"But a fatal, an insurmountable barrier lies between you and the object of your hopes."

"Do not keep me in suspense," cried the young soldier, "Explain this mystery, I implore you."

"Have you fortitude to listen to a dreadful secret, the possession of which has well nigh destroyed the life of your mother?"

"God will give me strength to bear any stroke," replied Henri. "Thanks to your instruction and example, I have schooled myself to suffer, unrepining, whatever Providence, in its infinite wisdom, sees fitting to inflict. If I have a soul for the dangers of the field, I have also, I think, the courage to confront those trials that pierce the heart with keener agonies than any the steel of a foeman can inflict. Fear not to task me beyond my strength."

"I will be as brief as possible," said the lady. "Your father, Henri, was of noble birth and possessed of fortune. My own share of the world's goods was small, and yet it was on this pittance alone that we were sustained, till the exertions of a generous friend procured you, under the name of De Grandville, (my maiden name,) a commission in the guards."

"Then De Grandville was not the name of my father."

"No—he belonged to the noble house of Montmorenci. The early years of our married life were passed in happiness that I always feared was too great to be enduring. It was brought to a bitter and miserable end. Deadly enemies—for the best and noblest have their foes—conspired against your father, and he was accused—falsely accused, mark me—of treason to his king and country. I will not tell you by what forgery and perjury he was made to appear guilty—but he was convicted—and sentenced—"

"Sentenced!"

"Ay, sentenced, and suffered. He died by the hands of Monsieur de Paris!"

"Monsieur de Paris!"

"The executioner!"

Henri uttered a piercing cry, and covered his face with his hands. He remained a long time in this attitude, his frame convulsed by the agonies of grief, while his mother watched, with streaming eyes, the effect of her communication. At length he removed his hands, and raised his head. His countenance was deadly pale,—the only indication of the train of emotions which had just convulsed him,—but his look was firm and high.

"Mother," said he, pressing her hand, "I thank you. It was better to learn this dreadful secret from your lips than from the words of another. Henceforth we will live for each other—we shall have a common sorrow and a common fate. I pray you to excuse me for a few moments. I will soon rejoin you, but I have first a duty to perform."

The young guardsman passed from his mother's presence to that of the Baron de Clairville.

"Welcome, welcome! my brave boy," said the old soldier. "You have fairly won your spurs."

"Sir, you flatter me," replied Henri, gravely.

"Not at all. Saxe himself says that more distinguished gallantry never fell beneath his notice."

"You think then, baron, I can claim a post of honor and danger in the next engagement?"

"You can lead the Forlorn Hope if you like."

"Enough, baron. I came to ask your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness!"

"Yes, sir, for having wronged you unconsciously so lately as last evening."

"Wronged me, and how, strange boy? you talk in riddles."

"Last evening, sir, on the eve of battle, which might well, considering what followed, have been my last of life, I sought your daughter. Her manner, some unguarded words she dropped, emboldened me to declare a secret which I had hitherto kept fast locked in my breast. I threw myself at her feet, and told her that I loved her."

"And she—"

"Confessed that she loved me in return."

"Henri! my boy—my son—my hero! this news makes me young again! it gladdens my old heart like the shout of victory upon a stricken field. Is this your offence? I freely pardon it."

"You know not all, baron. You knew that I was a poor and obscure soldier of fortune."

"The man who has distinguished himself as you have done this day, might claim the hand of an emperor's daughter."

"Baron, between me and Heloise there lies a black shadow—a memory—a horror, which forbids our meeting. The very name I bear does not belong to me."

"And how may you be named, young man, if not De Grandville?"

"Henri de Montmorenci," replied the young soldier.

"De Montmorenci!" cried the baron. "That is a noble and historic name. The house of Montmorenci has been well represented in the field."

"And on the scaffold!" added Henri, with deep emotion.

"The scaffold!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, yes; I remember now a dreadful tragedy. But he suffered unjustly."

"No matter," answered Henri. "The ignominious punishment remains a stain upon our escutcheon. Men will point to me as the son of a condemned and executed traitor. Could I forget for a moment the tragedy which has rendered my poor mother an animated image of death, the finger of the world would recall my wandering thoughts to the horrors of the fact. The scaffold, with all its bloody paraphernalia, would rise up before me."

"Henri, you are too sensitive," said the baron. "The best and bravest of France (alas for our history!) have closed their lives upon the scaffold. I believe your father innocent. If it were otherwise, you have redeemed the honor of your race. You deserve my daughter's hand—take her and be happy."

"Make her the companion of my agony! Never."

"Come with me," said the baron; "her smiles shall dispel these gloomy fantasies."

"No, no! urge me not," said the young guardsman. "Let me return to my poor mother. She has need of all my consolation. I renounce forever my ill-fated attachment. Heaven, for its own wise purposes, has chosen to afflict me. Farewell, baron; I thank you for your kindness—your generous friendship. You and Heloise will soon learn that Henri de Montmorenci is no more. After the next battle, if you seek me out, you will find me where the French dead lie thickest on the field."

"Noble-hearted fellow!" cried the baron, when Henri had left him. "He ought to be a field marshal."

"Marshal Saxe requests your immediate presence, baron," said an aide-de-camp, presenting himself with a salute.

"Monsieur de Baron," said the commander-in-chief, when De Clairville had obeyed the summons, "I have chosen you to carry my despatches to the king; you will find yourself honorably mentioned therein, and I think the favor of royalty will reward your merit."

The baron bowed low as he received the despatches from the hand of the marshal, and was soon ready for the journey, first taking a hasty farewell of his daughter, whom he commended to the care of Madame de Grandville, (or rather Montmorenci,) during his absence.

In five days thereafter, he reported himself to the marshal, and was then at liberty to attend to his private concerns. He found Heloise in the company of Henri and his mother, and the gloom depicted on their countenances presented a singular contrast to the radiant joy that sparkled in the eyes and smiled on the lips of the genial and warm-hearted old soldier. He kissed his daughter, saluted Madame de Grandville, and then, shaking the young guardsman warmly by the hand, exclaimed,—

"Good news, Henri; I bring you a budget of them. The king has heard of your gallantry, and inquired into your story."

"Heaven bless him!" exclaimed the mother.

"The memory of your father," continued the baron, "has been vindicated by a parliamentry decree affirming his innocence. His forfeited estates are restored to his family; and I bring you, under the king's seal, your commission as full colonel in the French Guards, and letters patent of nobility, Count Henri de Montmorenci!"

Henri and his mother were nearly overwhelmed by this good news; while Heloise clung to her father's arm for support.

"No fainting, girl," said the happy baron. "That will never do for a soldier's wife. Here, take her, count, make her happy—and let us hear no more of your volunteering on Forlorn Hopes—at least, during the honeymoon."

We need not add that the baron's injunctions were implicitly obeyed.



PERSONAL SATISFACTION.

Mrs. Tubbs had been a very fine woman—she was still good looking at the period of which we write, but then—

"Fanny was younger once than she is now, And prettier of course."

She had been married some years. Tubbs was a gentleman farmer, and lived out in Roxbury, when land was cheaper there than it is now, and a man of moderate means could own a few acres within three miles of Boston State House. On retiring from the wholesale West India goods business, he had purchased a little estate in the vicinity of the Norfolk House, and raised vegetables and other "notions" with the usual success attendant upon the agricultural experiments of gentlemen amateurs; that is, his potatoes cost him about half a dollar a peck, and his quinces ninepence apiece. He had a greenhouse one quarter of a mile long, and kept a fire in it all the year round, at the suggestion of a rascally gardener, whose brother kept a wood and coal yard. We could tell some droll stories about Tubbs's gardening, if they were to the purpose. We will mention, however, that when he went into the vegetable business he was innocent as a lamb, and verdant as one of his own green peapods, and of course he made some curious mistakes. He was not aware that the infant bean, like the pious AEneas, was "in the habit of carrying its father on its back," and so thinking that nature had made a mistake, he reversed the order of the young sprouts, and reinterred the aged beans. This was one of his many blunders. However, we have nothing to do with his gardening. We have said he was innocent as a lamb, but he was by no means so pacific; on the contrary, his temper was as inflammable as gun cotton—the slightest spark would set it in a blaze.

To return to Mrs. Tubbs, whom we have most ungallantly left in the lurch since the first paragraph. She had been into Boston one day, shopping, and returned home in the omnibus. She sat between two young men. The one on her right was modest and well-behaved, while the other was entirely the reverse. He might have been drinking—he might have been partially insane—these are charitable suppositions; but at all events, he had the impertinence to address Mrs. Tubbs in a low tone, audible only to herself. He muttered some compliment to her appearance—talked a little nonsense—inoffensive in itself, but intolerable as coming from a stranger. Mrs. Tubbs made no reply, but she was glad to spring from the conveyance when the driver pulled up at the Norfolk House. To her great joy she espied the faithful Tubbs, attired in a blouse, and wheeling a barrow full of gravel down Bartlett Street, with all the dignity of a gentleman farmer, conscious of being a useful, if not an ornamental, member of society. She accosted him with,—

"Tubbs, love, I've got something to tell you."

