, "Hector will never love me, and besides," she added, relapsing into gaiety once more, "I don't like to succeed to another; I agree with Mademoiselle de Scuderi, that, in love, those queens are the happiest who create kingdoms for themselves in undiscovered lands."

"You read romances, Clotilde, so I shall argue with you no longer about the phantom you call love."

Hector took his father on the weak side.

"If I marry Mademioiselle Deshoulieres," he said, "I shall march forward in the glorious career of arms; you have opened the way for me, and I cannot fail of success under the instruction of the brave Deshoulieres, whom Louvois honours with his friendship."

M. de Langevy put an end to the conversation by saying he would consider—which seemed already a great step gained in favour of the lovers.

On the next day's dawn, Hector was at the Cottage of the Vines.

"Alas, alas!" said the old woman, throwing open the window, "the dear young lady is gone!"

"Gone!—you let her go!—but I will find her."

Hector ran to the Chateau d'Urtis. When he entered the park, he felt he was too late, for he saw a carriage hurrying down the opposite avenue. He rang the bell, and was shown in to the Duchess.

"'Tis you, Monsieur de Langevy," she said, sadly; "you come to see Mademoiselle Deshoulieres. Think of her no more, for all is at an end between you. On this earth you will meet no more, for in an hour she will have left the world. She is gone, with her maid, to the Convent of Val Chretien."

"Gone!" cried Hector, nearly fainting.

"She has left a farewell for you in this letter." Hector took the letter which the Duchess held to him, and grew deadly pale as he read these lines:—

"Farewell, then! 'Tis no longer Daphne who writes to you, but a broken-hearted girl, who is to devote her life to praying for the unhappy. I retire from the world with resignation. I make no complaint: my two days' dream of happiness is gone. It was a delicious eclogue—pure, sincere, and tender; but it is past—Adieu!"

Hector kissed the letter, and turned to the Duchess. "Have you a horse, madam?" he said.

"What would you do with it?"

"I would overtake Mademoiselle Deshoulieres."

"You might overtake her, but you couldn't turn her."

"For mercy's sake, madam, a horse! Take pity on my misery."

The Duchess ordered a horse to be saddled, for she had opposed Daphne's design. "Go," she said, "and Heaven guide you both!"

He started at full gallop: he overtook the carriage in half an hour.

"Daphne, you must go no further!" he said, holding out his hand to the melancholy girl.

"'Tis you!" cried Daphne, with a look of surprise and joy—soon succeeded by deeper grief than ever.

"Yes, 'tis I! I," continued the youth, "who love you as my Daphne, my wife, for my father has listened at last to reason, and agrees to all."

"But I also have listened to reason, and you know where I am going. Leave me: you are rich—I am poor: you love me to-day—who can say if you will love me to-morrow? We began a delightful dream, let us not spoil it by a bad ending. Let our dream continue unbroken in its freshness and romance. Our crooks are both broken; they have killed two of our sheep; they have cut down the willows in the meadow. You perceive that our bright day is over. The lady I saw yesterday should be your wife. Marry her, then; and if ever, in your hours of happiness, you wander on the banks of the Lignon, my shade will appear to you. But then it shall be with a smile!"

"Daphne! Daphne! I love you! I will never leave you! I will live or die with you!"

* * * * *

It was fifty years after that day, that one evening, during a brilliant supper in the Rue St. Dominique, Gentil Bernard, who was the life of the company, announced the death of an original, who had ordered a broken stick to be buried along with him.

"He is Monsieur de Langevy," said Fontenelle. "He was forced against his inclination to marry the dashing Clotilde de Langevy, who eloped so shamefully with one of the Mousquetaires. M. de Langevy had been desperately attached to Bribri Deshoulieres, and this broken stick was a crook they had cut during their courtship on the banks of the Lignon. The Last Shepherd is dead, gentlemen—we must go to his funeral."

"And what became of Bribri Deshoulieres?" asked a lady of the party.

"I have been told she died very young in a convent in the south," replied Fontenelle; "and the odd thing is, that, when they were burying her, they found a crook attached to her horse-hair tunic."

* * * * *



THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Hark! how the furnace pants and roars! Hark! how the molten metal pours, As, bursting from its iron doors, It glitters in the sun! Now through the ready mould it flows, Seething and hissing as it goes, And filling every crevice up As the red vintage fills the cup: Hurra! the work is done!

