Chapter VI: Part 6

“A primrose by the river’s brim,
A yellow primrose was to him.”

of whom Wordsworth speaks, so the latter is a stream, a forest, a hill—nothing more. The nameless savages had the place from the beginning, and the solitude. The other is a tradition, a romance, a memory. In the valley is the legendary well, and the fairy ring; by the stream is the fortalice of the feudal period, or the abbey dwindled to a few ivied walls and the oriel, on the site of a bloody battle where a king fell fighting, a thousand years ago; and, on the slope of the hill stand the Druid stones, in a circle, set there, certainly, in the ancient time of the giants, who descended from Thor and

Lived in the oldé days of King Artour.

As Webster, the old English dramatist, says:

We love these ancient ruins;
We never tread upon them, but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history.

They receive all their witchery from the imagination of him who surveys them. This faculty is potentially mingled with all that is most real in nature; nay, it would seem to be as much a reality as any thing else we call such. The preacher calls the world a vain shadow, and the Berkleyan philosopher calls it a huge accident of the five senses; and Shakspeare is inclined to think there is nothing that is but thinking makes it so. The practical men, therefore,—the directors of railways, the managers of stock, and the owners of electric telegraphs cannot be considered to have matters all to themselves. The poet and the romancist control as much of the “thick rotundity of the world” as they; and certainly the most enchanting portion. Schiller gives us in an admired lyric, the idea that the imaginative being was forgotten by Jove in the distribution of the earth; but received a general invitation to the Court of Olympus. Our nether “maker,” or “finder,” does still, of course, avail himself of this privilege; but not as one without alternative. He has a great share and dominion in all sublinary things; and his castles in the air may be found as firmly fixed, after all, and as well tenanted, as any existing on any other element.

* * * * *

WINTER.

BY ALICE CAREY.

Now sits the twilight palaced in the snow,
Hugging away beneath a fleece of gold
Her statue beauties, dumb and icy cold,
And fixing her blue steadfast eyes below;
Where in a bed of chilly waves afar,
With dismal shadows o’er her sweet face blown,
Tended to death by eve’s delicious star,
Lies the lost day alone.

Where late with red mists bound about his brows
Went the swart Autumn, wading to the knees
Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the boughs
Of the old forest trees;
The gusts upon their baleful errands run
O’er the bright ruin, fading from our eyes,
And over all, like clouds about the sun,
A shadow lies.

For, fallen asleep upon a dreary wold,
Slant to the light, one late October morn,
From some rough cavern blew a tempest cold,
And tearing off his garland of ripe corn,
Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with luscious wine,
And Ceres’ drowsy flowers, so dully red,
Deep in his cavern leafy and divine,
Buried him with his dead.

Then, with his black beard glistening in the frost,
Under the icy arches of the north,
And o’er the still graves of the seasons lost,
Blustered the winter forth.
Spring, with your crown of roses budding new,
Thought-nursing and most melancholy fall,
Summer, with bloomy meadows wet with dew,
Blighting your beauties all.

O heart, your spring-time dream will idle prove,
Your summer but forerun the autumn’s death,
The flowery arches in the home of love
Fall, crumbling, at a breath;
And sick at last with that great sorrow’s shock,
As some poor prisoner pressing to the bars
His forehead, calls on mercy to unlock
The chambers of the stars:
You, turning off from life’s first mocking glow,
Leaning it may be still on broken faith,
Will down the vale of autumn gladly go
To the chill winter, death.

Hark! from the empty bosom of the grove
I hear a sob, as one forlorn might pine—
The white-limbed beauty of a god is thine,
King of the seasons, and the night that hoods
Thy brow majestic, brightest stars enweave—
Thou surely canst not grieve.

But only far away
Mak’st stormy prophecies—well lift them higher,
Till morning on the forehead of the day
Presses a seal of fire.
Dearer to me the scene
Of nature shrinking from thy rough embrace,
Than summer, with her rustling robe of green,
Cool blowing in my face.

The moon is up—how still the yellow beams
That slantwise lie upon the stirless air,
Sprinkled with frost, like pearl-entangled hair,
O’er beauty’s cheek that streams.
How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks.
And the wild legend from the old time wins,
Of sweet waves kissing all the drowning locks
Of Ilia’s lovely twins.

Come, Poesy, and with thy shadowy hands
Cover me softly, singing all the night—
In thy dear presence find I best delight;
Even the saint that stands
Tending the gate of heaven, involved in beams
Of rarest glory, to my mortal eyes
Pales from the blest insanity of dreams
That round thee lies.

Unto the dusky borders of the grove
Where gray-haired Saturn, silent as a stone,
Sat in his grief alone,
Or where young Venus, searching for her love,
Walked through the clouds, I pray,
Bear me to-night away.

Or wade with me through snows
Drifted in loose fantastic curves aside,
From humble doors where love and faith abide,
And no rough winter blows,
Chilling the beauty of affections fair,
Cabined securely there.

Where round their fingers winding the white slips
That crown his forehead, on the grandsire’s knees,
Sit merry children, teasing about ships
Lost in the perilous seas;
Or listening with a troublous joy, yet deep,
To stories about battles, or of storms,
Till weary grown, and drowsing into sleep,
Slide they from out his arms.

