Chapter II (2)

The wonderful ingenuity of bees has often been remarked. The rose-cutter separates circular pieces from leaves with precision, and, digging a hole six or eight inches deep in the ground, the bee rolls up the leaf, and depositing it in the hole, lodges and secures an egg in it, with food for the larva when hatched, and often several, but all separated, and very perfect, and the bee then presides in the upper part to protect her brood. The upholsterer makes a hole enlarged at the bottom, and lines the whole with red poppy leaves, lays her eggs, supplies them with food, &c., separately, then turns down the lining to cover them, and closing the hole, leaves them to nature. The wood-piercer makes a perpendicular hole with vast labor in a decaying tree, in the sunshine, a foot deep; then deposits her eggs and food, and separates each by a dwarf wall made of sawdust and gluten, each higher than the other, and the last closing the hole; and she then makes another hole horizontally, to enable them to escape as they successively mature. The mason-bee constructs a nest on the side of a sunny wall, makes up sand pellets with gluten, and by persevering industry fixes and finishes a cell, in which it lays an egg and provisions. It then forms others beside it, and covers in the whole, the structure being as firm as the stone. Wasps and humble-bees make cavities in banks. They line them with wax, and make innumerable cells for their eggs in perfect communities.

BABYLON, NINEVEH, AND MR. LAYARD.

(Continued from page 55.)

Mr. Layard, having a small amount of money at his disposal, proceeded to make excavations at Konyunjik, opposite Mosul, where the first Assyrian Sculptures had been found. In a month, nine chambers had been explored. The palace had been destroyed by fire. The alabaster slabs were almost reduced to lime, and many of them fell to pieces as soon as uncovered. In its architecture, the newly-discovered edifice resembled the palaces of Nimroud and Khorsobad. The chambers were long and narrow. The walls were of unbaked bricks, with a panelling of sculptured slabs. The bas-reliefs were greatly inferior in general design, and in the beauty of the details, to those of the earliest palace of Nimroud.

The funds assigned to the Trustees of the British Museum for the excavations in Assyria had now been expended by Mr. Layard. He had every reason to congratulate himself upon the results of his labors. Scarcely a year before, with the exception of the ruins of Khorsobad, not one Assyrian monument was known. Almost sufficient materials had now been obtained to restore much of the lost history of the country, and to confirm the vague traditions of the learning and civilization of its people, hitherto considered fabulous. The monuments had been carefully preserved, and the inscriptions in the cuneiform character copied entire. Bidding his workmen an affectionate farewell, and receiving their best wishes for his future prosperity, Mr. Layard left the ancient Assyria for England.

Our explorer was not allowed to remain inactive long. After a few months' residence in England, during the year 1848, to recruit his constitution, he received orders to proceed to his post of Her Majesty's Embassy in Turkey. Soon afterwards, his work, "Nineveh and its Remains," was published; and so intense was the interest excited, that the Trustees of the British Museum requested him to undertake the superintendence of a second expedition into Assyria. Mr. Layard cheerfully consented, and immediately formed a plan of operations. Mr. H. Cooper, a competent artist, was appointed to accompany the expedition, and several Arabs, who had been found able and faithful, were secured by Mr. Layard. Such was the size of the party formed, that it was deemed necessary to journey in a caravan to Mosul. On the way, Mr. Layard, ever observing and curious, traced the line of the celebrated retreat of Xenophon and his ten thousand Greeks.

The very day after his arrival at Mosul, Mr. Layard visited the mound of Konyunjik. The earth had accumulated above the ruins to a considerable depth; and, to save the labor of clearing it all away, the workmen constructed tunnels. Twelve or fourteen parties of laborers were organized by Mr. Layard, and all worked under his superintendence. Operations were carried on at the same time at the great mound of Nimroud. Within two months, several magnificent chambers were excavated at Konyunjik. Assyrian conquests were represented upon the bas-reliefs, each chamber being devoted to one conquering expedition. Thus each was, so to speak, a new volume of history. An understanding of the copious inscriptions in cuneiform character was all that was necessary to the perusal; and, thanks to the exertions of Rawlinson, Hincks, and other scholars, this character was now readable to a considerable extent.

The Assyrian mode of building was fully illustrated on the bas-reliefs. From them, Mr. Layard found that the Assyrians were well acquainted with the lever and the roller, and also with the art of twisting thick ropes. The men employed in building were known to be captives by their wearing chains, and being urged on by masters armed with staves. A king was represented as superintending the erection of the edifice, and Mr. Layard says that there can be but little doubt that it was intended for Sennacherib, whom the inscriptions mention as the builder of the great palace of Nineveh, and as a mighty conqueror.

The discovery of the grand entrance to the palace of Konyunjik was an important result of Mr. Layard's labors. It was a façade on the south-east side of the edifice. Ten colossal bulls, with six human figures of gigantic proportions, were here grouped together, and the length of the whole, without including the sculptured walls continued beyond the smaller entrances, was estimated at one hundred and eighty feet. Among the figures that adorned this grand entrance was seen the Assyrian Hercules, strangling a lion. The legs, feet, and drapery of the god were in the boldest relief, and designed with truth and vigor.