Unswathe him now. Take off each stay That binds him to his couch of clay, And let him struggle into day; Let chain and pulley run, With yielding crank and steady rope, Until he rise from rim to cope, In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength, Without a flaw in all his length: Hurra! the work is done!

The clapper on his giant side Shall ring no peal for blushing bride, For birth, or death, or new-year-tide, Or festival begun! A nation's joy alone shall be The signal for his revelry; And for a nation's woes alone His melancholy tongue shall moan: Hurra! the work is done!

Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear, His long loud summons shall we hear, When statesmen to their country dear Their mortal race have run; When mighty monarchs yield their breath, And patriots sleep the sleep of death, Then shall he raise his voice of gloom, And peal a requiem o'er their tomb: Hurra! the work is done!

Should foemen lift their haughty hand, And dare invade us where we stand, Fast by the altars of our land We'll gather every one; And he shall ring the loud alarm, To call the multitudes to arm, From distant field and forest brown, And teeming alleys of the town: Hurra! the work is done!

And as the solemn boom they hear, Old men shall grasp the idle spear, Laid by to rust for many a year, And to the struggle run; Young men shall leave their toils or books, Or turn to swords their pruninghooks; And maids have sweetest smiles for those Who battle with their country's foes: Hurra! the work is done!

And when the cannon's iron throat Shall bear the news to dells remote, And trumpet-blast resound the note, That victory is won; While down the wind the banner drops, And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops, His sides shall glow with fierce delight, And ring glad peals from morn to night; Hurra! the work is done!

But of such themes forbear to tell. May never War awake this bell To sound the tocsin or the knell! Hush'd be the alarum gun! Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice Call up the nations to rejoice That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd, And vanish'd from a wiser world! Hurra! the work is done!

Still may he ring when struggles cease, Still may he ring for joy's increase, For progress in the arts of peace, And friendly trophies won! When rival nations join their hands, When plenty crowns the happy lands, When knowledge gives new blessings birth, And freedom reigns o'er all the earth! Hurra! the work is done!

* * * * *



AMMALAT BEK.

A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLINSKI.

CHAPTER III.

It was daybreak when Ammalat came to himself. Slowly, one by one, his thoughts reassembled in his mind, and flitted to and fro as in a mist, in consequence of his extreme weakness. He felt no pain at all in his body, and his sensations were even agreeable; life seemed to have lost its bitterness, and death its terror: in this condition he would have listened with equal indifference to the announcement of his recovery, or of his inevitable death. He had no wish to utter a word, or to stir a finger. This half sleep, however, did not continue long. At midday, after the visit of the physician, when the attendants had gone to perform the rites of noon-tide prayer, when their sleepy voices were still, and nought but the cry of the mullah resounded from afar, Ammalat listened to a soft and cautious step upon the carpets of the chamber. He raised his heavy eyelids, and between their lashes appeared, approaching his bed, a fair, black-eyed girl, dressed in an orange-coloured sarotchka, an arkhaloukh of cloth of gold with two rows of enamelled buttons, and her long hair falling upon her shoulders. Gently she fanned his face, and so pityingly looked at his wound that all his nerves thrilled. Then she softly poured some medicine into a cup, and—he could see no more—his eyelids sank like lead—he only caught with his ear the rustling of her silken dress, like the sound of a parting angel's wings, and all was still again. Whenever his weak senses strove to discover the meaning of this fair apparition, it was so mingled with the uncertain dreams of fever, that his first thought—his first word—when he awoke, was, "'Tis a dream!" But it was no dream. This beautiful girl was the daughter of the Sultan Akhmet Khan, and sixteen years old. Among all the mountaineers, in general, the unmarried women enjoy a great freedom of intercourse with the other sex, without regard to the law of Mahomet. The favourite daughter of the Khan was even more independent than usual. By her side alone he forgot his cares and disappointments; by her side alone his eye met a smile, and his heart a gleam of gayety. When the elders of Avar discussed in a circle the affairs of their mountain politics, or gave their judgment on right or wrong; when, surrounded by his household, he related stories of past forays, or planned fresh expeditions, she would fly to him like a swallow, bringing hope and spring into his soul. Fortunate was the culprit during whose trial the Khana came to her father! The lifted dagger was arrested in the air; and not seldom would the Khan, when looking upon her, defer projects of danger and blood, lest he should be parted from his darling daughter. Every thing was permitted, every thing was accessible, to her. To refuse her any thing never entered into the mind of the Khan; and suspicion of any thing unworthy her sex and rank, was as far from his thoughts as from his daughter's heart. But who among those who surrounded the Khan, could have inspired her with tender feelings? To bend her thoughts—to lower her sentiments to any man inferior to her in birth, would have been an unheard-of disgrace in the daughter of the humblest retainer; how much more, then, in the child of a khan, imbued from her very cradle with the pride of ancestry!—this pride, like a sheet of ice, separating her heart from the society of those she saw. As yet no guest of her father had ever been of equal birth to hers; at least, her heart had never asked the question. It is probable, that her age—of careless, passionless youth—was the cause of this; perhaps the hour of love had already struck, and the heart of the inexperienced girl was fluttering in her bosom. She was hurrying to clasp her father in her embrace, when she had beheld a handsome youth falling like a corpse at her feet. Her first feeling was terror; but when her father related how and wherefore Ammalat was his guest, when the village doctor declared that his wound was not dangerous, a tender sympathy for the stranger filled her whole being. All night there flitted before her the blood-stained guest, and she met the morning-beam, for the first time, less rosy than itself. For the first time she had recourse to artifice: in order to look on the stranger, she entered his room as though to salute her father, and afterwards she slipped in there at mid-day. An unaccountable, resistless curiosity impelled her to gaze on Ammalat. Never, in her childhood, had she so eagerly longed for a plaything; never, at her present age, had she so vehemently wished for a new dress or a glittering ornament, as she desired to meet the eye of the guest; and when at length, in the evening, she encountered his languid, yet expressive gaze, she could not remove her look from the black eyes of Ammalat, which were intently fixed on her. They seemed to say—"Hide not thyself; star of my soul!" as they drank health and consolation from her glances. She knew not what was passing within her; she could not distinguish whether she was on the earth, or floating in the air; changing colours flitted on her face. At length she ventured, in a trembling voice, to ask him about his health. One must be a Tartar—who accounts it a sin and an offence to speak a word to a strange woman, who never sees any thing female but the veil and the eye-brows—to conceive how deeply agitated was the ardent Bek, by the looks and words of the beautiful girl addressed so tenderly to him. A soft flame ran through his heart, notwithstanding his weakness.

