We were all sleepy and stupid enough by this time, and, had the Scotchman been a less chivalrous knight than he had proved himself, I doubt not he would have experienced some satisfaction in placing my plank and brick before the fire to heat for the last time.

We were none of us hungry but the sharp-visaged driver, who devoured his supper, or breakfast, whichever it might be called, with the air of a man who was determined to get through to Bangor before morning.

The Frenchman, who had been completely cowed down by the old gentleman's indignant 'No, sir! we don't keep no sich stuff abaout these premises!' in reply to his demand for 'rum,' meekly took refuge in a cup of coffee.

In the mean time a baby in the adjoining room, awakened by our movements, began to cry. It was quite a young cry. It could not be more than three or four months old, I thought, as I compared it mentally with the efforts of my own youngest in that direction. But the baby shoe which hung by the fireplace betokened an older child. It must have been the old gentleman's grandchild. I pitied its mother, for it might lie awake until morning.

Once more our resolute driver, with an authoritative 'All ready!' summoned us to depart.

'Amaziah, bring the light around here!' cried the Englishman, who seemed to know the names of every one at these stopping places by a sort of intuition.

'Amaziah' promptly obeyed, and by the aid of his lantern I settled myself for the last stage of my journey. To the Scotchman's comfort, the missing buffalo was produced here, according to the driver's promise.

The Frenchman, who had been over the 'line' before, had hinted that four gray horses were to take us into Bangor; but it seemed to be the fate of three only.

It was then not far from three o'clock, and we had more than twenty miles before us. As the distance lessened, my excitement increased. I became so feverish that I could no longer bear my mittens on my hands. Anxiety and fatigue produced a nervous exhaustion, and the harsh grating of the 'drags' as we descended the oft-recurring hills, threw me into an uncontrollable tremor. I was too tired to sleep—too tired, almost, to think. Strength, sense, hope seemed to lose themselves in my utter weariness. It seemed at times to become a question whether I should even live to reach my destination.

My companions cheered and comforted me as best they could, with never-to-be-forgotten kindness. We stopped once to throw out a mailbag, and I thought, from the appearance of the place as well as I could see it, that we were already on the outskirts of Bangor.

'What place is this?' the Englishman inquired.

'Eddington Bend,' replied the driver.

'How far from Bangor?'

'Sixteen miles.'

Toward dawn we all lost ourselves for a few minutes. I first aroused, and, through the interstices beside the curtains, perceived the gray light of morning. It was six o'clock, and we were but four miles from Bangor, the driver informed us.

Only four miles! but how long they seemed! The cars left at half past seven o'clock, and the daylight was fast advancing.

'Shall we after all get there in time?' said I.

'Not in time for breakfast, I imagine,' replied the Englishman, resignedly.

At last came the welcome announcement, 'Bangor! There is Bangor!'

'Where is it? I do not see it,' said I, looking eagerly out into the gray morning mist.

'Why, there, to be sure! Don't you see that steeple? There's another! and there's another!'

Yes, surely there was Bangor at last, welcome to me as ever the Holy City to the penance-worn pilgrim.

In my gratitude, I overflowed with benignity to all the world, and even granted the poor Frenchman permission to enjoy his pipe, a privilege of which he made haste to avail himself. It was an ill-timed charity, to be sure, but I could well afford to submit to the temporary discomfort in the fulness of my satisfaction.

The driver hastened the horses. With ever-increasing speed we passed the lowly cottages in the suburbs, where people were getting up and preparing breakfast by candle light, and at last the 'three grays' cantered triumphantly to the —— Hotel—in time for breakfast, too!

There was not a moment to spare, however, and so, without waiting even to make my toilet, we hurried to the train.

The relief I experienced when fairly seated in the car, the excitement of finding myself in the world once more, among bustling, wide-awake people, stimulated me, and for some time I was unconscious of my fatigue.

The Englishman was to leave me at a station a few miles beyond Bangor, as his journey lay in a different direction. We exchanged cards, and I could not help saying, as we parted:

'I met you a stranger, but I have found in you a friend and a brother.'[A]

The Scotchman continued on to Boston with me.

His chivalrous and thoughtful consideration remained undiminished.

At last, after many intervals of lassitude and reanimation, I broke down altogether. My strength left me. Over-powered with grief and fatigue, I was glad to rest my weary head on my old plaid cloak, which the Scotchman rolled into a pillow for me in the saloon of the car, where I lay for the last six hours until we reached Boston.

Kind friends were there to meet me, and the Scotchman gave me into their charge, a poor, exhausted creature.

But I was in time—and that was enough.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The accomplished author of 'Intuitive Morals,' in an article in Fraser's Magazine, entitled 'A Day at the Dead Sea,' takes occasion to render a high tribute to the courtesy of our countrymen. She writes:

'If at any time I needed to find a gentleman who should aid me in any little difficulties of travel, or show me a kindness, with that consideration for a woman, as a woman, which is the true tone of manly courtesy, then I should desire to find a North American gentleman.... They are simply the most kind and courteous of any people.'

It is with heartfelt pleasure that I return this compliment, in this account of my winter journey, which, but for the constant and delicate kindness of her countrymen, would have proved wellnigh insupportable.



DIARY OF FRANCES KRASINSKA;

OR, LIFE IN POLAND DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

January 3d.

Yesterday, amid the drinking of toasts, the peals of joyous music, and the volleys of musketry from our dragoons in honor of the investiture of the Duke of Courland, the chamberlain despatched to Warsaw returned, with letters announcing that the ceremony had been delayed, on account of the king's illness: it has been postponed until the eighth of January. Our little Matthias says it is a bad omen, and that as the ducal crown eludes his grasp, so will a royal one. I felt quite uneasy,... but then there came several visitors, and they distracted my thoughts. After dinner came Madame Dembinska, wife of the king's cupbearer, with her sons and daughters; the pantler Jordan, with his wife and son, and M. Swidinski, Palatine of Braclaw, with his nephew, the Abbe Vincent. The latter gentleman has been several times at Maleszow; he is a very pious man; my parents love and esteem him very much. Although he is quite young, we kiss his hands as a minister of God. Barbara has completely won his good opinion; he has given her a rosary, and the 'Christian's Daily Manual.' He was seated next to her at supper, and even addressed his conversation to her twice. This is not at all astonishing, for Barbara is so good; besides, she is the eldest, and hence entitled to more politeness than the rest of us.

Friday, January 5th.

The palatine and his nephew are still with us, and we are daily expecting other guests. The eldest of the palatine's sons is Starost of Radom, and the younger is a colonel in the king's army. The palatine, who has been a widower several years, has also two daughters, one married to Granowski, Palatine of Rawa, and the other recently wedded to Lauckorouski, Castellan of Polaniec. I am very curious to see the palatine's sons; they were educated at Luneville, in France; they must have an air and manner different from those of our young Poles.

The good King Stanislaus, though he dwells in a foreign land, is always seeking to be useful to his compatriots; several young Polish gentlemen are maintained and educated by him at Luneville. They receive the best instruction, and the sons of our first families strive for the honor, using the pretext of relationship, however distant, to obtain their desires. Indeed, they are quite right, for when one can say of a young man, He has studied at Luneville, and has been to Paris, he has certainly an excellent foundation for the beginning of his career. Every one feels quite sure that his manners will be irreproachable, that he can speak French, and dance the minuet and quadrilles. All the gentlemen who have been in France are very successful in society, and very pleasing to ladies.... Really, I am exceedingly curious to see the palatine's two sons!

Saturday, January 6th.

They finally arrived yesterday afternoon, and do not in the least correspond to the idea I had formed of them, the starost less than his brother. I thought I should see a young, lively, and agreeable man, in short, a young man like Prince Cherry, in Madame de Beaumont's tales, who would speak French all the time; but I was quite mistaken. The starost is no longer young; he is thirty years old, and quite stout; he is not fond of dancing, and never speaks a single word of French. Every now and then he puts in a word or two of Latin, like my father. I am much better pleased with the colonel; he wears a uniform, is young, and says at least a few words in French.

To-day is Twelfth day, and Michael Chronowski will be emancipated before nightfall. They are baking a great cake in the kitchen, with a bean in it. Who will be king? Heavens, if I were to be queen! I should wear a crown on my head during the whole evening, and should bear absolute sway in the castle.... There would be plenty of dancing then, I'll answer for it!... But whether I command it or not, there must be dancing, I am sure, for a crowd of visitors has been pouring in ever since morning; the servants are grumbling, and the keeper of the table service is quite provoked. When he sees all the carriages standing on the square facing the church of Piotrkowice, he says there is no end to work for him. As for me, I jump with joy; and so it is in this world, where some are happy from the very cause which makes the torment of others.