Tubbs relinquished the handles of the barrow, and sat down in the gravel.

"Mr. Tubbs!" screamed the lady, "you've got your best pantaloons on."

"Never mind, my dear; out with your story, for I'm busy."

"Mr. Tubbs! I've been insulted!"

Mr. Tubbs's head instantly became as red as one of his own blood beets.

"Who is the miscreant?" he yelled, jumping up.

"A young man who sat next to me in the omnibus."

"Describe him!"

"Dark hair and eyes, with a black stock, light waistcoat, dark-colored coat and pantaloons—"

"Which way did he go?" interrupted Mr. Tubbs.

"Into the hourly office."

"'Tis well! Mrs. T., I'll have his heart's blood!"

"Now, T., be calm!" interposed his better half.

"Mrs. T., I will be calm," was the dignified reply, "calm as the surface of Mount AEtna, on the eve of an eruption. Farewell, love, for a moment. Have an eye to the wheelbarrow while I have a settlement with this scoundrel!"

With these words, Tubbs marched up the hill. He entered the hourly office, and looked round him. His first glance lighted on a young man who answered the description given by Mrs. Tubbs; but he wished to make assurance doubly sure, and so he accosted him politely,—

"Fine growing weather, sir."

"Yes, sir," replied the stranger.

"Peas are doing finely," said Mr. Tubbs.

"Indeed!"

"If the weather holds, we can plant corn next week."

"Indeed!"

"Pray, sir," continued Tubbs, "did you come out in the last coach?"

"I did, sir."

"Was there a lady in the coach?"

"There was, sir. I recollect a lady sat next to me."

"You scoundrel! what did you mean by insulting my wife?"

This question was followed by a blow, which sent the young gentleman sprawling on the floor. Tubbs stood him up, and knocked him down again and again, like a man practising on a single pin in a bowling alley. The sufferer showed some fight, but Tubbs's blood was up, and he hammered down all opposition. The drivers looked on in admiration to see "Old Tubbs vollop the chap as had insulted his wife," and so he had it all his own way. He dragged the offender out of the office, and finished him off on the sidewalk. He was engaged in this laudable occupation, when his better half, tired of mounting guard over the wheelbarrow, appeared upon the field.

"Mr. Tubbs!" she screamed.

"Wait a minute, my dear. I've only done one side of his head."

"But, Mr. Tubbs! That wasn't the man!"

Tubbs suspended operations, and stood fixed in horror. The remains of the injured individual were taken into the hourly office. Then came remorse and apologies unaccepted and unacceptable—a lawyer's letter—an action for assault and battery, and heavy damages. The real offender had escaped, and was never heard of; the victim was the well-behaved young gentleman, who had sat on Mrs. Tubbs's right. Her description, which had answered for both, had occasioned the dilemma, which, while it proved an expensive lesson to Mr. Tubbs, was also an effectual one, and saved him from many a rash and hasty action, and induced him ever afterwards to adopt Colonel Crockett's golden maxim, "Be always sure you're right, then go ahead."



THE CASTLE ON THE RHINE.

In one of those old feudal castles, which, perched, like eagle nests, upon the picturesque hills that overhang

"The wide and winding Rhine,"

and with their crumbling and ivy-grown towers, arrest the eyes of the delighted traveller, as he views them from the deck of the gliding steamer, there dwelt, some years ago, the Baron Von Rosenburg and his lady Mathilde. The baron was a very proud man, and continually boasting of his descent from a "long and noble line of martial ancestors," gentlemen who were wont, in the "good old times," to wear steel on head, back, and breast, and each of whom supported a score of retainers in his feudal castle. Where the money comes from to support a princely housekeeping, when the head of the family has no property or employment, is sometimes a mystery nowadays; but no such doubt attached to the resources of the baron's ancestors. These gentlemen, when short of provisions, would sally forth at the head of their followers, and capture the first drove of cattle they encountered, without stopping to inquire into the ownership. Sometimes they made excursions on the river, and levied contributions on the little barks of traders who often carried valuable cargoes from one Rhine town to another.

But the privileges of the robber knights and bandit nobles were sadly shorn by the progressive spirit of modern civilization. With a total disregard of the immunities of chivalry, modern legislators declared that it was as great a crime for a baron to seize on a herd of cattle as for a peasant to steal a sheep. Hence the great families along the Rhine went into decay. The castles were dismantled, many noble names died out, very few remained, the representatives of the ancestral glory of olden times.

Among them was the baron. He had been a soldier and a courtier in his youth, had spent some time abroad, and was about forty when he married a lady of the same age, and settled down in the old family castle of Rosenberg. Here he lorded it over the surrounding valley, the simple inhabitants of which, though exempt from all feudal obligations, yet in some sort regarded themselves as vassals of the baron. They made him presents of fish, accompanied him to the chase, and lent him a willing hand, whenever he required assistance at the castle.

The baron, though he had the wherewithal to live comfortably enough, was yet a poor representative of the race he sprang from. His army consisted of a few farm servants, his cavalry of a ploughboy on a cart-horse, and his navy of a fishing boat. But, on the whole, he was happy. He passed his days either in trimming his vines or hunting, and his evenings in poring over mildewed parchments or books of heraldry, hunting up long pedigrees, and puffing a monstrous meerschaum till the atmosphere was as dense as the interior of a smokehouse. The lady Mathilde embroidered from morning till night.

They had, however, a common source of grief. Fate had not blessed them with children. The lady yearned for the companionship of a daughter; the baron mourned at the prospect of the extinction of his name for want of a male heir.

It was while pondering on this subject one day, as they were strolling out together, that the baron and his lady came upon the cottage of an old soldier named Karl Mueller, who cultivated a little vineyard not far from the castle.

The old man was seated on a bench before his door, smoking, and so deeply plunged in revery, that he was not aware of the approach of visitors till the baron touched him on the shoulder.

"In a brown study, Karl?" said the baron.

"I have enough to think about," returned the soldier "I'm getting old, and one thing troubles me."

"What's that, my good fellow?"

"Why, you see, baron, I'm not alone here."

"Not alone?"

"No, sir—I—have—I have a little child here."

"I never knew you were married, Karl."

"Nor was I, your honor. For I always thought an infantry soldier ought to be in marching order, and never have more baggage than he could carry in his knapsack. No, no; the child is none of mine."

"But it is related to you," said the baroness.

"It is my grandchild, madam," replied the soldier, fixing his eyes on the lady; "and the child of as brave a man as ever faced the fire of the enemy. He might have been a field marshal, for the matter of that. I saw him at Oberstadt when the hussars went down to charge the enemy's light cavalry. Faith, madam, they made daylight shine through their ranks. Their curved sabres cut them up as the sickle does the corn. I saw him, the girl's father, madam, go into that affair with the hussars; but he came not out safe. It was pitiful to see his uniform all dabbled with blood, as he lay on the ground, and to see his pale lips quivering, as he prayed for water. I gave him the last drop in my canteen, and I swore I'd protect the child. But I fear I'm getting too old for the task."

The baroness, whose eyes were filled with tears, turned to her husband, and asked,—

"Shall we not give a shelter to the child of a brave man?"

The baron nodded, and the proposal was accepted by Karl, who retired into his cottage, and immediately reappeared, bringing forth a beautiful girl of ten, with fair hair and blue eyes, and a form of graceful symmetry.

"A girl! nonsense!" said the baron, in a tone of disappointment. But the baroness folded the child in her arms with rapture. The child responded to the caresses of the lady with equal ardor.

So the little Adelaide was soon domesticated in the castle which her frolic spirit filled with gayety. The baroness renewed her youth in gazing upon hers, and the baron never scolded her, even when she took his pipe out of his mouth, or rummaged among his parchments.

As she grew up to womanhood, she became more serious and thoughtful. She was anxious to learn every thing touching her father, but on this subject the baroness could give her no information; and Karl, her grandfather, seemed equally averse to speaking of it. When hard pressed, he promised to speak out at some future time.

One day she was summoned in great haste to the cottage of old Karl. The old man had suddenly been taken ill, and required the presence of his granddaughter. It was evident, at a glance, that he was on his death bed.

"Adelaide," said he, "forgive me, before I die, that I may depart in peace."

"Forgive you, dear grandfather! am I not deeply indebted to you?"

"I should have reposed more confidence in you; I should have spoken to you about your parents."

"My father?" asked Adelaide.

