Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

If Frederick Lanier had not been so unaccustomed to the ways of the world, he would have stated his situation frankly to the landlord, and then have made himself easy until he could receive remittances from home. But, as it was, he kept his affairs to himself; and, while waiting for an answer to the letter he had written home, he went in and out, took his meals, read the paper, and did his best to pass the time away without addressing a remark to any one.

It struck him that he had never been among people quite so rural and primitive, and he was right. But, as the arrival of a stranger was a rare event among them, so he was of proportionate importance. And they were also gifted with the usual sociability of the New Englanders; and a young man that did not seem inclined to tell who he was, and where he came from, and where he was going to, and seemed to have nothing to do but to go regularly to the post-office, and then with his fishing-rod to the river, from which he always returned empty-handed, was an object of wonder and suspicion.

Frederick Lanier, unconscious of the speculations of which he was the object, began to be greatly worried and perplexed by not receiving the letter for which he was anxiously waiting. He grew daily more restless and uneasy.

"He's got a bad conscience, depend upon it," said the landlord, oracularly, as he sat in the midst of his satellites and customers listening to the hasty strides with which Frederick Lanier was pacing up and down the room over their heads.

At length a paragraph in a newspaper brought their suspicions to an open expression.

"That's him, depend upon it," said the landlord. "James Wilson. J. W.; them's the very letters on his portmantle. Five hundred dollars reward. That will be doin' a pretty good business for one day."

"Are you going to take him up, Squire?" asked one of the men in the bar-room.

"Certingly. Think I am going to let such a chance slip through my fingers? It's him--it's as like him as two peas. Read that, friend," continued the landlord, addressing himself to Frederick as he was going hastily through the room, and planting himself so that the young man could not pass him.

Frederick took the paper, and read an advertisement offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of a clerk in a bank of a neighboring town, who had absconded with two or three thousand dollars. As Frederick glanced over the description of the runaway, it struck him that James Wilson must have been rather an ill-looking fellow. A broad-shouldered, down-looking, dark-haired, swarthy-complexioned man would be rather an unpleasant person to meet in a lonely place, he thought. He returned the paper to the landlord, saying, carelessly--

"Do you think there is any probability that the thief will be taken?"

"Well, I guess so, if we look sharp."

Something in the landlord's tone struck Frederick disagreeably. He glanced around, and the distrustful, watchful expression on the countenances of those about him revealed at once the nature of the suspicions against him.

"You surely do not suspect me of being this James Wilson?" asked he, in surprise.

"I guess you'll have hard work to prove that you are anything else. What is your name?"

"Frederick Lanier."

"And what business do you follow?"

"I am a student in New York city. My uncle, with whom I reside there, is Mr. Oliver Lawrence. You may have heard of him?"

But no. Well known as Mr. Lawrence was in Wall Street, his reputation did not extend to Hillsdale. Frederick saw that the mention of his uncle's name produced no effect. He glanced again over the description of the defaulter.

"I surely am neither swarthy nor down-looking," said he, catching at a straw.

"Wall, I don't think you be 'ither," said a young man, who seemed to look with some compassion on Frederick in his painful position.

"Asa Cutting, who asked your opinion?" said the landlord, magisterially. "Young man," continued he to Frederick, "I hain't once seen the color of your eyes sence you've ben in my house."

He must have seen them at that moment, for they were bent on him full of flashing indignation. But he went on.

"If you are a college-larnt young man, you can read Greek most likely?"

"Yes."

"Wall, I've got a Greek book here that I would like to have you read out of."

And, after some searching, a small book bound in paper was handed to Frederick. He took it readily, hoping to prove by his scholarship the truth of his assertions. To his disappointment, it was a little Chinese or Japanese pamphlet that had found its way to this remote place.

"This is not Greek; it is Chinese," said he.

"Hum!" said the landlord, in a tone of contempt; "that jest shows how much you know about it. If that ain't Greek, I would like to know what is. Do you ever see paper like that nowadays? That's Greek paper; it was invented ages before Chiny was ever heard of."

"Wall," said Asa Cutting, "I always have thought that them scratches in that book that pass for letters were jest like the scratches on the tea-chists in my store."

"Asa Cutting, what you think is nothin' to nobody, and what you say had better be the same. Young man, sence Greek is unbeknown to you, may be you'll have better luck with Latin."

"I can read Latin," said Frederick, modestly.

"Do you see them letters on my sign? You can read them out of the window here."

"You mean the motto, '_E pluribus unum_,' I suppose?" said Frederick.

"Yes," said the landlord. "What do they stand for now?"

"'One of many,'" said Frederick.

"I thought how it would be," exclaimed the landlord, triumphantly. "'One of many!' What, in the name of common sense, does that mean? No, young man; don't you see they are put under the eagle, and they mean, 'The eagle's flight is out of sight?'"

"I think you are mistaken, Square," said the pertinacious Asa; "I am sure the stranger is right."

"Capen Cutting, you are like a sheep's head, all jaw," said the landlord, with some irritation. "You think you've got more sense than any one about here; but I guess you'll find yourself mistaken. Leftenant Davis, of the United States Army, told me what them words stood for, not more than a year ago, and it's likely he'd know. Young man, I'm afraid you are in a bad way."

Frederick began to think so himself.

"I assure you," he said, "that I am not James Wilson."

