Gia. And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with drink?

Lor. Indeed, good signor, though the wine flowed free, I could not touch it, though much urged by all— Too great a sadness sat upon my heart— I could do naught but sit and sigh and think Of our Rosalia in her bridal dress.

Gia. And sober too! so much the more at fault. But, as I said, thou'st served me long and well, Perchance too long—too long by just a day. Here, take this purse, and find another master.

Lor. Oh, signor, do not drive me thus away! If I have made mistake—

Gia. No, sirrah, no! Thou hast not made mistake, but something worse.

Lor. Oh, pray you, what is that then I have made?

Gia. A lie!

Lor. Indeed, good master, on my knees I swear that what I said is sainted truth.

Gia. Pshaw, pshaw, no more of this. Did I not go Upon the instant to my daughter's room And find Bernardo sleeping at her side? Some villain's gold hath bribed thee unto this. Go, go.

Lor. Well, if it must be, then it must. But I would swear that what I said is truth, Though all the devils from the deepest pit Should rise to contradict me!

Gia. Prating still?

Lor. No, signor—I am going—stay—see here—

(He draws a paper from his bosom.)

Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof in this! This paper as they changed their mantles dropt Between them to the ground, and when they passed I picked it up and placed it safely here.

Gia. (Examining it.) Who forged the lie could fabricate this too:— But hold, it is ingeniously done. Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well, Let no word pass thy lips about the matter— [Exit Lorenzo. Bernardo's very hand indeed is here! Oh, compact villainous and black! conditions, The means, the hour, the signal—every thing To rob my honor of its holiest pearl! Lorenzo, shallow fool—he does not guess The mischief was all done, and that it was The duke he saw departing—oh, brain—brain! How shall I hold this river of my wrath! It must not burst—no, rather it shall sweep A noiseless maelstrom, whirling to its center All thoughts and plans to further my revenge And rid me of this most accursed blot!

(He rests his forehead on his hand a few minutes, and exclaims,)

The past returns to me again—the lore I gladly had forgot comes like a ghost, And points with shadowy finger to the means Which best shall consummate my just design. The laboratory hath been closed too long; The door smiles welcome to me once again, The dusky latch invites my hand—I come!

(He unlocks the door and stands upon the threshold.)

Oh, thou whose life was stolen from me here, Stand not to thwart me in this great revenge; But rather come with large propitious eyes Smiling encouragement with ancient looks! Ye sages whose pale, melancholy orbs Gaze through the darkness of a thousand years, Oh, pierce the solid blackness of to-day, And fire anew this crucible of thought Until my soul flames up to the result! (He enters and the door closes.)

SCENE II. Another apartment in the alchemist's house. Enter Rosalia and Bernardo.

Ros. You tell me he has not been seen to-day?

Ber. Save by your trusty servant here, who says He saw his master, from without, unclose The shutters of his laboratory while The sun was yet unrisen. It is well; This turning to the past pursuits of youth Argues how much the aspect of to-day Hath driven the ancient darkness from his brain. And now, my dear Rosalia, let thy face And thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles, And naught shall make a winter in our house.

Ros. Ah, sir, I think that I am happy.

Ber. Happy? Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art! But thou dost sigh and contemplate the floor So deeply, that thy happiness seems rather The constant sense of duty than true joy.

Ros. Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to me A riddle is at best—my heart has had No tutor. From my childhood until now My thoughts have been on simple honest things.

Ber. On honest things? Then let them dwell henceforth On love, for nothing is more honest than True love.

Ros. I hope so, sir—it must be so! And if to wear thy happiness at heart With constant watchfulness, and if to breathe Thy welfare in my orisons, be love, Thou never shalt have cause to question mine. To-day I feel, and yet I know not why, A sadness which I never knew before; A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain, Of something which has been or is to be. My mother coming to me in my dream, My father taking to that room again Have somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe.

Ber. Nay, let not that o'ercast thy gentle mind, For dreams are but as floating gossamer, And should not blind or bar the steady reason. And alchemy is innocent enough, Save when it feeds too steadily on gold, A crime the world not easily forgives. But if Rosalia likes not the pursuit Her sire engages in, my plan shall be To lead him quietly to other things. But see, the door uncloses and he comes.

(Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair.)

Gia. (Not perceiving them.) Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last!

Both. Good-morrow, father.

Gia. Ah, my pretty doves!

Ber. Come, father, we are jealous of the art Which hath deprived us all the day of thee.

Gia. Are ye indeed? (Aside.) How smoothly to the air Slides that word father from his slippery tongue. Come hither, daughter, let me gaze on thee, For I have dreamed that thou wert beautiful, So beautiful our very duke did stop To smile upon thy brightness! What say'st thou, Bernardo, didst thou ever dream such things?

Ber. That she is beautiful I had no cause to dream, Mine eyes have known the fact for many a day. What villains didst thou speak of even now?

Gia. Two precious villains—Carbon and Azote— They have perplexed me heretofore; but now The thing is plain enough. This morning, ere I left my chamber, all the mystery stood Asudden in an awful revelation!

Ber. I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day, But do not overtoil thy brain. These themes Are dangerous things, and they who mastered most Have fallen at last but victims to their slaves.

Gia. It is a glorious thing to fall and die The victim of a noble cause.

Ber. Ay, true— The man who battles for his country's right Hath compensation in the world's applause. The victor when returning from the field Is crowned with laurel, and his shining way Is full of shouts and roses. If he fall, His nation builds his monument of glory. But mark the alchemist who walks the streets, His look is down, his step infirm, his hair And cheeks are burned to ashes by his thought; The volumes he consumes, consume in turn; They are but fuel to his fiery brain, Which being fed requires the more to feed on. The people gaze on him with curious looks, And step aside to let him pass untouched, Believing Satan hath him arm in arm.

Gia. Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels? No heroes but among the martial throng? Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped A sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names, Who lived and labored, died and were forgot, And after whom the world came out and reapt The field, and never questioned who had sown.

Ber. I did not think of that.

Gia. Now mark ye well, I am not one to follow phantom themes, To waste my time in seeking for the stone, Or chrystalizing carbon to o'erflood The world with riches which would keep it poor; Nor do I seek the elixir that would make Not life alone, but misery immortal; But something far more glorious than these.

Ber. Pray what is that?

Gia. A cure, sir, for the heart-ache. Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane— Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrusted upward, like a bloody shield! On such an hour the experiment must begin. Come, thou shalt be the first to witness this Most marvelous discovery. And thou, My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower, And I will dream thou'rt lovelier than ever. Come, follow me. (To Bernardo.)

Ros. Nay, father, stay; I'm sure Thou art not well—thine eyes are strangely lit, The task, I fear, has over-worked thy brain.

Gia. Dearest Rosalia, what were eyes or brain Compared with banishment of sorrow? Come.

Ber. (Aside to Rosalia.) I will indulge awhile this curious humor; Adieu; I shall be with thee soon again.

Gia. (Overhearing him.) When Satan shall regain his wings, and sit Approved in heaven, perchance, but not till then.

Ber. What, not till then?

Gia. Shall he be worthy deemed To walk, as thou hast said the people thought, Arm in arm with the high-souled philosopher:— And yet the people sometimes are quite right, The devil's at our elbow oftener than We know.

(He gives Bernardo his arm, and they enter the laboratory.)

Ros. (Alone.) He never looked so strange before; His cheeks, asudden, are grown pale and thin; His very hair seems whiter than it did. Oh, surely, 'tis a fearful trade that crowds The work of years into a single day. It may be that the sadness which I wear Hath clothed him in its own peculiar hue. The very sunshine of this cloudless day Seemed but a world of broad, white desolation— While in my ears small melancholy bells Knolled their long, solemn and prophetic chime;— But hark! a louder and a holier toll, Shedding its benediction on the air, Proclaims the vesper hour— Ave Maria!

[Exit Rosalia.

SCENE III. Giacomo and Bernardo discovered in the laboratory.

Gia. What say'st thou now, Bernardo?

Ber. Let me live Or die in drawing this delicious breath, I ask no more.

Gia. (Aside.) Mark, how with wondering eyes He gazes on the burning crucibles, As if to drink the rising vapor with His every sense.

Ber. Is this the balm thou spak'st of?

Gia. Ay, sir, the same.

Ber. Oh, would that now my heart Were torn with every grief the earth has known, Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold! Where didst thou learn the secret, and from whom?

Gia. From Gebber down to Paracelsus, none Have mentioned the discovery of this— The need of it was parent of the thought.

Ber. How long will these small crucibles hold out?

Gia. A little while, but there are two beside, That when thy sense is toned up to the point May then be fired; and when thou breathest their fumes, Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than that Which Helen gave the guests of Menelaus. But come, thou'lt weary of this thickening air, Let us depart.

Ber. Not for the wealth of worlds!

Gia. Nay, but thy bride awaits thee—

Ber. Go to her And say I shall be there anon.

Gia. I will. (Aside.) Now while he stands enchained within the spell I'll to Rosalia's room and don his cloak And cap, and sally forth to meet the duke. 'Tis now the hour, and if he come—so be it.

[Exit Giacomo.

Ber. (Alone.) These delicate airs seem wafted from the fields Of some celestial world. I am alone— Then wherefore not inhale that deeper draught, That sweet nepenthe which these other two, When burning, shall dispense? 'Twere quickly done, And I will do it!

(He places the two crucibles on the furnace.)

Now, sir alchemist, Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure— 'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by San John, I'll turn philosopher myself, and do Some good at last in this benighted world! Now how like demons on the ascending smoke, Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame, Filling the room with a mysterious haze, Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air, Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms; And every form is lit with burning eyes, Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows! The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seem To stand upon a reeling deck! Hold, hold! A hundred crags are toppling overhead. I faint, I sink—now, let me clutch that limb— Oh, devil! It breaks to ashes in my grasp! What ghost is that which beckons through the mist? The duke! the duke! and bleeding at the breast! Whose dagger struck the blow?