"Was a brave and good man. But of your mother—your good mother—she was—"

Here a spasm interrupted his utterance, and he lay back on his pillow gasping for breath. After a brief space he seemed to revive again, and made strong efforts to express himself, but his breath failed him. He motioned to Adelaide to fetch him writing materials, and while she held a sheet of paper on a book before him, he essayed with feeble fingers to trace a sentence with a pen. But the rapid approach of death foiled all his endeavors to communicate a secret that evidently lay close to his heart; and while the young girl bent over him in an agony of grief, he gently sighed away his last. The baron and baroness found their protegee, an hour afterwards, still sorrowing by the bedside of her early friend and protector. With gentle violence they removed her from the chamber of death, and took her home to the castle, where they gave directions to the proper persons to take charge of the old soldier's remains, and inter them with that decent respect which was due to his character and station. Among his effects was found a will, in which he made Adelaide his heiress, bequeathing to her his little landed estate, and a small sum in gold, the produce of his toil and frugality. This event cast a gloom over the spirits of the young maiden, from which, however, her religious persuasions, the attention of her friends, and the elasticity of her youth, eventually relieved her.

The old castle on the Rhine was gay once more, when Rudolph Ernstein, a nephew of the baron, a gay young captain of hussars, whose gallantry and beauty had given him reputation at Vienna, came to pay a long visit to his uncle. He was a high-spirited and accomplished young man, had served with distinction, was a devoted admirer of the ladies, and one of those military Adonises who are born to conquest. He was charmed to find domesticated beneath the old roof tree so fair and lovable a girl as Adelaide, and of course did his best to render his society agreeable to her. He sang to her songs of his own writing, to airs of his own composition, accompanied on his guitar; he told her tales of strange lands that he had visited, of cavalry skirmishes in which he had participated, sketched her favorite scenes in pencil, and offered to teach her the newest dances in vogue at Vienna. He was a dangerous companion to a young girl whose imagination needed but a spark to kindle it, and for a time she indulged in the wild hope that she had made a conquest of Rudolph. But then her reason told her, that even if he loved her, it would be impossible for a young man of family to offer his hand to an almost portionless girl, about whose origin a veil of mystery seemed wrapped. The names of her parents, even, had never been disclosed to her, by the lips of probably the only man who knew her history, and those lips were now cold and mute in death. Hence the little gleam of sunshine which had for a moment penetrated her heart was speedily quenched in a deeper darkness than that which reigned in it before, and she could not help viewing the visit of Rudolph as an ominous event.

One morning, she was witness to a scene which dashed out the last faint glimmering of hope. They were all seated at a huge oaken table, from which the servants had just removed the apparatus of the morning meal.

"Rudolph," said the baron, after lighting his pipe,—an operation of great solemnity and deliberation, and taking a few whiffs to make sure that its contents were duly ignited,—"Rudolph, do you know why I sent for you to Rosenburg?"

"Why, sir," replied the hussar, "I suppose it was because you really have a sort of regard for an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, whose redeeming quality is an attachment to a very kind old uncle, and whose nonsense and good spirits are perhaps a partial compensation for the trouble he gives every body in this tumble-down old castle."

"Tumble-down old castle!" exclaimed the baron, in high dudgeon, the latter part of the soldier's speech cancelling the former; "why, you jackanapes, it will stand for centuries. It resisted the cannon of Napoleon, and it bids defiance to the battering of time. Yes, sir, Rosenburg will stand long after your great-great-grandchildren are superannuated."

"I am not likely to be blessed in the way you hint at, uncle," said the soldier, carelessly. "I am likely, for aught I see, to die a bachelor."

"Nonsense!" said the baron. "What's to become of your family name? Do you think I will allow it to die out, like the Pumpernickels, the Snaphausens, and the Ollenstoffenburgers? No, boy. I sent for you to tell you that I have contracted for your hand with my friend the Baron Von Steinberg."

"Really, sir, you dispose of me in a very cavalier way."

"That's because you're too careless or lazy to look out for yourself," retorted the baron. "But then you can have no possible objection to the present match. The fair Julia is just twenty—eyes, you dog—lips, you rascal—a shape, you blockhead, to bewitch an anchorite. And then she has the gelt—the money, my boy."

"A commodity of which I happen to be minus," said the soldier.

"Arn't you my heir?" asked the baron.

"You are very kind," said the hussar, with a slight sigh.

He glanced at Adelaide, but he read no sentiment on her calm and pensive countenance.

"She's as cold as a glacier on the Donderberg!" he muttered to himself.

"Well, sir—you haven't given me an answer," said the baron, impatiently.

"My dear uncle," said the soldier, jumping up, and snatching his fowling-piece, "it's a glorious morning for sport; and I'm much mistaken if I don't add a half dozen brace of birds to your bill of fare to-day."

"But the fair Julia Von Steinberg?" said the baron.

"O! I forgot," said Rudolph. "I'm entirely in your hands. Do with me as you please. My profession, you know, has given me habits of obedience. I suppose I must sacrifice myself. Good morning."

And away he went to enjoy his sport upon the mountains.

"Young, lovely, and rich!" said poor Adelaide, with a sigh, when she had regained her room. "If this be true, she is indeed worthy of Ernstein. He will love her—they will be happy—and I—I can but wish them joy, and die."

There was great preparation in the castle Von Rosenburg, that day week, for the reception of the prospective bride. Every thing was cleaned and furbished up, from battlement to dungeon keep. An old flag with the family arms was hoisted from the rampart, and the butler, who had served in the wars of the Alliance, mounted an old swivel on the ramparts with the intention of firing it off, on the approach of the old family carriage of the Von Steinbergs, Captain Rudolph Von Ernstein, in his splendid hussar uniform, looked the beau ideal of a soldier lover. Even the baron was rejuvenated by a court suit that had not seen the light since the nuptials of Maria Louisa and the Emperor Napoleon.

At last the carriage appeared. The villagers and hangers on of the establishment hurrahed in the court yard as it drew up, the old butler applied the match to the priming of the swivel and was prostrated by the discharge, while the baron came near tumbling over his sword in his eagerness to welcome his old friend and his old friend's daughter.

The Baron Von Steinberg alighted and bowed his thanks; while Captain Rudolph handed out the lovely Julia. As her light foot touched the pavement, Adelaide advanced to offer a bouquet; at one glance she appreciated the exquisite beauty of her rival, and dropping the flowers, retired to an obscure corner of the court yard to conceal her anguish and despair.

The festive train swept into the castle. All was gayety and uproar within doors. The baron could scarce contain the transports of his joy; and Von Steinberg was equally excited. The excitement, however, seemed to be too much for the fair Julia, whose cheek was paler than the satin robe she wore, while Rudolph, perhaps from sympathy, was uneasy and agitated.

At last the bell of the castle was rung for dinner, and the party proceeded to the great hall. But Adelaide did not make her appearance. Search was made for her; she was not in her apartment. An angry flush overspread the brow of old Rosenburg at this announcement, and after some minutes passed in waiting for her appearance, he ordered dinner to be served without her. The repast was not a very gay one, notwithstanding the efforts of the master of the house to make it so. Night had long fallen, and Adelaide did not reappear. The family, from being vexed, now became alarmed, and it was determined to go in search of her. Rudolph and the baron went forth with two servants and torches to scour the woods, after vainly searching through the castle. One of the men went on in advance. He had been gone but a short time when he came back speechless with grief and amazement. Rudolph and his uncle pushed forward through the thickets, and on the banks of a small stream, dammed up to form a lake, they found the bonnet and shawl of the missing girl.

"Good God!" exclaimed Rudolph, "she has destroyed herself. I have noticed a strange wildness in her appearance for several days past; in a fit of mental aberration she has wandered away, and here found her death."

A piercing scream was heard at this moment. The baroness, who had followed them, had recognized the garments of Adelaide.

"My child! my child!" she shrieked, "my own! my beautiful! she is no more."

"This is worse and worse," said the baron, wringing his hands. "This will make us all mad."

But at this moment a boat was seen approaching. It was the miller, who brought with him the body of Adelaide, dripping as it had been drawn from the water. He laid her fair form upon the bank. The baroness, who could not be restrained, threw herself beside her, and kissed her pale lips. Rudolph, too, seized the cold hands.

"She lives!" he exclaimed. "She is not lost to us!"

"Rudolph—dear Rudolph!" murmured the poor girl.

"My child! my child! she lives!" cried the baroness.

And it was indeed so. She had thrown herself into the water, indeed, but the miller, who happened to be at hand, had flown to her rescue, and she was now, by the united efforts of her friends, restored to consciousness.

"Dear, dear Adelaide!" cried the baroness; "your life repays me now for all my sufferings. Yes, dearest, you are my own, my only child. Yes, baron," she added, noticing the incredulous expression of her husband—"the supposed death of a daughter has wrung from a mother's heart the despairing cry that betrayed her secret. In former days, I married, secretly, Colonel Schonfeldt, a brave soldier of the emperor, against whom my parents cherished a deadly enmity. He fell upon the field of battle, and this poor girl, the fruit of our love, was committed to the hands of strangers, till such time as I could take her to my heart. I avow it without shame, nor can you, baron, whose noble qualities won my heart, reproach me with the love I bear this dear girl."

"She is my child now," said the baron, "as well as yours. Let us take her back to the castle; she is a precious charge."

"I will see to her," said Rudolph, "and it shall not be my fault if she ever have another protector."