"Young man, you be," said the landlord, sternly. "What have you got J. W. on your portmantle for, I'd like to know?"

"That is a valise that was lent to me by my cousin, John Williams," said Frederick. "If you will wait till I can write to New York and receive an answer, I can satisfy you that you are mistaken in the person."

"I think, Square, you might allow the young man that chance," said Asa Cutting.

"Wall, I'd be willin' to do it," said the landlord, "if I only knew where to keep him; but the jail hasn't been mended sence that nigger took the roof off with his head and got out, two months ago; and there ain't a room in my house but the cellar that ain't about as onsafe as out doors."

Meantime, as people were dropping into the bar-room, the landlord, for greater privacy and safety, took his captive, with a small train of advisers and lookers-on, into the parlor, and there continued the discussion as to the proper course to be pursued. Frederick offered to give his word not to attempt an escape; but that proposal the landlord put aside with great contempt, and, disdaining any farther parley, Frederick listened in angry silence to the different plans suggested by the landlord to insure the safe keeping of the prisoner, and the consequent obtaining of the reward.

There was a slight bustle in front of the tavern, but the debate was so interesting that it passed almost unnoticed. Soon after, the parlor door was thrown open, and Adelaide Marshall entered, followed by her brother. Frederick thought he had never seen her look so magnificently beautiful. Her long riding-habit showed her figure to great advantage; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkling with the light and color of vigorous health and animation, and the mountain breeze had arranged her blonde hair with a most picturesque negligence around her fair open forehead.

"Why, Mr. Lanier," said she, with gracious cordiality, "this is an unexpected pleasure."

"Fred, I am delighted to meet you," exclaimed Henry Marshall.

An expression of disappointment passed over the landlord's face.

"Do you know this young man?" asked he.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Marshall, with some surprise; "he is an old friend of mine."

"Wall, Square," said Asa Cutting, "I told you you'd better take care what you was about. I kinder thought all along the young man didn't look like a thief."

"That's complimentary," said Miss Marshall. "You seem to have been in some trouble. I am glad we came in time to relieve you from such suspicions."

Frederick could not echo her expressions of pleasure. A week or two in jail, or even a temporary confinement in the landlord's cellar, would have been a light trouble compared with the mortification of being seen by Miss Marshall in such a position. He explained, with an attempt at indifference, the circumstances which had conspired against him, and Adelaide found them highly amusing. She laughed heartily over the advertisement, dwelling with malicious pleasure over each unflattering epithet. She listened to Asa Cutting's circumstantial account of the whole affair with an interest that led him insensibly to make it as long as possible; and, when he came to the landlord's suggestion of confining the suspected man in the cellar, she seemed so very much amused that Frederick could hardly endure it with becoming patience. Even after they were alone, she recurred again and again to the same theme, and always contrived to hit upon the very points that jarred most on Frederick's sensitive nature. When her mother and sister arrived, Miss Marshall repeated the story to them, dwelling and expatiating upon it until Frederick could no longer conceal his annoyance.

He declined coldly the invitation urged upon him by the whole family to join them in their tour--an invitation he would gladly have accepted a few days before; and it was with real pleasure that he saw the cavalcade set out the next morning to continue their journey, Miss Marshall looking back, after she had said "Good-by," to "hope that Mr. James Wilson would enjoy the solitary fishing excursions he seemed to like so well."

The long-looked-for letter came that day; some accident had delayed it on the road. With the remittance it contained he paid his bill, and left the village of Hillsdale with no very pleasant feelings. He was somewhat puzzled what course to take. His liking for travelling on foot had not stood the test of experience, and just then he would have directed his course to any other part of the Union more willingly than to the White Mountains. He wisely decided to return to New York, and, by taking the speediest conveyances, he managed to reach his uncle's house just two weeks after he had left it.

He was warmly welcomed by his aunt and cousins, and Bessie Graham's bright face looked brighter as she greeted him.

"You have come just in time, Fred," said Emily; "we are going to Lake George to-morrow. But how did you happen to get back so soon? I am afraid your 'predestinarian tower,' as that old lady out West called it, has not been so delightful as you expected."

Frederick acknowledged that it had not; and, after tea, he told the whole story to an audience more sympathizing than the former one had been.

"I thought you had a very crestfallen look as you came in," said Emily.

"I hope," said Mrs. Lawrence, "that you made the people understand who you were before you left."

Bessie said nothing; but Frederick was struck by the spirit in which she had listened to his misadventures, so different from the one that Miss Marshall had displayed. The one he had always thought a grave and serious character, and the other a light and childish one. But Miss Marshall seemed to find an endless source of amusement in the mortification of other people's vanity, while Bessie was so occupied with the painful position in which he had been placed that she could hardly smile, easily as her smiles generally came, at Frederick's imitation of the pompous and ignorant landlord.

"Bessie is a sweet little girl," said he to Emily, at the close of the evening.

"I knew you would like her," was Emily's pleased reply.

The pleasant weeks the party spent at Lake George served to confirm Frederick's opinion, and the liking that commenced that first evening after his return went on increasing, until in a few years it ended, as most stories and novels do, in a wedding.

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE SIXTH LETTER LEFT.

(_Dated April the 9th._)

SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON A VERY IMPORTANT DAY, AND WHAT KITTY
THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER MASTERS.