Where, by the log-heap fire,
As the pane rattles and the cricket sings,
I with the gray-haired sire
May talk of vanished summer-times and springs,
And harmlessly and cheerfully beguile
The long, long hours—
The happier for the snows that drift the while
About the flowers.

Winter, wilt keep the love I offer thee?
No mesh of flowers is bound about my brow;
From life’s fair summer I am hastening now.
And as I sink my knee,
Dimpling the beauty of thy bed of snow,
Dowerless, I can but say,
O, cast me not away!

* * * * *

IMPROMPTU TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE OCEAN-BORN.”

BY A READER.

Oh! once again resume thy potent pen,
Thou pleasing stranger and heart-moving man,
And lead our thoughts back captive once again,
As thou alone of others only can.
Thy “Slaver” long had lingered in our mind,
And called forth hopes of future fame for thee,
When came thy “Cabin-Boy,” so fair and kind,
To set our heart’s best thoughts and feelings free—
Say, was he real? Truth seemed written
On every line that in the tale was shown,
And maidens fair by the ideal were smitten,
And sighed because the real was unknown.
Silent and passionless our hearts had beat
For months, and feared thou hadst resigned thy sway,
And earth-cares closely clung around our feet,
When sprung thy “Ocean-Born” to joyous day.
Thy beauteous “Garcia,” pure as e’er a star,
Called forth all pity, sympathy and love;
We dreaded lest the ending, darkling far,
Would all too fierce and desp’rate for her prove;
But for the son who, born of such a pair,
Thy wondrous pen portrayed so truly good,
The picture thou hast drawn so passing fair,
To us it seemed as by thee he had stood.
Oh! cease not yet—nor deem it labor vain
The treasures of thy mind to bring to view,
Let the creations of thy soul again
Their joyous power spread over us anew.

* * * * *

THE ARTIST’S LOVE.

BY THE AUTHORESS OF THE CONSPIRATOR.

THE TABLEAU.

The curtain arose and a murmur of applause greeted the beautiful scene that appeared. An open window unclosed on a valley sleeping in the moonlight, and the over-arching heavens glittering with its quiet stars. Beside the window leaned the lady, her head half-turned from the page who knelt at her feet, and clasped her hand between his tremulous fingers: and she—oh how divinely fair was that girl! She represented one of a royal race, and well did she look the character she had assumed. The turn of the graceful head, the curve of the red lip belonged to the royalty of beauty, and there was a pretty air of condescension in the attitude she assumed toward the kneeling youth; while he looked up to her and sent forth his soul in the deep gaze he bent upon her face. The first fond dream of the enthusiast’s heart was realized, and his spirit bowed in homage before the ideal of his young imagination.

The curtain fell—the page raised her hand to his lips and passionately kissed it. A faint flush came up to the cheek of the girl, and a half-mocking smile flitted across her crimson lip.

“You forget, young sir, that we are only _acting_. One would suppose from your manner that you are really in earnest.”

The tone jarred on the highly excited feelings of the youth, and he sprang to his feet, the warm blood mantling his fine features with its sunny glow.

“Your pardon, Miss Selwyn,—I forgot that we were acquaintances of but a day’s standing: yet if you could read the dreamer’s heart, you would not wear that smile which seems to mock my enthusiasm. You see before you a boy in years, but if the age of man may be measured by the wild aspirations—the burning hopes of a heart whose reveries are as passionate realities, I am not a mere youth. Oh beautiful,”—he continued, again kneeling before her, “my soul bows before the incarnation of a lovely spirit, in a form fitted to enshrine it. I feel that it is so, for _He_ who made you so gloriously lovely, would not place a cold or selfish heart in so exquisite a casket. My fancy has pictured such forms among the angels of heaven, and my unskillful hand has essayed to sketch them, but ever without success. When we met, my heart at once went forth to greet its predestined idol, and I felt that my dreams had found a reality.”

The girl who listened to this wild rhapsody with a little fear and more surprise, was one who had been reared amid the artificial refinements of life, and it was probably the first genuine burst of feeling which had ever met her ear. The daughter of a man of wealth, and a mother devoted to fashion, her education had been carefully intended to model the character of the future belle. The parents looked on her unrivaled beauty with pride, and the vain mother anticipated the renewal of her own triumphs in the person of her daughter. Flattered and spoiled from childhood, it was quite wonderful that one natural trait should still have remained in her vain little heart; but nature sometimes asserts her power where art has done most to arrest and deface her beauties. Thus it was with Julia Selwyn. Sincere feeling even to the world-hardened ever finds an echo in the breast, and the mocking smile died from her lips as she felt the deep charm of the young stranger’s singular avowal.

The two had met that morning for the first time. Arthur Mervin was the son of one of Mr. Selwyn’s early friends, who had that day arrived in Philadelphia, with a letter of introduction from his father, containing a request that Mr. Selwyn would aid the youth in obtaining admittance into the studio of a distinguished painter, as his pupil.

At the moment of his arrival, a party was rehearsing the tableau which were to be presented in the evening at a splendid entertainment, given in honor of Miss Selwyn’s _debut_ in the world of fashion. The most important one;—the one in which the beauty was to burst on the enraptured eyes of her father’s guests in all her loveliness, was the lady and the page—and—oh, dire disappointment! The young cousin who was to enact the page, had been seized with an inflammatory sore throat, and his medical attendant positively prohibited his leaving his room.