On the slabs in one of the chambers of this palace was represented the siege and capture of Lachish, or Lakhisha, a Jewish city, which, as we know from Scripture, was taken by Sennacherib. The whole power of the king seemed to have been called forth to take this stronghold. All the operations of the besiegers were represented. Before the gate of the city was Sennacherib, seated on a gorgeous throne, giving orders for the slaughter of the citizens. The chiefs of conquered tribes were represented as crouching at the foot of the throne. At the head of the king was an inscription, which Dr. Hincks thus translates: "Sennacherib, the mighty king, king of the country of Assyria, sitting on the throne of judgment, before (or at the entrance of) the city of Lachish (Lakhisha). I give permission for its slaughter." This furnishes a very important illustration of the Bible.

In a chamber, in the south-west corner of the same palace, was found a large number of finely engraved seals, and among them was one--believed to be the royal signet--having engraved upon it a king plunging a dagger into a rampant lion. Egyptian and Phœnician seals were also discovered in the same apartment. One of the Egyptian seals has been discovered to be that of Sabaco, who reigned in Egypt at the end of the seventh century before Christ, the exact time at which Sennacherib came to the throne. The signets of the two kings were most probably attached to a treaty. Iron picks and saws, a large number of bronze articles, pearl and ivory ornaments, part of an ivory staff, believed to have been a sceptre, and many other curious remains of ancient art, were discovered in the various chambers of this gorgeous palace.

During the removal of some sculptures, Mr. Layard had an opportunity of visiting some remarkable remains near the village of Bavian. They were bas-reliefs, cut in the rock, representing warlike events. One of the tablets contained a horseman at full speed, and the remains of other figures. Both horse and rider were of colossal proportions, and wonderful for their spirit and outline. The warrior, who wore the Assyrian armor, was in the act of charging the enemy. Before him was a colossal figure of the king, and behind him a deity with a horned cap. Above his head was a row of smaller figures of gods standing on animals of various forms. The inscriptions upon these rock-sculptures show that they were designed to commemorate the triumphant return of Sennacherib from his expedition against Babylon. Beneath the sculptured tablets, and in the bed of the Gomel, were seen two enormous fragments of rock, which appeared to have been torn from the overhanging cliff. They still bore the remains of ancient sculpture. On them was represented the Assyrian Hercules strangling the lion, between two winged, human-headed bulls, back to back, as at the grand entrances of the palaces of Konyunjik and Khorsobad. Above this group was the king, worshipping between two deities, who stood on mythic animals, having the heads of eagles, the bodies and forefeet of lions, and hind legs armed with the talons of a bird of prey.

Remains and foundations of buildings in well-hewn stones were discovered under the thick mud deposited by the Gomel when swollen by rains. A series of basins cut in the rock, and descending in steps to the stream, were discovered by excavation. The water had originally been led from one to the other by small conduits, the lowest of which was ornamented at its mouth by two rampant lions in relief. Mr. Layard restored this fountain as it had been in the time of the Assyrians. From the nature and number of the monuments at Bavian, the explorer inferred that it had been a sacred spot, devoted to religious ceremonies and national sacrifices. The remains of a causeway, from Nineveh to Bavian, were traced upon the plain.

(Concluded next month.)

A STORY OF VALENTINE'S DAY.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Two young girls were seated in the drawing-room of a handsome house in the neighborhood of Belgrave Square, engaged in earnest conversation. Of them it might truly be said, in the words of Lord Byron, that

"Both were young, and one was beautiful."

Nature had been a lavish benefactress to the one, and a churlish niggard to the other; and Fortune had followed in her sister's wake, and shown just as great an amount of partiality in the distribution of her favors. Philippa Roxby and Janet Penson were the wards of Mr. Chetwode, a good-natured, warm-hearted man, who, having no wife, child, or sister of his own, was expected by the little world of his acquaintance to take unlimited interest in the wives, children, and sisters of other people, and to perform unlimited services in their behalf. About a year had elapsed since the death of two of his friends within a few weeks of each other; the wealthy widower, Mr. Roxby, and the narrowly-jointured widow, Mrs. Penson, conferred on him the somewhat startling responsibility of becoming guardian to two girls of the respective ages of eighteen and nineteen.