TO-DAY, dearest Nelly, is the 14th of February. Not a girl, I believe, in the whole school, slept a wink last night; ever since sunrise, there has been such a humming and buzzing, exactly as you hear at church when the service is just over. I believe all the girls are mad. No one seems to care for fines or forfeits. What is twopence or sixpence, or a hundred lines of the "History of England," so long as a dear sweet valentine is smuggled into the college? and it requires all the art which a woman has of smuggling, to pass a letter through the examination of this place. I declare it's worse than the custom-house, when you land from Boulogne. Every one who comes in has his pockets searched, and the Lady Principal stands on the staircase all day, watching for the postman. She little knows, however, that he has been bribed (_with half a dozen_ SILVER THIMBLES) to slip all the letters under the door without that tell-tale "tat-tat;" or that Susan has earned in one day more ribbons and handkerchiefs than a year's wages would buy her, simply by having a little human feeling. Snapp and the Lady Principal were never fluttered with such hopes, I'll be bound, when they were young, although it is so long ago they may well be excused for forgetting it.

But it does not matter, Nelly, their locking us up in a state of siege. Rosy May has got a beauty sent round her bottle of strengthening mixture by the doctor's handsome young man; and Lucy Wilde found such a duck tucked in her stockings from the wash. And those impudent fellows next door have pelted us over the garden wall with half a dozen all tied on to a piece of string precisely as if it were the tail of a kite that had got entangled in the trees.

And then, Nelly (mind, this is a secret), there came a new Sunday dress for me (a beautiful shot silk, with all kinds of colors, just like mother-o'-pearl); and what do you think? There, inside it, hid up the sleeve, was such a love of a valentine for your dear, happy, happy Kitty! Oh gracious! when I opened it, I saw two sweet little doves, as white as bride-cake, caged in a net of beautiful silver paper, hovering over a large heart, smothered, dear, in the sweetest roses! It was so pretty, you can't tell; and I was _so_ happy I could have gone to bed and have cried the rest of the afternoon. How kind of _him_ to think of me on such a day! Bless him! How foolishly I love him to be sure, and I should be very wicked if I didn't; for it was only yesterday I flung the paring of an apple three times round my head, and when it had fallen on the ground, there it was in the form of the dear letter "S!" You understand, dearest; but not a word.

Snapp had one. It was inside an orange that was thrown at her from over the wall. Those impudent boys again! She tore it up most indignantly, and flung the bits away with a burst of eloquence about "the vulgar ribaldry of such ignorant, witless insults." We picked up the bits afterwards, and, putting them together, found they formed the ugliest picture that ever was seen, of an old witch riding on a birch-broom, with a big bottle in her hand. It was too bad, but we have pasted the pieces on a sheet of paper, and intend to keep it by us to spite her with some day, if she is unkind to us.

The fact is, the whole house is crazy. If it was breaking-up day, there couldn't be more fun and less discipline. Even that long piece of dryness, Miss Twigg, has been caught laughing several times, and the servants have been giggling up and down stairs, and all over the house, and running every minute to the door, until at last Mrs. Rodwell has put the chain up, and says she'll answer the door herself. She's in such a passion that I shouldn't like to be one of those poor girls who hav'n't paid for their last half year, and to be taken up before her!

Even that curious old Mr. Penn has become touched with the infection. He has been setting us the drollest copies, about "Faint Heart ne'er won Fair Lady," and "Though Lost to Sight, to Memory Dear," and such like; exceeding even his usual eccentricities.

He is the funniest little specimen you ever saw, Nelly, and ought to sit to have his portrait taken in China. He would make a capital Dresden ornament, for he is a very great curiosity; but in his present shape he is much more curious than ornamental. He is our writing-master; but his accomplishments go far beyond pot-hooks and hangers; for he teaches us, also, arithmetic, mathematics (much we understand about them!), and Latin (we all like "_Amo_, I love"--I think of Sidney as I conjugate it), and elocution; besides drawing to the juniors. Poor Penn! His is a sad life, Nell. He was brought up with expectations of having a large fortune. Those expectations are all gone now; for you cannot read the slightest hope in his care-worn face. His whole appearance implies a struggle to live. Every article of his dress speaks of a long fight with poverty. His coat looks so thin that you imagine, if it were brushed, it would be swept clean away like so much dust. It is buttoned close up to his throat, and what you see of his linen is clean, though rough and jagged at the edges, like the leaves of a book that's been badly cut. His boots are patched to that extent that, when it has been raining very hard, he doesn't like drying them at the fire, for fear of our laughing at the numerous patches about them. His hat--but never mind about his dress, Nelly; for I feel a sort of shame in counting the darns and stitches about this poor fellow's appearance. Suffice it to say, he always looks the gentleman in the midst of his shabbiness, and that he wins the respect of us giddy little girls, even in spite of his bad clothes. The latter, I can tell you, is no small recommendation in a girl's school.