Sunday, January 7th.

How many people! The castle is so gay and lively! We amused ourselves finely. I was not queen, for Barbara got the bean, and when she saw it in her portion of the cake, she blushed to her very eyes. Madame, who was seated near her, announced the fact, and all the guests and attendants testified their satisfaction by loud shouts. Our little Matthias laughed and said: She who has the bean will marry Mr. Michael (kto dostal migdala dostanie Michala) a Polish proverb always repeated upon such occasions. It is also a common saying that when a young girl has it, she will be married before the end of the carnival. God grant that this prophecy may be verified, for then we shall have a wedding, and abundance of dancing!

I cannot become accustomed to the starost; his gravity does not please me; he would dance nothing yesterday but Polish dances. He never mentions Paris or Luneville, and takes no notice of young people; he never addresses to us any of those little gallantries which are the small change of good society; he talks only to our parents, plays cards, and reads the newspapers. I still continue to think that his brother is worth more than he; at least he is more sociable, he talks about Paris and Luneville, and is not so old.

But I am forgetting to relate the ceremonies accompanying Michael Chronowski's emancipation; I was quite diverted with them. When all the company had assembled in the great hall, my father took his place upon the highest seat; the folding doors were thrown open, and the steward, accompanied by several young courtiers, introduced the candidate for emancipation, very richly dressed in a full suit of new clothes. He knelt before my father, who touched his cheek lightly in sign of good will; he then fastened a sword at the young man's side, drank off a cup of wine, and presented him with a fine horse, accompanied by a groom, also well mounted and equipped. The two horses were in the castle court.

My father asked Chronowski if he preferred trying his fortune in the world or remaining in his service. Michael replied, timidly, that he was very happy in the castle, but would like to see more of his country, and ventured to ask a recommendation to Prince Lubomirski, Palatine of Lublin, my father's brother-in-law. His request was granted, my father slipped a roll of twenty gold ducats into his hand, and invited him to remain with us during the carnival. Chronowski seemed delighted with this proposition, and after paying his homage to my father and mother, he kissed the hands of all the ladies present; from that moment he was admitted into our society, and danced his best in Mazurkas and Cracroviennes with Barbara. He certainly dances very well, and my sister is equally graceful; it was charming to see them!

Monday, January 8th.

The prophecy has been really fulfilled! Barbara is to be married at the termination of the carnival, and she is to marry Mr. Michael, for such is the name of the Starost Swidzinski. He asked Barbara's hand of my mother yesterday, and to-morrow they will be betrothed! Poor Barbara was all in tears when she came to tell us the great news; she shrinks from the idea of marriage, and it will be very painful to her to leave her parents and her home. But it would have been very unadvisable to have refused the match, when my father and mother assure her that she will be very happy. The starost seems to me a very pious, gentle, and upright man; his family is noble, ancient, and wealthy. What more is necessary?

The three brothers Swidzinski, Alexander, Michael, and Anthony, died as brave men should, near Chocim, under the command of the celebrated Chodkiewicz. This renown is a glory for those who still live. The starost's parents have already conferred upon him the entire ownership of the castle of Sulgostow. He holds, besides, a considerable starosty under the king's appointment, and expects soon to be a castellan. The Palatine Swidzinski and the Abbe Vincent have come to speed on the marriage; they desire it exceedingly. The palatine is charmed with Barbara, and I am sure he will love her dearly when he knows her better. The wedding will take place at the castle of Maleszow on the 25th of February. What fine balls and concerts we shall have! We will dance until we can scarcely stand. Barbara will be: Your ladyship the starostine. I shall be very sorry when I can no longer call her Barbara, dear Barbara.

I really feel quite remorseful at having described the starost so ill in my journal; however, I do not think I have said anything very offensive. I hope Barbara may be happy, and I think she will be, for she has always told me she did not like very young people; the starost is reasonable, and in my mother's opinion such men make the best husbands. If my mother says so, it must be true; but for my part, I much prefer gay and agreeable young men. One is certainly entitled to one's own individual taste.

I have not forgotten that this is the day selected for the investiture of the prince royal with the dukedom of Courland. The king's health is reestablished. Colonel Swidzinski speaks in the highest terms of Prince Charles, whom he knows very well; but the palatine and his eldest son do not wish him to succeed his father; they say that the crown should be placed upon the head of a compatriot.

Wednesday, January 10th.

The betrothal took place yesterday. Dinner was served at the usual hour. When Barbara entered the saloon my mother gave her a ball of silk to untwist; she was red as fire, and her eyes were fixed on the ground. The starost did not leave her a moment. Our little Matthias laughed with his malicious air, and gave vent to a thousand pleasantries, which diverted every one exceedingly; all laughed aloud, and although I did not understand the meaning of his jests, I laughed more than any one else. After dinner, Barbara seated herself in the recess by the window; the starost approached her, and said, aloud:

'Is it indeed true, mademoiselle, that you will oppose no obstacles to my happiness?'

Barbara replied, in a low and trembling voice:

'My parents' will has always been for me a sacred duty.'

Here the conversation ended.

When the chamberlains, attendants, and servants had retired, the palatine, followed by the Abbe Vincent, conducted the starost to my parents, who were seated on a sofa. The palatine addressed my father in the following words:

'My heart is penetrated with the sincerest affection and most profound esteem for the illustrious house of the Corvini Krasinski; I have always ardently desired that the modest arms of Polkozie might be united with the glorious and illustrious arms of Slepowron. My happiness is at its height on beholding that your highnesses will deign to grant me this great honor. Your daughter Barbara is a model of virtue and grace; my son Michael is the glory and consolation of my life; deign, then, to consent to the union of this young couple; deign to confirm your promise on this very day. Behold the ring which I received from my parents: I placed it upon the hand of my betrothed, who is, alas! now no more, but who will live eternally in my heart. Permit, then, that during a similar ceremony my son may offer it to your daughter, as a token of his affection and unalterable attachment.'

As he said these words, he placed the ring upon a silver dish held by the Abbe Vincent. The abbe also made a discourse, but he put so much Latin into it that I could not understand it.

My father replied to the two speeches in the following terms:

'I am most happy to confirm the promise I have made to you; I consent to the marriage of my daughter with the starost; I give her my blessing, and surrender to your honorable son all the rights I possess over her.'

'I unite in the desires and intentions of my husband,' added my mother. 'I give this ring to my daughter; it is the most precious jewel of our house. My father, Stephen Humiecki, received it from the hand of Augustus II, when he had fortunately succeeded in concluding the peace of Carlowitz, by which the Turks restored the fortress of Kamieniec-Podolski to the Poles. With this ring, which recalls so many dear remembrances, was I myself betrothed; I give it to my eldest daughter, with my blessing, and the hope that she may be as happy as I have been since my marriage.'

Thus saying, she placed on the dish a ring set with superb diamonds, enclosing a miniature of Augustus II.

'Barbara, come to me,' said my father; but the poor child was so confused, so agitated and trembling, that she could scarcely walk; I cannot understand how she moved even those few paces. At last, however, she placed herself at my father's side, and the Abbe Vincent gave them his benediction in Latin. One of the rings was given to the starost, and the other to my sister; her betrothed placed it upon the little finger of her left hand, called the heart finger (serdeczny). He then kissed Barbara's hand, and she in her turn presented her ring; but she was so much overcome that she found great difficulty in encircling the end of his finger with the glittering hoop. The starost again kissed her hand, after which he threw himself at my parents' feet, and swore to watch over the happiness of their beloved daughter.

The palatine kissed Barbara on the forehead, while the colonel and the abbe made her a thousand compliments, each more beautiful than the last. My father filled a great goblet with old Hungarian wine; he toasted the new couple, and all who were present drank by turns out of the same cup.

All this passed so solemnly and tenderly that I wept unrestrainedly.

'Do not weep, little Frances,' said Matthias, who was present at this scene; 'a year hence it will be your turn.'

A year would be too soon; but if it were in two years, I would not be sorry.

The whole Swidzinski family are so kind and attentive to Barbara! and my parents for the first time kissed her face when she bade them good night. Since yesterday, every one in the castle treats her with the greatest respect; all congratulate her, and she is overwhelmed with homage and compliments. Each one would like to be employed in her establishment; my father has given 1,000 Holland ducats to my mother, recommending her to do all for her daughter that she may think necessary. They consulted a long time over the trousseau that should be given to her. To-morrow Miss Zawistowska will go to Warsaw with the commissary, to make purchases. This Miss Zawistowska is a very respectable person; she is about thirty, and has lived in the castle ever since she was a child. There are in the storeroom four large chests filled with silver, destined for our use. My father had Barbara's brought to him and examined it carefully; this chest will be sent to Warsaw, that the silver may be cleaned.