Philippa Roxby was "a lass wi' golden dower and golden hair," beautiful enough to inspire a poet or painter, and rich enough to satisfy the calculations of the most scheming of heiress-hunters. Janet Penson was remarkably plain; in fact, it would have been somewhat difficult, in this age of bright eyes, luxuriant tresses, and graceful forms, to find any one so, thoroughly destitute of attraction. Her features were irregular; her pale cheek and heavy eye indicated the want of that health which, when combined with youth and cheerfulness, may be said to offer a tolerable substitute for beauty; and worse than all, Janet was palpably deformed, beyond the power of Amesbury to remedy, or of Mrs. Geary to conceal. Perhaps some of my readers will think that the worst still remains to be told, when I add that Janet's fortune was very small; two-thirds of the income of Mrs. Penson expired with her, and a hundred a year was all that remained for the provision of the orphan. Mr. Chetwode, however, was as kind and feeling a man as the most enthusiastic of his friends believed him to be. He made no distinction in his manner between the lovely heiress and her less fortunate companion; the comforts of his house, his carriage, his attentive servants, his pleasant circle of visitors, extended alike to each; but how different were their thoughts and feelings! The one looked at society through a Claude Lorraine glass, the other through a screen of dark crape. Janet, although all immediately connected with her were kind and considerate, had often the trial of encountering, in mixed company, the look of ridicule and the whisper of scorn; she pined for the fond and dear mother by whom she was so tenderly beloved, notwithstanding her personal deficiencies; nor could she, like most young women, suffering under a similar loss, anticipate the time when she should become the object of a still more precious and valuable love; she felt, bitterly felt, that the delight of a calm home, the language of loving eyes, the homage of a true heart--all must be ever withheld from her; and could she only have possessed "the fortune of a face," there was no possible amount of poverty and hardship which she would not have gladly welcomed as its accompaniment. She was, however, agreeably surprised in the character and manners of her constant associate, Philippa Roxby; she had pictured her as scornful and repelling, and found her unassuming and kind-hearted. I am of opinion that people in general treat heiresses with a great deal of injustice; dramatists and novelists are especially fond of showing them up in an unamiable light; but, so far as my knowledge of them goes, it is greatly in their favor. Philippa Roxby (and I am disposed to think she was a tolerably fair specimen of the generality of heiresses) was pleasing and unaffected in her manners, and remarkably simple in her tastes. Accustomed from childhood to an elegantly supplied table, she felt an indifference to luxuries which can never be known by those who manufacture their dainties with their own hands, and pay for them from their own scanty purses; she had never been obliged to economize in dress, therefore did not, like many young persons, live in a world of shreds and patches, and pant with perpetual eagerness to unravel the ever-recurring mystery of the "last new fashion;" all such matters she wisely left to Fashion's high priestess, the milliner. She drew, sang, and played well, and perfectly understood French, Italian, and German: but these acquirements inspired her with no vanity; she felt that, having had from an early age the most accomplished of governesses, and the best of masters, it would have been very inexcusable if she had not profited by their instructions.

Praise be to the first pastrycook who discovered the important fact that giving novices the unlimited range of the tarts and cakes for a few days is the certain way to insure their subsequent temperance! Philippa had enjoyed the sugarplums and confections of society without restriction, and rated them at their real value. When first introduced to Janet, she felt considerably disappointed; she had hoped (for she was incapable of envy) that her companion would have been still livelier and more attractive than herself; but faithful to her habit of always looking on the sunny side of a question, she soon took warm interest in the poor, timid, sorrowful girl who felt such warm gratitude for her kindness. She cheered her with smiles and kind words, divided with her the fruits and flowers presented to her by her suitors, and was even anxious to divide with her their attentions; for soft looks and flattering speeches were so liberally bestowed on Philippa, that she did not prize them as those do to whom they are seldom and sparingly administered. Few men, however, are willing to be transferred on loan to a young lady of crippled proportions and stunted fortune; and poor Janet was compelled to sustain a great deal of rudeness and inattention from the lords of the creation, and indeed only met with kindness and civility from one of them--the handsome and intellectual Heathcote, of whom more anon.

I will now return to the point at which my story began. It was the morning of St. Valentine's Day, that strange, mysterious day, when men go out of their national character, become tender, sentimental, and manœuvring, purchase exquisite sheets of paper embellished with wreaths of flowers, write love verses on them in a studiously neat, prim hand, seal them with a fanciful device, and drop them into a post-office a mile or two from their own residence. Philippa was seated at a small table covered with these little fanciful productions, some of which were yet unopened; she was laughing in the exuberance of youthful spirits at the hyperbole contained in one of them.

"And yet, Philippa," said Janet, "I could almost feel disposed to envy you even for such light-passing tokens of admiration as are now lying before you; it is hard, in the very spring of youth, to feel one's self quite slighted and forgotten."

"Dear Janet," said the heiress good-humoredly, "can you really attach any importance to such a graceful gallantry of society as a valentine? Depend upon it, the greater number of those who send them do it merely in observance of the courteous custom of the day, and forget, in the formal realities of the next morning, the fascinations of the goddess whom they have so recently deified in poetry, or I should rather say in rhyme."

"Perhaps it may be so," replied Janet; "but at all events you occupied the thoughts of these your admirers at the time that they were writing the verses that you estimate so lightly. I can never hope even for a moment to awaken a fond and favorable thought; I must pass through life unnoticed, even in playfulness, unregarded by all; or, still worse, regarded with pitying scorn."

"Why do you indulge this morbid sensibility, my poor Janet?" said Philippa. "You will be sure to be valued in time by those who discover your many and rare excellences. What does the delightful Frederika Bremer say on this subject? There is in the world so much talent, so much ingenuity, prudence, wit, genius; but goodness--pure, simple, divine goodness--where is it to be found?'"

"That is the sentiment of a woman, Philippa," replied Janet; "you would never find a man capable of so pure and delicate a feeling, not even our favorite Heathcote; by the way, is Heathcote among your poetical admirers of to-day?"

"I have not yet met with anything half dignified and sensible enough to come from such a quarter," said Philippa, scrutinizing, as she spoke, the varying countenance of her friend. "You speak of Heathcote as our favorite, Janet; but I am inclined to suspect that he occupies a much more considerable portion of your thoughts than he does of mine."

Philippa was right in her conjecture; the poor little unsightly Janet had dared to love the handsome and popular Heathcote, but it was in silence, in secret, in tears, in humility; not only did she forbear imparting her love to others, but she scarcely dared to own it even to herself. The poet says that

"Love will hope where Reason would despair:"

but Janet had so much reason, and despaired so wholly and thoroughly, that her love was unvisited by a single ray of hope. True, Heathcote was kind and gentle to her; but so he was to every one. True, he came frequently to the house; but was that surprising when it was the residence of one so fair, so charming, so gifted in every respect as Philippa? Suddenly Philippa uttered an exclamation of delight as she opened a fresh valentine; a little case was inclosed within it, on the outside of which was written "Portrait of my beloved." Philippa lifted the lid, and beheld--her own beautiful features in a looking-glass!