He is clever, and I would sooner learn of him than of that ponderous Professor Drudge, whose explanations are so high-flown that we never can see what they mean, _even by standing on tip-toe_. At first, all manner of tricks were played upon old Penn. He never could find his spectacles--his knife was always mislaid--his quills were always stolen--but he never grumbled or made the slightest complaint. Last winter he used repeatedly to leave the room. We could not fancy why or where he went, until one day he dropped his pocket-handkerchief. It was nothing but holes and rags--almost as bad as the handkerchief I have seen the clown in a pantomime wipe his eyes with when he has pretended to be crying. He had been ashamed to withdraw it in our presence; and well he might, for on my word, without meaning any harm, we should all have burst out laughing, if he had. We could not have helped it, Nelly. You never saw such a thing, dear! "It was not a pocket-handkerchief," said that great stupid Meggy Sharpe, "so much as a Penn-wiper!"

Well! as we were all laughing at its poverty and comical appearance--you must have laughed yourself, Nelly--who should come in but Blight? In a few strong words she made us ashamed of our unfeeling mirth, and brought the color still more to our tingling cheeks by running up stairs and bringing down one of her own pocket-handkerchiefs, which she bade us slip unperceived into poor old Penn's coat pocket. We watched him from the window. The old gentleman pulled out his handkerchief as soon as he left the house, but, perceiving the substitution, his head dropped, poor fellow, and we saw him with the handkerchief held up to his eyes until he turned the corner.

Ever since then, no more tricks have been played with our writing-master. His poverty, unlike with most men, has been his friend--and a very good friend, too. Contributions have been dropped in the same poor-box for his relief, until the old gentleman has grown comparatively quite a dandy; one of Noble's black satin aprons has found him in stocks for months, and Blight is always knitting comfortable muffetees, slippers, and chest-protectors for him in the winter. We picture to ourselves the old man emptying his pockets when he gets home, and his surprise at finding the little gifts (and cake sometimes) they contain. We are happy in the pleasure we know we give him. He never says a word, but merely looks his thanks. We feel his gratitude in the increased kindness we receive from him. He calls us his "angels," and we know directly what he means; if he said more, O Lord! how we should all cry, and he, perhaps, more than any of us.

He is here, Nelly, mostly all day long; but doesn't dine with us. The Lady Principal sends him out a plateful, heaped up with almost insulting profusion, as if she were sending it out to a beggar. Perhaps she isn't wrong, however, for it is all eaten. He carries down the tray himself, that none may see how clean his plate has been polished.

I need not tell you, Nell, dear, that we all are fond of poor Penn. He is so kind, so gentlemanly, so patient, acting to us more like a parent than a teacher. Besides, he sets us the strangest copies, the oddest problems--things never heard of in a school before--but reconciling us to our tasks by making us laugh, and interesting the dullest pupil. You won't credit it; but that conceited thing Twigg fancies him in love with her. She dresses out her ringlets as long as spaniel's ears, and puts on cherry neck-ribbons when he comes. All day long is she pestering him to mend her pen, and to explain away difficulties about _x_ in algebra; just as if a man could be bothered into love! Penn takes it all very good-temperedly; but I imagine it would bring his wig prematurely to the grave, if he was told that he was going to marry Twigg.

None of us can tell what pittance the Princesses' College gives for the life-service of such a man. Not a tenth, I dare say, of what they give to Herr Hullabullützer. Such fuss, dear, as is made for the Herr's reception! The room is heated to a certain degree of nicety, the light is subdued, sherry and biscuits are ready for his refreshment, tea and cake (_our cake_) brought in afterwards, and the young ladies kept waiting in succession every quarter of an hour, so as not to lose a moment of his valuable time. And you should only see him lounging in the arm-chair; his little fourpenny-piece of a watch placed before him, as if the object of his visit was to follow its hands, and not our fingers. Why, he looks, dear, the handsomest personification of contentment, hair-oil, and conceit, that a foreigner ever _bamboozled_ people with in this country. His shirt is light pink, and perforated like an open-work jam tart. His wristbands are turned back nearly as much as the sheet on the pillow of a bed. His head would make a beautiful block for a French hair-dresser's window; and he has sufficient chains and miniature pistols, donkeys, cannons, and dogs dangling round his neck to start in business a Jew peddler. He dozes one-half the time; but then it is a reverie--the meditation of genius. The other half he plays with his glossy curls or his whitey-brown moustache, so he may well be excused if he doesn't know exactly to a minute what air his pupil is playing. It's true, he scarcely gives himself the trouble to correct us when we are wrong; but then he teaches the young princesses! and so we should not expect him to be over patient with little chits of school-girls. _He_ is an artist: poor Penn is only a man of intellect. _He_ goes to the palace three times a week; poor Penn has only been to college; so the two are not to be compared.

Once, however, when your dearest Kitty was making more noise over the "Battle of Prague" than has ever been made over the battle of Waterloo, the ringleted Herr caught up her hand, and said, in a voice that melted with the sweetness of barley sugar, "I can-not perr-mit such soft litt-tle fin-gerrs to murr-derr har-mo-nie;" and--and, dearest, I think Kitty's hand felt the smallest possible baby's-touch of a squeeze.

I had on your pretty turquoise ring at the time, and since then every girl has wished me to lend it her for her music lesson. Just as if it was the ring that!!!----

Fraulein Pinchinhertz is quite sentimental over the handsome Herr. She sits in the room during the lessons, looking and listening with all her soul in her eyes, and talking German in the _softest_ manner. But the Herr admires his boots infinitely more than he does her.

But, bother take it, there's the bell for tea. Good-bye, my darling Nelly, and do not forget the toffee you promised to send to--

Your fondest KITTY CLOVER.