(Enter Giacomo.)

Gia. Mine, villain, mine! What! thou'st set the other two aburning? Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last! I should have done the deed—and yet 'tis well. Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood!

Ber. Ha! is it so? Then follow thou!

Gia. My time Is not quite yet, this antidote shall place A bar between us for a little while.

(He raises a vial to his lips, drinks, and flings it aside.)

Ber. (Rallying.) Come, give it me—

Gia. Ha, ha! I drained it all! There is the broken vial.

Ber. Is there no arm To save me from the abyss?

Gia. No, villain, sink! And take this cursed record of thy plot,

(He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand,)

And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at Th' infernal gate!

(Bernardo reads, reels and falls.)

Gia. (Looking on the body.) Poor miserable dust! This body now is honest as the best, The very best of earth, lie where it may. This mantle must conceal the thing from sight, For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shall Be here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the power To do this last stern act of justice. Thou Who called the child of Jairus from the dead, Assist a stricken father now to raise His sinless daughter from the bier of shame. And may her soul, unconscious of the deed, Forever walk the azure fields of heaven.

(Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a small golden crucifix in her hand.)

Ros. Dear father, in obedience, I have come— But where's Bernardo?

Gia. Gone to watch the stars; To see old solitary Saturn whirl Like poor Ixion on his burning wheel— He is our patron orb to-night, my child.

Ros. I do not know what strange experiment Thou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feel That He, in whose remembrance this was made

(looking at the cross)

Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts. Since vesper time—I know not how it was— I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers.

Gia. Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven. Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine, And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest.

(He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it to his lips.)

Ros. Pray tell me, father, what is in the air?

Gia. See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark, I'll drop a simple essence into each.

Ros. My sense is flooded with perfume!

Gia. Again.

Ros. My soul, asudden, thrills with such delight It seems as it had won a birth of wings!

Gia. Behold, now when I throw these jewels in, The glories of our art!

Ros. A cloud of hues As beautiful as morning fills the air; And every breath I draw comes freighted with Elysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist, In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room. The very walls are melting from my sight, And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead! And on that gentle breeze did we not hear The song of birds and silvery waterfalls? And walk we not on green and flowery ground? Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this, The ducal gardens are not half so fair! Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams, Let us forever make our dwelling here. Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemed The paradise of our first parents, filled With countless angels whose celestial light Thrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song. Look how the long and level landscape gleams, And with a gradual pace goes mellowing up Into the blue. The very ground we tread Seems flooded with the tender hue of heaven; An azure lawn is all about our feet, And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers, Like lovely lilies on a tranquil lake.

Gia. Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel ken Far down the shining pathway we have trod, And see behind us those enormous gates To which the world has given the name of Death; And note the least among yon knot of lights, And recognize your native orb, the earth! For we are spirits threading fields of space, Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars! But now, dear love, adieu—a flash from heaven— A sudden glory in the silent air— A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approach Of holier guides to take thee into keep. Behold them gliding down the azure hill Making the blue ambrosial with their light. Our paths are here divided. I must go Through other ways, by other forms attended.



LINES TO AN IDEAL.

BY ELIZABETH LYON LINSLEY.

I wandered on the lonely strand, A setting sun shone brightly there, And bathed in glory sea and land, And streamed in beauty through the air!

A playful breeze the waters curled, Touched their light waves and passed them by, Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurled Were waving on the sunset sky!

The bird had gone. The sun had set. His beams still tipped the hills and trees, And flung a rainbow radiance yet On clouds reflected in the seas!

A distant boatman plied the oar, All sparkling with its golden spray, His voice came softened to the shore, Then melted with the dying day!

And when the last bright lines on high Departed as the twilight came, A large star showed its lone, sweet eye All margined with a cloud of flame!

The winds were hushed. Their latest breath In soft, low murmurs died afar— The rippling of the wave beneath Showed dancing there that one bright star!

So fair a scene, so sweet an hour, Were felt and passed. In stilly calm They shed around me beauty's power, Yet gave no peace, and brought no balm.

I was alone! I saw no eyes With mine gaze on the twilight sea— No heart returned my lonely sighs— No lips breathed sympathy with me.

I was alone! I looked above. That star seemed happy thus to lave Its fairy light and glance of love Deep in the bosom of the wave.

I gazed no more! The blinding tear Rose from my heart, and dimmed my sight. Had one dear voice then whispered near, That scene how changed!—That heart how light!

My soul was swelling like the sea! Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own, That soul a mirror true to thee On ev'ry wave thyself had shown!



MRS. PELBY SMITH'S SELECT PARTY.

BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.

"Mrs. Goldsborough's party is to-night, is it not?" said Mr. Pelby Smith to his wife; "are we going my dear?"

"Apropos of parties," returned she, waiving the question; "I don't see how we are to get on any longer without giving one ourselves."

"Why so, my dear? We cannot afford to give a party, and that will be an apology all-sufficient to a woman of Cousin Sabina's sense."

"Cousin Sabina!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith; "as if I, or any one else, ever thought of going to the trouble of a party for a plain old maid, like cousin Sabina Incledon!"

"My dear, I wish you would not speak in that way of Cousin Sabina; she is an excellent woman, of superior mind, and manners to command respect in any society."

"That may be your opinion, Mr. Smith," answered the lady tartly; "mine is that a quiet old maid, from somewhere far off in the country, and with an income of two or three hundred dollars a year, would not make much of a figure in our society. At all events, I shan't make a trial of it."

"I thought you alluded to her visit as making it incumbent on us to give a party," said Mr. Smith meekly; "there is no other reason, I believe."

"You will allow me to have some judgment in such matters, Mr. Smith. I think it is absolutely necessary that we should, that is, if we wish to go to parties for the future. We have been going to them all our lives without giving any, and people will grow tired of inviting us."

"Then, my dear, why not make up our minds to stay at home. I would rather."

"But I would not, Mr. Smith. I shall go to parties as long as possible. My duty to my children requires it."

Mr. Smith opened his eyes as wide as his timidity would let him.

"My duty to my children, I repeat," pursued she with energy; "they will have to be introduced to society."

"Not for seven or eight years yet, any of them," interposed Mr. Smith.

"Sooner or later," continued the lady; "and how is that to be done unless I keep the footing which I have attained—with trouble enough, as I only know, and without any thanks to you, Mr. Smith. If I give up parties, I may fall at once into the obscurity for which you have such a taste. People of fortune and distinction can voluntarily withdraw for a while, and then reappear with as much success as ever, but that is not the case with persons of our position."

"It is only the expense that I object to, my dear; my business is so limited that it is impossible for us to live in any other than a plain, quiet way. The cost of a party would be a serious inconvenience to me."

"The advantages will be of greater consequence than the sacrifices," returned the lady, softening as she saw her husband yielding; "the loss will soon be made up to you through an increase of friends. Party-giving people are always popular."

Mr. Smith saw that his wife was determined to carry her point, which was nothing new. He had learned to submit, and to submit in silence, so, after sitting moodily for a few minutes, he took up his hat to go to his place of business.

"I knew, my dear," said Mrs. Smith smoothly, "that you would soon see the matter in a proper light; and now about Mrs. Goldsborough's party. I shall lay out your things for you. I can go with some satisfaction now that I have a prospect of soon being on equal terms with my entertainers."

Mrs. Smith walked round her two small and by no means elegant rooms, reassuring herself as to the capabilities of her lamps, girandoles and candlesticks, for she had mentally gone through all her arrangements long before; the act of consulting her husband being, generally, her last step toward the undertaking of any important project. She was joined by the object of some of her recent remarks, Miss Sabina Incledon, a cousin of Mr. Smith's, who, until within a few days, had been a stranger to her. She was a plainly dressed person of middle age, with an agreeable though not striking countenance, and unobtrusive, lady-like manners.

"I am sorry you are not going to Mrs. Goldsborough's to-night, Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith; "I have no doubt she would have sent an invitation had she known I had a friend visiting me."

"Not improbable. I do not, however, feel much inclination just now to go to a party. Had it not been for that, I should have sent my card to Mrs. Goldsborough after my arrival. I met her at the springs last summer, and received much politeness from her."

"Mrs. Goldsborough is a very polite woman—very much disposed to be civil to every one," said Mrs. Smith; "by the bye," she added, "Pelby and I have it in contemplation to give a large party ourselves."

"Indeed? I thought you were not party-giving people; Cousin Pelby assured me so."

"And never would be if Pelby Smith had his own way. To be sure, we are not in circumstances to entertain much, conveniently, but for the sake of a firmer place in society, I am always willing to strain a point. As to Pelby, he has so little spirit that he would as soon be at the bottom of the social ladder as at the top. I can speak of it without impropriety to you, as you are his relation, not mine. He has been a perpetual drag and drawback upon me, but, notwithstanding, I have accomplished a great deal. Five or six years ago we were merely on speaking terms with the Goldsboroughs, and the Pendletons, and the Longacres, and the Van Pelts and that set, and now I visit most of them, and receive invitations to all their general parties. I have always felt ashamed of not having entertained them in return, and now I am resolved to do so, as a favorable opportunity offers of doing it advantageously. I mean the coming out of Julia Goldsborough, Mrs. Goldsborough's only daughter. It will be something to say that I have given her a party."

"Do the family expect the compliment of you?" asked Miss Incledon, looking at her in surprise; "I did not know that you were on such intimate terms."

Mrs. Smith smiled in conscious superiority. "Ah, Cousin Sabina!" said she, "you are very unsophisticated. Don't you know that a party goes off with much more eclat for being associated with some name of importance. Now Julia Goldsborough, from her beauty and vivacity, and the fashion and fortune of her family, is to be the belle of the season, and a party got up for her must necessarily make a sensation. All her friends, and they are at the head of society, will attend on her account, if for nothing else, and everybody else will be glad to go where they do. Then the Pendletons and the Longacres and the Van Pelts, several of them, will give her parties—so it is understood—and it will be worth an effort to make mine one of the series."