"Oh, I am very well, now," he answered, endeavouring to rise; "so well, that I am ready to die, Seltanetta."

"Allah sakhla-suen!" (God protect you!) she replied. "Live, live long! Would you not regret life?"

"At a sweet moment sweet is death, Seltanetta! But if I live a hundred years, a more delightful moment than this can never be found!"

Seltanetta did not understand the words of the stranger; but she understood his look—she understood the expression of his voice. She blushed yet more deeply; and, making a sign with her hand that he should repose, disappeared from the chamber.

Among the mountaineers there are many very skilful surgeons, chiefly in cases of wounds and fractures; but Ammalat, more than by herb or plaster, was cured by the presence of the charming mountain-maid. With the agreeable hope of seeing her in his dreams, he fell asleep, and awoke with joy, knowing that he should meet her in reality. His strength rapidly returned, and with his strength grew his attachment to Seltanetta.

Ammalat was married; but, as it often happens in the East, only from motives of interest. He had never seen his bride before his marriage, and afterwards found no attraction in her which could awake his sleeping heart. In course of time, his wife became blind; and this circumstance loosened still more a tie founded on Asiatic customs rather than affection. Family disagreements with his father-in-law and uncle, the Shamkhal, still further separated the young couple, and they were seldom together. Was it strange, under the circumstances, that a young man, ardent by nature, self-willed by nature, should be inspired with a new love? To be with her was his highest happiness—to await her arrival his most delightful occupation. He ever felt a tremor when he heard her voice: each accent, like a ray of the sun, penetrated his soul. This feeling resembled pain, but a pain so delicious, that he would have prolonged it for ages. Little by little the acquaintance between the young people grew into friendship—they were almost continually together. The Khan frequently departed to the interior of Avar for business of government or military arrangements, leaving his guest to the care of his wife, a quiet, silent woman. He was not blind to the inclination of Ammalat for his daughter, and in secret rejoiced at it; it flattered his ambition, and forwarded his military views; a connexion with a Bek possessing the right to the Shamkhalat would place in his hands a thousand means of injuring the Russians. The Khansha, occupied in her household affairs, not infrequently left Ammalat for hours together in her apartments—as he was a relation; and Seltanetta, with two or three of her personal attendants, seated on cushions, and engaged in needlework, would not remark how the hours flew by, conversing with the guest, and listening to his talk. Sometimes Ammalat would sit long, long, reclining at the feet of his Seltanetta, without uttering a word, and gazing at her dark, absorbing eyes; or enjoying the mountain prospect from her window, which opened towards the north, on the rugged banks and windings of the roaring Ouzen, over which hung the castle of the Khan. By the side of this being, innocent as a child, Ammalat forgot the desires which she as yet knew not; and, dissolving in a joy, strange, incomprehensible to himself, he thought not of the past nor of the future; he thought of nothing—he could only feel; and indolently, without taking the cup from his lips, he drained his draught of bliss, drop by drop.