So the party regained the castle, where Von Steinberg and Julia were anxiously awaiting their return.

When Adelaide had been carefully attended to, Rudolph sought his uncle and guests in the great hall.

"Miss Julia Von Steinberg," said the soldier, "since confessions are the order of the night, I must place mine on record. I met you to-day in obedience to orders, believing my heart was my own. The event of to-night has told me too truly that I had unconsciously lost it. But I am a man of honor, and if you will accept my hand without my heart, it is yours."

"Captain Ernstein," replied the beauty, "I thank you for your frank confession. I cannot possibly accept your hand without your heart. Nay—do not frown, father—I have a secret for your ear, and if you do not wish to wreck your daughter's happiness, you will urge me no further."

Von Steinberg frowned, and pshawed, and pished, and then, clearing his voice, addressed the baron.

"Come, Von Rosenberg," said he, "confess that we have been acting like a couple of old fools, in trying our hand at match making—it is a business for the young people themselves, and not for old soldiers like us. Say, shall we reduce the mutineers to obedience, or shall we let them have it their own way?"

"Circumstances alter cases," answered the baron. "When I proposed for Julia's hand, I didn't know my wife had a daughter to marry. And if that were not the case, I am inclined to think the secret alluded to by the young lady, would prove an insuperable obstacle to the ratification of our treaty."

This secret was no other than a love affair between the fair Julia and a certain count who had waltzed with her at the baths of Baden-Baden, the preceding summer. We are glad to say that the flirtation thus happily commenced ended in matrimony. As for Rudolph, he was shortly after united to the fair Adelaide, on which occasion the baron gave such a rouse as the old towers of Von Rosenberg had not known since the rollicking days of its first feudal masters. It was illuminated at every window and loophole, so that the waters of the Rhine rolled beneath it a sea of fire, or as if their channels were overflowed with generous Asmanshausen; and the old butler discharged his swivel so many times that he had to be taken down from the battlements and drenched with Rhenish to preserve his life.

Thus ended all that is worthy commemorating in the modern history of the Castle on the Rhine.



LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

"Tell me, Charley, who is that fascinating creature in blue that waltzes so divinely?" asked young Frank Belmont of his friend Charles Hastings, as they stood "playing wallflower" for the moment, at a military ball.

"Julia Heathcote," answered Charles, with a half sigh, "an old flame of mine. I proposed, but she refused me."

"On what ground?"

"Simply because I had a comfortable income. Her head is full of romantic notions, and she dreams of nothing but love in a cottage. She contends that poverty is essential to happiness—and money its bane."

"Have you given up all hopes of her?"

"Entirely; in fact, I'm engaged."

"Then you have no objections to my addressing this dear, romantic angel?"

"None whatever. But I see my fiancee—excuse me—I must walk through the next quadrille with her."

Frank Belmont was a stranger in Boston—a New Yorker—immensely rich and fashionable, but his reputation had not preceded him, and Charley Hastings was the only man who knew him in New England. He procured an introduction to the beauty from one of the managers, and soon danced and talked himself into her good graces. In fact, it was a clear case of love at first sight on both sides.

The enamoured pair were sitting apart, enjoying a most delightful tete-a-tete. Suddenly Belmont heaved a deep sigh.

"Why do you sigh, Mr. Belmont?" asked the fair Julia, somewhat pleased with this proof of sensibility. "Is not this a gay scene?"

"Alas! yes," replied Belmont, gloomily; "but fate does not permit me to mingle habitually in scenes like this. They only make my ordinary life doubly gloomy—and even here I deem to see the shadow of a fiend waving me away. What right have I to be here?"

"What fiend do you allude to?" asked Miss Heathcote, with increasing interest.

"A fiend hardly presentable in good society," replied Belmont, bitterly. "One could tolerate a Mephistophiles—a dignified fiend, with his pockets full of money—but my tormentor, if personified, would appear with seedy boots and a shocking bad hat."

"How absurd!"

"It is too true," sighed Belmont, "and the name of this fiend is Poverty!"

"Are you poor?"

"Yes, madam. I am poor, and when I would fain render myself agreeable in the eyes of beauty—in the eyes of one I could love, this fiend whispers me, 'Beware! you have nothing to offer her but love in a cottage.'"

"Mr. Belmont," said Julia, with sparkling eyes, and a voice of unusual animation, "although there are sordid souls in this world, who only judge of the merits of an individual by his pecuniary possessions, I am not one of that number. I respect poverty; there is something highly poetical about it, and I imagine that happiness is oftener found in the humble cottage than beneath the palace roof."

Belmont appeared enchanted with this encouraging avowal. The next day, after cautioning his friend Charley to say nothing of his actual circumstances, he called on the widow Heathcote and her fair daughter in the character of the "poor gentleman." The widow had very different notions from her romantic offspring, and when Belmont candidly confessed his poverty on soliciting permission to address Julia, he was very politely requested to change the subject, and never mention it again.

The result of all this manoeuvring was an elopement; the belle of the ball jumping out of a chamber window on a shed, and coming down a flight of steps to reach her lover, for the sake of being romantic, when she might just as well have walked out of the front door.

The happy couple passed a day in New York city, and then Frank took his beloved to his "cottage."

An Irish hack conveyed them to a miserable shanty in the environs of New York, where they alighted, and Frank, escorting the bride into the apartment which served for parlor, kitchen, and drawing room, and was neither papered nor carpeted, introduced her to his mother, much in the way Claude Melnotte presents Pauline. The old woman, who was peeling potatoes, hastily wiped her hands and face with a greasy apron, and saluted her "darter," as she called her, on both cheeks.

"Can it be possible," thought Julia, "that this vulgar creature is my Belmont's mother?"

"Frank!" screamed the old woman, "you'd better go right up stairs and take off them clothes—for the boy's been sent arter 'em more'n fifty times. Frank borried them clothes, ma'am," she added to Julia, by way of explanation, "to look smart when he went down east."

The bridegroom retired on this hint, and soon reappeared in a pair of faded nankeen pantaloons, reaching to about the calf of the leg, a very shabby black coat, out at the elbows, a ragged black vest, and, instead of his varnished leather boots, a pair of immense cowhide brogans.

"Now," said he, sitting quietly down by the cooking stove, "I begin to feel at home. Ah! this is delightful, isn't it, dearest?" and he warbled,—

"Though never so humble, there's no place like home."

Julia's heart swelled so that she could not utter a word.

"Dearest," said Frank, "I think you told me you had no objection to smoking?"

"None in the least," said the bride; "I rather like the flavor of a cigar."

"O, a cigar!" replied Belmont; "that would never do for a poor man."

And O, horror! he produced an old clay pipe, and filling it from a little newspaper parcel of tobacco, began to smoke with a keen relish.

"Dinner! dinner!" he exclaimed at length; "ah! thank you, mother; I'm as hungry as a bear. Codfish and potatoes, Julia—not very tempting fare—but what of that? our aliment is love!"

"Yes, and by way of treat," added the old woman, "I've been and gone and bought a whole pint of Albany ale, and three cream cakes, from the candy shop next block."

Poor Julia pleaded indisposition, and could not eat a mouthful. Before Belmont, however, the codfish and potatoes, and the ale, and cream cakes disappeared with a very unromantic and unlover-like velocity. At the close of the meal, a thundering double knock was heard at the door.

"Come in!" cried Belmont.

A low-browed man, in a green waistcoat, entered.

"Now, Misther Belmont," he exclaimed, in a strong Hibernian accent, "are ye ready to go to work? By the powers! if I don't see ye sailed to-morrow on the shopboard, I'll discharge ye without a character—and ye shall starve on the top of that."

"To-morrow morning, Mr. Maloney," replied Belmont, meekly, "I'll be at my post."

"And it'll be mighty healthy for you to do that same," replied the man as he retired.

"Belmont, speak—tell me," gasped Julia, "who is that man—that loafer?"

"He is my employer," answered Belmont, smiling.

"And his profession?"

"He is a tailor."

"And you?"

"Am a journeyman tailor, at your service—a laborious and thankless calling it ever was to me—but now, dearest, as I drive the hissing goose across the smoking seam, I shall think of my own angel and my dear cottage, and be happy."

That night Julia retired weeping to her room in the attic.

"That 'ere counterpin, darter," said the old woman, "I worked with these here old hands. Ain't it putty? I hope you'll sleep well here. There's a broken pane of glass, but I've put one of Frank's old hats in it, and I don't think you'll feel the draught. There used to be a good many rats here, but I don't think they'll trouble you now, for Frank's been a pizinin' of 'em."

Left alone, Julia threw herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Even Belmont had ceased to be attractive in her eyes—the stern privations that surrounded her banished all thoughts of love. The realities of life had cured her in one day of all her Quixotic notions.

"Well, Julia, how do you like poverty and love in a cottage?" asked Belmont, entering in his bridal dress.

"Not so well, sir, as you seem to like that borrowed suit," answered the bride, reddening with vexation.