A faint expression of sarcastic humor passed over the placid countenance of Miss Incledon, but she made no comment.

Mrs. Pelby Smith entered the brilliant rooms of Mrs. Goldsborough that night with an elated spirit, seeing in herself the future hostess of the fashionable throng there assembled. Instead of standing in a corner, listening with unctuous deference or sympathy to any who chanced to come against her, as was her wont, proffering her fan, or her essence-bottle, or in some quiet way ministering to their egotism, she now stepped freely forth upon the field of action, nodding and smiling at the young men to whom she might have been at some time introduced; whispering and jesting with some marked young lady, while she made an occasion to arrange her berthe or her ringlets, and adding herself, as if by accident, to any trio or quartette of pre-eminent distinction. She had at length the anxiously desired opportunity to put out her feelers at Mrs. Goldsborough.

"What a lovely creature Julia has become, Mrs. Goldsborough!" she exclaimed; "it seems but a few months since she was a little fairy only so high, and now she is so well grown and so commanding in her figure! and her manners, they are as pronounced and distingue as if she were twenty-five; they appear the more remarkable for her sweet, youthful face. I have been watching her the whole evening, and seeing every one offering her their tribute, I have gotten quite into the spirit of it myself. I'm sure you will smile at me, for you well know that I am not at all in the habit of such things, but I really must give her a party. I have known her so long, almost since she could first run about, and I always loved the little creature so much! I feel as if I have almost a right to be proud of her myself. Have you any engagements for the beginning of next week? If not, unless you positively forbid it, I shall send out invitations at once."

"You are very kind, indeed, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Goldsborough, smiling cordially, for she was a fond mother, and also was full of courtesy and amiability; "it will be an unexpected compliment to Julia. She will be flattered that your partiality for her is as warm as ever. We have no engagements for the first of next week. The parties with which my friends will try to spoil Julia do not come on so soon."

Her scheme having been not unfavorably received, Mrs. Smith whispered it to one and another, until it was known to half the company before they dispersed that Miss Goldsborough was to be feted next by Mrs. Pelby Smith.

Our heroine ought to have overheard the conversation which took place at the late breakfast of Mrs. Goldsborough the following morning.

"You could hardly guess whom you have charmed into party intentions toward you, Julia," said Mrs. Goldsborough; "I suppose you have not heard? Mrs. Pelby Smith."

"Defend me from Mrs. Pelby Smith!" laughed Julia; "but are you in earnest, mamma?"

"Certainly, my dear; she told me last night that she intended to give you a party in the beginning of next week."

"That intolerable, toadying Mrs. Pelby Smith!" exclaimed young Frank Goldsborough; "I would not allow her to cover the iniquities of her ambition with my name, Julia, if I were you. Depend upon it, she has some sinister design in this thing."

"I agree with Frank," rejoined Miss Pendleton, Mrs. Goldsborough's sister; "such as elevating herself in society on your shoulders, Julia, or rather those of your family."

"Charity, charity! you know I don't like such remarks," interposed Mrs. Goldsborough, but with little show of severity; "we have no reason to decide that Mrs. Smith does not really mean a kindness. She always seemed very fond of Julia when a child."

"And so she would have appeared, mamma, of any other that might have happened to be a grandchild of General Pendleton and Judge Goldsborough. I had sense enough to understand her even then. She used to call me in on my way to school, to warm my hands, when they did not need it, and inquire after the health of my mother and grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles, and admire my clothes, and wish her little Jane was old enough to run to school with me, and flatter me on the beauty of my hair and eyes and complexion, in such a way that very few children would have been so stupid as not to have seen through it. Could you not have said something to discourage the new idea, ma'ma?"

"Not without rudeness, Julia, though, I confess, I would rather it could have been done. Even presuming that she is sincere in her professions of regard, I do not like the thought of a person in her circumstances going to what to her must be serious trouble and expense on our account. The easiest way to reconcile myself to it would be by believing with you all, that she has some personal motive in it."

At that same hour Mrs. Smith was immersed in her preliminary arrangements.

"I shall have to ask you to write some of the invitations, Cousin Sabina," said she to Miss Incledon; "I am not much in the habit of writing, even notes; and Pelby, who has not time to attend to it, says that you write a very pretty hand. Here are pen and paper to make out the list—I will give you the names. In the first place, there are all the Goldsboroughs and Pendletons, and Longacres, and Van Pelts—"

"You forget," interrupted Miss Incledon, "that it is necessary to name them individually."

"True, I had forgotten—I have so many things to think about. Beginning with the Goldsboroughs—Mrs., Miss, and Mr.; then General and Mrs. Pendleton, Miss Pendleton, Mr. and Mrs. John, Mr. and Mrs. Henry, and Mr. and Mrs. James Pendleton;" and so Mrs. Smith kept on in continuous nomenclature for a considerable time. It was only as she came down into the lower ranks of fashion, after a regular gradation, that she hesitated for a moment—and then her pauses grew longer and longer.

"Perhaps I can assist your memory, Cousin Sarah," said Miss Incledon; "I have seen several of your acquaintances, and have heard of a good many more; there is Mrs. Wills, with whom you were taking tea the evening of my arrival."

"I have reflected upon that, and conclude that I shall not ask Mrs. Wills," replied Mrs. Smith; "she is a plain person, and seldom goes to parties, which I can make a sufficient excuse for leaving her out, though, to be sure, she would come to mine, if I invited her; and to prevent her from being offended, I shall send for her a few days after to come socially to tea, with a few others of the same set. There will, of course, be plenty of refreshments left, and it will, therefore, be no additional expense."

"Then Mrs. Salisbury and her two daughters, who called yesterday."

"I believe not; they are not decidedly and exclusively of the first circle, though, as you seemed to consider them, quite superior women—very accomplished and agreeable. They have not much fortune, however, and have no connections here. On the whole, I do not see that any thing could be gained by inviting the Salisburys."

"I have not your neighbor, Mrs. Streeter down," observed Cousin Sabina.

"No; I don't see the necessity for having Mrs. Streeter; she is a good creature—very obliging when one needs a neighbor, in cases of sickness, or the like, but would be far from ornamental. I can have an excuse for omitting her in never having received an invitation from her—she does not give parties. She will be very well satisfied, I dare say, if I send her a basket of fragments afterward. You must understand, Cousin Sabina, that as this is my first party, I mean it to be very select."

"Then you will also, I presume, leave out Mrs. Brownell."

"By no means; I calculate a great deal on Mrs. Brownell. She has the greatest quantity of elegant china and cut-glass, which it will be necessary for me to borrow. My own supply is rather limited, and I must depend chiefly on my acquaintances. It was on that account that I set down the Greelys. They have the largest lot of silver forks and spoons of any family I know—owing, it is whispered, to their having, where they came from, kept a fashionable boarding-house. Also, you may put down Mrs. Crabbe."

"Mrs. Crabbe?—did I not hear you describe her as a very low person?"

"Peculiarly so in her manners—but what am I to do? I must have persons to assist me; and Mrs. Crabbe makes the most beautiful jellies and the most delicious Charlotte-Russe I ever tasted. She has a natural talent for all sorts of nice cookery, and with my little experience in it, she will be of the greatest service to me. It saves a great deal to make every thing except the confectionary at home; and I shall go at once and ask Mrs. Crabbe if she will prepare the materials for my fruit-cake, and mix it up."

"You have said nothing about your Aunt Tomkins, of whom Cousin Pelby has talked to me, and of the different members of her family—they are to have invitations, of course?" suggested Miss Incledon.

"No—that is—I shall attend to it myself—I mean you need not mind;" and Mrs. Smith hurried to the door, beginning to perceive something she would rather escape in the countenance and interrogatories of Cousin Sabina. "Bless me!" she exclaimed, turning back, "I almost forgot—and what a mistake it would have been! put down Miss Debby Coggins; I should never have been forgiven if I had neglected her. She has a great many oddities, but she is related to all the first families, and one must keep on her right side. Have you the name?—Miss Deborah Coggins."

We shall not follow Mrs. Smith into the turmoil of her preparations, which would have been much more wearisome and bewildering, from her inexperience in getting up a large entertainment, had it not been for the good judgment and quiet activity of Miss Incledon, and which the night of fruition at last terminated.

All was ready, even the lighting of the rooms, when Mrs. Smith, before commencing her own toilette, entered the apartment of her guest. Miss Incledon, who considered herself past the time of life for other than matronly decorations of the person, was laying out a handsome pelerine, and a tasteful cap, to wear with a rich, dark silk dress.

"My dear Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith, "do help me out of a difficulty; I have no one to remain on duty in the supper-room, and there certainly ought to be some one to sit there and see that nothing is disturbed—for there is a great quantity of silver there, mostly borrowed, and with so many strange servants about, I feel uneasy to leave it a moment."

"Are you not able to get some one for that service?" asked Miss Incledon.

"No, indeed; I thought of Aunt Tomkins, but the truth is, I could not request her to do it without sending invitations to the whole family, which I concluded would not be advisable: there are so many of them, and as they would not be acquainted with the rest of the company, it seemed best not to have any of them. I thought, too, of old Mrs. Joyce, who sometimes does quilting and knitting for me, but she has a large family of grandchildren, some of whom she always drags with her when she goes to where there is any thing good to eat; and it would never do to have them poking their fingers into the refreshments. So it struck me that perhaps you might oblige me. You don't appear to care for parties, and as you would be a stranger in the room, it is not likely you would have much enjoyment. Of course, if I believed you would prefer the trouble of dressing, and taking your chance among the company, I would not ask it of you."