P. S. I will show you the valentine when I come home. Tell me, have you had any? Pray, how many?

P. S. It is very strange--some one sang under our windows last night, "Wilt thou love me then as now?" I wonder if it was _him_?

P. S. I have had this more than three weeks in my pocket, waiting for an opportunity to post it.

A SONG.

BY CHARLES STEWART.

As fancy breathes her gentlest gale
O'er memory's shallop, bright with flowers,
And up the stream of Time you sail
To visit childhood's fairy bowers--
As early scenes bring to your mind
The day gone by of youthful greeting--
The joys and pleasures left behind,
As bright, as transient, and as fleeting
As sunshine on a summer's day--
One moment bright, but ere the hour
Hath passed, the landscape wears a frown,
And then 'tis darkened by a shower:
Oh, cherish, as in other days,
One passing thought, one precious tear,
When o'er the past thy vision strays,
For him who writes this tribute here!
And may thy dreams, so glad in youth,
As Time with tireless pinions fly,
Unfold in happiness and truth,
And sit amid a cloudless sky!

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON VI.

FIGURE AND OBJECT DRAWING.

IN executing the copies here given, and, indeed, in all other drawings which are to be shaded, the outlines must first be put in before any attempt to shade is made. The pupil should endeavor to produce the proper degree of shade at one operation, without having occasion to go over or darken it afterwards. This retouching spoils the effect of clearness and spirit which shading at one operation is calculated to give, and which all drawings should have. The drawings in Figs. 1 and 2 will be very easily put in. The outline of Fig. 3 should be drawn in the manner heretofore explained, the shading put in by bold strokes from top to bottom, because if done at two operations a shadow would result, by which the effect would be spoiled; a few cross-strokes may be next put in, which will give a little roundness to the sketch. In Fig. 4, the nearest part of the oval is to be drawn considerably stronger, so as to bring it forward. Figs. 5 and 6 are examples in which the ellipse is distinguishable. In copying Fig. 7, a nice broken outline should first be obtained; the shading being simple needs no explanation. The outline of Fig. 8 is to be drawn as formerly; the indented parts of the leaf to be put in slightly, and afterwards the stronger shadow, which throws forward the curled edge of the leaf. In copying the annexed sketch of a grindstone, to get the outline correctly the framework should be drawn first, carefully observing the relative proportions of the parts, in order to give an idea of perspective.[4] Having done this, an ellipse may be drawn to represent the stone, part of this to be rubbed out afterwards; in shading the drawing, the nearer parts should be made darker than those distant; this causes the latter to recede, having the appearance of distance. In Fig. 10, we give the representation of an old gate; it is so simple that it needs no explanation. Fig. 11, which is the representation of a familiar object, is treated under a very simple effect of light and shade, the shaded parts bringing forward the light ones; this effect is called _relief_. It is of the utmost importance that the pupil should have a clear knowledge of the mode of producing this effect. We would recommend her to try the experiment of placing simple objects so as to relieve each other, and to sketch them in this manner; this will enable her very speedily to understand the method of attaining the effect. In Fig. 12, the same effect is displayed, only reversed; a mixture of light and shade throwing back the other end, which is in half tint. In Fig. 13, which is the representation of a fuchsia-leaf, the outline must be put in in the manner heretofore explained; the shading is similar to that in Fig. 8. After copying this, we would recommend the pupil to get a similar leaf, and place it in various positions, so that the light and shade will be variously disposed. This will afford excellent practice, and will accustom the pupil to draw or sketch from nature. In Fig. 14, which is the representation of a rural stile, the pupil will find the principle of relief shown in Figs. 11 and 12 again displayed; the shading behind the stumps throwing the light parts forward, and the shaded sides of these causing the back part to recede.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: Hereafter the subject of Perspective will be fully treated of; before Perspective can be mastered, it is absolutely necessary that the pupil should be able to sketch by the assistance of the eye.]

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.--JUNE.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

BOOTES.--This constellation is situated west of Asterion Et Chara, and contains fifty-four stars. It comes to the meridian the 9th of June. Bootes may be readily distinguished by the position and splendor of its principal star Arcturus, which shines with a reddish lustre, much resembling the planet Mars. This star is supposed to be nearer the earth than any other star in the northern hemisphere. Arcturus is referred to in Young's "Paraphrase," where the Almighty answers Job out of the whirlwind--

"Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain,
And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain?
Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere,
Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year?
Bid Mazzaroth his destined station know,
And teach the bright ARCTURUS where to glow?"

Arcturus is a star of the first magnitude, situated in the left knee, and is twenty-six degrees south-east of Cor-Coroli. Three small bright stars curve down to the left foot, while three of the same size, about nine degrees east, curve in the same manner, and form the right leg. Three stars curve upwards, forming the left arm, which he holds aloft, while three still more minute ones mark the neud of the leash which he holds in his left hand, while his right one is marked by four stars; three very minute ones mark the club with which he urges on the hounds.

The ancient Greeks called this group Lycaon, which signifies a wolf, asserting that it is Calisto who was changed into a wolf by Juno.

"But now her son had fifteen summers told,
Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold,
When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey,
He chanced to rouse his mother where she lay.
She knew her son, and kept him in her sight,
And fondly gazed; the boy was in a fright,
And aimed a pointed arrow at her breast,
And would have slain his mother in the beast;
But Jove forbade, and snatched her through the air
In whirlwinds up to heaven, and fixed her there."