"This must be Heathcote's simple and feeling way of avowing his passion," said Janet, with a half-suppressed sigh.

"My dear girl," said Philippa, "who ever talks of simple and feeling ways of avowing a passion in these days of sophistication? and why will you persist in imagining Heathcote to be my admirer?"

"If he is not now," said Janet, "I think he can hardly fail to be."

"Do not give yourself any uneasiness on that account, Janet," answered the heiress, half in jest and half in earnest; "if you feel any preference for Heathcote, I will most cheerfully make over to you all my right and title to him. I have given away my heart in another direction, and fancy that I have gained a heart in exchange."

"Of that," said Janet, with a sad smile, "I think there can be little doubt; but who is the happy man who I conclude has been the donor of your pretty portrait?"

Janet felt no surprise when her friend mentioned the name of Captain Warrington, for she knew him to be warmly attached to Philippa; he was good-looking, good-humored, and agreeable; and although his position in society and his fortune were both inferior to Mr. Chetwode's ambitious views for his beautiful ward, Janet foresaw no difficulties in their wooing, which the perseverance and courage of Philippa, and the good sense and kindness of her guardian, would not in a short time clear away. Luncheon was now announced, and Janet felt that she should be glad when the day was at an end, the recurrence of which was one of the many ways of bringing to her mind the fact that she was considered by general consent to stand apart from others of her age and sex, and that an avowal of love was never destined to reach her eye even in the masquerade trappings of a valentine.

A few hours afterwards Janet was quietly reading in her chamber, when a letter was brought to her. In these days of cheap postage, when letters descend in a shower on most of us, and in an avalanche on many, it may seem strange to say that merely receiving a letter could be anything but a very commonplace event. Poor Janet, however, had passed her blighted youth in the strictest seclusion, and the half-dozen friends who had known her mother in the retired country place where she vegetated, wrote to her at distant intervals, and the handwriting of each of them was so familiar to her eye, that she was certain her present correspondent was not among them.

Janet had no young friends, no admirers, no debts, no duns; she was poor, and the begging-letter writers spared her; she had never worked for fancy fairs, nor written for albums, nor subscribed to public charities; it was not in her power to confer a favor on anybody, and people thus situated escape a vast influx of correspondence. The letter had been posted in a neighboring street; the direction was written in an evidently feigned hand, and the seal bore the simple impression of a flower. Janet opened it with a kind of vague feeling that some mystery clung about it. Little did she dream of the good fortune that awaited her. The inclosed sheet of paper was a valentine! It boasted of no flowers, cupids, hearts, or darts; it was superscribed "A Valentine to be read when the others are forgotten."

Delightful phrase! not only was she deemed worthy of receiving a valentine, but the writer evidently considered that she had received others! The charm, however, of this valentine did not consist in the heading, nor even in the love-breathing stanzas that followed; but in the handwriting. It was unquestionably, unmistakably, the handwriting of Heathcote! There was a peculiarity in the formation of the letters that Janet had more than once remarked to Philippa, when he had written notes on some trifling subject to their guardian or themselves. There was no attempt to disguise the hand--no attempt to disguise the feelings. These were the words that electrified poor Janet, or perhaps I should say "mesmerized" her; for she certainly seemed translated to a very different kind of existence from that of the everyday world, dull and vexatious occasionally to all of us, but invariably dull and vexatious to her.

St. Valentine returns--the pleasant time
Of opening verdure and of singing birds
Noted for mystic fantasies in rhyme,
Where gay devices, mingled with soft words,
To many a blushing ladye-love impart
The feelings of her timid lover's heart.

Beneath St. Valentine's protecting shroud,
Lady, I dare thy favor to beseech;
I am at once too humble and too proud
To woo thee in a fluent form of speech;
Methinks my trembling spirit could not brook
Thy cold rejoinder, or thy grave rebuke.

Therefore, my deep and never-changing love
Pours forth its ardor in this veiled disguise;
Shouldst thou my passion scorn or disapprove,
Meet me with distant look and frigid eyes;
I will abide by that denial mute,
As though the voice of worlds forbade my suit.

But if thy heart of kindred love should tell,
Let warm inspiring smiles thy thoughts express;
Then shall this scroll have done its bidding well,
And my freed tongue shall joyously confess
How first I strove to win thy faith to mine,
In the quaint fashion of St. Valentine!

Janet felt much as Cinderella may be supposed to have done when her fairy godmother converted her ragged attire into a splendid gala-dress. Life in a moment seemed changed to her view; all misanthropic fancies, all gloomy forebodings took flight; she was ready to exclaim, in the words of the song,

"This world is a beautiful world after all!"

Away with all feelings of jealous longing to share the advantages of other women! With whom would she now change? Had she not, misshapen and unlovely as she was, achieved the conquest of one who had long appeared, in her eyes, as the most perfect of human beings? How often had she fondly wished to possess the beautiful features and graceful form of Philippa, and yet Philippa had merely won the homage of gay, fashionable triflers, while she had received a declaration of affection from one so dear to her, that if she had been endowed with the most brilliant loveliness, and the most lavish wealth, she would have wished, like Portia, to be for his sake

"A thousand times more fair--ten thousand times more rich!"