Nothing daunted by the glow of indignation which followed a look of astonishment on the face of Cousin Sabina, she paused for a reply. After a moment's reflection, Miss Incledon answered calmly, "I am your guest, Sarah—dispose of me as you please;" and returning her cap and white gloves to their boxes, she refastened her wrapper to enter upon the office assigned to her.

The party passed off with the crowding, crushing, talking and eating common to parties. The supper was a handsome one—for Mr. Smith wisely decided that if the thing must be done at all, it should be done well—and therefore he had hinted no restrictions to his wife as to the expense. Many "regrets" had been sent in, but still Mrs. Smith was at the post she had coveted for years—that of receiving a fashionable assemblage in her own house; and if her choicest guests courted her notice as little as they would have done any where else, she was too much elated and flustered, and overheated to think about it. One of her principal concerns was to keep her eye on her husband, who, being a shy, timid man, with very little tact, was not much calculated for playing the host on such an occasion. He had, however, been doing better than she expected, when, a little before supper, he wandered through the crowd to where she was standing, for the moment, alone, and asked, "Where is Cousin Sabina?"

"In the supper-room. It is necessary at such times to have some one behind the scenes, and I had to get her to remain in the supper-room, to watch that things went on properly; and, in particular, to see that none of the silver was carried off, nor the refreshments wasted after supper."

Mr. Smith looked disturbed, and exclaimed, rather too loudly, "Is it possible that you could ask a woman like Sabina Incledon to do such a thing! one of my most respectable relations, and a visiter in my house?"

"Don't speak so loudly. I left out all my own relations, and I dare say they would, any of them, have looked as creditably as Sabina Incledon. When we have established our own standing, Mr. Smith, it will be time enough for us to bring out such people as your Cousin Sabina. To be sure, if I had had any one to trust in her place, I should not have objected at all to her coming in."

Mrs. Smith was turning away, when she saw, at her elbow, Mrs. Goldsborough and Miss Pendleton, who must have overheard the conversation. To her it was the mortification of the evening.

The next morning at the breakfast-table Mrs. Smith was too much occupied in descanting upon the events of the night, describing the dresses, and detailing the commendations on different viands of the supper, to notice that Miss Incledon spoke but little, and when she did, with more dignity and gravity than usual. On rising from the table, she unlocked the sideboard, and taking from it a basket of silver, she said, "I would thank you, Cousin Sabina, to assort these forks and spoons for me. It will be something of a task, as they have to go to half a dozen different places. When you have got through I will look over them to see that all is right;" and she was hurrying off to commence some of the multifarious duties of the day.

"Excuse me, Sarah," said Miss Incledon; "I'll expect that a carriage will be here in a few minutes to take me into the country."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, looking disappointed and somewhat displeased; "I thought I should have your assistance in putting away things—I had no idea of your leaving us to-day."

"You may remember my telling you, Cousin Pelby," said Miss Incledon, addressing Mr. Smith, "that I would be but a few days with you. I took advantage of traveling in this direction to renew our old family intercourse; but the principal object of my journey was to visit a very particular friend, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee."

"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee!" said Mrs. Smith—"are you not mistaken, Cousin Sabina? I presume you mean Mrs. Edward Silsbee. Mrs. Morgan Silsbee lives ten or twelve miles out; their place is said to be magnificent, and I know that she and her husband drives a coach-and-four on state occasions. Mrs. Goldsborough made a splendid dinner for them a short time ago. Mrs. Edward Silsbee I have met often; I didn't know that you were acquainted with her."

"I am not acquainted with Mrs. Edward Silsbee," said Miss Incledon, with dignity; "I mean her sister-in-law, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. She is an old friend of mine, and I have been under engagement to her since I met her last summer, at the Springs, to make this visit. I had a note from her last night, written from one of the hotels, saying that she would stop for me this morning at nine or ten o'clock—your party preventing her from calling in person."

Had a halo suddenly appeared around the head of Cousin Sabina, Mrs. Smith could hardly have changed her countenance and manner more markedly. "If I had only known it," she exclaimed, "how gratified I should have been to have had an invitation, with my card, sent to her, and to have had her at my party. But, surely, Cousin Sabina, you will soon return to us?"

"I shall certainly pass through town on my way homeward, but will stop at a boarding-house," said Miss Incledon.

The conscious Mrs. Smith reddened violently, but was relieved by the interruption of a handsome carriage, though not the coach-and-four, stopping before her house. Miss Incledon stepped to the parlor-door, to answer the footman, who inquired for her.

"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee's compliments, ma'am," said the man, "and the carriage is at your service whenever you are ready. We are to take her up at Mrs. Goldsborough's, where she got out to wait for you."

It took but a moment for Cousin Sabina to reappear bonneted and shawled, and to have her baggage put on the carriage. Then kindly bidding Mr. Smith farewell, she gave her hand to his wife, escaping the embrace in preparation for her, and was rapidly driven away.

"You see there are some persons who can appreciate Cousin Sabina," said Mr. Smith; and afraid to wait for a reply, he hastened to his place of business.

"And so Cousin Sabina is the friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the friend of Mrs. Goldsborough!" said Mrs. Smith to herself, while a series of not very satisfactory reflections ran through her mind. But her attention was claimed by other things. What with putting away and distributing the fragments of the feast, washing and sending home table-furniture, gathering up candle ends, and other onerous duties, the day wore on. At last, late in the afternoon, with aching head and wearied limbs, she sat down in her rocking-chair in the dining-room to rest. A ring at the door-bell soon disturbed her. "Say I'm engaged, unless it is some person very particular," said she to the servant.

"It is Miss Debby Coggins, ma'am," said the colored girl, returning, with a grin; "I let her in, because she's very partic'lar."

Miss Deborah Coggins, from being connected in some way or other with each of the great families of the town, and having money enough not to be dependent on any of them, was what is called a privileged character—a class of individuals hard to be endured, unless they possess the specific virtue of good-nature, to which Miss Debby had no claim. She talked without ceasing, and her motto was to speak "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." She was of a thin figure, always dressed in rusty black silk, which must sometimes have been renewed or changed, though no one could ever tell when, and a velvet bonnet, of the same hue, with a peculiar lateral flare, which, however, was really made to look something like new once every three or four years. She wore a demi-wreath of frizzly, flaxen curls close above her shaggy eyebrows, which were of the same color; and her very long, distended nose was always filled with snuff, which assisted in giving a trombone sound to as harsh a voice as ever passed through the lips of a woman.

She had drawn up the blinds, and opened the sash of the windows when Mrs. Smith entered the front parlor. "How're you this evening, Mrs. Smith?" said she, in answer to the bland welcome she received; "I was just telling your black girl that if you ever should happen to have a party again, she should open the rooms and have the air changed better the next day; and as you are not used to such things yourself, I thought I might as well let you know it, too. I raised the windows myself. Now," she added, "the room is too cold to sit in, and I would prefer going to your dining-room, or wherever you were when I came in."

"Certainly, certainly, Miss Debby," said Mrs. Smith, marshaling the way.

"Stop!" said Miss Debby, "I want to take a look at your wall paper—I never noticed it before. I can't say I like your taste; though, no doubt, you took it for the sake of economy—ugly papers sometimes go very cheap."

"You are quite mistaken, I assure you, Miss Debby," began Mrs. Smith, eagerly.

"Well, it's of no consequence," interrupted Miss Debby, "only I heard Matilda Shipley say yesterday, that there would be no use in dressing much for Mrs. Pelby Smith's party, as her low rooms, with their dingy, dirt-colored paper, could never be lighted up to make any one look well."

Mrs. Smith cleared her throat, but said nothing, recollecting by this time that all retort or explanation was lost upon Miss Deborah Coggins. To change the subject she remarked, "How disappointed I was at your not coming last night, my dear Miss Debby—one of the friends I most wished to see."

"I have been rather sorry myself that I did not come, since I heard that the party turned out better than could have been expected. I supposed that there would have been a great many here that I did not know, and that my own set, mostly, would have stayed away, like myself, not caring much to meet them."

"What an idea, Miss Debby! there was scarcely one in the room that you did not know. My company was very select."

"So I was told to-day. Mrs. William Van Pelt said that you had invited every body that would not thank you, and, as she had been told, had left out those that had the best right to expect invitations. I should like to have had a share of the supper," continued Miss Debby. "I heard that you had worried yourself nearly to death preparing it, and that it was really good, considering that you were not used to such things. Young John Pendleton said that it made him some little amends for being forced to go to a place where he made a mistake every time he addressed his entertainers and called them Joneses."

Sorely wincing as Mrs. Smith was, she did not forget Miss Debby's notoriety for following close upon the heels of a party for a share of the good things left. Accordingly, she opened her sideboard, and produced a choice variety of her store.

"I suppose it is too late to get some of the ice cream?" said Miss Debby, losing no time in attacking what was set before her; "you have used it, or let the ice run out, I dare say?—though, now that I think of it, I made up my mind that I would not care to have any of it, for old Mrs. Longacre told me that what she got was bitter, from being made partly of milk, she supposed, that had been burnt in boiling."

This was more than Mrs. Smith could stand. "It is totally erroneous!" she exclaimed; "I used none but the purest cream, and that without boiling; I don't know how the old lady could have made such a mistake, unless it was that she got some of the almond, which, perhaps, had too much of the bitter-almond flavor for her taste."

"Perhaps so; and she said that she did not venture to taste the Charlotte-Russe, fearing it might turn out to be nothing but sponge-cake and custard, without jelly or whipped cream. But if it was all like this, nobody could complain of it;" and, absorbed in the gratification of her palate, Miss Debby gave her auditor a few minutes respite.

"Your party, on the whole, made something of a talk, Mrs. Smith," she resumed.

Mrs. Smith bowed and smiled, taking the observation for a compliment.