The Egyptians claimed the origin of it likewise, as also did the Hebrews. Its origin is probably too ancient to be traced.

* * * * *

CENTAURUS.--This fabulous monster is represented as having the head and shoulders of a man, terminating in the body of a horse. It occupies a considerable space in the southern hemisphere, yet it is so low down that but little of it can be traced in our latitude. It is situated south of Spica Virginis, and contains thirty-five stars, two of which are of the first magnitude. Agena and Bengula are stars of rare brilliancy, and mark the fore-feet of the monster. These stars are never visible in our latitude, but shine with greater lustre than any that gild our own hemisphere.

It is supposed this constellation took its rise from the simplicity of the shepherds of the earlier ages, who, on seeing men on horses, supposed them part of the animals they rode; so the Spanish cavalry seemed to the Mexicans as late as the year 1500.

The Centaurs were, in reality, a tribe of Lapithæ, who resided near Mount Pelion, and first invented the art of breaking horses. Virgil says--

"The Lapithæ to chariots add the state
Of bits and bridles; taught the steed to bound,
To turn the ring, and trace the mazy ground,
To stop, to fly, the rules of war to know,
To obey the rider, and to dare the foe."

* * * * *

LUPUS.--This constellation is situated south of Libra and east of the Centaur, and is so low down that it cannot be traced in our latitude. It contains twenty-four stars of a small magnitude.

This constellation, according to mythology, is Lycaon, King of Arcadia, who lived 3,600 years ago, and was changed into a wolf by Jupiter for sacrificing human victims at the altar of Pan.

* * * * *

LIBRA.--When the sun enters the sign Libra, the days and nights are of equal duration, and seem to observe an equilibrium like a balance. Libra contains fifty-one stars, and comes to the meridian the 22d of June. It may be known by its four principal stars forming a quadrilateral figure, lying north-east and south-west, and having its upper and lower indices nearly in a straight line running north and south. The two stars which form the south-west side of the square are situated about six degrees apart, and distinguish the southern scale. The two which form the north-east side are seven degrees apart, and mark the northern scale.

The Libra of the Zodiac is found upon all the hieroglyphics of Egypt, which is proof of its great antiquity. In the Zodiacs of Estne and Dendera, Virgo is represented as holding the balance in her hand as an emblem of equal justice to all.

The Greeks assert that the balance was placed among the stars to perpetuate the memory of Mochus, the inventor of weights and measures. It is known, however, to have existed prior to the Greek nation, and therefore the assumption must be erroneous.

* * * * *

SERPENS.--This constellation is situated chiefly between Libra and Corona Borealis. Those stars that lie scattered along for about twenty-five degrees, in a serpentine direction between Libra and the Crown, mark the body and head of the serpent; five of these, standing in a cluster, form the head. They are about ten degrees south of the crown.

"Vast as the starry serpent that, on high,
Tracks the clear ether and divides the sky,
And southward winding from the northern Wain,
Shoots to remoter spheres its glittering train."

Many nations have worshipped the Serpent, among which are the Hivites and aborigines of South America. Job says: "By his spirit He hath garnished the heaven; his hand hath formed the crooked Serpent."

* * * * *

CORONA BOREALIS.--Among the starry hosts that deck the summer sky, there is no group more beautiful than the northern Crown. It is situated north of the Serpent, and may be readily distinguished by its six principal stars curving round into a wreath or crown. Alphacca, its brightest star, is eleven degrees east of Mirac in Bootes, and comes to the meridian the 30th of June. This group contains twenty-one stars, of which those that compose the wreath are alone conspicuous. This beautiful cluster of stars is said to have been placed in the heavens to commemorate the crown presented to Ariadne, Princess of Crete, by Bacchus.

We cannot discard the history connected with the traditionary gods of the ancients as entirely fabulous, for undoubtedly, in the fables of heathen mythology, are transmitted to us records of early times so far enveloped in the impenetrable darkness that separates us from the earliest records of the human species, that they alone are all that remain to us of the habits and pursuits of the patriarchs of the world. It remains with us to sift these relics of the past from the mystic web that a barbarous age threw around them, and thus be enabled to transmit to future ages glimpses of the habits and pursuits of patriarchs of our race in all the purity of unadorned truth.

LEGEND OF LONG-POND; OR, LAKE OF THE GOLDEN CROSS.

BY FANNY FALES.

THE summer moon hung in the sky,
And sleeping in its sheen;
Long-Pond, watched by the angel stars,
Lay in its cradle green.

The little zephyrs gliding by,
Rocked it upon their way;
And saw the dimples come and go,
As of a child at play.

The beautiful white lilies bowed,
With folded hands, at rest;
As if they stole away to pray
Beneath the water's crest.

From the dim woods beyond, the doe
Came down her thirst to slake;
Her wild brown eyes, and graceful form,
Reflected from the lake.

What! does she list the huntsman's horn,
That thus she bounds away?
Turns she, with head erect and proud,
The noisy hounds to bay?

Nay, nay! 'tis but a swift canoe
Shoots from the coppice near;
Its light oars leave a silvery track
Upon the waters clear.

A pale, fair youth, one arm flung round
A maiden's form, is there;
The Saxon in his deep blue eyes,
And light-brown waving hair.