The palatine and the starost leave us to-morrow. They go to Sulgostow, where they will make all the preparations necessary for Barbara's reception.

My father has had the customary letters written to announce the marriage, and will send them by the chamberlains to the various parts of Poland. The most distinguished among our chamberlains, and an equerry richly equipped, will depart in two days to carry letters to the king, the princes his sons, the primate, and the principal senators. My father announces the marriage, and begs them to give it their benediction; if he does not exactly invite them, he gives them to understand that he would feel highly honored by their presence. Ah! if one of the princes were to come—the Duke of Courland, for example—what a lustre it would throw upon the wedding! But they will merely send their representatives, as is usual upon such occasions.

The castle is in a state of constant activity; great preparations are making for the approaching festivities. The starost has displayed an unexampled generosity; he has made us all the most beautiful presents. He has given me a turquoise pin; Sophia has received a ruby cross; Mary, a Venetian chain, and even my parents have condescended to accept gifts from him. My father has a silver-gilt goblet, admirably chased; and my mother, a beautiful box made of mother-of-pearl mounted in gold. Even madame has not been forgotten, for she found a blonde mantle on her bed this morning; she praises the generosity of the Polish lords to the skies. But this is the only virtue she concedes to our nation, so that I cannot love madame; her injustice toward my countrymen repels me. We had yesterday a grand state supper; the orchestra played unceasingly, toasts were drunk in honor of the happy couple, and the dragoons fired numberless volleys of musketry; their captain gave them as their watchword for the day, 'Michael and Barbara.'

Barbara begins to take courage; she only blushes now when she looks at her ring; she hides it as much as she can; but it is of no use, for every one sees it, and the brilliants sparkle like stars.

This morning all the court went hunting, in accordance with the old custom, which renders this action of good omen to the wedded pair. Formerly before they set out, the betrothed was obliged to display her ankle to the hunters. God be praised that this custom no longer exists, for I am sure Barbara would have died of shame. But our little Matthias insisted upon the performance of this ceremony, saying that if it were omitted the chase would certainly be unfortunate. For once his prophecy failed; they killed a wild boar, two bucks, an elk, and many hares. The starost killed the wild boar with his own hand, and laid it at Barbara's feet.

My father had all the horses brought out of his stables for the hunters to ride upon. Among them was one of exceeding beauty, but so unmanageable that the best groom had never yet been able to mount him. The starost was confident he could control him, and, notwithstanding the terror of the spectators, he leaped on his back and guided him three times round the castle of Maleszow. It was truly a noble sight. Barbara was very pale; she trembled for her betrothed; but when she saw him so firmly seated on the fiery animal, the bright color returned to her cheek. From that moment I felt reconciled to the starost. In truth, he is not so bad; he looks well on horseback, and possesses that dauntless courage so dear to the heart of a woman. I must then forgive his ignorance of the minuet and quadrilles. My father gave the starost the horse he had so well merited, completely caparisoned, and with a groom to take care of him.

Sunday, January 20th.

I have neglected my journal during the past week; we have been so busy with the preparations for the marriage; there are such crowds of people at the castle; every one is occupied doing the honors; both mornings and afternoons are passed in company. Our studies are laid aside—the chronology, the French grammar, and even Madame de Beaumont lie quiet and undisturbed in their places. We are busily engaged with our needles, because each one of us desires to make a present to Barbara. I am embroidering a morning dress, which will be charming; I even steal some hours from my sleep that I may the sooner finish it. Mary is embroidering a straw-colored muslin, with shaded silks mingled with gold thread, and Sophia is making a lovely toilet cover.

My mother is entirely occupied with the trousseau; she opens her wardrobes and chests, bringing out linen, cloth, furs, curtains, and tapestry. I help her as well as I can; she is sometimes good enough to ask my opinion; she is so scrupulous, so much afraid of not dividing our shares equally. She is so particular, that she even sends for the chaplain to judge of the exactness of the division. The tailors and lace-makers who have come from Warsaw to make up the trousseau will hardly be able to finish their work during the next month. The linen is all ready. The young ladies belonging to our suite have aided materially. They have been sewing at linen during the past two years, and now they are marking it with blue cotton. These poor girls will soon be very expert in making the letters B and K. The trousseau will be magnificent.

Barbara cannot conceive what she will ever be able to do with so many dresses! Until now none of us have ever had more than four at a time: two brown woollen ones, with black aprons, for every-day wear, a white one for Sundays, and a more elegant one for grand occasions, ceremonials, etc. We always found them quite enough, but my mother says that her ladyship the starostine will need an entirely different toilette from that required by Miss Barbara; that what was proper for a young girl will not be sufficient for a married woman.

I spoke of a ball of silk given to Barbara by my mother on the day of the betrothal; well, that was to make a purse for the starost. Barbara works at her purse from morning till night: the tangled silk was given her as a trial of her care and patience; for she must first wind the skeins without breaking them or dimming their lustre. She has succeeded admirably. Barbara may marry without doubt or fear; our little Matthias answers for her vocation.

The chamberlains and the equerry have departed with their letters of announcement. Barbara is terrified at the thought that the princes and lords of the court may perhaps come from Warsaw. What a child she is! As for me, I should be delighted! But I just remember—the investiture of the prince royal took place on the eighth of this month. The evening before the ceremony, our cousin, Prince Lubomirska, Palatine of Lublin and the prince royal's marshal, gave a magnificent ball. The dinners, balls, and concerts are said to have lasted more than a week. The new Duke of Courland made a speech in Polish, which produced an excellent effect. He is now regarded as an independent prince, and has shown both dignity and greatness of mind throughout this whole affair.

The Polish Courier gave all the details of the ceremony. If I had had time I should have copied them, they interested me so deeply! But all these details are nothing to what I should have seen with my own eyes had I been there. What is description compared with one's own observation? I am really very glad of the final investiture of the prince; it is the only public matter which pleases and consoles me; all else seems to be in a most lamentable condition. While I am so diligently working at Barbara's morning dress I am forced to hear things which sadden me deeply. The chaplain reads the papers aloud to us, and I see that the republic loses daily in power and dignity; the neighboring powers invade it under divers pretexts; their troops pillage and devastate the country, while the Government refuses to interfere.... I dare not think of the future, but my father says we must enjoy the present. All speak in subdued tones of the woes which threaten Poland, and then dance and drink; the joyous festivals and banquets would deceive one into thinking the times must be prosperous. The Poles, perhaps, act like our little Matthias; when he is vexed he never lets the glass leave his hands, repeating always: He who pines, needs good wines (dobry trunek na frasunek); the sadder he is, the more he drinks.

Friday, January 25th, 1759.

The starost arrived yesterday, and Barbara found on her table this morning two beautiful silver baskets filled with oranges and bonbons; she distributed them among us (her sisters) and the young ladies of the court; even the waiting women received their share. Our work is progressing; my morning dress is nearly finished.

My mother gives Barbara a bedstead with all its furniture. We have long had our flocks of geese and swans. There is a poor creature in the castle who can do nothing but pick down; poor Marina is so stupid that she is incapable of comprehending anything more difficult, and passes her whole life in this occupation. Each of us has her share of the down; Barbara will have two large feather beds, eight large pillows of goose down, and two small ones of swans' down. The pillows are made of stuff spun in the castle, and are to be covered with crimson damask, besides which they will have an upper case of Holland cambric, trimmed with lace. The young ladies of our suite have put a great deal of work upon them.

Saturday, February 2d.

The starost remained a week at the castle, and left us yesterday. When he again returns, it will be to carry Barbara away with him. I cannot imagine her going off alone with a stranger, it is truly inconceivable; I must see it with my own eyes before I can believe it.

Barbara seems to feel daily more and more esteem and friendship toward the starost. He, however, rarely addresses her; all his conversation is directed to our parents—his cares and attentions are exclusively for them. I am told that this is the proper way for a well-bred man to make his court, and that he should win the heart of his betrothed by pleasing her family.

In three weeks the wedding will take place. My sisters and I have each a new dress, presented to us by Barbara; she has given a dress to all the young girls in the castle.

Nearly all the persons invited to the wedding have accepted; but the king and the princes, to my great regret, will merely send their representatives.