"I was out making calls the day the invitations went round. You know making calls is a business with me, when I undertake it. I commence directly after breakfast, and keep on till night, eating my dinner wherever I suppose dinner chances to be ready. Well, the first I heard of your intentions was from Mrs. Harvey, who said she wondered you could think yourself under obligations to give a party to Julia Goldsborough, though, to be sure, like some other of your devices, she supposed that was only a ruse; and she was surprised that the Goldsboroughs were willing to be cat's paws to help you along in 'society.'"

Mrs. Smith's face grew as red as the bon bon paper she was nervously twisting.

"That was to Mrs. Nicolas and me," pursued Miss Debby; "and Mrs. Nicolas wondered how upon earth the Pelby Smiths could afford to give a party at all. She concluded that you would have to live on bacon and potatoes for the remainder of the season, to retrieve the cost, and would have to turn that changeable silk of yours the third time."

"Oh, I don't mind what people say," observed Mrs. Smith, with a distorted smile.

"I know you don't, or, at least, that you don't resent any thing toward persons of such standing as those two, or I would not have repeated the conversation. But, is it true, that you had some trouble to get the party out of your husband?"

"Mr. Smith and I always act in concert," said Mrs. Smith, looking dutiful.

"Do you? well, that's a happy thing. I understood quite the contrary, though, that you always carried the day, from what Mrs. Joe Culpepper said. I was at her house when your invitation came in, and after she had opened it, she exclaimed, with her sly laugh, 'Only think, Miss Debby, that manoeuvring, pushing Mrs. Pelby Smith has at last worried her poor husband into giving a party!' and from the way she pitied Mr. Smith, I inferred she must have some reason to believe that if you did not wield a pretty high hand, he would not be quite such a man of wax as he seems."

Had Miss Debby been any thing less than a relation in common to the "Goldsboroughs, the Pendletons, the Longacres, and the Van Pelts," Mrs. Smith would have been tempted to request her to leave the house; but as it was, her policy taught her to endure whatever Miss Debby might choose to inflict. So she leaned back hopelessly in her chair, while the old lady snapped and cracked a plate of candied fruits with a vigor of which her teeth looked incapable.

"Had you any of your borrowed things broken?—for I heard that you had to borrow nearly every thing," resumed her torturer.

"Not any thing at all but two or three plates, which can easily be replaced," replied Mrs. Smith, not knowing what next to expect on that point. But Miss Debby tacked about.

"I believe," said she, "you had a visiter staying with you for a few days?"

"Yes—a cousin of Mr. Smith's—Miss Sabina Incledon—"

"That's the name," interrupted Miss Debby, nodding; "the person that went out home with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, this morning, I presume?"

"The same," replied Mrs. Smith, feeling her consequence looking up; "Cousin Sabina is a very particular friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, who for a long time had been soliciting the visit."

"Then, surely, she could not have been the person you set to watching the kitchen and supper-room! Susan Goldsborough and Lydia Pendleton were talking about it, and repeating to each other what they overheard of a conversation between yourself and your husband, who seemed greatly shocked that you had done it. Susan Goldsborough remarked that if she had known that you had so little sense as to undervalue such a woman in that way, or so little feeling and good-breeding as to violate the laws of common hospitality and politeness so grossly, she would assuredly have declined the party for Julia when you proposed it to her."

Mrs. Smith had grown quite pale, and could only answer tremulously, "What a misconstruction!—dear me—it was Cousin Sabina's wish—how strange a mistake."

"It certainly is strange if they were so mistaken, and stranger still that a woman of so much dignity, and so accustomed to society as Miss Incledon, should have preferred watching your servants to taking her proper place among your guests. I thought to myself whilst they were talking, that it seemed hardly consistent with your usual way of doing things, to put upon such duty a person who in all probability would soon be Mrs. Colonel Raynor, and the aunt of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. I shouldn't wonder if the match came off in a month."

"Cousin Sabina likely to be married in a month!—and to Colonel Raynor!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, startled out of her usual tact, and her lips growing yet bluer.

"Bless me! didn't you know the story?" said Miss Debby, in her turn looking surprised; "they met last summer at the Springs, and the colonel was so pleased with her unpretending good sense, excellent principles, and superior mental cultivation, that he proposed to her before she went away. She deferred her answer until she and his children should have become acquainted. You know he is a widower with three daughters—two of them married. She has been in correspondence ever since with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the colonel's niece, who has been trying to make the match, and who, that her cousins may meet her, has insisted upon the present visit. They are lovely young women, the daughters, whom she cannot fail to like, and as they know how to appreciate such a woman as Miss Incledon, there is no doubt of the marriage taking place. It will be a great thing for you, Mrs. Smith; the connection will do more for you than a dozen parties. And such a charming place as you will have to visit! The colonel lives like a prince, and at only a few hours' drive from here. You can go there in the summer with your children, and meet a constant run of company more choice than at a watering-place, and all without any expense. When your cousin comes back to town, be sure to let me know, that I may call upon her. Susan Goldsborough is fretted enough that she was not apprised of her being here, and so are some of the Longacres; they blame you with it all."

Mrs. Smith did not attempt to reply, and Miss Debby rose to go.

"It is getting late," said she, "and I must walk. If you have no objection I will take those slices of fruit and almond cake, and a paper of candied fruit and bon bons with me—and perhaps you can spare some more Malaga grapes—or could you send them home for me by one of your servants? I should like to stop at Susan Goldsborough's to tell her that you knew nothing about the good fortune in prospect for your cousin, and it is probable she will wish me to stay for tea."

Mrs. Smith restrained herself until she had escorted her visiter to the door, and then returning to her rocking-chair, she indulged in a fit of weeping that looked very much like hysterics. Her most prominent thought was, "If I had only given the party to Cousin Sabina!"

This she had ample opportunity to reiterate—for time proved to her that the prime object of her grand effort had failed—those who comprised her select party never including her in any of theirs. More particularly did it recur to her, when, some months afterward, Mrs. Colonel Raynor, though she sometimes stopped to exchange a few kindly words with Mr. Smith at his place of business, evaded every invitation to his dwelling, while she went the rounds of sumptuous feting among the Goldsboroughs, Pendletons, Longacres & Co.



SPIRIT-VOICES.

BY CHARLES W. BAIRD.

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice, As in morning's hour it stole Speaking to thee from the home of its choice, Deep in the unfathomed soul: Telling of things that the ear hath not heard, Neither the mind conceived; Bringing a balm in each gentle word Unto the heart bereaved?"

O, I have heard it in days of the spring, When gladness and joy were rife. 'Twas a voice of hope, that came whispering Its story of strength and life. It told me that seasons of vigor and mirth Follow the night of pain; And the heaven-born soul, like the flowers of earth, Withers, to live again!

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice, At the sunny hour of noon; Bidding the soul in its light rejoice, For the darkness cometh soon; Telling of blossoms that early bloom And as early pine and fade; And the bright hopes that must find a tomb In the dark, approaching shade?"

Yes, I have heard it in summer's hour, When the year was in its strength: 'T was a voice of faith, and it spoke with power Of joys that shall come at length. It told how the holy and beautiful gain Fruition of peace and love; And the blest ones, freed from this world of pain, Flourish and ripen above.

"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice, At the solemn noon of night, When the fair visions of memory rise Robed in their fancied light. When the loved forms that are cold and dead Pass in their train sad and slow; And the waking soul, from its pleasures fled, Turns to its present wo?"

Oft have I heard it when day was o'er; And the welcome tones I knew: Like the voices of those who have gone before, The Beautiful and the True. And it turned my thoughts to that blissful time When ceaseth cold winter's breath; When the free spirit shall seek that clime Where there is no more death.



THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "PILOT," "RED ROVER," "TWO ADMIRALS," "WING-AND-WING," "MILES WALLINGFORD," ETC

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(Concluded from page 98.)

PART XVII.

The trusting heart's repose, the paradise Of home, with all its loves, doth fate allow The crown of glory unto woman's brow. MRS. HEMANS.

It has again become necessary to advance the time; and we shall take the occasion thus offered to make a few explanations touching certain events which have been passed over without notice.

The reason why Capt. Mull did not chase the yawl of the brig in the Poughkeepsie herself, was the necessity of waiting for his own boats that were endeavoring to regain the sloop-of-war. It would not have done to abandon them, inasmuch as the men were so much exhausted by the pull to windward, that when they reached the vessel all were relieved from duty for the rest of the day. As soon, however, as the other boats were hoisted in, or run up, the ship filled away, stood out of the passage and ran down to join the cutter of Wallace, which was endeavoring to keep its position, as much as possible, by making short tacks under close-reefed luggs.

Spike had been received on board the sloop-of-war, sent into her sick bay, and put under the care of the surgeon and his assistants. From the first, these gentlemen pronounced the hurt mortal. The wounded man was insensible most of the time, until the ship had beat up and gone into Key West, where he was transferred to the regular hospital, as has already been mentioned.

The wreckers went out the moment the news of the calamity of the Swash reached their ears. Some went in quest of the doubloons of the schooner, and others to pick up any thing valuable that might be discovered in the neighborhood of the stranded brig. It may be mentioned here, that not much was ever obtained from the brigantine, with the exception of a few spars, the sails, and a little rigging; but, in the end, the schooner was raised, by means of the chain Spike had placed around her, the cabin was ransacked, and the doubloons were recovered. As there was no one to claim the money, it was quietly divided among the conscientious citizens present at its revisiting "the glimpses of the moon," making gold plenty.