What was to be done? Mrs. Selwyn glanced over the list of her young acquaintances, and could not find one to appear in the tableau with her fair daughter, who would not look coarse when placed in comparison with her refined loveliness.

She wished the tableau to be perfect—to be talked of as the most beautiful one of the season, and, in the midst of her perplexity, when her husband ushered in the son of his friend, one glance at his graceful person and fine features convinced her that she need look no farther,—the page was found.

Her daughter was sent for, and after an animated conversation of half-an-hour, the lady found means to introduce her request so naturally and gracefully, that after a moment’s hesitation, with a glance at Julia and a bright flush of the cheek which spoke volumes, Mervin consented to play the part of the page.

How would that worldly mother have shrunk from allowing him admittance within the charmed circle of her daughter’s fascination could she have divined the effect this casual introduction was to have on that daughter’s future life.

The son of a farmer of moderate means who was encumbered with a large family, it appeared too absurd to guard against Mervin’s admiration. Julia was born to be admired: she had been educated to glitter in the sphere of fashion, and understood her own position too well to allow her feelings to become interested in a mere flirtation with an obscure artist.

The young painter was full of genius and enthusiasm; the walls of his studio were ornamented with sybils, angels, and Madonnas, in each of which might be recognized a striking resemblance to the face of his young love, and his passionate soul poured forth his adoration in “thoughts that breathe and words that burn.” The homage of genius gave an eclat to her daughter which gratified the vanity of Mrs. Selwyn, who fancied that she had sufficiently warned Julia against allowing her heart to become interested, by speaking of the utter impossibility that Mervin should for years be in a situation to ask her to share his destiny.

“All this adulation is very pleasant my love,” said she, “and makes you the envy of many a fair rival, but remember it is only as incense to your vanity that it must be regarded. Mr. Mervin is clever, and has talent enough to make a very agreeable addition to our _soirees_, but a suitor to you it is quite impossible he should aspire to become.”

The rose faded from the cheek of Julia in an instant. “He is gifted with extraordinary abilities, mother. A distinguished path is before him.”

“Yes—but think of the years of toil that must intervene. The best portion of his life must be devoted to his exacting profession, and when the pulse is fevered with application—the eyes dimmed, and the hair blanched with time, he may be what is called great; but the spirit of life, of love, and hope, will be exhausted in the struggle. From the dim waste of the past, the voice of fame will sound but as a funeral dirge, wailed over the courage and enthusiasm which bore him upward and onward in his course.”

“Disappointment must come to all, mother; but in the exciting occupation you describe there is much happiness to be found. The days of all must fall into the ‘sere and yellow leaf,’ but the man of genius can at least look back with pleasure to his toil, and reflect with just pride on the rewards he has won. Ah how superior are such memories to those hoarded by the mere butterflies of fashion, of a petty triumph over some insignificant person whose wealth lifts them into ephemeral notoriety.”

“Child—Child! how you are running on! Your cheek is flushed, and your eyes sparkling.—This will never do. I hope this young painter has not made what romantic young ladies call ‘an impression’ on your heart, for in that case my doors must be closed on him.”

Julia was calm in a moment. The pupil of the fashionable Madame Lecompte had been assiduously taught the art of controling the outward show of emotion, and young as she was, Julia Selwyn did not shame the lessons of her preceptress.

“My dear mother, how can you have such a fancy! Mr. Mervin does not make love to me without I construe his verses into declarations. Do you fear that I shall be so unmaidenly as to give my heart unsought? He knows that a union between us is impossible, but that does not prevent this frail fading beauty from being his inspiration and his muse. A few fleeting years, and some younger and fairer face will claim his homage, while I shall pass down the stream of time only remembered as the _ci-devant_ belle. When his fame is at its zenith, I shall be forgotten.”

“I am glad that you have so much common sense, my dear. When we can speak calmly of being forgotten by an admirer, it is a sure sign that the feelings are not deeply interested in him. You were never intended for the wife of a poor man, and there is one—but I must not betray your father’s plans. He will never force you to accept any one who is disagreeable to you, but there is a person in view who is so suited in age, fortune, and in short, every thing, that we have set our hearts on seeing you his bride. I will not name him, lest the knowledge of our wishes should make you shy. I shall leave him to make his own way, love—no questions—I am silent as death. Good-bye—I must see the new case of millinery opened at Madam ——’s. I will bring you a Parisian hat of the newest style.”

* * * * *

Julia buried her face in her hands and remained in deep and painful thought. She had instinctively known all that her mother had just expressed relative to Mervin; yet she would not reflect on it.

A year had passed since the first impassioned declaration of the young painter. His lips had uttered no word of love in that time, but his devotion of manner had expressed all that the most exacting mistress could have asked. Julia fancied that she received his homage merely as the incense due to her unrivaled charms—that her own heart was still unscathed—yet why did she listen for his step, and turn listlessly away from her usual occupations until shared by him? Why did the faint crimson steal to her cheeks as he sat beside her and spoke in those low, earnest tones, so different from the _persiflage_ of the set in which she habitually lived? Enthusiasm ever finds in the hearts of the young a chord which vibrates to the touch of him who possesses it, and before she was aware of her danger, that of Julia Selwyn was devotedly attached to Mervin.