I doubt whether the palatiness, Princess Lubomirska, can come; she will find difficulty in leaving Warsaw at the present time. She approves highly of Barbara's marriage, and has written her a charming letter of congratulation; my father is delighted.

My morning dress will be finished in time; but then I have worked unceasingly, that is, as much as I could; for my mother is constantly calling upon me; she is so kind to me, and condescends to make use of my services in all her preparations. Until now, Barbara alone was consulted and had confidence placed in her, as being the eldest; this happiness was her right, but my good parents desire that I should now take her place. I have already been twice intrusted with the key of the little room where the cordials and sweet-meats are kept; that gives me importance. I have consequently assumed a graver air; every one must see that I have grown a year older. I will try to imitate Barbara, so that when the starost takes her away my parents may not feel her loss too deeply. I have plenty of good will, but shall I be able to satisfy them?

Tuesday, February 12th.

It seems that the splendor and magnificence displayed at the investiture had never before been equalled. The Warsaw gazettes are never weary of dilating upon this subject.

The guests begin to arrive; people are pouring in from the most distant quarters. Notwithstanding the number and size of the apartments, it will be impossible to lodge all in the castle; preparations have been made in the village, in the priest's house, and even in the better class of huts belonging to the peasants, to receive some of our guests.

The cooks and confectioners are all busy; the laundry is in a state of unceasing activity; the trousseau is nearly finished; and the bedsteads, two cases filled with mattresses, pillows, and carpets, a box of silver, and a thousand other things, were sent off to Sulgostow this morning. The bedsteads are of iron and beautifully wrought; the curtains are of blue damask, and fastened to the four corners by bunches of ostrich plumes.

Barbara ought to kiss both the feet and the hands of our parents, who have given her so many precious things. My father has inscribed an exact list of the trousseau in a large book, preceded by the words which I here copy, lest I should forget them:

'List of the trousseau which I, Stanislaus, of the Corvini Krasinski, etc., etc., and my wife Angelica Humiecka, give to our dear and well beloved daughter Barbara, on the occasion of her marriage with His Excellency, Michael Swidinski, Starost of Radom. We implore the blessing of Heaven upon our dear child, and we bless her with parental affection in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.'

I do not copy the list of the trousseau, for I have no time; I shall, besides, be one day obliged to do it upon my own account.

Wednesday, February 20th.

Well! time flies, and the wedding will take place in five days. The starost arrived yesterday evening. Barbara trembled like a leaf in an autumn wind when he was announced by the chamberlain. We expect to-day the palatine, the colonel, the Abbe Vincent, and the Palatine Granowski, with the palatiness, the starost's sister. Madame Lanckoronska, the starost's second sister, cannot come to Maleszow; she is in Podolia with her husband. Barbara is really sorry, for she is very anxious to know her, every one speaks so highly of her. My sister is about entering into a good family; all the persons composing it are pious and honorable; they show her the most unbounded attention, and pay her homage as if she were a queen.

The trousseau is entirely finished; all that could not be sent to Sulgostow has been deposited in chests, of which Miss Zawistowska keeps the keys. Barbara is very well pleased that she is to take Miss Zawistowska with her; she has been accustomed to see her ever since she was a child, and, when far away from her mother, will be very happy to have near her a careful person whom she can trust, and with whom such dear remembrances are linked.

She will also be accompanied by several of our suite. She will have two chamberlains, two young girls (her god-daughters) who embroider beautifully, a waiting woman, and a young lady companion. The latter is of an excellent family, and is endowed with infinite wit and good sense; her name is Louisa Linowska: she has lived in the castle several years, and Barbara is passionately fond of her. There are several other young girls desirous of entering the service of the future lady starostine; if my parents would consent, she would soon have a dozen at least. When I marry, I will take a still larger number into my service; I have already promised three of our young girls that I will take them with me. One is the daughter of Hyacinth, keeper of the table furniture. The poor man made me a profound bow, and his brows unbent for the first time in his life.

Sunday, February 24th.

To-morrow will be Barbara's wedding day. What a crowd there will be! The minister Borch, the king's representative, has arrived, as also Kochanowski, son of the Duke of Courland's castellan, and the duke's favorite. Kochanowski is a very accomplished young man; one may truly say: As the master, so the man (iaki pan taki kram).

The invitations were issued for yesterday evening, and every one has been exact in coming. The arrival of the guests was magnificent; everything had been prepared for their reception; expresses announced their coming, and our dragoons, all ranged in battle array, presented arms to each lord as he appeared. The cannon were discharged, and the musketry kept up a rolling fire, while at intervals were heard joyous peals of music. I never witnessed any scene so beautiful, so animated, and imposing as that of the reception. One may well believe that the most especial honors had been reserved for the king's representative. My father awaited him with uncovered head upon the drawbridge, and before he reached the castle he was obliged to pass through a double file of courtiers, guests, and attendants. He received profound salutations from right and from left, and the hurrahs seemed never ending.

The contract of marriage was signed to-day amid a large concourse of persons, and in presence of the appointed witnesses. I do not understand the forms of the document, but I do know that the young bride's presents are superb and in the best taste. The starost has given her three strings of Oriental pearls and a pair of diamond earrings with drops. The palatine's gifts are a diamond cross, an aigrette, and a diadem; the colonel, always amiable and gallant, has presented her with a charming watch and chain from Paris. The Abbe Vincent's gifts are worthy of himself, consisting of certain precious relics. She is indeed overwhelmed with kindness.

Barbara has never worn any jewelry; until now, her only ornament has been a little ring bearing an image of the Blessed Virgin; she will certainly not lay that aside, notwithstanding all her pretty new things.

But I must stop writing, for here comes my morning dress, all nicely bleached and ironed. The embroidery makes an excellent effect; I must put the last stitches into the dress and then carry it to Miss Zawistowska, that she may offer it to Barbara to-morrow when she dresses; how lovely she will look in the pretty white morning dress!



THE SLEEPING PERI.

LINES SUGGESTED BY PALMER'S STATUE.

Lo! upon the stone reposing, Dewy sleep her eyelids closing, Rests the Fay; Wearily hath the exile wandered, Sadly o'er her sorrow pondered, All the day.

Flinty pathways, lone and dreary, Quite unmeet for foot of Peri, Soft and fair;— Heavy air with vapors laden, Shrinking, fragile wings from Aidenn May not dare;—

Such the gifts our planet proffers, Such the thorny home she offers Spirits fine: Artists, poets, earthward sent us, Heavenly natures, briefly lent us, Droop like thine!

Happy if, amid their dreaming, They can feel the glories streaming From above;— See the light, and hear the flowing, Gushing anthems—melting, glowing Strains of love!

Happy Peri! faintly smiling; Quivering lip, the sense beguiling, Dimpled cheek, Form ethereal, heavenly moulded, Shadowing eyelids, soft wings folded Rest to seek,—

All betray thee, young immortal, Eden's child, without its portal Doomed to roam! Yet thy spirit sees the glory, Hears entranced the rapturous story Of thy home.

Who, O Fay, would dare to wake thee, From ecstatic visions take thee But to weep? Softly dreaming, waking never Till thy dreams are truths forever, Sweetly sleep!



MY LOST DARLING.

The boom of cannon in the distance, flags floating gaily in the bright morning air, strains of martial music filling it, a waving of caps and handkerchiefs, shouts in the streets below, and the tramp of many feet. A regiment is passing! To a stern fate, that beckons darkly in the distance, these patriots are moving, with firm, determined tread—to long, exhausting marches, and fireless bivouac; to hunger and cold; to sufferings in varied forms; to wounds and imprisonment; to death! God knows when and how they are going;—and, amid the doomed throng slowly passing, the bright face of my darling smilingly upturned to mine. I wave my hand and kiss it; my handkerchief is wet through and through.

He came to me but an hour since, decked in his uniform (a lamb decked for the slaughter). 'I'm a lieutenant now,' he said, tapping his shoulder gaily; 'I shall rival Sam Patch at a leap, and jump to the head at once. Three months is enough to make a colonel of me.' And so, with his young heart beating high and warm, upborne by wild hopes like these, he held me to his heart at parting, and went away quite joyously, my poor darling! shedding only a few tears in sympathy with mine. I watch his form until I lose it in the mass before me; then I watch the mass moving slowly, slowly on, bearing him away from me; till the heavy tramp dies out upon the air, and the dark mass, growing less and less, becomes a dim speck in the distance; and the music wanes, and wanes, and dies out also, and in the still air about me only the voice of the wind is heard: coming and going at long, lazy intervals, it speaks to my inner sense with a warning note, a low requiem sound. Why is it that it takes that weird tone always when sorrow is darkly waiting for me in the future? What prophet's voice speaks to me in it? What invisible thing without addresses its wild warning to the invisible within? As I listened, my soul grew chill and dark with the shadow of a coming gloom; my heart grew cold. God help me! How wildly, how almost despairingly I prayed for my darling's life!