The doubloons in the yawl would have been lost but for the sagacity of Mulford. He too well knew the character of Spike to believe he would quit the brig without taking the doubloons with him. Acquainted with the boat, he examined the little locker in the stern-sheets, and found the two bags, one of which was probably the lawful property of Capt. Spike, while the other, in truth, belonged to the Mexican government. The last contained the most gold, but the first amounted to a sum that our young mate knew to be very considerable. Rose had made him acquainted with the sex of Jack Tier since their own marriage; and he at once saw that the claims to the gold in question, of this uncouth wife, who was so soon to be a widow, might prove to be as good in law, as they unquestionably were in morals. On representing the facts of the case to Capt. Mull and the legal functionaries at Key West, it was determined to relinquish this money to the heirs of Spike, as, indeed, they must have done under process, there being no other claimant. These doubloons, however, did not amount to the full price of the flour and powder that composed the cargo of the Swash. The cargo had been purchased with Mexican funds; and all that Spike or his heirs could claim, was the high freight for which he had undertaken the delicate office of transporting those forbidden articles, contraband of war, to the Dry Tortugas.

Mulford by this time was high in the confidence and esteem of all on board the Poughkeepsie. He had frankly explained his whole connection with Spike, not even attempting to conceal the reluctance he had felt to betray the brig after he had fully ascertained the fact of his commander's treason. The manly gentlemen with whom he was now brought in contact entered into his feelings, and admitted that it was an office no one could desire, to turn against the craft in which he sailed. It is true, they could not and would not be traitors, but Mulford had stopped far short of this; and the distinction between such a character and that of an informer was wide enough to satisfy all their scruples.

Then Rose had the greatest success with the gentlemen of the Poughkeepsie. Her youth, beauty, and modesty, told largely in her favor; and the simple, womanly affection she unconsciously betrayed in behalf of Harry, touched the heart of every observer. When the intelligence of her aunt's fate reached her, the sorrow she manifested was so profound and natural, that every one sympathized with her grief. Nor would she be satisfied unless Mulford would consent to go in search of the bodies. The latter knew the hopelessness of such an excursion, but he could not refuse to comply. He was absent on that melancholy duty, therefore, at the moment of the scene related in our last chapter, and did not return until after that which we are now about to lay before the reader. Mrs. Budd, Biddy, and all of those who perished after the yawl got clear of the reef, were drowned in deep water, and no more was ever seen of any of them; or, if wreckers did pass them, they did not stop to bury the dead. It was different, however, with those who were first sacrificed to Spike's selfishness. They were drowned on the reef, and Harry did actually recover the bodies of the Senor Montefalderon, and of Josh, the steward. They had washed upon a rock that is bare at low water. He took them both to the Dry Tortugas, and had them interred along with the other dead at that place. Don Juan was placed side by side with his unfortunate country-man, the master of his equally unfortunate schooner.

While Harry was absent and thus employed, Rose wept much and prayed more. She would have felt herself almost alone in the world, but for the youth to whom she had so recently, less than a week before, plighted her faith in wedlock. That new tie, it is true, was of sufficient importance to counteract many of the ordinary feelings of her situation; and she now turned to it as the one which absorbed most of the future duties of her life. Still she missed the kindness, the solicitude, even the weaknesses of her aunt; and the terrible manner in which Mrs. Budd had perished, made her shudder with horror whenever she thought of it. Poor Biddy, too, came in for her share of the regrets. This faithful creature, who had been in the relict's service ever since Rose's infancy, had become endeared to her, in spite of her uncouth manners and confused ideas, by the warmth of her heart, and the singular truth of her feelings. Biddy, of all her family, had come alone to America, leaving behind her not only brothers and sisters, but parents living. Each year did she remit to the last a moiety of her earnings, and many a half-dollar that had come from Rose's pretty little hand, had been converted into gold, and forwarded on the same pious errand to the green island of her nativity. Ireland, unhappy country! at this moment what are not the dire necessities of thy poor! Here, from the midst of abundance, in a land that God has blessed in its productions far beyond the limits of human wants, a land in which famine was never known, do we at this moment hear thy groans, and listen to tales of suffering that to us seem almost incredible. In the midst of these chilling narratives, our eyes fall on an appeal to the English nation, that appears in what it is the fashion of some to term the first journal of Europe(!) in behalf of thy suffering people. A worthy appeal to the charity of England seldom fails; but it seems to us that one sentiment of this might have been altered, if not spared. The English are asked to be "forgetful of the past," and to come forward to the relief of their suffering fellow-subjects. We should have written "mindful of the past," in its stead. We say this in charity, as well as in truth. We come of English blood, and if we claim to share in all the ancient renown of that warlike and enlightened people, we are equally bound to share in the reproaches that original misgovernment has inflicted on thee. In this latter sense, then, thou hast a right to our sympathies, and they are not withheld.

As has been already said, we now advance the time eight-and-forty hours, and again transfer the scene to that room in the hospital which was occupied by Spike. The approaches of death, during the interval just named, had been slow but certain. The surgeons had announced that the wounded man could not possibly survive the coming night; and he himself had been made sensible that his end was near. It is scarcely necessary to add that Stephen Spike, conscious of his vigor and strength, in command of his brig, and bent on the pursuits of worldly gains, or of personal gratification, was a very different person from him who now lay stretched on his pallet in the hospital of Key West, a dying man. By the side of his bed still sat his strange nurse, less peculiar in appearance, however, than when last seen by the reader.

Rose Budd had been ministering to the ungainly externals of Jack Tier. She now wore a cap, thus concealing the short, gray bristles of hair, and lending to her countenance a little of that softness which is a requisite of female character. Some attention had also been paid to the rest of her attire; and Jack was, altogether, less repulsive in her exterior than when, unaided, she had attempted to resume the proper garb of her sex. Use and association, too, had contributed a little to revive her woman's nature, if we may so express it, and she had begun, in particular, to feel the sort of interest in her patient which we all come in time to entertain toward any object of our especial care. We do not mean that Jack had absolutely ever ceased to love her husband; strange as it may seem, such had not literally been the case; on the contrary, her interest in him and in his welfare had never ceased, even while she saw his vices and detested his crimes; but all we wish to say here is, that she was getting, in addition to the long-enduring feelings of a wife, some of the interest of a nurse.

During the whole time which had elapsed between Jack's revealing her true character, and the moment of which we are now writing, Spike had not once spoken to his wife. Often had she caught his eyes intently riveted on her, when he would turn them away, as she feared, in distaste; and once or twice he groaned deeply, more like a man who suffered mental than bodily pain. Still the patient did not speak once in all the time mentioned. We should be representing poor Jack as possessing more philosophy, or less feeling, than the truth would warrant, were we to say she was not hurt at this conduct in her husband. On the contrary, she felt it deeply; and more than once it had so far subdued her pride, as to cause her bitterly to weep. This shedding of tears, however, was of service to Jack in one sense, for it had the effect of renewing old impressions, and in a certain way, of reviving the nature of her sex within her—a nature which had been sadly weakened by her past life.

But the hour had at length come when this long and painful silence was to be broken. Jack and Rose were alone with the patient, when the last again spoke to his wife.

"Molly—poor Molly!" said the dying man, his voice continuing full and deep to the last, "what a sad time you must have had of it after I did you that wrong!"

"It is hard upon a woman, Stephen, to turn her out, helpless, on a cold and selfish world," answered Jack, simply, much too honest to affect reserve she did not feel.

"It was hard, indeed; may God forgive me for it, as I hope you do, Molly."

No answer was made to this appeal; and the invalid looked anxiously at his wife. The last sat at her work, which had now got to be less awkward to her, with her eyes bent on her needle, and her countenance rigid, and, so far as the eye could discern, her feelings unmoved.

"Your husband speaks to you, Jack Tier," said Rose, pointedly.

"May yours never have occasion to speak to you, Rose Budd, in the same way," was the solemn answer. "I do not flatter myself that I ever was as comely as you, or that yonder poor dying wretch was a Harry Mulford in his youth; but we were young and happy, and respected once, and loved each other; yet you see what its all come to!"

Rose was silenced, though she had too much tenderness in behalf of her own youthful and manly bridegroom to dread a fate similar to that which had overtaken poor Jack. Spike now seemed disposed to say something, and she went to the side of his bed, followed by her companion, who kept a little in the back-ground, as if unwilling to let the emotion she really felt be seen, and, perhaps, conscious that her ungainly appearance did not aid her in recovering the lost affections of her husband.

"I have been a very wicked man, I fear," said Spike, earnestly.

"There are none without sin," answered Rose. "Place your reliance on the mediation of the Son of God, and sins even far deeper than yours may be pardoned."

The captain stared at the beautiful speaker, but self-indulgence, the incessant pursuit of worldly and selfish objects for forty years, and the habits of a life into which the thought of God and the dread hereafter never entered, had encased his spiritual being in a sort of brazen armor, through which no ordinary blow of conscience could penetrate. Still he had fearful glimpses of recent events, and his soul, hanging as it was over the abyss of eternity, was troubled.

"What has become of your aunt?" half whispered Spike—"my old captain's widow. She ought to be here; and Don Wan Montezuma—where is he?"

Rose turned aside to conceal her tears—but no one answered the questions of the dying man. Then a gleaming of childhood shot into the recollection of Spike, and, clasping his hands, he tried to pray. But, like others who have lived without any communication with their Creator through long lives of apathy to his existence and laws, thinking only of the present time, and daily, hourly sacrificing principles and duty to the narrow interests of the moment, he now found how hard it is to renew communications with a being who has been so long neglected. The fault lay in himself, however, for a gracious ear was open, even over the death-bed of Stephen Spike, could that rude spirit only bring itself to ask for mercy in earnestness and truth. As his companions saw his struggles, they left him for a few minutes to his own thoughts.

"Molly," Spike at length uttered, in a faint tone, the voice of one conscious of being very near his end, "I hope you will forgive me, Molly. I know you must have had a hard, hard time of it."

"It is hard for a woman to unsex herself, Stephen; to throw off her very natur', as it might be, and to turn man."

"It has changed you sadly—even your speech is altered. Once your voice was soft and womanish—more like that of Rose Budd's than it is now."