These raptures may appear to our readers rather beyond what can be justified by the receipt of a valentine; but be it remembered that it was not in the style of a common valentine, that Heathcote was not a common character, and that poor Janet had never received even the slightest token of admiration before that eventful fourteenth of February. Martin Farquhar Tupper says, in his "Proverbial Philosophy,"

"It is a holy thirst to long for Love's requital;
Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved;
And many a thorn is thrust into the side of one that is forgotten."

If such, then, be the suffering of the neglected, what must be the delight of feeling the long-borne load suddenly removed from the heart!

Janet, after enjoying her newly-found happiness in solitude for some time, sought her friend Philippa, who kindly congratulated her on her acquisition, and reminded her how often she had told her that she greatly exaggerated the neglect and unkindness of the world; but Philippa would not be persuaded into thinking that a valentine was at all equivalent to a promise of marriage, or even to a declaration of love.

"You will know better in a little while, Janet," she said kindly; "but at present I cannot prevail upon myself to damp your happiness; you are looking cheerful, and hopeful for the first time in your life."

Happy indeed was that day to Janet; and the ensuing one was no less so. Heathcote and a few other friends dined with Mr. Chetwode, and in the evening he entered the drawing-room shortly after Captain Warrington, who had seated himself between the two young ladies, and was discoursing to Philippa in a low voice on the subject of valentines in general, and doubtless one valentine in particular. Heathcote took a chair by the side of Janet: her heart throbbed violently at his approach, but Janet's eyes and complexion were not of the sort to betray sudden emotion, and no alteration was visible in her usually quiet, and somewhat dull demeanor.

"You will pardon the question I am about to ask, Miss Penson," said Heathcote, catching a few words of the conversation between Philippa and her admirer; "but for the first time in my life I have been endeavoring to perpetrate poetry, and have had the presumption to send my humble attempt to this house, taking advantage of an occasion when even the most inexperienced rhymster may anticipate merciful criticism. May I hope that my offering has not offended?"

Janet felt for a moment unable to reply, but her good sense suggested to her that none but beauties are privileged to be coquettish and tormenting; therefore she promptly replied--

"It has not offended."

"Dear Miss Penson," exclaimed Heathcote, fixing on her his dark, sparkling eyes, full of pleasure and gratitude, "how kind and amiable it is of you thus speedily to relieve my anxiety; but we shall soon be interrupted. I see that the piano has just been opened: one word more, and pardon me if it seems abrupt. I have hitherto visited occasionally at this house; will it be considered intrusive if my visits become more frequent?"

"I am sure," said Janet, again exerting herself to speak calmly and distinctly, "that your visits here will always be welcome to my guardian--to Philippa;" and after a moment's pause she added, "and to myself."

Heathcote had only time to thank her, by another of those brief, bright glances, so precious in her eyes, when she was summoned to the piano to play the accompaniment to a new ballad, delightfully warbled by Philippa, and she was gratified to observe that Heathcote followed her, and kept his post by the instrument during the greater part of the evening.

Happy was the little party of lovers during the next fortnight. Captain Warrington and Heathcote were constantly at Mr. Chetwode's house, constantly accompanying Philippa and Janet in walks, drives, and visits to morning exhibitions. No young persons ever enjoyed their own way more than the wards of Mr. Chetwode. He had a decided aversion to the idea of a _dame de compagnie_ in the house; consequently, although the wife of one of his friends always chaperoned Philippa and Janet in society, their mornings were entirely at their own disposal. Mr. Chetwode spent the greater part of every day comfortably ensconced in his luxurious easy-chair at the club, wielding a paper-knife in one hand, and holding a new review, magazine, or pamphlet, in the other; and if he thought at all about his wards, he concluded them to be occupied in netting purses, watering geraniums, petting canaries, or reading "The Queens of England."

At the end of the fortnight, the member of the party whom my readers will conclude to be the happiest began to feel somewhat anxious, nervous, and discontented. Poor Janet, although the most humble-minded of living creatures, felt greatly mortified that her intimacy with Heathcote did not seem in the slightest manner to progress; he was still kind, courteous, and considerate to her, as he had ever been, but nothing more. She had given him every encouragement that he could expect, but he did not fulfil the promises of his poetry; he never uttered a word that could even be construed into "talking near" the subject of love. Janet mentioned this apparent inconsistency to Philippa.

"Did I not warn you, dear Janet," said her friend, laughingly, "that you were affixing too much importance to a trifle? You should not expect an admirer to fulfil all the promises of a valentine; you might as reasonably expect a member of Parliament to fulfil the promises that he had made during his canvass."

Janet, however, would not allow her faith in valentines to be weakened; she put her own construction on the coolness of Heathcote, and a very painful construction it was. She thought that although for a time his approbation of her mind and manners had overcome his distaste to her personal appearance, the latter feeling was gaining ground upon him, and that he was unable to love her, and ashamed to introduce her to the world as the object of his choice. "I will give him back his faith," thought poor Janet, little surmising how she would be wondered at in society for talking of giving back the faith of a valentine. Before Janet could give Heathcote back his faith, he was summoned into Shropshire, to see a married sister who was believed to be dying; and Janet, instead of pondering over the uncertainty of her own love-affair, had a different subject for her attention, in watching the progress of a far more fortunate wooing. Captain Warrington, by Philippa's permission, had spoken to Mr. Chetwode touching his affection for his beautiful ward; and Mr. Chetwode, after a slight show of reluctance, and an ineffectual attempt to induce the young people to consent to a twelvemonth's engagement, had suffered himself to be persuaded into a promise that he would give the bride away whenever she chose to call upon him to do so.