Alone in the world, we were all in all to each other. Mine was a wild, exclusive love. Heart and soul were bound up in him. Other girls had their lovers; my fond heart beat for him alone. What tie nearer and dearer than the tie of blood united us? What bond, sacred and invisible, bound our souls together? I know not; I only know that my heart and mind echoed always the thoughts and moods of his; that, no matter what dreary distance lay between us, our souls held communication still; that I rejoiced when he was glad; and wept when I said, 'He is sorrowful to-day.' He had gone away gay and hopeful, and had left me weeping—oppressed by vague fears and chill forebodings, my heart could not echo now the happy mood of his. Wild and weird, all that dreary day, the wind moaned its warning; and the sad echo sounded through other dreary days that followed this; and dreary nights came also, when I prayed and wept, and covered the pictured face with tears and kisses—when I cried, 'God keep my precious one, and bring my darling back to me;' and that was all my prayer;—when I sank to fitful slumbers, and wildly dreamed of shell and cannon ball, and bullets thick as hail, of foes met in deadly fray, of shielding my darling's form with mine—there, where all was smoke and darkness and blood and horror—and dying gladly in his stead. Or the scene changed from horror to desolation, and, with a dreadful sense of isolation on me, alone in the darkness I wandered up and down, blindly searching for him I never found; or finding him, perhaps, covered with ghastly wounds, and dead, quite dead; and then starting broad awake with horror at the sight.

God help us! us women, with our wild, inordinate affections, when Death waits in ambush for our darlings, whom we are powerless to save from the smallest of life's ills and perils! A letter came at last, eight dear pages, with all the margins filled. Long, confidential, loving, with just a thought of sadness in it; a slight, almost imperceptible shadow resting on the glowing hopes with which he left; yet bright withal, bright like himself. The charm of novelty was potent yet. How I read it o'er and o'er, this first dear message from him; how I kissed the senseless thing; how my tears fell upon it; how day and night I wore it on my heart, until another took its place!

They came at stated intervals now, and as the time wore on, and their tone changed, little by little, I knew that the hard life he led began to tell upon him—that, petted, fondled, cherished as he had been, unfitted for hardship of any kind, they grew at times almost too great for calm endurance. He never complained, my grand, brave boy; he spoke of them lightly always, sometimes jestingly, but he could not deceive that fine interior sense. I knew there were times when he turned heartsick from the wild life that claimed him; I could see how his noble nature shrank from all that was coarse and revolting in it; how he longed for fireside joys and sweet domestic peace, and pined with dreary homesickness; how his heart cried out for me in the melancholy night. And then even this comfort, that had softened the dull, longing pain within, was denied me—no letters came. Mail after mail went and came, and I grew feverish with suspense. I imagined him beset by ghastly perils, and, with torturing uncertainty wearing my very life away, I watched and waited as women are wont to do. Then dark rumors were afloat of foes making a desperate advance, and of bloody battle pending. One night a horror fell upon my troubled sleep—an appalling gloom, a shuddering, suffocating sense of some impending doom. Battling fiercely and blindly with this dread, invisible something, I awoke in deadly fright, to find the terror no less clear to my perceptions, no less palpable and real, and to wrestle with it still. Some blind instinct in me called aloud for air; with difficulty mastering an almost overpowering impulse to rush out into the night, I flew to the window, raised it, and looked out. A fierce storm was raging—a storm of whose very existence I had until that moment been unconscious. The thunder rolled, and muttered, and broke in wild, fearful crashes. Sheets of lightning every instant lighted up the blackness, and made the sky terrific. Gushes of wind and rain wet and chilled me through and through. Unmindful of it, with that fine interior sense aroused, I listened with all my soul—not to the thunder's fearful voice, to the wild beating of the storm, or to the wind's melancholy moaning, but to something on the tempestuous air, and yet a stranger to it.

There came a lull in the storm at last, and then, O God! O God! through the sullen gloom, his voice was calling to me. Now faint and low, as if his life was ebbing; then raised in agony, wild with supplication and sharp with pain. I saw him covered with gaping wounds, on a hideous field, piled with slain and soaked with blood. I went mad, I think: I have a vague remembrance of rushing out into that fearful storm, undressed as I was, with wild resolve to follow the sound of the voice, to reach him somehow, or die in the mad attempt; of being brought back, shut up in my room, and a sort of guard placed over me; of making wild attempts to rush out again, and struggling ineffectually with those that held me back—of raving wildly; then of long and dreamless slumbers, when I had become exhausted, and the sharp agony was past; of rousing myself to go about in a listless, apathetic way, waiting with dulled sense for lists of killed and wounded; of the doctor bringing the paper to me and saying, with his face all light: 'He is not dead; you will find his name among the wounded;' of finding where he was, eluding their vigilance, and travelling night and day until I reached the place. All this seems vague and unreal, as a half-forgotten dream—too dim and lifeless for memory. Entire change of scene, new sights and faces, and, more than all, the conviction that the time had come for action now, and that he would need me, roused me from this misty state a little. When I landed at the place, I think I recovered the clear consciousness of my surroundings, while standing in the provost-marshal's office (the city was under military rule) waiting my turn to speak.

Then I thought for the first time what a mad thing it was in me to have come at all—at least, to have come in the way I had come; I, so unpractical, so wofully lacking in that sterling common sense, that potent weapon with which women battled successfully with the stern realities of life; and thinking, too, with a dull pain at my heart, that doubtless my darling would suffer by reason of my ignorance and inability. I studied the mass of strange faces about me, thinking to which I would turn for help, if help were needed. After reading them, one after another, and rejecting them, I turned at last to a group in front of me, and singled out one that was addressing the others, a man of consequence among them—at least a certain superiority of air and manner led to that conjecture. He had a fine open face, whose expression changed continually; and the more I studied the face, the more I placed a blind trust and reliance in it. Attracted by the magnetism of a fixed gaze, probably, his eyes wandered from the group about him, after a little while, wandered aimlessly about the room, and then met mine. Seeing that I was watching him, or observing, perhaps, that I was suffering, though, Heaven knows, the sight of misery of all kinds there was common enough, he crossed the room and came to me. 'You may be obliged to wait some time longer yet,' he said, in a tone of hearty kindness; 'you look ill, madam. You had better sit down.' He found a chair and brought it to me. He was on the point of leaving, but I grasped his arm as he turned to go. 'If you have any influence here,' I said, in a half-distracted way, 'tell the clerk, tell somebody to let my turn come next. My brother is here and wounded; I have travelled night and day to get to him; it's dreadful to be so near, and yet to wait and wait.' He turned in grave surprise, and looked at me narrowly, fancying, from my incoherency, I was taking leave of my senses possibly. 'Your name, young lady?' he said, at last. I gave it, 'Margaret Dunn.' He started at the name, and a heavy shadow came over his face: 'And your brother,' he said, hurriedly, 'is Lieutenant Dunn, of the Fifty-fifth Illinois Volunteers, Company A? I am surgeon of the Fifty-fifth; I know him well. He was a brave fellow, and as fine, manly, and handsome a fellow as one need wish to see.' He ended with a sigh, and mingling with the shadow there came a look of pity in his face. The past tense, which I am sure he used unconsciously; the look of pity; the sigh but half suppressed, overpowered me with dread. 'He has not died of his wounds?' I gasped, grasping his arm convulsively, 'O God! he is not dead?' 'He is alive,' said the doctor, gravely. 'Father, I thank Thee, Thou hast heard my prayer!'