Nature and education were at war within her. The consent of her parents would never be given to her union with him she well knew—and too much of worldliness still clung to her, to be willing to descend from her high estate to link her fortunes with those of her poor, though gifted lover. Yet her heart shrank from the sacrilege of giving herself to another. She might for years remain the idol of the hour, until her beauty began to wane, and in those years, perhaps Mervin might achieve a degree of celebrity that must lead to fortune—if not—she could then fulfill the desire of her parents in bestowing her hand on some wealthy suitor.

The lover destined for her by her parents made his appearance, and in spite of her mother’s determination not to reveal his name, Julia at once detected the anxiety of her parents that Mr. Herbert should succeed in winning her. He was young, and rather handsome, with quiet, gentlemanly manners; but when compared with the young painter he appeared very commonplace.

Herbert was already in possession of a handsome estate, and owned a large interest in the firm of which her father was the principal. He was just the sort of person Julia felt safe in trifling with. He had no romance, and was of an extremely indolent temper—for years he would be content to creep toward an object he had once proposed to himself to attain. He was not jealous, and with perfect calmness saw the girl he contemplated as his future wife, flirt with the gayest and handsomest men of the city. He seemed to possess some assurance in his own mind that she must eventually yield to the fate which decreed her to become Mrs. Herbert, and until that time arrived, she might enjoy her liberty as best suited her inclinations.

In the meantime Mervin pursued his career with astonishing success. The enthusiasm of his soul was thrown into all he attempted, and urged on by the overpowering passion of his heart, it was no wonder that he accomplished well whatever he undertook. Amateurs declared his talents to be of the highest order, and brother artists acknowledged his success, considering his years and opportunities for cultivation, to be unprecedented. His future greatness was confidently predicted, and a few of the patrons of the fine arts met together, and consulted on a proposal to send him to Europe, that so promising a genius should possess every facility for perfecting his style by the study of the old masters.

A liberal fund was subscribed for that purpose, and offered with such delicacy that Mervin felt no hesitation in accepting it as a loan, to be repaid when his exertions had won the means of so doing.

His preparations were soon completed, and a farewell visit to his family made. Then came the first bitter trial of his life—the parting from Julia Selwyn. The inexperienced youth, ignorant of the conventional distinctions of society, had uttered the first promptings of his heart to the object of his suddenly awakened passion; but a few weeks sufficed to show one of his quick perception and nice tact, the wide gulf that separated the daughter of a reputed millionaire from the humble child of genius. In words his passion had never since been expressed, yet Julia felt that to the last throb of that impetuous heart she would be the dearest of earthly objects.

He could not leave her thus—she had ever smiled on him, and from her own lips he must learn his fate. The years of toil which lay before him, would, for her sake, be sweet, and his heart trembled as he contemplated his future if no such bright hope rose over its distant horizon. If it were denied, deprived of all motive for exertion, he must sink at once into insignificance. The pride of genius—the consciousness of powers which raised him above the mass of his fellows, was bowed before the consuming passion that formed the inspiration of his day dreams, and the theme of his sleeping visions.

With feelings alternately elevated or depressed, as hope or fear prevailed in his mind, he repaired to the mansion of Mr. Selwyn. He found Julia alone, apparently awaiting the arrival of her party to attend a ball, for her dress was in the latest style of elegance. As he entered, she arose from the examination of a book of engravings, and advanced to meet him.

“She knows that I am about to leave my native land, and yet she could array herself for a ball,” thought Mervin, and his cheek grew paler than before. Julia noted the emotion, and frankly extending her hand said—

“I knew you would come, and though ready to go to Mrs. Lacy’s party, I feigned a headache, and staid at home to receive you. I did not know—I did not hear that you had finally decided to leave, until we were nearly ready to enter the carriage.”

Mervin pressed the hand she extended to him to his lips and heart in uncontrollable emotion.

“Ah, beloved Julia! in this hour I must again pour into your ear the passion that masters my whole being. As you shall answer this night, will my fate for good or evil be decided. How I dare venture to ask you, the beautiful, the flattered, to wait for years until a poor artist has achieved independence, I know not, but the hope is in my heart, Julia, that you will not deem me presumptuous. Oh, beloved, the future with its bright promise of fame is cheerless, without the hope is given that I may attain the idol of my youth. Speak—let me know my doom! I go forth sanguine in hope, and certain of success speedily won—or I carry with me a heart so crushed—so blighted by the disappointment of its dearest wish, that the energy to accomplish any thing worthy of myself will never revive.”

Tears were in Julia’s eyes. All her worldliness, all her hesitation had vanished at the sound of his words: she was only the loving and beloved woman, ready to share his lot, whether that lot were gloomy or bright.

“The hope is yours,” she whispered. “Is it not a brighter destiny to be the artist’s love than the bride of him whose fortune is his only claim to the station he holds? The day will come when my parents will be proud to give me to you. When that time arrives, take with you the assurance that you will find me free from other ties, with a heart glorying in the reputation you have won by your own exertions.”