"Very well; you shall suffer it no longer. My carriage awaits your orders at the door."

"Your carriage, indeed!"

"Yes, dearest, it waits but for you, to bear us to Belmont Hall, my lovely villa on the Hudson."

"And your mother?"

"I have no mother, alas! The old woman down stairs is an old servant of the family."

"Then you've been deceiving me, Frank—how wicked!"

"It was all done with a good motive. You were not born to endure a life of privation, but to shine the ornament of an elegant and refined circle. I hope you will not love me the less when you learn that I am worth nearly half a million—that's the melancholy fact, and I can't help it."

"O Frank!" cried the beautiful girl, and hid her face in his bosom.

She presided with grace at the elegant festivities of Belmont Hall, and seemed to support her husband's wealth and luxurious style of living with the greatest fortitude and resignation, never complaining of her comforts, nor murmuring a wish for living in a cottage.



THE CAREER OF AN ARTIST.

I woke up one morning and found myself famous.—BYRON.

Julian Montfort was a farmer's boy; bred up to the plough handle and cart tail. His father and mother were plain, honest people, of hard-working habits and limited ideas, and without the slightest dash of romance in their temperaments. Their house, their lands were unprepossessing in appearance. The soil was impoverished by long and illiberal culture; and old Montfort had a true old-fashioned prejudice against trees. Instead of smiling hedgerows, with here and there a weeping elm or plumy evergreen to cast their graceful shadows upon the pasture land, his acres were enclosed with harsh stone walls, or an unpicturesque Virginia fence with its zigzag of rude rails. The farmer had an equal prejudice against books, "book larnin', and book-larned men." Of course, with these ideas, Julian's education was limited to a few quarters' schooling under an old pedagogue, whose native language was Dutch, and who never took very kindly to the English tongue. Besides, teaching was only an episode with him; for his vocation was that of a clergyman, and he held forth on Sundays in alternate Dutch and English to his little congregation—as is still the custom in many of the small agricultural parishes in New York State, where the scene of our veritable story lies.

Our hero, young Julian, early began to show a restiveness under the training he received, which sadly perplexed his plain matter-of-fact father. The latter could not conceive why the boy should sometimes leave his plough in the furrow, and sit upon a hillock, gazing curiously and admiringly upon a simple wild flower. He knew not why the youth should stand with his eyes fixed upon the western sky when it was pavilioned with crimson, and gold, and purple; or later yet, when, one by one, the stars came timidly forth and took their places in the darkening heaven. He shook his head at these manifestations, and confidently informed his help-mate that he feared the boy was "not right"—significantly touching, as he spoke, that portion of his anatomy where he fondly imagined a vast quantity of brain of very superior quality was safely stowed away, guarded by a sufficient quantity of skull to protect it against any accident. Neither he nor the good wife imagined, for a moment, that Julian was a genius, and that his talent, circumscribed by circumstances, was struggling for an outlet for its development.

At last the divine spark within him was kindled into flame. An itinerant portrait painter came round, with his tools of trade, and did the dominie in brown and red, and the squire's daughter in vermilion and flake white, and set the whole village agog with his marvellous achievements. Julian cultivated his acquaintance, received some secret instructions in the A B C of art, and bargained for some drawing and painting materials. His aspirations had at length found an object. Long and painfully he labored in secret; but his advances were rapid, for he took nature as a model. At last he ventured to display his latest achievement—a small portrait of his father. It was first shown to his mother, and filled her with astonishment and delight. It is the privilege of woman, however circumstanced, to appreciate and applaud true genius. Of course, Moliere's housekeeper occurs to the reader as an illustration. The picture was next shown to the old man. He gazed at it with a sort of silent horror, puffing the smoke from his pipe in short, spasmodic jerks, and slowly shaking his head before he spoke.

"Do you know it, father?" asked the young artist.

"Know it!" exclaimed the old man. "Yes—yes—I see myself there like I was lookin' into a glass. There's my nose, and eyes, and mouth, and hair; yes, and there's my pipe. It ain't right—it can't be right—it's witchcraft. Satan must ha' helped you, boy—you couldn't never ha' done it without the aid of the evil one."

This was a sad damper. But just then the dominie luckily happened in to take a pipe with his parishioner. He pronounced the work excellent, and satisfied his old friend's doubts as to the honesty of the transaction. Julian blessed the old man in his heart for the comfort he afforded.

And now the fame of the young painter flew through the village. The tavern keeper ordered a head of General Washington for his sign board, the old one—originally a portrait of the Duke of Cambridge with the court dress painted out—not satisfying some of his critical customers. And for the blacksmith, Montfort painted a rampant black horse, prevented from falling backward by a solid tail. The stable keeper also gave him orders for sundry coats of arms to be depicted on wagon panels and sleigh dashers, so that the incipient artist had plenty of orders and not a little cash.

But he soon grew tired of this local reputation. He panted for the association of kindred spirits; for the impulse and example to be found in some great centre of civilization; for refinement, fame—all that is dear to an ardent imagination. And so, one morning, he announced his intention of seeking his fortune in the city of New York.

His mother was sad, but did not oppose his wishes; his father shook his head, as he always did when any thing was proposed—no matter what. The old gentleman seemed to derive great pleasure from shaking his head, and no one interfered with so harmless an amusement.

"Goin' to York, hey?" said he, emitting sundry puffs of smoke. "The Yorkers are a curious set of people, boy. I read into a paper once't about how they car' on—droppin' pocket books, and sellin' brass watches for gold, and knockin' people down and stompin' onto 'em."

"But the dominie thinks I might make money there," said the young man.

"O, then you'd better go. The dominie's got a longer head than you or I, boy," said the old man.

"Yes, father," said the youth, kindling with animation. "In New York I am sure to win fame and fortune. I shall come back, then, and buy you a better farm, and hire hands for you, so that you won't be obliged to work so hard—and you can set out trees."

"Hain't no opinion of trees," said the old man, shaking his head.

"Well, well, father, you shall have money, and do what you like with it; for my part I shall be content with fame."

"Fame! what is that?" said the old man, laying down his pipe in bewilderment.

"Fame! Do you ask what fame is?" exclaimed the romantic boy. But he paused, convinced in a moment of the perfect futility of attempting to convey an idea of the unsubstantial phantom to the old man's intellect. Perhaps the old farmer was the better philosopher of the two.

But Julian gained his point, and departed for the great city—the goal of so many struggles, the grave of so many hopes. He was at first dazzled by the splendors of the artificial life, into the heart of which he plunged; and then, with a homesick feeling, he sighed for that verdurous luxury of nature he had left. He missed the trees—for he thought the shabby and rusty foliage of the Battery and Park hardly worthy of that name. But, in time to save him from utter disappointment and heart sickness, there opened on his vision the glorious dawning of the world of art. He passed from gallery to gallery, and from studio to studio, drinking in the beauties that unfolded before him with the eyes of his body and his soul. He was enraptured, dazzled, enchanted. Then he settled down to work in his humble room, economizing the scanty funds he had brought with him to the city. Like many young aspirants, he grasped, at first, at the most difficult subjects. He constantly groped for a high ideal. He would fly before he had learned to walk. With an imperfect knowledge of architecture and anatomy, and a limited stock of information, he would paint history—mythology. He sought to illustrate poetry, and dared attempt scenes from the Bible, Shakspeare, and Milton. He failed, though there were glimpses of grandeur and glory in his faulty attempts.

Then he turned back, with a sickening feeling, to the elements of art, distasteful as he found them. It was hard to pore over rectangles and curves, bones and muscles, angles and measurements, after sporting with irregular forms and fascinating colors. He tried portraiture, but he had no feeling for the business. He could not transfigure the dull and commonplace heads he was to copy. He had not the nice tact that makes beauty of ugliness without the loss of identity. He could not ennoble vulgarians. The sordid man bore the stamp of baseness on his canvas. His pictures were too true; and truth is death to the portrait painter.

He began to grow morbid in his feelings, and was fast verging to a misanthrope. His clothes grew shabby, and looked shabbier for his careless way of wearing them. He was often cold and hungry. There were times when he viewed with envy and hate the evidences of prosperity he saw about him. He railed against those pursuits of life which made men rich and prosperous. He began to think with the French demagogue, that "property was a theft," and to regard with great favor the socialistic doctrines then coming into vogue. The American social system he pronounced corrupt and rotten, and deserving to be uprooted and subverted. And this was the rustic boy, who, a few months before, had left his home so full of hope, and generous feeling, and high aspiration.

There were times when he yearned for the humble scenes of his boyhood. But he was too proud to throw up his pencils and palette, and go back to the old farm house; and so he found a vent for his home feeling in painting some of the scenes of his earliest life—the rustic dances, the huskings, the haymakings, and junketings with which he was so familiar.

One of these pictures—a rustic dance was the subject—he sent to a gilder's to be framed. He had consecrated three dollars to this purpose, and went one day to see how his commission had been executed. He found the picture framer, who was also a picture dealer, in his shirt sleeves, talking with a middle-aged gentleman, who was praising his performance.