The full-orbed moon floods in its wanes,
The Indian maiden's face;
The rich blood tints her olive cheek,
Her form is full of grace.

Her black eyes, softer than the night,
Are turned to meet his own;
Her heart drinks in each loving word,
And deep impassioned tone.

"Listen, Lueka--little fawn,"
(His voice is sad and low;)
"Chide not with that imploring gaze;
To-morrow I must go!"

Her head drops slowly on her breast,
Veiled with her long black hair;
Love in that simple act confest,
Love, and almost--despair.

"Anoonk,[5] Lueka's heart will bleed,
The arrow 'neath its wing;
'Twill sit and mourn, 'twill droop and die,
It never more will sing.

"To-morrow is a little word,
But, oh, how big with woe!
Did poor Lueka hear or dream,
'To-morrow I must go?'

"Lueka, list, my bird, my fawn,
I will return again
Before the harvest moon looks down
Upon the golden grain.

"I swear, Lueka, by the stars,
And by this cross of gold,
'Ere red the berries of the thorn
My Indian bride I'll fold.

"In token, chain and cross of gold
I hang upon thy breast;
And let it whisper, 'He will come
When summer's in the west.'"

'Twere vain Lueka's fears to paint,
'Twere vain her woe to tell;
When came the morrow's long embrace,
And quivering, low farewell.

* * * * *

Popmonet's daughter was the maid,
A princess' rank she bore;
And many a rival chieftain laid
His offering at her door.

But all in vain--for she had seen
The stranger as he lay
With fever in his throbbing veins--
And nursed him day by day.

Health came, and love--but woe if he
Who sought her for his own,
The Marshpee chief, her secret know,
By word, or look, or tone.

* * * * *

The night is dark, the storm is fierce,
But darker, fiercer still
The whirlwind passions in the soul
Of scorned Auketauquil.

For sad, apart, Lueka sits,
Her heart's-eyes gaze afar;
The young chief's words, his very smiles
Upon her spirits jar.

The golden cross, but half concealed,
To him her secret told;
The while she murmurs, "he will come
Before this moon is old.

"The corn is golden in the sheaf,
With silken tassels drest;
I've seen the shining summer rise,
And now 'tis in the west."

But summer set, and winter came,
And spring, with blossoms gay;
Then hope died in Lueka's heart,
For he was still away.

She drooped and faded day by day,
And when the autumn hours
Came round again with yellow leaves,
She'd perished with the flowers.

Popmonet bowed his aged head
In sorrow--with a moan;
"The leaves from the lone tree are swept,
I stand alone--alone!"

Auketauquil approaches near,
With brow and footstep grave;
The hated cross gleams on her breast,
He hurls it in the wave.

"Curses," he cried, "upon the lips
That lured away my bird!
Curse him! would of his hated race
Lueka'd never heard!

"Great Spirit, curse him! for he stole
The ring-dove from my breast;
Poor wounded thing--how cold it lies;
I would have been its nest!"

A lovely island in the lake
Popmonet's child received;
Her people bore her gently there,
And e'en the sternest grieved.

Anear her placed they food and drink,
And trinkets that she wore,
To cheer her on the lonely voyage
Unto the spirit shore.

They laid her where the sweet-fern grew,
With lilies in her hand;
Then loosed a bird above her grave,[6]
And sang thus by the strand.--

Speed on to the beautiful land afar,
Where the soul of our sister's a new made star;
With kisses, embraces, thy wings are laden,
Soar high to the home of the absent maiden,
Away! away!

Tell her, winged blossom, that over her grave,
The kindred who mourn her, thy freedom gave;
We ope thy cage, captive; we bid thee farewell;
Soar away to the clime where the blessed dwell,
Away! away!

Tell her we'll look when the north is aglow,[7]
With the souls of our people, moving slow;
For the beams of her spirit 'mid those we see,
For we know in glory she brightest will be,
Away! away!

She will come no more when the morn is fair,
To look in the wave while she braids her hair;
But her face like a star on Auketauquil's soul,
Dawns bright from the gloom where its deep waters roll,
Away! away!

Soar on--soar away to the spirit-land,
Thy wings with the breath of affection fanned;
The soul of our sister's a new made star,
Bear our blessing, O bird, to her home afar;
Away! away!

* * * * *

Years fled--the council fires went out;
The red men, one by one,
Died, or were driven from their haunts,
Toward the setting sun.

No more a moccasin is seen
On Succannesset[8] lands;
Where once arose the wigwam's smoke,
The white man's dwelling stands.

Save one old brave with locks of snow,
No tree stands where it grew;
No longer on the wave is launched
The graceful bark canoe.

* * * * *

A poor lone woman, gathering
Fuel Long-Pond around,
Drew forth a dead branch from the wave,
And lo! a cross was found!

'Twas asked the aged brave, if he
Its history could tell;
'Twas the same cross Lueka wore,
Ah, yes! he knew it well.

I gathered from his lips ere long
The tale here given thee;
'Tis common love, and woe, and death,
From man's inconstancy.

And evermore that woodland pond,
Where oaks their shadows toss,
We'll call for poor Lueka's sake,
Lake of the Golden Cross.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: _Anoonk_, a star.]

[Footnote 6: The Indians of some tribes loose a bird over the grave of a friend, laden with caresses, which they believe will be borne to the departed one.]