“With such a reward in view, what toil will be too great, what probation too tedious to be borne! Oh, Julia, you have given me a motive which will enable me to triumph over every obstacle. But in the years that must elapse before I can rationally hope to claim my bride, how will you evade the persevering pursuit of this Herbert?”

“Do not fear him, Arthur. He is like a tortoise in pursuit of a bird on the wing, when following me. I can suffer him to belong to my train for years and still be no nearer marrying him than now. Besides, the inexplicable anxiety of my parents to see me united to him, will prevent them from giving decided encouragement to the addresses of any other lover. So you see it is rather on advantage to have so dilatory a suitor.”

“The influence of your parents will be entirely in his favor—you will be firm, my beloved—you will not yield. Remember, if you do, that you will be answerable for one human destiny. Your confession of this night has blended your fate, irrevocably with mine. You cannot draw back without rending the ties that bind me to reason—perhaps life.”

“I shall have no wish to draw back, Arthur. Though vain and worldly, there is enough nature still left in my heart to appreciate and return your affection. When the last hope of life has departed, I may yield and become another’s; but while your love remains as my beacon-light to happiness, I will continue true to my plighted troth.”

Much further conversation ensued, and just as they parted, Mervin repeated her own words, “Remember, love, till the last hope of life has departed, you are mine, and mine alone.”

Julia repeated them solemnly, happily, unconscious in how different a sense from that understood by the lover, they would be acted on.

* * * * *

Two years passed by. The most favorable accounts were received of the progress of Mervin. He had passed the greater portion of that time in Italy, and several beautiful specimens of his rapid improvement had been transmitted to his friends in his native land. The lovers contrived to keep up a correspondence, though the letters were few and far between, as the greatest caution was observed to prevent the parents of the fair _fiancée_ from suspecting the romantic attachment of their daughter. Julia well knew that such a discovery would be followed by a command to trifle no longer with the pretensions of Mr. Herbert.

Already they had manifested both impatience and displeasure at her conduct to that gentleman. He still continued the same placid and attentive lover; never elated by the smiles of his mistress, nor depressed by her frowns; he pursued the “even tenor of his way,” seemingly assured of final success where a more mercurial person would have despaired.

At length the crisis in the destiny of the belle approached. One morning her father entered her room and requested a few moment’s uninterrupted conversation with her. Julia sent her young sister from the apartment and prepared to listen to a remonstrance in favor of Mr. Herbert’s pretensions.

“My daughter,” he began, “the time has arrived when I can no longer postpone the explanation of our position in regard to Mr. Herbert. You have trifled with him so long, that I despair of ever seeing you voluntarily become his wife.”

“And is there any absolute necessity that I should unite myself to a man I can never love, father?”

“So much the worse, child. Love, at any rate, is a mere chimera—an ignis fatuus, that misleads the young. At all events you must make up your mind to marry Herbert, or I am a ruined man.”

“How can that result be brought about by my refusal to accept him?” faltered poor Julia.

“It is a story, my dear, I would not care to tell you, if it could be avoided; but I see no hope of influencing you by other means—so you must e’en hear it. Sit down, and don’t look so alarmed. You are pale as death, and trembling like a frightened dove.”

Julia sunk back in her seat, and prepared to listen with as much calmness as she could command.

“The father of Herbert and myself commenced life together, and for many years our united exertions were eminently successful. He decided to retire from the firm, when an elegant sufficiency had been acquired. He had but one child to provide for, and I made no objection; but as my family was larger, I thought it incumbent on me to continue my exertions. The half of Herbert’s gains was withdrawn from the firm, and invested in real estate secured to his son. The other moiety continued in my hands. At his death he bequeathed his claims on me to George, with a bequest to you of half the funds in my possession, on the condition that you shall become the wife of his son; if not, the whole amount is to be paid to George Herbert on the day he attains his twenty-fifth year. In two more weeks, if you do not accept Herbert, I shall be called on to pay a sum amounting to more than my whole fortune. As my son-in-law, he pledges himself to allow me to retain the use of this money until I can advantageously settle with him, and altogether waives his claim to the legacy left to you. My affairs are now in such a state that it will be ruinous to me to attempt a settlement; so you must even make the best of it, and give your hand to an honest man who will render you as happy as the most of your sex.”

“And is this the _only_ alternative?” asked the pale girl. “Will not Mr. Herbert grant you a longer time without demanding so great a sacrifice on my part?”

“The truth is, Julia, you have flirted with Herbert long enough, and he thinks you have not treated him quite well. If I make such an appeal to him, his cold temper will be roused, and he will be off altogether, which would be a misfortune of no common magnitude; for I must tell you that there is not the least chance that I shall ever be able to pay a fraction of this money; and only as the husband of my daughter can I prevent him from taking such steps as will ruin me at once. On one hand, it is a choice of poverty to all you love, and on the other, a good husband with plenty of money. You are too sensible to be romantic; and besides, as you have never yet fallen in love, you have no predilection to plead.”

At his last words arose the appalling recollection of her clandestine attachment—and she cast herself at the feet of her father.

“Pardon me, my father, and pity me! I have loved—I do love, with a depth and truth that death alone can destroy. Ask me not to wed this man, for I am plighted heart and soul to another.”

“To whom?” was the stern question. “I know of no one who receives the encouragement of a lover, save Herbert.”