The sudden transition from that mortal dread of death to the blessed certainty of life was too much; my joy was too great; forgetful of my surroundings, unmindful of his presence, I wept and sobbed aloud. When I had controlled my emotion in a measure, or at least their stormy outward manifestation, I found the doctor regarding me with the same grave face. 'You should not have come here in your present weak, excited state,' he said, at last, 'or, rather, you should not have come at all. From sights and sounds of a hospital, even strong men turn with a shudder. It's no place for a delicate woman.' 'He is there,' I murmured, tremulously; 'I can suffer anything for those I love.' Regarding me in silence for a moment, he looked as if taking my measure. 'These women that can bear,' he said, with a sigh, 'sometimes overrate their powers of endurance.' 'Do you think I shall have to wait much longer? do you think I can go soon now?' I questioned, appealingly, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. 'No, you must wait your turn,' said the doctor, decidedly; 'besides, you are not calm enough yet; the surgeons are at work in the ward where we are going. They are taking off a man's limb—two or three of them, for that matter. I shan't take you there until the operations are finished.' Then first came the horrid thought that he might be mutilated in the same way. Vague, indistinct, dreadful visions uprose before me, of all sorts and kinds of horrid disfigurement, and I grew sick and faint. 'Not his limb!' I gasped, struggling with a deathly faintness. 'No, not his,' said the doctor, sorrowfully. The same cloud was still there that had settled on his face when he first spoke of him; the same pity for me shining through it. 'There is a room here where the ladies go when they have long to wait. You had better go in there and rest yourself. I will bring you some tea and something light and palatable in the shape of food, and you must eat and drink. Confiscated property, you see,' he said, as he entered; 'a rebel family walked out, and we walked in; comfortable quarters.' I noticed then there was a carpet on the floor, sofa, mirrors, and other comforts. 'Sit down,' said the doctor. He had taken the tone of command with me—a tone I would have resented at any other time; now, nerveless and weak, relying on him solely, I obeyed him like a sick child. He brought the tea, watched me while I drank it, looked on while I choked down tears and food together. He ordered me to go to sleep, and left me. Doubtless even this command had its effect. Things grew dreamy and indistinct after a while; perhaps I slept a little; but the time seemed very, very long. At last his tap at the door roused me from this half-conscious state. 'Ready?' he briefly questioned, as he looked in, a moment after. I said yes, tremulously: now that the time had come, I trembled so I could scarcely keep my feet. He gave me his arm as we went out together. 'It's not far,' he said, encouragingly, 'just across here.' The fresh air did me good. Quite likely, the conversation he perseveringly maintained on indifferent subjects, in spite of my random replies, was also of service to me. I grew calmer as we went along. The distance was but short, and we soon reached the place of our destination—a large hotel, which had been hurriedly converted into a hospital.

'Come,' said the doctor, pausing with his hand upon the door, and turning to me, 'cheer up! There is no misery, after all, but what is in the comparative degree. Things are never so bad but that they may have been worse. I dare say, on occasion you can be a brave little woman.'

'I can,' I returned, eagerly, too grateful for his penetration, or at least his good opinion, and too sad and abstracted altogether, to notice that he was paying me a compliment. 'I can, indeed; indeed, you haven't seen the best part of me.'

He smiled just the ghost of a smile in answer, as we went in. He led me through several rooms into what had been a large dining hall—a chill, bare, desolate place. Cots were ranged up and down the room, cots across it, cots filled up the centre, and all, all filled with sick and wounded men. I thought if I was once in the room with my brother, some instinct would lead me to him; but I felt no drawing toward any one of those miserable bedsides, and a chill of disappointment fell upon me. 'Take me to the ward where my brother is lying,' I said to the doctor, pleadingly, 'ah, pray do!' 'This is the ward,' he replied, but he did not take me to him. He stopped at every cot we passed. Of my burning impatience, which he could not choose but see, of the urgent and almost passionate appeals I made to hasten his progress, he took no notice whatever. He stopped almost every moment; he felt the pulse of one patient, questioned another, dealt out medicine here and there—took his own time for everything. We stopped at last where, on the outside of the coverlet, lay a wounded soldier, half dressed; a poor, mutilated creature; a leg and an arm were gone. The face was turned toward the wall, away from us; not a muscle moved; he was sleeping, probably. 'Take me to my brother,' I piteously moaned, shuddering with horror as I turned from the unaccustomed sight. 'I have waited so long; do take me to my brother.' 'This is somebody's brother!' said the doctor, sharply. Something in the tone, not the sharpness of it—something half familiar in the broken outline of the form, caused a half-suffocating sense of a vague, unutterable horror. A deathly faintness seized me; I sank into a chair beside the bed. The doctor gave me water to drink—hastily and silently sprinkled some water upon my head and face. There was a movement of the poor maimed form upon the bed—he gave me a warning look—the face turned toward us. It was my darling's! 'My life!' Shivering and shuddering I threw myself upon the narrow bed beside him, clasped my poor darling in my arms, and held his stricken heart to mine. The hard, defiant look upon his features melted into one of tenderness—down the worn face the tears fell slowly. 'I didn't know as you would love me just the same,' he said. It was his right arm that was gone. Calling him by every endearing name with wild expressions of affection, I wiped the tears tenderly away, covering the dear face with kisses, while my own fell fast. The doctor left us together for a little—albeit used to scenes like this, wiping his eyes as he went away.

A gust of bitter passion swept over my darling. He started up. 'Rascally rebels!' he cried; 'cursed bullets! Why couldn't they have been aimed at my heart, and killed me! I was willing to give my life—but to make a wreck, a broken hull of me! Look at me, Maggie, a poor, maimed wretch. What am I fit for? Who will care for me now? To be an object of loathing!' he continued, between his set teeth; 'to be a sight of horror; to win, perhaps, after she gets used to the deformity, a little meagre love for charity's sake; to be scorned, and loathed, and pitied; if I could get only off from the face of the earth—out of the sight of men; if God would let me die!' Wounded sorely as he was, his boyish vanity in his really handsome person, his manly pride in its strength, was more sorely wounded still. Yes, strangers would think him a sight to behold: had not even I turned shuddering from that disfigured form, before I knew it was my darling's? He was ruined for life, and he was young too—only nineteen. He was very weak, and this passionate outbreak of feeling had exhausted him. It was but a flash of his old fire at best. His head sank back upon my arm again; he lay with his eyes closed, resting for a little; when he spoke again, his voice was low and wavering, tremulous with tears.

'I wouldn't care so much, only——' He paused, hesitated, drew with difficulty a little locket from his bosom, and gazed upon it tearfully. A jealous pain shot through my heart. I had thought until that moment that I was all in all to him, first in his affections, as he was in mine; that no rival shared his heart. This was the bitterest pang of all. I looked down at the beautiful face set in the locket, perfect as to form and color, with such a fierce hatred of its original as I hope in God's name I shall never feel again for any mortal breathing.

'It's all over between us,' he sighed; 'even if I were ungenerous enough to ask it, she wouldn't receive me now.' My face spoke my scorn. 'Don't blame her,' he said, pathetically; 'it isn't natural she should, poor little thing! This for what she might have been to me.' Then, he kissed the pictured face, and sorrowfully laid it back again upon his heart. 'I thought to go back to her a colonel at least—a general, perhaps,' he went on, with a piteous smile; 'to be crowned with laurels, loaded with honors and proudly claim her as my bride: I little thought that this would be the end!' It was a man's grave comment on a boy's wild dream. He had buried his youth in those two weeks of anguish. It was a man's face that looked upon me, and I read in it a man's strong endurance and stern resolve. That, and the smile with which he said it, moved me more than any emotion, however hopeless or despairing, could have done. My grief burst forth anew.