"I speak as them speak among whom I've been forced to live. The forecastle and steward's pantry, Stephen Spike, are poor schools to send women to l'arn language in."

"Try and forget it all, poor Molly! Say to me, so that I can hear you, 'I forget and forgive, Stephen.' I am afraid God will not pardon my sins, which begin to seem dreadful to me, if my own wife refuse to forget and forgive, on my dying bed."

Jack was much mollified by this appeal. Her interest in her offending husband had never been entirely extinguished. She had remembered him, and often with woman's kindness, in all her wanderings and sufferings, as the preceding parts of our narrative must show; and though resentment had been mingled with the grief and mortification she felt at finding how much he still submitted to Rose's superior charms, in a breast as really generous and humane as that of Jack Tier's, such a feeling was not likely to endure in the midst of a scene like that she was now called to witness. The muscles of her countenance twitched, the hard-looking, tanned face began to lose its sternness, and every way she appeared like one profoundly disturbed.

"Turn to Him whose goodness and marcy may sarve you, Stephen," she said, in a milder and more feminine tone than she had used now for years, making her more like herself than either her husband or Rose had seen her since the commencement of the late voyage; "my sayin' that I forget and forgive cannot help a man on his death-bed."

"It will settle my mind, Molly, and leave me freer to turn my thoughts to God."

Jack was much affected; more by the countenance and manner of the sufferer, perhaps, than by his words. She drew nearer to the side of her husband's pallet, knelt, took his hands, and said solemnly,

"Stephen Spike, from the bottom of my heart, I do forgive you; and I shall pray to God that he will pardon your sins as freely and more marcifully than I now pardon all, and try to forget all that you have done to me."

Spike clasped his hands, and again he tried to pray; but the habits of a whole life are not to be thrown off at will; and he who endeavors to regain, in his extremity, the moments that have been lost, will find, in bitter reality, that he has been heaping mountains on his own soul, by the mere practice of sin, which were never laid there by the original fall of his race. Jack, however, had disburthened her spirit of a load that had long oppressed it, and, burying her face in the rug, she wept.

"I wish, Molly," said the dying man, several minutes later, "I wish I had never seen the brig. Until I got that craft, no thought of wronging human being ever crossed my mind."

"It was the Father of Lies that tempts all to do evil, Stephen, and not the brig which caused the sins."

"I wish I could live a year longer—only one year; that is not much to ask for a man who is not yet sixty."

"It is hopeless, poor Stephen. The surgeons say you cannot live one day."

Spike groaned; for the past, blended fearfully with the future, gleamed on his conscience with a brightness that appalled him. And what is that future, which is to make us happy or miserable through an endless vista of time? Is it not composed of an existence, in which conscience, released from the delusions and weaknesses of the body, sees all in its true colors, appreciates all, and punishes all? Such an existence would make every man the keeper of the record of his own transgressions, even to the most minute exactness. It would of itself mete out perfect justice, since the sin would be seen amid its accompanying facts, every aggravating or extenuating circumstance. Each man would be strictly punished according to his talents. As no one is without sin, it makes the necessity of an atonement indispensable, and, in its most rigid interpretation, it exhibits the truth of the scheme of salvation in the clearest colors. The soul, or conscience, that can admit the necessary degree of faith in that atonement, and in admitting, feels its efficacy, throws the burthen of its own transgressions away, and remains forever in the condition of its original existence, pure, and consequently happy.

We do not presume to lay down a creed on this mighty and mysterious matter, in which all have so deep an interest, and concerning which so very small a portion of the human race think much, or think with any clearness when it does become the subject of their passing thoughts at all. We too well know our own ignorance to venture on dogmas which it has probably been intended that the mind of man should not yet grapple with and comprehend. To return to our subject.

Stephen Spike was now made to feel the incubus-load, which perseverance in sin heaps on the breast of the reckless offender. What was the most grievous of all, his power to shake off this dead weight was diminished in precisely the same proportion as the burthen was increased, the moral force of every man lessening in a very just ratio to the magnitude of his delinquencies. Bitterly did this deep offender struggle with his conscience, and little did his half-unsexed wife know how to console or aid him. Jack had been superficially instructed in the dogmas of her faith, in childhood and youth, as most persons are instructed in what are termed Christian communities—had been made to learn the Catechism, the Lord's Prayer, and the Creed—and had been left to set up for herself on this small capital, in the great concern of human existence, on her marriage and entrance on the active business of life. When the manner in which she had passed the last twenty years is remembered, no one can be surprised to learn that Jack was of little assistance to her husband in his extremity. Rose made an effort to administer hope and consolation, but the terrible nature of the struggle she witnessed, induced her to send for the chaplain of the Poughkeepsie. This divine prayed with the dying man; but even he, in the last moments of the sufferer, was little more than a passive but shocked witness of remorse, suspended over the abyss of eternity in hopeless dread. We shall not enter into the details of the revolting scene, but simply add that curses, blasphemy, tremulous cries for mercy, agonized entreaties to be advised, and sullen defiance, were all strangely and fearfully blended. In the midst of one of these revolting paroxysms Spike breathed his last. A few hours later his body was interred in the sands of the shore. It may be well to say in this place, that the hurricane of 1846, which is known to have occurred only a few months later, swept off the frail covering and that the body was washed away to leave its bones among the wrecks and relics of the Florida Reef.

Mulford did not return from his fruitless expedition in quest of the remains of Mrs. Budd, until after the death and interment of Spike. As nothing remained to be done at Key West, he and Rose accompanied by Jack Tier, took passage for Charleston in the first convenient vessel that offered. Two days before they sailed, the Poughkeepsie went out to cruise in the gulf, agreeably to her general orders. The evening previously Capt. Mull, Wallace, and the chaplain, passed with the bridegroom and bride, when the matter of the doubloons found in the boat was discussed. It was agreed that Jack Tier should have them; and into her hands the bag was now placed. On this occasion, to oblige the officers, Jack went into a narrative of all she had seen and suffered, from the moment when abandoned by her late husband down to that when she found him again. It was a strange account, and one filled with surprising adventures. In most of the vessels in which she had served, Jack had acted in the steward's department, though she had frequently done duty as a fore-mast hand. In strength and skill she admitted that she had often failed; but in courage, never. Having been given reason to think her husband was reduced to serving in a vessel of war, she had shipped on board a frigate bound to the Mediterranean, and had actually made a whole cruise as a ward-room boy on that station. While thus employed she had met with two of the gentlemen present; Capt. Mull and Mr. Wallace. The former was then first lieutenant of the frigate, and the latter a passed-midshipman; and in these capacities both had been well known to her. As the name she then bore was the same as that under which she now "hailed," these officers were soon made to recollect her, though Jack was no longer the light, trim-built lad he had then appeared to be. Neither of the gentlemen named had made the whole cruise in the ship, but each had been promoted and transferred to another craft, after being Jack's shipmate rather more than a year. This information greatly facilitated the affair of the doubloons.

From Charleston the travelers came north by railroad. Harry made several stops by the way, in order to divert the thoughts of his beautiful young bride from dwelling too much on the fate of her aunt. He knew that home would revive all these recollections painfully, and wished to put off the hour of their return, until time had a little weakened Rose's regrets. For this reason, he passed a whole week in Washington, though it was a season of the year that the place is not in much request. Still, Washington is scarce a town, at any season. It is much the fashion to deride the American capital, and to treat it as a place of very humble performance with very sounding pretensions. Certainly, Washington has very few of the peculiarities of a great European capital, but few as these are, they are more than belong to any other place in this country. We now allude to the distinctive characteristics of a capital, and not to a mere concentration of houses and shops within a given space. In this last respect, Washington is much behind fifty other American towns, even while it is the only place in the whole republic which possesses specimens of architecture, on a scale approaching that of the higher classes of the edifices of the old world. It is totally deficient in churches, and theatres, and markets; or those it does possess are, in an architectural sense, not at all above the level of village or country-town pretensions, but one or two of its national edifices do approach the magnificence and grandeur of the old world. The new Treasury Buildings are unquestionably, on the score of size, embellishments and finish, the American edifice that comes nearest to first class architecture on the other side of the Atlantic. The Capitol comes next, though it can scarce be ranked, relatively, as high. As for the White House, it is every way sufficient for its purposes and the institutions; and now that its grounds are finished, and the shrubbery and trees begin to tell, one sees about it something that is not unworthy of its high uses and origin. Those grounds, which so long lay a reproach to the national taste and liberality, are now fast becoming beautiful, are already exceedingly pretty, and give to a structure that is destined to become historical, having already associated with it the names of Jefferson, Madison, Jackson, and Quincy Adams, together with the ci polloi of the later Presidents, an entourage that is suitable to its past recollections and its present purposes. They are not quite on a level with the parks of London, it is true; or even with the Tuileries, or Luxembourg, or the Boboli, or the Villa Reale, or fifty more grounds and gardens, of a similar nature, that might be mentioned; but, seen in the spring and early summer, they adorn the building they surround, and lend to the whole neighborhood a character of high civilization, that no other place in America can show, in precisely the same form, or to the same extent.

This much have we said on the subject of the White House and its precincts, because we took occasion, in a former work, to berate the narrow-minded parsimony which left the grounds of the White House in a condition that was discreditable to the republic. How far our philippic may have hastened the improvements which have been made, is more than we shall pretend to say, but having made the former strictures, we are happy to have an occasion to say (though nearly twenty years have intervened between the expressions of the two opinions) that they are no longer merited.