“One far away—seeking distinction in a foreign land. Oh, blight not the promise of his young years by compelling me to falsehood and desertion.”

“What! that beggarly painter, Mervin! And is it for him you have slighted the highest in station—the brightest in intellect! For two years you have carried on this deception unsuspected—I have but one atonement to demand for such duplicity. Accept Herbert, and it shall be forgotten—refuse, and you are no longer a child of mine.”

Vain were the pleadings of the unhappy girl—vain her appeals to his better feelings. Glad of a pretext to treat her with such harshness as to drive her into his measures, Mr. Selwyn availed himself to the utmost of the one which was offered. She was literally left no choice between a marriage she detested, or expulsion from the paternal roof.

It is doubtful whether the parents would have carried their resentment so far, had she finally refused compliance with their wishes; but there was so much at stake, that both father and mother scrupled not to use every endeavor to urge her into the proposed union.

The constitution of Julia had never been robust; and the conflict in her feelings brought on a severe attack of illness, from which she very slowly recovered; and there was a brightness in the large-pupiled eyes, and a clear spot of rose upon her cheek, which seemed to speak of early decay and death. She went out once more, and listened with apparent acquiescence to the wishes of her parents in regard to her marriage.

Herbert was roused into something like interest, and his attentions were unremitting. Julia received them passively—she felt herself a victim to a fate she had no power to control, and yielded to the will of those around her. Yet she could not write to Mervin; she could not tell him who trusted her that she was about to wed another. No words could convey to him the wearing persecutions of which she had been the victim, even could a daughter bring herself to write such things of her parents. Her energies were destroyed, and she felt herself borne forward on the current of events, without the power to avert the doom they had awarded her.

As the fall advanced, a slight cough alarmed her mother, and again the physician was summoned. Julia earnestly desired to see him alone. He found her in her room with a small parcel on the table before her.

“Doctor,” she said, with a faint smile, “you are called on to restore health to the hopeless. You know that to be an impossible task. I wish you to tell me honestly and truly, how long you think I can live.”

“Pooh! Miss Julia! you are too young to talk of dying. Many long and happy years are, I trust, before you.”

“You would flatter me with a hope that is not dear to me. Long life I now ask not—desire not. I ask you as a man of honor—as a Christian—if you think it possible for me to recover? To die is now my only wish.”

“So the young always say when disappointment meets them. Your pulse is quick—you are feverish; but I think these symptoms will pass away. A winter in a warm climate I shall recommend to Mr. Herbert as the best thing for you; and I hope to see you again quite restored.”

“In a warm climate? What country will you recommend?” she asked abruptly.

“The South of France—or Italy.”

“Italy! Oh, let it be Italy! I could die contented there; but I will not consent to go. I dare not consent to be united to Mr. Herbert unless you will assure me that the last hope of life is past.”

The doctor looked at her as if doubting her sanity.

“You are young to lie down in the grave with resignation. There is some mystery here, my young friend, which is wearing your life gradually away. Can you not confide in me? I may be able to serve you.”

“Only in telling me the truth, and in writing a few lines for me to one who is far away—not dreaming of the blow that is about to fall on him. Poor Arthur! My grief is now more for him than for myself. You are a friend of Mr. Mervin’s, Doctor. Write to him, and inform him of my marriage; and tell him that my last promise was inviolate. I was his, so long as a hope in life remained. You may tell him that there was no escape from this loveless marriage, and the sacrifice of life itself will test the truth of my affection for him. _Now_ will you order me to Italy? that I may die amid the bland airs and lovely scenes which surround him. The consciousness that I am in the same land, will gild the remnant of my waning life.”

The physician was deeply touched. He saw that in her face which spoke to his heart of her rapidly approaching fate, and his voice faltered as he replied,

“You shall go to Italy—and I will fulfill your request. Mervin shall be apprised in the gentlest manner of all you desire. Would that I could serve or save you, but the wound lies too deep for my skill to reach.”

She smiled faintly. “It is a consolation to know that by the sacrifice of the frail remnant of my existence, I can secure to my young sister—to my parents, the enjoyment of a competence at least. Mr. Herbert has promised me that the wealth bequeathed to me by his father, on the condition that I became his bride, shall be secured to my sister, encumbered with an annuity to my parents. You probably know that the affairs of my father are inextricably involved, and this will be their only dependence; but, doctor, I have made one proviso, to screen my sweet Ellen from the misery that has been my portion. She is to enjoy the absolute right of choosing her partner for life herself.”

“These,” she continued, taking the parcel from the table, “are _his_ letters. They are few—but very—very precious. Take them—destroy them—I cannot do it—and I would not have them returned to him. It would be too bitter to have the memorials of wasted affection thrown back on the heart from which they emanated.”

* * * * *

A few more weeks rolled by, and the sacrifice had been completed—the victim had been offered up at the shrine of selfishness and false pride.

The arrangements of Herbert were so liberal as to free Mr. Selwyn from all apprehensions for the future. He was not avaricious; and in his anxiety to please the fading bride his money had literally purchased, he was willing to lavish his fortune with a profuse hand. He loved Julia as much as his calm heart was capable of loving any thing; and in the sunny clime to which they were bound, he confidently looked forward to her recovery from the effects of what he called her slight cold. Her parents had never for an instant allowed him to suspect that, on her part, there was the least repugnance to the union; and she had coquetted with him so long, that she shrank from laying before his cold gaze, the history of her secret affection for his rival.