Dearer, a thousand times dearer, now that love had left him, and youthful friends turned coldly away. Ah! thank God! bless God! There are none so dear to each other, so inexpressibly dear, as those whom sorrow joins; no tie that binds so closely as the sacred bond of suffering. I said so brokenly, sobbing out my love and sorrow, as I held him to my heart. His longing for home had been intense; now that he had seen me, it became wellnigh insupportable. To go away from this his place of suffering—from the myriad eyes bent upon him here, and creep back broken-hearted to that sacred sheltering haven, and hide his great grief there—this wish absorbed him quite. 'I want to go home, Maggie,' he said, in a broken-hearted whisper, clinging to me the while; 'I want to go home and die.' Die! I wouldn't hear the word; I stopped its half-formed utterance with tears and kisses. The doctor shook his head at the suggestion and counselled delay; but he was burning with impatience, and I was resolute. We started the very next day. We travelled by easy stages, but he grew weaker all the time: toward the last, with his head upon my breast, he would sleep for hours, peacefully as a little child. Reduced to almost infant weakness when we reached our journey's end, they took him in their arms tenderly as they would have taken an infant, and laid him on my bed. There, in that darkened room, I nursed him night and day, striving to win him back to thoughts of life, and love of it. 'It's too late, Maggie,' he would say, with placid resignation; 'life has nothing for me, dear; I want to go to sleep—to that long, dreamless sleep, where memory never wakes to haunt us!' But I couldn't bear it—I wouldn't have it so. I bade him think of how my heart would break if he, too, died and left me! In my earnest love, I called Heaven to witness that I was ready not only to die for him, if need be, but to do a better, nobler thing, God helping me—to live for him; eschewing other ties, to devote my life and heart to this one affection. We had wealth, thank God! (I never thanked God for that before.) We would go to far-off lands as soon as he was able—away from old sights and scenes, where no familiar object would recall the past, and where, cut off from all association, we could be all and all to each other; and, with ardent hope, I commenced immediate preparations for our voyage. I read him books of travel; showed him the half-finished garments intended for our journey; purchased all things needful, even to the books we would read upon the way—richly paid for toilsome endeavor, for days of patient waiting, if I but roused in him even a passing interest in the subject, won from him but the shadow of a smile. Ah! even those days had their gleams of sunshine. I was his only nurse, his sole dependence, his all; there was exquisite happiness in that! I said to myself, he is mine now, and always will be; and then I thought of the fair face so lovingly resting against the weary heart, and grew exultant, Heaven forgive me! and said, 'Nothing will take him from me now.' One day he rallied very suddenly. A portion of his old vigor seemed to animate his frame; something of the old look was in his face. He took my hand and laid it tenderly against his cheek; he smiled twice during the morning; I kissed him and said, 'We shall be able to start soon now, my darling!' The doctor gravely watched us both, but I would not let his gravity disturb me. He called me to him as he left the room. As I went out, the dear brown eyes were watching me. I turned to nod and smile to him, saying blithely, as I joined the doctor, 'Don't you think we shall be able to start in three weeks, doctor?' 'Shut the door, my dear,' he said; I had left it ajar. The tone startled me. There was compassion in it; and I noticed now that he was walking up and down the room in an agitated way. 'My dear,' he said again, 'you had better take a seat farther from the door.' His voice was hoarse this time—his tone, his air, his unwonted tenderness, were ominous. 'What is the matter?' I said, in sudden fear; 'can't we go as soon as we have intended?'

He did not answer me at first; he walked to the window and looked out; he turned to me again after a little:

'He is bound on a longer voyage,' he said, with a tremor in his voice; 'he is going to a more distant country.'

I did not start or cry; I did not comprehend the meaning of his words. I sat silent, looking at him. He came to me, took both my hands in his: 'Hush!' he said; 'don't cry aloud—it would disturb him. But I must tell you the truth: he won't live three days.' I understood it all now—took in the full meaning of his dreadful words. I did not cry or faint; I did not even weep; I thought my heart was bleeding—that the blood was actually oozing from it drop by drop. I clung to the doctor as I would to the strong arm of an earthly saviour with wild entreaty, with passionate appeal. I prayed him to save my darling, as if he held within his grasp the keys of life and death. I offered all my wealth; I made unheard-of vows—promised impossible things. In the anguish of my supplication, I fell at his very feet. 'My dear,' he said, as he raised me tenderly up again, 'even in this world there is a limit to wealth's potent power; it is always powerless in a time like this.' I had sunk into a chair, exhausted by emotion, and chill with dread, my face buried in my hands despairingly. He laid his hand upon my head in fatherly compassion: 'It's what we've all got to come to, sooner or later,' he went on, tremulously. 'As life goes on, our hopes die out one by one; and, one after another, death claims our treasures. Bow to what is inevitable; pray for resignation.'

I couldn't—I wouldn't. I prayed for his life, yet in a hopeless, despairing way. To the All-powerful my soul went out continually in one wild, desperate cry. I battled fiercely with that stern impending fate, yet I felt from the first how vainly. Around my poor, wounded, dying boy, night and day I hovered constantly—I would not leave him for an instant. Every hour was bearing him away from me—drifting him farther and farther out into an unknown sea. I crept to his side when I could do nothing more for him, and laid my head beside his on the pillow. Sometimes I slept there for very sorrow, grasping him instinctively the while, seeking even in sleep, with fierce, rebellious will, to stem the invisible tide of that dark river, and bear him back to life. 'He would not live three days,' the doctor had said: he did live just three days. It was on the evening of the third, just as the day was fading, that he called me softly to him. I had opened the window and put back the curtain, to admit the air and the waning light.

The wind rose as the twilight deepened, waking at intervals in the gloomy stillness, as if from sleep. It filled the room every now and then with a sad, sighing sound, then died out slowly, again to swell, again to fall, sad as the tolling of a funeral knell. He lay listening to it when I went to him, with parted lips and strange solemnity of face. Too heart-broken for speech, I knelt beside him with a stifled moan. 'Magsie,' (that was his pet name for me,) 'I thought it was your notion, dear, but there is a voice in the wind to-night, and it is calling me.' I made an effort to answer him, to speak; to tell him at the last how precious he had always been to me—how inexpressibly dear; to win from him some parting word of fond endearment that I might remember always; but the words died out in hoarse, inarticulate murmurs. 'Yes, a voice is calling to me, and it falls through miles and miles of air; then the wind takes it up and brings it to me. They want me up there, and I am going, Magsie; kiss me, dear.' The one arm stole around my neck; the chilled lips met mine in a lingering farewell pressure. He went on, feebly: 'I have been wild and wayward, Magsie, in the times gone by; I have grieved your great love sometimes, by giving you a cross word or look, not meaning it, dear, never meaning it, but because a perverse mood seized me. Forgive me, dear; don't remember it against me, sister!' Words came at last; they burst forth in a low moan of anguish: 'My darling! my darling! you break my heart!' Then my poor boy crept closer to me, in a last fond effort at endearment, and laid his cold cheek close against my own. The gloom deepened. The form within my clasp grew cold, became a lifeless weight. I knew it, but I could not lay it down. I still chafed the pulseless hand, and kissed it, and still I pressed the poor, maimed, lifeless form closer and closer to my heart, till reason fled, and I remember nothing. They unwound the chilled arm from about my neck; they thought I, too, was dead.... With muffled drumbeat and martial music, with horrid pomp of war, they buried my darling as soldiers are buried that die at home; but on the grave over which was fired the parting volley there fell no kindred's tear: I, the only mourner, lay raving in my room.

Wintry winds have piled the dreary snow above that grave; spring has kissed it into bloom and verdure; summer skies have smiled above it; and the maimed form they laid there has melted into nothing now! Time has softened the despair of my grief—the worst bitterness is past.

Through the gloomy portals of that dark gate of suffering, an unseen Hand has led me out into a broader and a higher life; and the heart that held darling only, purged from its selfishness by the fierce fire of affliction, beats now for all humanity. Hearts whose love and gratitude God has given me the power to win, say, out of the fulness of their love for me, that a ministering angel is among them in woman's guise; that no hand is half so lavish in its gifts, no heart so full of sympathy, no watcher's form so constant beside the couch of pain. The sick follow me with murmured prayer and blessing; and wounded soldiers turn to kiss my shadow as I pass. Yet ever as the twilight falls I steal away to listen to the night wind's moaning, and ever in the gloom I feel an unseen presence—an arm about my neck—a cheek laid close to mine. Journeying on the lonely, rugged path of duty, 'following meekly where His footsteps lead,' I work and wait, and patiently abide my time—content if, when the welcome summons come, when life's day is fading, I may feel my darling's face pressed close to my own. He may not come to me, but I shall go to him, where he may wear his glorified body forever!



REASON, RHYME, AND RHYTHM.

CHAPTER IV.—UNITY.

The Divine Attributes, the base of all true Art.

Having already shown that the aspirations of man, made in the image of his God, are always directed toward that wondrous background from which all life projects—the Infinite, we now propose to make a few remarks upon the manifestation of some of the remaining attributes revealed to him, and which he is forever striving to incarnate in the works of art.

Beauty, in its proper expression, must be allied to or suggest the Infinite, for in it alone can ceaseless variety be united with absolute unity. Unity is an essential characteristic of life itself; variety resolving itself into unity, and unity expanding itself into variety, mark all that God has made. As a necessary consequence of the position we have assumed, viz.: 'That art is not a servile copy, but rather a creation of man in the Spirit of Nature,' Variety and Unity must characterize every great work of art, as they mark every work of the Creator. Let us take any of the humblest things which He has made, a flower, for example: Unity, Order, Proportion, and Symmetry are in all its fragile leaves—the Great Over-Soul seems to have lingered lovingly over the elaboration of its idea, and stamped upon its fragrant leaves, perishing and trivial as they may seem, the secrets of Infinity! With what variety it is marked! How many shades in the gradations of the color! What infinitesimal changes in the direction of the gentle curvature of the rounded lines! what richness in the details! what subtle and penetrating tenderness in the perfume! Love, Infinity, Unity, Order, Proportion, Symmetry, mark all the Divine Works: Unity, Order, Proportion, Symmetry, Love, as manifested in the careful rendering of the subject in hand, with the suggestion of that mystic Infinite in which all being is cradled, and from which all art is nurtured, should, on their lower level in their finite degree, mark every work of art. But to our subject: the divine attribute of unity, and its manifestation in and through the finite.