"Really a very clever thing," said the gentleman, scanning the painting through his gold-bowed eye glasses.

"The composition, coloring, and light and shade, are admirable; but the life, animation, and naturalness of the figures make its great charm. Ah, why don't our artists study to produce life as it exists around them, and as they themselves know it and feel it, instead of giving us the gods and goddesses of a defunct and false religion, and scenes three thousand miles and years away?"

"Mr. Greville," said the picture framer, "allow me to make you acquainted with the artist, Mr. Montfort; he's a next-door neighbor of yours—lives at No ——, Broadway."

"Mr. Montfort," said the gentleman, warmly shaking the hand the artist shyly extended, "you found me admiring your work. And I'm sure I did not know I had so talented a neighbor. I shall be glad to be better acquainted with you. I presume your picture is for sale."

"Not so, sir," replied the artist, coldly. "It is a reminiscence of earlier and happier days. It was painted for my own satisfaction, and I shall keep it as long as I have a place to hang it in. It is a common mistake, sir, with our patrons, to suppose they can buy our souls as well as our labor."

Mr. Greville's cheek flushed; but as he glanced at the shabby exterior and wan face of the artist, his color faded, and he answered gently—

"Believe me, Mr. Montfort, I am not one of the persons you describe—if, indeed, they exist elsewhere but in your imagination. I should be the last person to fail in sympathy for the high-toned feelings of an artist; for in early life I was thought to manifest a talent for art—and, indeed, I had a strong desire to follow the vocation."

"And you abandoned it—you turned a deaf ear to the divine inspiration—you preferred wealth to glory—to be one of the vulgar many rather than to belong to the choice few. I congratulate you, Mr. Greville, on your taste."

"You judge me harshly, Mr. Montfort," replied the gentleman, pleasantly. "I am hardly required to justify my choice of calling to a perfect stranger; and yet your very frankness induces me to say a word or two of the motives which impelled me. My parents were poor. An artist's life seemed to hold no immediate prospects of competence. They to whom I owed my being might die of want before I had established a reputation. I had an opportunity to enter commercial life advantageously. I prospered. I have lived to see the declining days of my parents cheered by every comfort, and to rear a family in comfort and opulence. One of my boys promises to make a good artist. Fortunately, I can bestow on him the means of following the bent of his inclination. Instead of being an indifferent painter myself, I am an extensive purchaser of works of art, so that my conscience acquits me of any very great wrong in the course I adopted."

Montfort was silent; he was worsted in the argument.

"Mr. Montfort," pursued the gentleman, after a pause, "my evenings are always at my disposal, and I like to surround myself with men of talent. I have already a large circle of acquaintances among artists, musicians, and literary men, and once a week they meet at my house; I shall be very happy to see you among us. To-night is my evening of reception—will you join us?"

Proud and shy as he was, Montfort could not help accepting an invitation so frankly and pleasantly tendered. He promised to come.

"One favor more," said Mr. Greville. "You won't sell that picture. Will you lend it to me for a day or two?"

"I cannot refuse you, of course, Mr. Greville."

"If you have the slightest objection, say so frankly," said the kind-hearted merchant.

"I have not the slightest objection, Mr. Greville. It is entirely at your disposal."

Mr. Greville was profuse in his thanks.

"Shall I send it to your house?" said the picture framer.

"No, Mr. Tennant," replied the merchant. "It is too valuable to be trusted out of my hands. I am personally responsible, and I fear that I am not rich enough to remunerate the artist, if any harm happens to it."

With these words, bowing to the artist, Mr. Greville took the picture carefully under his arm, and left the shop, Montfort soon following.

"Well, I declare," said the picture framer, when he was left alone, "artists is queer animils, and no mistake. Neglect 'em, and it makes 'em as mad as a short-horned bull in fly time; coax 'em and pat 'em, and they lets fly their heels in your face. Seems to me, if I was an artist, I shouldn't be particular about being a hog, too. There ain't no sense in it. Now, it beats my notion all to pieces to see how Mr. Greville could talk so pleasantly and gentlemanly to that dratted Montfort, and he flyin' into his face all the time like a tarrier dog. I'd a punched his head for him, I would—if they'd had me up afore the Sessions for saltin' and batterin'. Consequently it's better to be a pictur' framer than a pictur' painter. Cause why?—a pictur' framer is a gentleman, and a pictur' painter is a hog."

There was a good deal of truth in what Mr. Tennant said, mixed up with a good deal of uncharitableness. But what did he know of the genus irritabile vatum?

Evening came; and after many misgivings, Montfort, in an eclectic costume, selected from his whole wardrobe, at a late hour, ventured to emerge from his humble domicile, and present himself at the rosewood portal of his aristocratic neighbor. He soon found himself in the dazzling drawing room, bewildered by the lights, and the splendor of the decoration and the furniture. Mr. Greville saw his embarrassment, and hastened to dispel it. He shook him warmly by the hand, and presented him to his lady and daughter, and then to a crowd of guests. A distinguished artist begged the honor of an introduction to him, and he soon found himself among people who understood him, and with whom he could converse at his ease. Though he was lionized, he was lionized by people who understood the sensitiveness of artistic natures. They flattered delicately and tastefully. Their incense excited, but did not intoxicate or suffocate. In one of the drawing rooms the gratified artist beheld his picture placed in an admirable light, the cynosure of all eyes, and the theme of all lips.

"I am certainly very much indebted to you for placing it so advantageously," said the artist to his host. "It owes at least half its success to the arrangement of the light."

"Do you hear that, Caroline?" asked Mr. Greville, turning to his beautiful daughter, who stood smiling beside him.

"I was afraid I had made some mistake in the arrangement," said the beautiful girl, blushing with pleasure.

Montfort attempted a complimentary remark, but his tongue failed him. He would have given worlds for the self-possession of some of the nonchalant dandies he saw hovering around the peerless beauty. He was forced to content himself with awkwardly bowing his thanks.

In the latter part of the evening, one of the rooms was cleared for a dance. Montfort was solicited to join in a quadrille, and a beautiful partner was even presented to his notice; but he wanted confidence and knowledge, and he had no faith in the integrity of the gaiter shoes he had vamped up for the occasion, so that he was forced to decline. This incident revived some of his morbid feelings that had begun to slumber, and he caught himself muttering something about the "frivolities of fashion."

He thought to make his exit unnoticed; but Mr. Greville detected him, and urged him to repeat his visit.

The next day, during his reception hours, several visitors called—an unheard-of thing. They glanced indifferently at his mythological daubs, but were enthusiastic in their praises of his rustic subjects. The day following, more visitors came. He was offered and accepted four hundred dollars for one of his cabinet pictures. In a word, orders flowed in upon him; he could hardly paint fast enough to supply the demand. He became rather fastidious in his dress—patronized the first tailors and boot makers, cultivated the graces, and took lessons in the waltz and polka. At Mr. Greville's, and some of the other houses he visited, he was remarked as being somewhat of a dandy. And this was Montfort the misanthrope—Montfort the socialist—Montfort the agrarian.

An important episode in his career was an order to paint the portrait of Miss Caroline Greville. He had already had three or four sittings, and the picture was approaching completion; then the work suddenly ceased. Day after day the artist pleaded engagements. At the same time he discontinued his visits at the house.

Mr. Greville, somewhat offended, called on Montfort for an explanation. He found his daughter's picture covered by a curtain.

"My dear sir," said he, "how does it happen that you can't go on with that picture? My wife is very anxious about it."

"I can never finish it," said the artist sadly.

"How so, my young friend?"

"Mr. Greville, I will be frank with you. I love your daughter; I, a poor artist, have dared to lift my eyes to the child of the opulent merchant. I have never in look or word, though, led her to divine my feelings—the secret is in my own keeping. But I cannot see her day after day—I cannot scan her beautiful and innocent features, or listen to the brilliant flow of her conversation, without agony. This has compelled me, sir, to suspend my work."

"Mr. Julian Montfort," said the merchant, "you seem bent—excuse me—on making yourself miserable. You are no longer a poor artist; you have a fortune in your pencil. Your profession is now a surer thing than mine. There is no gentleman in the city who ought not to be proud of your alliance; and if you can make yourself acceptable to my daughter, why, take her and be happy."

How Julian sped in his wooing may be inferred from the fact that, at a certain wedding ceremony in Grace Church, he performed the important part of bridegroom to the bride of Miss Caroline Greville; and after the usual quantity of hand shakings, and tears, and kisses, and all the usual efforts to make a wedding resemble a funeral as much as possible, Mr. and Mrs. Montfort took passage in one of the Havre steamers for an extensive tour upon the European continent.

When they returned, Mr. Montfort's reputation rose higher than ever, of course, and he made money with marvellous rapidity. He is now as well known in Wall Street as in his studio, has a town and country house, is a strong conservative in politics, and talks very learnedly about the moneyed interest. He has made some efforts to transplant his good old father and mother to New York; but they prefer residing at his villa, and taking care of his Durham cattle and Suffolk pigs, and seeing that his "Cochin Chinas" and "Brahma Pootras" do not trample down the children when they go out to feed the poultry of a summer morning.