Mr. Chetwode was a very reasonable guardian; he did not insist on sacrificing his ward to a citizen whose money-bags outweighed his own; or to a patrician, whose "face, like his family, was wonderfully old."

All went on smoothly and satisfactorily; the lawyers were busy with the settlements, and Philippa busy with the choice of her wedding-dresses. But Janet was not without a little gleam of comfort on her own account.

Heathcote had written to Mr. Chetwode. "My sister," he wrote, "I am most thankful to say, is almost convalescent, and in a little while I shall venture to tell her of an important step in life that I contemplate taking. I shall then fly back on the wings of impatience to London, and need scarcely say that my first visit will be to your house."

Mr. Chetwode read aloud Heathcote's letter at the breakfast-table, but made no comment on the sentence in question. Janet placed her own construction on it; she thought that Heathcote, unlike men in general, was a much more ardent lover when absent than when present, because he did justice to the qualities of her mind, but disliked her personal appearance. Moore says of the heroine of one of his sweet melodies--

"She looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two."

But Janet "looked in the glass" not with any pleasurable sensations; she came to the conclusion that she grew plainer every day, and she anticipated Heathcote's return with as much fear as hope. One morning Janet was sitting alone in the drawing-room, and felt remarkably nervous and depressed. "Are there such things as presentiments of evil?" she thought; but her previous anticipations were changed into joyous realities when Heathcote was announced. She started up to greet him, but appearing not to notice her outstretched hand, he threw himself into a chair: she thought him very much out of spirits; an indifferent person would have thought him very much out of temper.

"Your sister, I trust, is not worse," said Janet, timidly.

"She is almost well again," he replied impatiently; "but, had I been aware of what has just been told me, I do not think I should have troubled myself to visit London."

"What has been told you?" gasped the agitated Janet; "you alarm me by your vehemence."

"I have been told," he said, directing a searching glance at her, "that I have a favored rival, who not only has taken advantage of my absence from London to press his suit, but has succeeded in obtaining a propitious answer to it."

How did Janet's heart beat with rapture! "Heathcote's love for her could not now be doubted; he had love enough to be jealous; his anxious misgivings should immediately be removed; he should be told that her love was for him alone."

"You have been deceived, indeed you have been deceived," she exclaimed; "no rival is in the case; you cannot love with greater sincerity and truth than you are loved in return."

"Dear Miss Penson," cried Heathcote, taking her hand, "how can I thank you sufficiently for having so promptly relieved my mind from its groundless suspicions? My sister is prepared to welcome and to value the object of my choice. I begin to fancy myself almost too happy; but I do not see Philippa, and am quite impatient for an interview."

Again was Janet perplexed by the conduct of her lover. Why should he speak of her friend as "Philippa," while he addressed herself as "Miss Penson?" Why should he seem anxious for the entrance of Philippa, while enjoying what ought to be the perfection of happiness to a lover--a _tête-à-tête_ with his beloved one?

Even the most humble-minded of women can feel and resent a palpable slight; and it was with some little dignity that Janet replied, "Miss Roxby is not at home at present; Captain Warrington has accompanied her to the jeweller's; the wedding is fixed for this day fortnight, and she is of course so much engaged that I cannot expect to enjoy a great deal of her society."

Heathcote seemed quite transfixed by this simple speech. "Philippa's wedding-day fixed!" he exclaimed angrily; "then you have been cruelly trifling with my feelings, Miss Penson. Why did you tell me that I had no rival? Why did you cheat me into a few minutes of happiness only to give me deeper and more poignant misery?"

"I do not understand you," said Janet. "I feel bewildered and confused; what power can Philippa's engagement have to affect your tranquillity? You asked me if I had encouraged a rival in your absence, and I candidly told you that my heart was all your own."

"You!" exclaimed Heathcote, fixing on her a look of astonished contempt, as if he thought her a fitting inmate for a lunatic asylum. "If you are jesting, Miss Penson, you have chosen a very inappropriate time for it; if you are in earnest, I scarcely know whether to regard with the more pity or anger the absurd vanity which can have led you to construe common civilities into individual attachment."

"Your attentions exceeded common civilities," faltered the unhappy Janet, as she mentally repeated some of the soft passages of the valentine.

"In your opinion, perhaps they might," said Heathcote, with an expression of countenance somewhat closely bordering on a sneer; "your personal drawbacks have doubtless been the cause of obtaining for you the frequent neglect of the coarse and unfeeling. I certainly, however, could never have deemed it possible that you could have supposed yourself likely to inspire passion in my heart, or in that of any other man, especially by the side of the brilliant and fascinating Philippa Roxby. I have serious trouble enough in losing her, without this ridiculous and provoking misunderstanding. I advise you never to expose yourself to sarcasm by making public to the world your unreasonable expectations; and, for my part, I am willing to promise to be equally silent on the subject: let us both endeavor to forget the untoward conversation of this morning."