All things, except God, receive externally some perfection from other things. We will not now consider the unity of His mystical Trinity, but rather dwell upon the necessity of His inherence in all things, without which no creature could retain existence for a moment. We speak of His comprehensive unity because it is an object of hope to men; it is that of which Christ thought when he said: 'Neither pray I for these alone, but for them also which shall believe on me through their word: that they may be all One, as Thou, Father, art in me, and I in Thee.' There is no matter, no spirit, that is not capable of unity of some kind with other creatures, in which unity is found their several perfections, and which is a source of joy for all who see it. The Unity of Spirits is partly in their sympathy, partly in their giving and taking, and ever in their love, their inseparable dependency on each other and always on their Maker—not like the cold peace of undisturbed stones and solitary mountains, but the living peace of trust, the living power of confidence, of hands that hold each other and are still! Who has not felt the strength of united love? In the sudden emotion common to humanity which we all experience at the sight of suffering, and which brought tears from the Holy One on the death of Lazarus, in the strange shivering which we feel pervade our souls at the shrill cry of anguish, do we not recognize more than a simple resemblance of nature—do we not feel that the race is really One, that a common grief again unites it, that in this oneness we are all justly partakers in the sin of Adam, that in this oneness we may partake of the glory of the Brother who died to unite the finite with the Infinite?

It is to this essential unity of the race that the dramatist owes much of his power; for let him but strike the common strings of grief and love, and the crowd at once show by their words, their gestures, their looks, and often by their tears, their earnest sympathy. Even at the spectacle of an imaginary grief their hearts are moved, the sorrow thrills through every soul; if the poet has been true to nature, they feel that his imaginary characters are but part and parcel of themselves in their woe. Thus the emotion excited by dramatic representations has its source in the very root of our being, the unity of our common nature, in our common brotherhood; consequently, neither in the instincts of the body nor the caprices of the poetic fancy. If the poet would not break the bond, let him respect the unities of nature, whatever view he may take of those of convention. It is to this wonderful unity with our common nature that the greatest of all uninspired writers, Shakspeare, owes his universal acknowledgment, his unequalled power.

If, as we have labored to teach, matter always symbolizes mind, we should expect to find it also pervaded with the unity pertaining to its lower rank, and so indeed we find it. In its noblest form the unity of matter is that organization of it which builds it into living temples for the indwelling spirits, those houses not made with hands—the bodies of noble men, of fair and loving women.

In a lower form, it gives that sweet and strange affinity which adds the glory of orderly arrangement to its elements, gifting them with the fair variety of change and assimilation that turns the dust into crystal, and separates the waters above the firmament from those below. It is the walking and clinging together that gives power to the winds, weight to the waves, heat to the sunbeams, and stability to the mountains. It is the 'clinging together' which throws our syllables into words, gives metre to poetry, and melody and harmony to sound. Indeed, the clinging together of sounds, as seized by the ear in time, with the ever forming and living ebb and flow of widely different rhythms, exerting the most mysterious influences upon the soul, is not less remarkable than its more familiar history in space.

Manifold, indeed, would be the generalizations of the different species of unity, for it is the secret link of all being.

We have the unity of separate things subjected to one and the same influence, as the unity of clouds as they are driven by parallel winds, or ordered by electric currents: there is the unity of myriads of sea waves, of the bending and undulating of forest masses.

In creatures capable of will, there would be the unity of acts controlled, in all their apparent variety, by its directing power; and the unity of emotions in the masses, when swayed by some common impulse.

There is also the unity of the origin of things arising from one source, always suggesting their common brotherhood: in matter this is manifested in the unity of the branches of the trees, of the petals and starry rays of flowers, of the beams of light, of heat, &c., &c.; in spiritual creatures it is their filial relation to Him from whom they have their being.

There is the unity of sequence, which is that of things which form links in chains, steps in ascent, and stages in journeys; this, in matter, is the unity of communicable forces in their continuance and propagation from one thing to another; it is the passing upward and downward of beneficent effects among all things; it is the melody of sounds; the beauty of continuous lines; and orderly successions of motions and times. In spiritual creatures, it is their own constant building up by true knowledge and consecutive efforts to higher perfection, and the singleness and straightforwardness of their tendencies to more complete union with God.

There is the unity of membership, which is the union of things separately imperfect into a perfect whole; this is the great unity of which all other unities are but parts and means. In matter it is the consistency of bodies, the harmony of sounds;—with spiritual beings, it is their love, happiness, and life in God. But this unity cannot subsist between things similar to each other. Two or more equal or like things cannot be members the one of the other, nor can they form one or a whole thing. Two they must remain both in nature and in our conception unless they are united by a third. Thus the arms, which are like each other, remain always two arms in our conception, and could not be united by a third arm, but must be linked by something which is not an arm, and which, imperfect without them as they without it, will, with them, form one perfect body. Nor is unity even thus accomplished without a difference and opposition of direction in the setting on of members. Therefore, among things which are to have membership with each other, there must be difference or variety; and though it is possible that many like things may be made members of one body, yet it is very remarkable that this stricture appears rather characteristic of the lower creatures than the higher, as the many legs of the caterpillar, and the arms and suckers of Radiata seem to prove. As we rise in the order of being the number of similar members becomes less; their structure appearing based on the principle of two things united by a third;—a constant type even in matter of the Triune Existence.

Out of the necessity of unity arises that of variety, a necessity vividly felt, because it lies at the surface of things, and is assisted by our love of change and the power of contrast. It were a mistake to suppose that mere variety, without a linking principle of unity, is, necessarily, either agreeable or beautiful.

'All are needed by each one, Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest at even; He sings the song, but it pleases not now, For I could not bring home the river and sky;— He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my seaborn treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.'

It is not mere unrelated variety which charms us, for a forest of all manner of trees is poor in its effect, while a mass of one species of trees is sublime;—the swan, with its purity of unbroken whiteness, is one of the most beautiful of creatures. It is, indeed, only harmonious and chordal variety, that variety which is necessary to secure and extend unity (for the greater the number of objects which by their differences become members of one another, the more extended and sublime is their unity), which is essentially beautiful. Variety is never so conspicuous as when united with some intimation of unity. For example, the perpetual change of clouds is monotonous in its very dissimilarity, nor is difference ever striking where no connection is implied; but if through a range of barred clouds crossing half the heavens, all governed by the same forces, and falling into one general form, there be yet a marked and evident dissimilarity between each member of the great mass—one more finely drawn, the next more delicately moulded, the next more gracefully bent—each broken into differently modelled and variously numbered groups,—the variety is doubly striking because contrasted with the perfect unity and symmetry of which it forms a part.

Now, of that which is thus necessary to the perfection of things, all types and suggestions must be beautiful in whatever way they may suggest or manifest it. To the perfection of beauty in lines, colors, forms, masses, or multitudes, the appearance of unity is absolutely essential. Let the artist look to it, that our pictures may gain expression; our music cease to weary us through the unceasing dissimilarity of its parts, highly adorned arabesques running into each other, graceful, but without significance, without any perceptible principle of unity in the jarring 'motifs;' and our poems have some certain theme, that their highly wrought details may not confuse and bewilder the spirit always in search of some central unity. Like the burning sands which, clinging not together in any sweet union of fellowship, blind and confuse us with their drifting masses, are all such essays in art; for an idea capable of quickening an artistic creation must be vitally One, and every great work, notwithstanding its variety and the manifold complexity of its parts, must form a Whole.

The association of ideas, upon which is based the unity of the continuous life of the individual, with the pervading sense of personal identity, has been aptly called the 'cohesion of the moral world.' It is not less powerful, less irresistible, than that of the physical world. The association of ideas is a constituent and necessary phase of the unity of our mental and moral being, the indispensable condition of all development, whether of mind or soul. Without the power of association, the intellect would strive in vain to construct consecutive trains of thought; it would indeed be condemned to eternal infancy, because, as it ascertained new relations, those already acquired would escape, and a labor constantly renewed would be requisite to regain them. Without association of ideas, no voluntary virtue would be possible; and at the end of long years of effort and self-restraint, we would have gained no additional control over the course of our impetuous passions.