SOUVENIRS OF A RETIRED OYSTERMAN IN ILL HEALTH.

Samivel, my boy, always stick to the shop; and if ever you become a millionhair, like me, never be seduced by any womankind into enterin' fash'nable society, and moving among the circles of bong tong. (I have been obligated to study French without a master; 'cause the Upper Ten always talks in bad French, and so a word or two will slip in onawares, even ven talking to a friend—just as a bad oyster will sometimes make its way into a good stew, spite of the best artist.)

I envies you, Samivel. You don't know what a treat it is to me to be admitted confidentially behind the counter, and to find myself surrounded once more by these here congenial bivalves. I can't escape from old associations. Oysters stare me in the face wherever I go. They're fash'nable, Samivel, and it's about the only think in fash'n as I reg'larly likes.

The other day we gave a derjerner, (that's French for brekfax, Samivel,) which took place about dinner time, and consisted of several distinguished pussons of the city, and three or four Hungry'uns as came over in the last steamer—reg'lar rang-a-tangs, vith these 'ere yaller anchovies growin' onto their upper lips. The old ooman, or madame, as she calls herself, was on hand to receive—but I was out of the way. She was mightily flustered, for she know'd I could talk a little Dutch, and she wanted me for to interpret with the Hungry'uns.

So she speaks up werry sharp, (the old ooman can speak werry sharp by times,) and says to my youngest, a boy,—

"Where on airth can your father be?"

"O, daddy's in the sink room," says the young 'un, "a openin' eyesters."

The whole derjerner bust into a hoss larff—for these Upper Ten folks, Samivel,—betwixt you and me and the pump, my boy,—ain't got no more manners than hogs. The child was voted an ongfong terriblee—but it wor a fack. I had went down into the sink room, as a mere looker-on in Veneer, and I seen one of my employees a making such botchwork of openin', hagglin' up his hands, and misusin' the oysters, than I off coat, tucked up sleeves, and went to work, and rolled 'em off amazin'—I tell you. The past rushed back on me—the familiar feel of the knife almost banished my dyspepsy—I lived—I breathed—I vas a oysterman again. Did I ever show you them lines I wrote into my darter's album? No. Vell, then, 'ere goes:—

TO AN UNOPENED OYSTER.

Thou liest fair within thy shell; Thy charms no mortal eye can see; And so, as Lamprey[A] says, of old Was Wenus lodged—the fairest she.

But beauties such as yourn and hern Were never born unseen to waste; Like her, you're bound to come to light, To gratify refinement's taste.

The fairest of the female race To Ilium vent vith Priam's boy; So the best oysters that I see Are sent by railroad off to Troy.

Sleep on—sleep on—nor dream of woe Until the horrid deed be done— Then out and die, like Simile,[B] In thy first glance upon the sun.

[Footnote A: Probably Lempriere.]

[Footnote B: Semele (?)]

Well, and 'ows bizness, Samivel? You've got a good stand, and you're bound to succeed. But beware of the Cracker-Fiend. I'll tell you about him.

There vas a chap as used to patronize me that vas one of the hungriest customers you ever did see. He was werry shabbily dressed, and he looked for all the world like the picturs I've seen of Shakspeare's "lean and hungry Cashier."

He used to come in, give his order, (generally a stew,) and then go and set down in a box and drop the curting. It allers looks suspicious for a customer to drop his curting afore you bring him the oysters—arterwards it's all perfectly proper, in course. Afore the stew was ready, he would call out—

"Waiter! crackers!"

The boy would hand him a basket; but when his stew was set before him, there warn't no crackers in his box.

So ve put him on a allowance of a dozen crackers, which is werry liberal, considerin' as pickles and pepper-sarce is throw'd in gratis. But he used to step out quietly and snake baskets of crackers outen other boxes, so's the other customers, as alvays conducted themselves like perfick gen'lemen, vas all the time a singing out, "Waiter! plate of crackers."

Then we kept a boy a-watching of him, so's to keep him in his box till he'd eat his oysters, and then you had to keep a werry sharp eye on him ven he was paying, and you vas a-makin' change, els't you'd hev all the crackers took off the counter.

One day arter he vas gone, ve found all the crackers missin' from one side of the room. Of course, ve suspected he done it, but how he done it vas as much a puzzle as the Spinks.

Next day, arter ve got him into his box, ve vatched and listened. Ve heard a queer kind of sound, like a man trying to play the jewsharp vith his boots; and, sir, ve detected the cracker-fiend a climbin' over the partitions into the neighborin' boxes, and a collarin' all the crackers he could come acrost.

Perhaps you think I vent into him like a knife into a Prince's Bay. But I didn't do no such think. I treated him werry perlite, and gin him two dollars, a keg of crackers, and a jar of pickled oysters, on condition he'd go and patronize some other establishment. Keep an eye open for him, Samivel.

Be generous, Samivel, but don't carry generosity to XS, for an antidote I'm about to relate, out of my pusnol experience, illustrates the evil effex of excessive philanthrophy.

A little gal used to come into my shop to buy oysters. I seen she was some kind of a foreigner, so I set her down for Dutch—as them vas the only foreigners I vas acquainted vith at the time. I artervards discovered she was French. She was werry thin, and as pale as a soft-shelled clam; there was a dark blue color under her eyes, like these here muscle shells. At first, she used to buy ninepence worth of oysters. Arter a while it came down to fourpence; and one day she only vanted two cents vorth. I asked her who they vas for, and she said,—

"For my grandfather; he is very sick, sare."

I followed her, and found out where her grandfather lived. So one night I opened four gallons of prime New Yorkers, put 'em in a kettle, took a lot of crackers and soft bread, and started for the Frenchman's. The little gal came to the door, and showed me up stairs. The poor old customer was all alone, in bed, and yaller as a blanket. He start up ven he see us, and exclaimed,—

"Ah! mon Dieu! Antoinette, priez le gentilhomme de 'asseoir."

The leetle gal offered me a stool, but I didn't set down.

"Mounseer," said I, in some French manufactured for the occasion, "I havey broughtee you sommey oysteries," and I showed him the kittle, with the kiver off.

I thought his eyes kind of vatered at the sight, but he sighed, and turnin' to the leetle gal, said,—

"Antoinette, dites a Monsieur, que je n'ai plus d'argent—pas un sou."

I guessed it was something about money, so afore the leetle gal could translate it, I sang out,—

"I don't want no money, Mounseer; these here are free gratis, for nothin' at all. I always treats my customers once in a while."

That was a lie, Samivel—but never mind, I gin him a dozen, and the old fellur seemed to like 'em fust rate. Then I offered him some more, but he hung back. However I made him swallow 'em, and offered some to the leetle gal.

"After grandpapa," said she.

So I offered him some more.

"No more, I zank you; I 'ave eat too moosh."

I know'd he was only sogerin' out of delixy. So I says as perlite as possible,—

"None of that, old fellur—catch hold. I fetched 'em for you, and I'm bound to see you eat 'em."

"Sare, you are too kind," said he; and he vent to vork again. Arter a spell, he stopped.

"Don't like 'em—hey?" says I, pretendin' to be mad.

"I sall prove ze contraire," said he, in a kind of die-away manner, and he went into 'em agin.

Presently, he gin over, and fell back on his piller murmurin'—

"Sare, you are too good."

I gin the balance to the leetle gal, and told her to come round in the mornin', and I'd fill her kittle for her, adding that her grandfather would be all straight in the mornin'.

Samivel! he vas all straight in the morning, but just as stiff as a cold poker. The last two or three dozen finished him; his digestion wasn't strong enough for 'em, and he know'd it, but he eat himself to death out of politeness. The French are certingly the perlitest people on the face of the yairth.

Howsever, I see him buried decently, and I adopted the leetle gal. She was well brung up and educated, and she larned my darters French—the real Simon Pure—for she was a Canadian, and her grandfather came from Gascony. But his fate vos a orful lesson. Benevolence, like an oyster-roast, is good for nothink if it's over done. And now, Samivel, my boy, a-jew, for I have a sworray this evenin', and receive half Beacon Street. A-jew.



THE NEW YEAR'S STOCKINGS.

"Never crosses his t's, nor dots his i's, and his n's and v's and r's are all alike!" said, almost despairingly, Mr. Simon Quillpen, the painstaking clerk of old Lawyer Latitat, as he sat late at night, on the last day of the year, digging away at the copy of a legal document his liberal patron and employer had placed in his hands in the early part of the evening. "Thank Heaven!" he added, laying down his pen, and consulting a huge silver bull's eye which he pulled from a threadbare fob, "I shall soon get through this job, and then, hey for roast potatoes and the charming society of Mrs. Q.!" And with this consolatory reflection, he resumed his work with redoubled energy.