Heathcote's injunctions of secrecy and promise to be secret were rendered unavailing, for Mr. Chetwode, who had entered unperceived, had been the astonished auditor of his last speech. Heathcote, with the instinctive dislike that all selfish men feel to the idea of "a scene," uttered a few hasty words of apology to Mr. Chetwode, and made a speedy escape, while the astonished guardian took a seat near Janet in silence: he felt hurt and annoyed; no one likes to meet with vexations that they have not anticipated, and certainly Mr. Chetwode had never dreamed that his poor little ward, Janet, would give him any trouble about her love affairs.

"My dear Janet," he said at length, "I gather from the few words that I heard on entering the room, that you have construed some slight civilities, shown you by Mr. Heathcote, into proofs of a serious attachment. I am sorry and also surprised that you should have fallen under such a misapprehension; for it was quite evident to me, and to many others, that Mr. Heathcote was an admirer of Philippa."

Janet removed her hands from her face, and steadily met the glance of her guardian. "I assure you," she said, "that I have received more than slight attentions from Mr. Heathcote; Philippa is aware of it, and there has never been any feeling of rivalry between us; he declared his affection for me some weeks ago."

Mr. Chetwode could not avoid giving rather a discourteous start of amazement; but quickly remembering the proverb, that "there is no accounting for tastes," he said, in a kinder tone of voice, "And how did he make this avowal to you, my dear?"

"By letter," replied Janet.

Mr. Chetwode began to feel exceedingly indignant with Heathcote. To write a declaration of love to a young lady, and then, without assigning any reason for his conduct, to break faith with her, was, he justly thought, highly blamable under any circumstances, and peculiarly mysterious under those of poor Janet, since a lover who could once forget her personal disadvantages must be very much in love indeed, and could not have the shadow of an excuse for changing his mind afterwards, as the qualities of her mind and temper were such as to improve upon acquaintance. "Have you any objection, Janet," he said, "to show me this letter?"

"It is not a letter," faltered Janet, "it is a copy of verses."

Mr. Chetwode hastily rose from his chair, and walked up and down the room as an escape-valve for his irritation. He could not bring himself to say a harsh word to the suffering girl before him, but he felt thoroughly provoked with her. Mr. Chetwode was an essentially prosaic, matter-of-fact man, and had once seriously offended a young poet of his acquaintance by averring that he considered poetry "as a cramp way of people saying what they wanted to say!" He controlled, however, his inclination to be very bitter and caustic on the occasion, and merely said, "Your inexperience, my poor Janet, has wofully misled you; young men present copies of verses as they do boxes of _bon-bons_ to several of their lady friends in succession, and mean no more by the one trifle than the other; endeavor, my dear, to forget the past, and resolve to be more wise in future."

Thus saying, Mr. Chetwode left the room, went to his club, and after remaining there an hour, took a few turns in St. James's-park, where he was somewhat annoyed to encounter Heathcote. He had, however, no opportunity of escaping him; for Heathcote, who felt a little ashamed of his recent behavior, joined him, and made some inquiries respecting Philippa, lamenting his own ill-fortune in not having been able to make himself acceptable to her.

"Philippa has chosen for herself," replied Mr. Chetwode, somewhat coldly, "and I see no reason to object to her choice. I am sorry, Mr. Heathcote, that you should have considered yourself obliged to make love to both my wards. I do not attach any importance to such a trifle as a copy of verses; but poor Janet, who has, as you may easily conclude, been unused to the slightest attention, actually considered that you were making an offer of your heart in rhyme, and has sadly felt the disappointment of her hopes."

"Write verses to Miss Penson!" repeated Heathcote, in a half-derisive, half-astonished tone; "I never did such a thing, never dreamed of doing it; whoever told you so, my dear sir, has most grossly deceived you."

"I heard it," replied Mr. Chetwode angrily, "from the lips of one whose truth has never been doubted--from poor Janet herself."

"I can only repeat my asseveration," said Heathcote, "and am ready to do it in the presence of Miss Penson, of whose truthfulness I must beg to entertain a less favorable opinion than you seem to do; perhaps, however, some one has been sporting with her vanity, by writing verses to her in my name, in which case she is to be pitied."

"Perhaps so," said Mr. Chetwode, thoughtfully. And he parted from Heathcote, and pursued his way home.

Janet was in her own chamber, but he sent to desire her presence.

"I am very much inclined, my poor girl," he said kindly, "from some hints which have been given to me, to surmise that the verses to which you allude were not sent to you by Heathcote, but by some one who successfully imitated his hand."

"You are wrong, dear sir," replied Janet; "not only were the verses unquestionably in the hand-writing of Heathcote, but he alluded to them the next day in conversation with me, and expressed his hope that they had not given offence."

"And yet, Janet," said her guardian, fixing his eyes sternly on her, "it is from Heathcote himself that I have just heard the suggestion that his hand-writing has been counterfeited; he most strongly and utterly denies that he has ever written verses to you."

"I am concerned," said Janet, "that Heathcote should show himself not only deficient in honor and kindness, but in common truth and honesty. You, however, my dear sir, who have so long known me, will not, I am sure, feel a moment's hesitation in believing my statement in preference to his."

Mr. Chetwode did not speak, but he regarded Janet with a look by no means indicative of the perfect trust which she had anticipated. She burst into tears.

At this moment Philippa entered, radiant with beauty, health, and happiness, having just parted from her lover at the door. She stood astonished at the scene that met her eyes.