[Footnote 7: The moving rays of the northern lights are supposed by them to be the souls of their people in glory.]

[Footnote 8: _Succannesset_, Indian name of Falmouth.]

MRS. CLARK'S EXPERIENCE AS A SERVANT.

BY BELL.

"WHY is it, Mrs. Clark, that you always take the part of servants? You speak as if you thought them possessed of sensibilities as refined as ours."

"Why should they not have such feelings?" inquired Mrs. Clark.

"Their education is so different."

"Does education always give sensibility? Do you not think it possible for those that must work for a living to be possessed of it?"

"I should suppose they might do something that would not expose them to the contempt that is shown to such as are 'girls in the kitchen.' Why, even the higher servants despise them."

"Would it not be better if all were considerate enough not to contemn any one? Then there would be no danger of wounding sensibilities that are none the less acute because they are found in the breast of a servant." Mrs. Clark said this softly, and with a slight quiver, perceptible only when you looked at her.

I was sitting by the window for the sake of the light. Sarah Marshall, who was spending a week with Isabel Clark, was chatting as usual when Mrs. Clark came in with a neighbor, who was telling of the impudence of a servant who, when she was accused of falsehood, replied, "There is none of my father's family that can lie."

"Did she lie?" innocently inquired Sarah.

"No, it was found she told the truth; but then, it was her independent manner that was so offensive."

"Do you not think servants ought to have independence enough to defend themselves from an unjust accusation?" asked Mrs. Clark.

"Her saying so proved nothing; we found out the truth ourselves. If she had waited, she would not have lost her place. I am sorry for her, I am sure. If you do not want her, I do not know what will become of her. Her family are quite destitute."

"Do you not need her help?"

"Oh, yes; but, then"----

"You are satisfied of her innocence, you say; why not have her come back to you?"

"That would be too humiliating. I never give my servants a chance to triumph over me in that way."

The visitor departed, and the conversation was continued, as at the commencement of the story.

Mrs. Clark was a lady. It was not necessary to inquire who her ancestors were, to be sure of that; yet it was not her dress, or manner, or voice, or sentiments, either of them, alone, but harmony and appropriateness in everything she said or did, that left with you that impression. In her presence you never thought whether she was handsome or well-dressed, but, on leaving her, you would be more than ever in love with moral beauty.

In the evening, we girls--I call myself one of them, though so much older--were sitting round the fireplace in the pleasant room; it was just fit for dreaming or story-telling, at twilight, when Sarah referred to the conversation of the morning, wondering if Mrs. Hart had conquered her pride, or poor Anna had found a place.

"I have always pitied servants," said she; "it seems that they ought to know their place; yet, if they are unjustly accused, it is hard if they must lose a home when they defend themselves."

"For my part," said Isabel, "I like to see ladies know their places, as well as servants. What right has any one to charge another with falsehood, and expect them to be silent under the false charge, merely because they have agreed to give them the labor of their hands for a paltry sum counted out to them on Saturday night? Anna was educated to thoughts and habits of strict integrity, and I do not wonder at her proud retort."

Isabel had been indignant all day, but had controlled her lips till now; her eyes flashed as she spoke, and, when she was done, she went to the piano and played several spirited airs with even more spirit than was necessary; then, turning to us, said--

"Did mother ever tell you her history?"

"No," said Sarah.

"Nor you, Miss Bell?"

"Never."

"She wrote it out for me a year ago. I will read it to you, if you wish."

Now, I had often wished to know her earlier life, but did not think it right for Isabel to read to us what was probably written for her alone; so I ran up stairs, where Mrs. Clark was engaged with the younger children, and told her what Isabel proposed doing, inquiring if it met her approbation.

"I wrote it," said she, pleasantly, "as a lesson for my daughter; but I am willing others should be benefited with her."

Feeling that I had wronged Isabel by supposing she would do anything improper, I returned to the parlor just as she was ready to read the following:--

* * * * *

The first dream of my life was to be a school-teacher. The first morning of my going to school, the sweet lady who was teaching in our district took me on her lap, and asked me if I did not wish to become a school-teacher. I felt that to be like her would be pleasant; and so, from that time, it was the acme of my ambition to become what Polly Frazier was--pleasant name it is, even now--and I was careful about _this_, and I learned _that_, because it was necessary for a teacher to know such things. My parents and instructors encouraged the idea, and it was with me a settled purpose. I hardly know how young I was when I learned that, to teach successfully, I must govern well. I desired not to rule merely, but to instruct; and, when my teacher would let me hear the little ones read, how tearfully happy I was if I succeeded in giving them a new sound, or right pronunciation!

Thus time passed with me until I was twelve, when my father came from an eastern State to Pennsylvania. Soon after, by one of those great wrongs, where no one is to blame, my father lost the little property he brought with him to this part of the country, and a family of eight was dependent on what he could earn at his trade. Money was scarce and provisions dear, and you may judge of my feelings when my father came home every day more and more tired, and our resources became day by day more and more reduced; for, though my mother was a good manager, yet there are limits beyond which it is impossible to manage at all.

If I could only do something! I thought it over at night, but said nothing. I knew I was not prepared to teach even children, or, at least, no one would think I was, and that was all the same, for all the good it would do me, and I must give up the thought of it, at least for the present.