Mr. Quillpen was a little man; not so very little as to pass for a phenomenon, but certainly too small to be noticed by a recruiting grenadier sergeant. His nose was quite sharp and gave his mild, thin countenance, particularly as he carried his head a little on one side, a very bird-like air. He trod, too, gingerly and lightly, very like a sparrow or a tomtit; and, to complete the analogy, his head being almost always surmounted by a pen, he had a sort of crested, blue-jayish aspect, that was rather comical. Quillpen had a very little wife and three very little children, Bob, Chiffy, and the baby; the last the ultimate specimen of the diminuendo. It was well for them that they were so small, for Quillpen obtained his starvelihood by driving the quill for Mr. Latitat at four hundred dollars a year, to which Mrs. Quillpen added, from time to time, certain little sums derived from making shirts and overalls at the rate of about ten cents the million stitches.

Whether Mr. Latitat was able to pay more was a question that never entered the minute brain of Simon Quillpen; for he had so humble an opinion of his own merits, and was always so contented and cheerful, that he regarded his salary as enormous, and was wont playfully to sign little confidential notes Croesus Quillpen and Girard Quillpen, and on rare convivial occasions would sometimes style himself Baron Rothschild. But this last title was very rarely indulged in, because it once sent his particular crony, a chuckle-headed clerk in the post-office, into a cachinnatory fit which was "rayther in the apoplectic line."

"To return to our muttons." Simon dug away at his copying with an occasional reverential glance at a certain low oaken door, opening into the penetralia of this abode of law and righteousness, behind which oaken door, at that very moment, sat Mr. Lucius Latitat, either deeply engaged in the solution of some vast legal problem, or calculating the interest on an outstanding note, or consulting with chuckling delight a list of mortgages to be foreclosed.

Well—Quillpen finished his document, wiped his pen on a thick velvet butterfly, laid it in the rack above the ink, pushed back his chair from the table, withdrew the cambric sleeve from his right arm, and smoothed down his wristbands, having first put on his India rubber overshoes. The fact is, he was very anxious to get home, and he could not go without first seeing Mr. Latitat. The idea of knocking at Mr. Latitat's door on business of his own never once occurred to him. He would do that for a client, but not for himself. So he ventured on a series of low coughs, and finding no notice was taken of them, he dropped the poker into the coalhod, the most daring act he had ever perpetrated. The slight noise thus produced crashed on his guilty ears like thunder, or rather with the roar of a universal earthquake. Slight, however, as it was, it brought out Mr. Latitat from his interior.

"What the deuse are you making such a racket for?" he exclaimed in tones that thrilled to the heart of his employee; then, without waiting for an answer, he slightly glanced at the table, and asked, "Have you got through that job?"

"Yes'm—I mean, yes'r" replied the quivering Simon.

"Well, then, you can go. I'm going myself. You blow out the lights and lock the room. And mind and be here early to-morrow morning. Nothing like beginning the New Year well. Good night."

"Mr. Latitat, sir!" cried Quillpen, with desperate resolution, as he saw the great man about to disappear—"please, sir—could you let me have a little money to-night?"

"Why! what do you want of money?" retorted the lawyer. "O! I 'spose you have a host of unpaid bills."

"No, sir; no, sir; that's not it," Simon hastened to say. "I hain't got narry bill standing. I pay as I go. Cash takes the lot!"

"None of your coarse, vulgar slang to me!" said Latitat. "Reserve it for your loose companions. If not to pay bills, what for?"

"Please, sir,—we, that is Mrs. Q. and myself, want to put something in the children's stockings, sir."

"Then put the children's legs in 'em!" said the lawyer with a grin. "I make no payments to be used for any such ridiculous purposes. Good night. Yet stay—take this letter—there's money in it—a large amount—put it in the post-office with your own hands as you go home."

"And you can't let me have a trifle?" gasped Simon.

"Not a cent!" snarled the lawyer; and he slammed the door behind him, and went heavily down the stairs.

"I wonder how it feels to punch a man's head," said Simon, as he stood rooted to the spot where Mr. Latitat left him. "It's illegal—it's actionable—there are fines and penalties provided by the statute: but it seems as if there were cases that might justify the operation—morally. But then, again—what good would it do to punch his head? Punching his head wouldn't get me money—and if I was to try it, on finding that the licks didn't bring out the cash, I might be tempted to help myself to the cash, and that would be highway robbery; and when the punchee ventured to suggest that, the puncher might be tempted to silence him. O Lord! that's the way these murders in the first degree happen; and I think that I was almost on the point of taking the first step. I really think I look a little like Babe the pirate," added the poor man, glancing at his mild but disturbed features in the glass; "or like Captain Kidd, or leastways like Country McClusky—a regular bruiser!"

Sitting down before the grate, and stirring it feebly with the poker, he tried to devise some feasible plan for supplying the vacuum in his treasury. He might borrow, but then all his friends were very poor, and particularly hard up—at this particular season of the year. The bull's eye watch might have been "spouted," if he had foreseen this contingency; but every avuncular relative was now at this hour of the night snug abed to a dead certainty. Purchasing on credit was not to be thought of, and the only toy shop which kept open late enough for his purchases, was kept by a man to whom he was totally unknown. Time galloped on, meanwhile, and the half-hour struck.

"I'll slip that letter in the post-office, and then go home," said Simon sorrowfully, rising as he spoke, and grasping his inseparable umbrella.

"Hallo! shipmate! where-away?" cried a hoarse voice. And Mr. Quillpen became aware of the presence of an "ancient mariner," enveloped in a very rough dreadnought, and finished off with a large amount of whiskers and tarpaulin.

"I was going home, sir," replied Simon, with the deferential air of a very little to a very big man.

"Ay—going to clap on hatches and deadlights. Well, tell me one thing—where-away may one find one Mr. Latitat—a shore-going cove, a regular land-shark, d'ye see?"

"This is Mr. Latitat's office, sir," said Simon.

"Ay—and is he within hail?"

"No, sir, he has gone home."

"Slipped his cable—hey? just my luck! Well, one might snooze comfortably on this here table—mightn't he? You can clear out, and I'll take care of the shop till morning."

"That would be perfectly inadmissible, sir," said Simon, "the idea of a stranger's sleeping here!"

"A stranger!" cried the sailor. "Why, shipmate, do you happen to know who I am? Look at me! Don't you find somewhat of a family likeness to Lucius in my old weather-beaten mug? Why, man-alive, I'm his brother,—his own blood brother! You must a heard him speak of me. Been cruising round the world in chase of Fortune, but could never overhaul her. Been sick, shipwrecked, and now come back as poor as I went. But Lucius has got enough for both of us. How glad he'll be to see me to-morrow, hey, old Ink-and-tape?"

Simon had his doubts about that matter, but told the sailor to come in the morning, and see.

"That I will," said the tar, "and start him up with a rousing Happy New Year! But I say, shipmate, I don't want to sleep in the watch-house. Have you never a shilling about your trousers?"

Simon answered that he hadn't a cent.

"Why, don't that brother of mine give you good wages?"

"Enormous!" said Simon.

"What becomes of it all?"

"I spend it all—I'm very extravagant," said Simon, shaking his head. "And then, I'm sorry to say, your brother isn't always punctual in his payments. To-night, for instance, I couldn't get a cent from him."

"Then I tell you what I'd do, shipmate," said the sailor, confidentially. "I'd overhaul some of his letters. Steam will loosen a wafer, and a hot knife-blade, wax. I'd overhaul his money-letters and pay myself. Ha! ha! do you take? Now, that letter you've got in your fin, my boy, looks woundy like a dokiment chock full of shinplasters. What do you say to making prize of 'em? wouldn't it be a jolly go?"

"Stand off!" said Simon, assuming a heavy round ruler and a commanding attitude. "Don't you come anigh me, or there'll be a case of justifiable homicide here. How dare you counsel me to commit a robbery on your own brother? I wonder you ain't ashamed to look me in the face."

"A chap as has cruised as many years as I have in the low latitudes ain't afraid to look any body in the face," answered the "ancient mariner," grimly. "I made you a fair offer, shipmate, and you rejected it like a long-shore jackass as you are. Good night to ye."

Much to his relief, the sailor took himself off, and Simon, after locking and double locking his door, went to the post-office and deposited the letter with which he had been intrusted. As he lived a great way up on the Neck, he did not reach home until after all the clocks of the city had struck twelve, so that he was able to surprise his little wife, who was sitting up for him, with a "Happy New Year!"

He cast a rueful eye at the line of stockings hung along the mantel-piece in the sitting room, and then sorrowfully announced to his wife his failure to obtain money of Mr. Latitat.

"There'll be nothing for the stockings, Meg," said he, "unless what the poor children put in ours."

"I am very sorry," said his wife, who bore the announcement much better than he anticipated; "but we'll have a happy New Year for all that."

Simon's roasted potatoes were completely charred, he had been detained so late; but there was a little meal in the centre of each, and charcoal is not at all unhealthy. He went to bed, and in spite of his cares, slept the sleep of the just.