"Philippa," said Mr. Chetwode, gravely, "you will be sorry to hear that you must either think very ill of a favorite friend, or of a pleasant acquaintance. A circumstance has arisen, trifling in itself, but involving the veracity either of Janet or of Heathcote; she avers that a few weeks ago he wrote verses to her, containing a declaration of love; he denies that he did any such thing."

Philippa turned very pale, and sat down in silence.

"On what occasion were these verses written?" said Mr. Chetwode, turning to Janet with a predetermined air of disbelief in the reality of them.

"They were entitled," said Janet, "'A valentine, to be read when the others are forgotten.'"

"A valentine!" repeated Mr. Chetwode, indignantly; "and is it possible that the verses of which you speak as containing an avowal of affection, almost amounting to a promise of marriage, were nothing but a valentine? and have I been induced, by your misrepresentations, to reprove and lecture a young man for adding one to the many chartered blockheads who commit fooleries to paper on Valentine's Day? I no longer doubt your truth, Janet; but I have serious doubts of your sanity. You, Philippa, also," he added, turning to her, "have been much to blame; you know more of the world than Janet; why did you let her make herself so ridiculous as she has been pleased to do?"

"Do not censure Philippa," said Janet; "my sorrows have been all of my own making: she repeatedly told me that I affixed far too much consequence to so trifling a mark of attention as a valentine."

"Dearest Janet, forgive me," cried Philippa, in much agitation; "I will make now, in the presence of our guardian, a confession that I ought to have made before. I have been acting as your enemy, when my only wish was to be your friend. You remember our conversation on Valentine's Day. When I repaired to my dressing-room after luncheon, I perceived that one of my valentines was unopened; I broke the seal, the writing within was in the hand of Heathcote; and without even reading it, I inclosed it in a blank envelop, directed it to you, and put it into the post that morning. I wished to give you a few minutes' pleasure, and to prove to you that you were not quite forgotten. I knew Heathcote to be a favorite with you, and imagined that you would be gratified by his attention. When you brought the verses, and read them to me, I was surprised at their warmth and earnestness, and repented of what I had done, and I have repented more and more ever since."

"And those verses were never intended for me!" exclaimed the weeping Janet. "Heathcote never felt a moment's preference for me! Oh, Philippa! I know you intended kindness to me, but this was cruel kindness."

And poor Janet now indeed felt the cope-stone placed on her humiliation; she would have much rather believed Heathcote to be fickle and inconstant, than have discovered that he had never loved her at all. She pressed Philippa's hand, however, in token of forgiveness, and left the room; and the bride elect, for the first time in her life, was called upon to listen to a lecture from her guardian, beginning with some strictures on her own officious folly, continuing with a few allusions to the vanity and blindness of her friend Janet, and concluding with an earnestly expressed hope that none of his friends would ever place a young lady under his guardianship again!

Philippa's wedding-day arrived. Janet was present at it, not as a bridesmaid, for she had refused to spoil the group of beautiful girls who appeared in that character by joining them--she was plainly and quietly dressed; none among the brilliant assemblage prayed more fervently than she did for the happiness of Philippa; but her cheek grew paler than ever, and her tears fell fast, as she listened to the solemn ceremony, feeling that similar vows could never be plighted to herself, and that domestic happiness was as much beyond her reach as if she had been a being of another sphere. She left London on that day to return to the village where her mother died, and where she took up her residence with an old friend, with whom she had previously communicated by letter.

Almost a year has elapsed since that time: she is calm and composed, but her spirits have never recovered the severe shock that they have sustained; she feels that for a short time she was living in an unreal region, and her violent descent to earth has humbled and bewildered her. Had she never been led to fancy that she was an object of tenderness and affection, her good sense would in time have reconciled her to the disadvantages under which she labored; but the fitful light thrown across her path only served to make the darkness more unbearable when it was withdrawn. Mr. Chetwode and Philippa have each requested her to visit them, but she has resolutely excused herself from again joining a world for which she feels herself alike unfitted in person and in spirit.

The marriage of Philippa and Captain Warrington has, to use the words of Theodore Hook, produced as much "happiness for two" as the world can be expected to give. Philippa is as charming as ever, and in one respect her character has materially improved. Formerly, Philippa, partly from good-nature, and partly from a wish to be universally popular, was very much in the habit of saying things to her friends that were more pleasant than true; she would tell fourth-rate poetasters that everybody was in raptures with their genius; she would assure mothers that their sickly pedantic prodigies were extolled in every circle; and she would protest to faded spinsters that the gentlemen declared them to be handsomer than they were a dozen years ago. Now, however, Philippa, although still kind and courteous, is as particular in the veracity of her civil speeches as if she had studied Mrs. Opie's "Illustrations of Lying" for the last five years: and all are delighted to obtain her praise, because all feel that she is sincere in bestowing it.

One day her husband found her in tears, and anxiously inquired the reason of her sorrow.

"It will soon pass away," she said; "but I have just been thinking with grief and repentance of a very faulty action in my life, although you, to console me, are in the habit of calling it an amiable weakness. I allude to my unjustifiable imposition on poor Janet; the present day causes it to recur most forcibly to my mind--it is the anniversary of VALENTINE'S DAY!"

THE FOUNTAIN VERY FAR DOWN.

BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.

"I don't believe it," said my cousin Ned, who was passing his college vacation at our house, and there was a world of unwritten scepticism in the air with which he dashed down the paper over whose damp columns his eyes had been travelling for the previous half hour.