They embarked for Europe, and Julia bade a last farewell to the land of her birth. As its shores faded in the distance, she felt the sad conviction that her eyes had rested on them for the last time.

So far from renovating her exhausted frame, the sea-voyage had a contrary effect; and when they at last entered the bay of Naples, the young bride was carried on deck to breathe her last sigh in sight of the land which contained the unconscious Mervin.

The letter of the kind physician had not reached its destination, and Mervin was still pursuing his brilliant career with the fond hope of soon being in a situation to claim his betrothed.

* * * * *

A solemn procession passed a group of artists collected together at a corner of one of the principal streets. The corpse of a young female was borne past them on a flower-strewn bier, to one of the principal hotels. A close carriage followed, containing a single mourner. An inquiry was made as to who the deceased was.

“A young American lady.”

An undefinable feeling of sympathy with his bereaved countryman, induced Mervin to separate from the group, and join the procession. As it entered the hotel, he was about to follow and offer his services, when he met a servant belonging to the establishment to whom he was well known. The man stopped and addressed him.

“The American signor who has just arrived wishes an artist to take the likeness of his wife, before she is buried. As you are a fellow-countryman, I was about to seek you, signor—for your pictures are justly renowned, and this lady is even now very beautiful. The gentleman is too deeply afflicted to see you himself.”

“What is his name, Guiseppe?”

“Signor Hibut, or Hobut—I cannot tell which.”

The sound of the name, in the Italian’s pronunciation, appeared so little like the real one, that his old rival never once occurred to Mervin—and without further hesitation he dispatched a servant to his studio to bring the requisite materials for his task.

He was ushered into the chamber of death; and a cold thrill of emotion almost unnerved him as he looked on the bier, with the sharp outline of a human form clearly defined beneath the white coverlet that lay above it. The withered flowers which were strewn over it, seemed but to mock the stern conqueror who had laid his strong grasp on the marble form of the dead, and he removed them, though he withheld his hand from raising the veil which shrouded her features, until the servant who had been sent to his studio had fulfilled his commission and departed.

It was a bright day, and the garish sun streamed into the room. With the eye of his profession for effect, he lowered the crimson curtains before the windows, that their reflection might throw the rosy hue of life on the pallid features he was to delineate.

He paused as he stood beside the bier, with his hand upon the linen that shrouded her features. Some deep emotion appeared struggling in his mind, and he withdrew his hand. Ashamed of his hesitation, with a sudden effort he threw back the covering, and with a cry, sunk upon the floor.

An hour passed, and with glazed eyes, and horror-struck visage, the painter cowered beside the bier, with his immovable gaze fixed on the still face before him.

“His wife!” he muttered at intervals; “His wife!—false—false to me—I that loved her so madly—trusted her so fondly! His wife—his wife!”

At length he arose, and seizing his brush, commenced painting with a rapidity and success that surprised himself. The picture speedily grew under his hands into life and beauty; but it did not represent the dull room with its lifeless inmate. The starry heavens, and the green vale were faithfully delineated—a young girl, in the pride of successful beauty, leaned against an open window—and he livingly portrayed the peerless loveliness of the embodiment of his young ideal.

Before her knelt a youth wearing the features of the artist himself, but so changed—so full of the anguish of a broken spirit, that one glance revealed the history of his slighted love and maddened heart.

* * * * *

Mervin went forth from that apartment with faltering steps, and the cold dew of agony upon his brow. How he reached his home he knew not. He found a letter on the table—it was the long-delayed communication of Dr. L——; he retained self-command enough to read and understand its contents—but it was the last effort of his over-wrought mind.

His words to his lost love had been prophetic! The tie that bound him to reason was rent—the bright promise of his opening years buried in the grave of his young idol.

Some kind friend restored him to his native land; and he now wanders about the home of his father, a melancholy and harmless wreck.

* * * * *

THE TRIUMPH OF GENIUS.

ILLUSTRATED BY AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHILLER.

BY MRS. K. C. KINNEY.

He paused upon the river’s brink, a friendless fugitive,
And in despair’s wild moment asked—“Why should I longer live?
Deep are these waters, dark and cold, but deeper is my wo,
And peace, methinks, lies underneath the river’s tranquil flow.”

’Twas but a flash of sulphurous light from the great Tempter’s mind,
On sorrow’s cloud that sudden gleamed, the poet’s soul to blind!
It passed like lightning, and he saw again a living world—
The teeming land, the river free, the snowy sail unfurled.

The glowing sunset, gilding spire, and mast, and forest-tree,
Shed light on his enshrouded mind—he felt ’twas joy to be—
To be _himself_—fair Nature’s child—ay, Truth’s and Freedom’s own,
Born to a boundless heritage—heir to a laurel crown!

“I will not die, but live,” he said, “while lives the truth divine—
For Nature and for Art I’ll live—no common life be mine;
This deathless spirit wounded now in struggling to be free,
Shall in its conscious strength arise and claim its destiny!