Thus passed a year.

The Avaretzes are a free people, neither acknowledging nor suffering any power above them. Every Avaretz calls himself an Ouzden; and if he possesses a yezeer, (prisoner, slave,) he considers himself a great man. Poor, and consequently brave to extravagance, excellent marksmen with the rifle, they fight well on foot; they ride on horseback only in their plundering expeditions, and even then but a few of them. Their horses are small, but singularly strong; their language is divided into a multitude of dialects, but is essentially Lezghin for the Avartzi themselves are of the Lezghin stock. They retain traces of the Christian faith, for it is not 120 years that they have worshipped Mahomet, and even now they are but cool Moslems; they drink brandy, they drink booza, [16] and occasionally wine made of grapes, but most ordinarily a sort of boiled wine, called among them djapa. The truth of an Avaretz's word has passed into a proverb among the mountains. At home, they are peaceful, hospitable, and benevolent; they do not conceal their wives and daughters; for their guest they are ready to die, and to revenge to the end of the generation. Revenge, among them, is sacred; plundering, glory; and they are often forced by necessity to brigandize.

[Footnote 16: A species of drink used by the Tartars, produced by fermenting oats.]

Passing over the summit of Atala and Tkhezerouk, across the crests of Tourpi-Taou, in Kakhetia, beyond the river Alazan, they find employment at a very low price; occasionally remaining two or three days together without work, and then, at an agreement among themselves, they rush like famished wolves, by night, into the neighbouring villages, and, if they succeed, drive away the cattle, carry off the women, make prisoners, and will often perish in an unequal combat. Their invasions into the Russian limits ceased from the time when Azlan Khan retained possession of the defiles which lead into his territories from Avar. But the village of Khounzakh, or Avar, at the eastern extremity of the Avar country, has ever remained the heritage of the khans, and their command there is law. Besides, though he has the right to order his noukers to cut to pieces with their kinjals [17] any inhabitant of Khounzakh, nay, any passer-by, the Khan cannot lay any tax or impost upon the people, and must content himself with the revenues arising from his flocks, and the fields cultivated by his karavashes (slaves,) or yezeers (prisoners.)

[Footnote 17: Dagger or poniard. These weapons are of various forms, and generally much more formidable than would be suggested to an European by the name dagger. The kinjal is used with wonderful force and dexterity by the mountaineers, whose national weapon it may be said to be; it is sometimes employed even as a missile. It is worn suspended in a slanting direction in the girdle, not on the side, but in front of the body.]

Without, however, taking any direct imposts, the khans do not abstain from exacting dues, sanctified rather by force than custom. For the Khan to take from their home a young man or a girl—to command a waggon with oxen or buffaloes to transport his goods—to force labourers to work in his fields, or to go as messengers, &c., is an affair of every day. The inhabitants of Khounzakh are not more wealthy than the rest of their countrymen; their houses are clean, and, for the most part, have two stories, the men are well made, the women handsome, chiefly because the greater number of them are Georgian prisoners. In Avar, they study the Arabic language, and the style of their educated men is in consequence very flowery. The Haram of the Khan is always crowded with guests and petitioners, who, after the Asiatic manner, dare not present themselves without a present—be it but a dozen of eggs. The Khan's noukers, on the number and bravery of whom he depends for his power, fill from morning to night his courts and chambers, always with loaded pistols in their belt, and daggers at their waist. The favourite Ouzdens and guests, Tchetchenetzes or Tartars, generally present themselves every morning to salute the Khan, whence they depart in a crowd to the Khansha, sometimes passing the whole day in banqueting in separate chambers, regaling even during the Khan's absence. One day there came into the company an Ouzden of Avar, who related the news that an immense tiger had been seen not far off, and that two of their best shots had fallen victims to its fierceness. "This has so frightened our hunters," he said, "that nobody likes to attempt the adventure a third time."