And here we will add another word, and that on a subject that is not sufficiently pressed on the attention of a people, who, by position, are unavoidably provincial. We invite those whose gorges rise at any stricture on any thing American, and who fancy it is enough to belong to the great republic to be great in itself, to place themselves in front of the State Department, as it now stands, and to examine its dimensions, material and form with critical eyes; then to look along the adjacent Treasury Buildings, to fancy them completed, by a junction with new edifices of a similar construction to contain the department of state; next to fancy similar works completed for the two opposite departments; after which, to compare the past and present with the future as thus finished, and remember how recent has been the partial improvement which even now exists. If this examination and comparison do not show, directly to the sense of sight, how much there was and is to criticise, as put in contrast with other countries, we shall give up the individuals in question, as too deeply dyed in the provincial wool ever to be whitened. The present Trinity church, New York, certainly not more than a third class European church, if as much, compared with its village-like predecessor, may supply a practical homily of the same degree of usefulness. There may be those among us, however, who fancy it patriotism to maintain that the old Treasury Buildings were quite equal to the new, and of these intense Americans we cry their mercy!

Rose felt keenly on reaching her late aunt's very neat dwelling in Fourteenth Street, New York. But the manly tenderness of Mulford was a great support to her, and a little time brought her to think of that weak-minded, but well-meaning and affectionate relative, with gentle regret, rather than with grief. Among the connections of her young husband, she found several females of a class in life certainly equal to her own, and somewhat superior to the latter in education and habits. As for Harry, he very gladly passed the season with his beautiful bride, though a fine ship was laid down for him, by means of Rose's fortune, now much increased by her aunt's death, and he was absent in Europe when his son was born; an event that occurred only two months since.

The Swash, and the shipment of gunpowder, were thought of no more in the good town of Manhattan. This great emporium—we beg pardon, this great commercial emporium—has a trick of forgetting; condensing all interests into those of the present moment. It is much addicted to believing that which never had an existence, and of overlooking that which is occurring directly under its nose. So marked is this tendency to forgetfulness, we should not be surprised to hear some of the Manhattanese pretend that our legend is nothing but a fiction, and deny the existence of the Molly, Capt. Spike, and even of Biddy Noon. But we know them too well to mind what they say, and shall go on and finish our narrative in our own way, just as if there were no such raven-throated commentators at all.

Jack Tier, still known by that name, lives in the family of Capt. Mulford. She is fast losing the tan on her face and hands, and every day is improving in appearance. She now habitually wears her proper attire, and is dropping gradually into the feelings and habits of her sex. She never can become what she once was, any more than the blackamoor can become white, or the leopard change his spots; but she is no longer revolting. She has left off chewing and smoking, having found a refuge in snuff. Her hair is permitted to grow, and is already turned up with a comb, though constantly concealed beneath a cap. The heart of Jack, alone, seems unaltered. The strange, tiger-like affection that she bore for Spike, during twenty years of abandonment, has disappeared in regrets for his end. It is succeeded by a most sincere attachment for Rose, in which the little boy, since his appearance on the scene, is becoming a large participator. This child Jack is beginning to love intensely; and the doubloons, well invested, placing her above the feeling of dependence, she is likely to end her life, once so errant and disturbed, in tranquillity and a home-like happiness.



THE BELLE.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

She stands before the mirror—she is fair, And soft the light within her beaming eyes, But unshed tears are slowly gathering there, Like passing clouds that float o'er summer skies; Her cheek is wan, as blanched by thoughts of pain, And on her snowy brow a shadow sleeps: Are such surpassing gifts bestowed in vain?— The pale, sad beauty turns aside and weeps!

Long, long in anguish flows the burning tide— Dark storms of feeling sweep across her breast— In loneliness there needs no mask of pride— To nerve the soul, and veil the heart's unrest, Amid the crowd her glances brightly beam, Her smiles with undimmed lustre sweetly shine: The haunting visions of life's fevered dream The cold and careless seek not to divine.

Night after night unheeded glides away 'Mid mirth and music, flattery's whispered tone, Her dreary penance—ever to be gay, Yet longing, oh! how oft—to be alone; But when all other hearts seek needful rest, And heavy sleep the saddest eyelids close, Her dreams are those the wretched only know, As memory o'er her soul its shadow's throw.

Friends that had shared her girlhood's happier day, And forms now mingling with the dust arise, The early loved recalled with pensive tears, Though once in pride half scorned and lightly prized; Fair pictured scenes long vanished from her sight, Soft tones of songs and voices loved of yore. And words of tenderness and looks of light, And fresh young hopes that bloom for her no more.

But this one hour has crowned in deep despair The many sorrows of life's galling chain, Yet mid those sighs that rend her aching soul The heart's wild struggle is not felt in vain, For she has turned to Him whose smile can cheer The darkened mind and hopes lost light reveal, And learns to feel 'mid trembling doubt and fear— That HE whose power can wound is strong to heal.

While loftier thoughts to nobler purpose given Than those long wasted amid fashion's glare, And deep resolves the future shall be fraught With holy deeds, her earnest musings share— Though in the dance her step no more may glide, The glittering circle miss its chosen queen, Around the vacant place a closing tide Will leave no record where her form was seen.

But where the widow's tear-drop may be dried, And where the orphan wanders sad and lone, Where poverty its grieving head may hide, Will breathe the music of her voice's tone; And if her face was blest with beauty rare 'Mid gilded sighs and worldly vanity, When heavenly peace has left its impress there Its loveliness from earthly stain is free.



LE PETIT SOULIER.

A STORY: IN TWO PARTS.

BY IK. MARVEL.

PART I.

I have said that the Abbe G—— had a room in some dark corner of a hotel in the Rue de Seine, or Rue de la Harpe—which of the two it was I really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and the street out of which I used to step into its ill-paved, triangular court, was very narrow, and very dirty.

At the end of the court, farthest from the heavy gateway, was the box of the concierge, who was a brisk little shoemaker, forever bethwacking his lap-stone. If I remember right, the hammer of the little cordonnier made the only sound I used to hear in the court; for though the house was full of lodgers, I never saw two of them together, and never heard them talking across the court from the upper windows, even in mid-summer.

At this distance of time, I do not think it would be possible for me to describe accurately all the windings of the corridor which led to the abbe's door. I remember that the first part was damp and low, and after it I used to mount a crazy stone staircase, and at the top passed through a passage that opened on one side upon a narrow court; then there was a little wicket of iron, which, when it turned, tinkled a bell. Sometimes the abbe would hear the bell, and open his door down at the end of the corridor; and sometimes a lodger, who occupied a room looking into the last-mentioned court, would draw, slyly, a corner of his curtain, and peep out, to see who was passing. Sometimes I would loiter myself to look down upon the lower windows in the court, or to glance up at story resting above story, and at the peaked roof, and dot of a loop-hole at the top.

A single small door opened into the court, and occasionally an old woman, or bustling, shabbily-dressed man would shuffle across the pavement; the faces at the windows seemed altogether sordid and every-day faces, so that I came to regard the quarters of the abbe, notwithstanding the quaint-fashioned windows and dim stairway, and suspicious quiet, a very matter of fact, and so, very uninteresting neighborhood.

As the abbe and myself passed out sometimes together through the open-sided corridor, I would point into the court, and ask who lived in the little room at the top.

"Ah, mon cher, I do not know," the abbe would say.

Or, "who lives in the corner, with the queer narrow window and the striped curtain?"

"I cannot tell you, mon cher."

Or, "whose is the little window with so many broken panes, and an old placard pinned against the frame?"

"Ah, who knows! perhaps a chiffonier, or a shopman, or perhaps—" and the abbe lifted his finger, and shook his head expressively, and continued,

"It is a strange world we live in, mon ami."

What could the abbe mean? I looked up at the window again; it was small, and the panes were set in rough metal casing; it was high up on the fourth or fifth floor. I could see nothing through but the dirty yellow placard.

"Is it in the same hotel with you?" said I.

"Ma foi, I do not know."

I tried to picture satisfactorily to my own mind the appearance of the chamber to which the little window belonged. Small it must be, I knew, for in that quarter few were large even upon the first floor, and looking upon the street. Dirty, too, it should surely be, and comfortless, and tenanted by misery, or poverty, or sin, or, very likely, all together. Possibly some miserly old wretch lived there, needing only a little light to count up his hoard, and caring little for any intrusive wind, if it did not blow away his treasure. I fancied I could see him running over the tale of his coin by a feeble rushlight—squat, perhaps, on the dirty tile-floor—then locking his box, and placing it carefully under the pillow of his straw pallet, then tip-toeing to the door to examine again the fastening, then carefully extinguishing the taper, and after, dropping into an anxious, fevered sleep.

I even lingered very late at the abbe's room, to see if I could detect the old man; but there was never any light to be seen.

Perhaps it was the home of some poor gentleman who had seen better days, and whom necessity obliged to deny himself the poor luxury of a centime light. Possibly it was a little shopman, as the abbe had suggested, struggling with fortune—not scrupulous in honesty, and shunning observation; or it might be (who could tell) a sleek-faced villain, stealing about in the dusk, and far into the night, making the dim chamber his home only when more honest lodgers were astir in the city.

All sorts of conjectures came thronging on me, and I cast my eyes up, day after day, at the little window, hoping some change of appearance might give plausibility to some one of my fancies.

Week after week, however, the corridor wore its old quietude; the striped curtain in the wing window, and the yellow placard in the suspicious window at the top, still kept their places with provoking tenacity; and I could never, with all my art, seduce the good-natured abbe into any bugbear story about the occupant of the dim chamber on the court.

I dare say I might soon have neglected to look up at all, had I not observed one day, after my glances had grown very careless, and almost involuntary, a rich lace veil hanging against the same little window where had hung the placard. There was no mistaking it—the veil was of the richest Mechlin lace. I knew very well that no lady of elegance could occupy such apartment, or, indeed, was to be found (I mean no disrespect to the abbe) in that quarter of Paris. The window plainly belonged to some thievish den, and the lace formed a portion of the spoils. I began to be distrustful of late visits to the abbe's quarters, and full of the notion of thievish eyes looking out from the strange window—I used half to tremble as I passed along the corridor. I told the abbe of the veil, and hinted my suspicions.