“Not that the sovereign, who pursues a rebel with his frown,
May see my coronet all green, when fades his ducal crown;
Not that the sire, whose wrath condemned his reckless son to shame,
May hail that son brought back in the triumphal car of Fame—

“But that I feel the living soul of Poesy within,
Urging the liberated thought its mission to begin;
A work eternal bids me on—I cannot, will not die,
Till the vast deep of human mind shall onto deep reply!”

The traveler to a foreign clime now reverent stands beside
The noble statue of a bard, a nation’s love and pride;
Unto whose living works both worlds in admiration turn,
Philosophy, through beauty’s form and music’s tone, to learn.

In calm, colossal grandeur towers that statue on the spot
Where once a youthful poet stood to mourn his hapless lot—
From whence he fled a fugitive, stamped with the rebel’s name,
There Schiller dead, yet living, speaks his own immortal fame.

* * * * *

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

BY CHARLES H. STEWART.

The vesper bells are softly peeling
A call to prayer;
Like angel’s songs the sounds are stealing
Far up the azure aisles of air.

A wish, truth’s offspring, now is winging
To realms untold—
Through the high heaven of thought upspringing
To the _true_ temple of the soul.

Hope, like a weary pilgrim, kneeling,
Stoops at the shrine
And worships with a holy feeling,
Half human seeming, half divine.

Now thoughts flit through fond mem’ry’s temple
To times of old,
When worship at the heart’s high altar—
Pure as the stars—but ne’er so cold.

And ’mid the future’s sky is gleaming
Hope’s burning star,
And Fancy’s eye drinks in its beaming,
Undying brightness from afar.

The heart is like mind; her empire—
Wide as the sky—
Vast in its spirit realm, it maketh
All that we are of Deity.

Thou lovely world of heaven, thy vision,
Surpassing rare,
Shall mock my mind’s ideal Elysium
With joys that ever cycle there.

Though oft in gloom its dawn comes stealing,
And tear-drops stream,
Dimming its light, the spirit healing,
Wings its far flight pure and serene.

The incense of the soul is stealing
Beyond the sky,
From censers lit with fire of feeling,
To spirit realms of Deity.

Those evening bells, once softly peeling,
No longer ring;
But thoughts, as pure as seraphs kneeling,
Ascend to an eternal spring.

Now eventide is hushed in rest—
Day has departed,
And blithe come forth the bold and blest,
And low the sad and broken-hearted,

But as successive years may roll
Their waves away,
Those bells may break upon the soul,
Sweet to the low and sadly to the gay.

* * * * *

A RICH MAN’S WHIMS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “FANNY AND FRANCIS.”

“Well, Arthur, what next!” said a grave-looking young man of twenty-five, to his friend.

“What next; upon my word I cannot answer that question at this moment, in fact, I am not quite released from my last undertaking. One must be off with the old love before they are on with the new, you know.”

“It appears to me,” said Abram Snow, “that you had better remain where you are till times improve a little. I do not make enough to pay my board, yet it is better to remain than to do worse.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Arthur; “but I see no difference between your career and mine as it respects money affairs, excepting that you have a thousand dollars at interest, and I have a thousand dollars in odds and ends. Yes, there is a difference, Snow, for when business is brisk again you will get a good salary, for the world considers you as a prudent, steady fellow, and an excellent book-keeper, while I shall think myself fortunate in being sent to the West Indies as supercargo.”

Arthur Hazarelle was led on orphan when quite young, and his little patrimony was just sufficient to educate and support him till he was fourteen years of age. From that time until his twenty-fifth year he had changed from one occupation to another, sometimes twice in a year, and it could not be said that he had a particular talent for any branch of business. He certainly was ambitious, and he exerted himself to the utmost for every employer he was with; but though useful and exemplary in his conduct, yet some unforeseen event set him adrift. It was impossible almost to count up the number of places he filled during the ten years before our little story commences, the last one was about as promising as any in which he had been engaged, but in one week from the time he had this conversation with Abram Snow, the auctioneer with whom he was engaged took it into his head to die, and even the thousand dollars worth of odds and ends died with him.

Poor Arthur! after paying his week’s board and his washerwoman he had not more than a dollar in his pocket, and he was honest enough to tell this to his landlady.

Women are tender-hearted, and Mrs. May was as weak as the rest of her sex; so she pitied Arthur, and talked over her feelings before one of her boarders, a surly, ugly old man, who never opened his lips without finding fault, and who was always watching Arthur from the corner of his eye.

“Good enough for him—better than he deserves, Mrs. May,” said Mr. Crosbie, “a rolling stone gathers no moss; why, the wealth of the Indies would not stick to such a squib—here, there and every where. To my knowledge he has changed places twice or thrice a year ever since he was fourteen years old.”

“That may all be true, Mr. Crosbie; but from what I know of him it was none of his fault. I am quite unhappy about him, for I know very well that he will not stay one moment in my house unless he can get money enough to pay his board.”

Mr. Crosbie made no answer but—“humph”—and left the room. He was a man apparently well advanced in years, ugly in face, and all over out of joint, he meddled with no man’s business, and in return, prevented others from interfering with his. But of all the eyes that were ever set in mortal head his were the most keen and piercing—he seemed to read the bottom of your soul at a glance.