Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

In the aspect of each, remorse, or pain, or terror was engraved in fearful variety. One gazed with straining eyes, over the glowing landscape, gloriously bathed in the radiance of that setting luminary which would arise, indeed, in renewed splendor but not for her. She saw the distant hills on which she had sported in the uncontaminated freshness of her youth, ere she had been acquainted with the sin and sorrow of courts—the nearer palaces, in whose vaulted halls she had often led the dance in happy, because thoughtless merriment—and her whole spirit was absorbed in that long, wistful view of scenes never to be viewed again.

Another stood, as motionless as the marble column against which she leaned, staring upon her beloved mistress and the lifeless body; but it was evident that the images which were painted on her eye were not reflected on her mind. At intervals a large, bright tear stole slowly down her cheeks and literally plashed on the Mosaic pavement as it fell.

A third, already sensible of the physical agonies that accompany the action of poison on the human system, rocked her body to and fro, every separate nerve writhing and quivering in the extremity of pain, yet still retained so much mastery over her tortures as to repress all outward indications of her suffering and approaching dissolution, beyond a low, choking sob, a fearful and indescribable sound, between a hiccough and a groan.

It was a scene of horribly exciting interest—a scene on which a spectator feels that it is terror to gaze; yet feels that, for his life, he cannot avert his eyes until the agony is over: a scene from which—so strangely were terror and compassion mingled and interwoven with curiosity—no human being could withdraw himself, till he had looked upon the end.

The pale, haughty features of the senseless clay which had wielded and weaponed, a few short hours ago, the energies of a gigantic soul—the deeply seated despair of the silent mourner, still full of life and sensation, but forgetful of herself in the contemplation of her lost idol, unconscious of physical pain in the abstraction of mental agony—the wretched girls repenting their rashness, yet repressing their own anguish lest they should augment hers for whom they had cast life away; and for whom—could it now have been redeemed—they would but have cast it away once again: the stillness of that gorgeous room, the hated reptiles crawling and hissing among the beautiful fruits, the sunshine without and the gloom within, all uniting to make up a picture so awful, yet so exciting, as no poet’s pen or painter’s pencil ever yet created.

It was a scene, however, rapidly drawing to its conclusion: the girl on whose system the venom of the aspic had taken the strongest effect, had already fallen upon the floor; and it seemed, by the long and gasping efforts with which she caught her breath, that her very minutes were numbered. Notwithstanding the miserable plight in which she rolled over and over in her great agony, so callous had the feelings of her companions been rendered by the immediate pressure of their own calamities, that—delicate and tender beings as they were, with hearts ever melting at the slightest indication of sorrow—each one retained her station, wholly absorbed by her own awful thoughts, and careless of all besides.

It was at this crisis, that a shrill and prolonged flourish of trumpets rose—almost painfully—upon the ear. It was a Roman trumpet. There was a pause—a brief, but awful pause; such as is often felt between the first peal of a thunder-storm and the bursting deluge of the shower. Again it rang—nearer, and nearer yet; and now, beneath the very windows of the mausoleum.

As the first note sank into silence, the queen had arisen breathlessly to her feet; and there she stood, motionless as a statue, her eyes still fixed on Antony; but her lips slightly severed, her head and her whole frame expressing the earnestness with which she listened for a repetition of the sounds; but, as the second flourish smote her ear, she threw her arm aloft in triumph, a flash of exultation kindled that glorious brow like a sunburst, and her eyes danced in their sockets with the highly-wrought ecstasy of the moment; but, while her brow and eyes were radiant with delight, the wide expansion of the nostril and the curl of the chiseled lip spoke volumes of defiance and contempt.

“It is too late,” she cried, in accents still clear and musical, though strained far above the natural pitch of her voice. “It is too late, ye Roman robbers. He whom your sacrilegious trumpets would have but now aroused to vengeance, from the lightning of whose eye ye would have fled like howling wolves before the bolt of Jove, whose voice would have stunned you like the thunders of the Omnipotent—the conqueror of the universe has fallen asleep, nor can your senseless clangors waken him to vengeance.”

Even, as she spoke, the rattle of the ladders, by which the legionaries of the victor were scaling the porticoes of that fortress tomb, the shouts of the rude veterans, and the clash of their brazen harness were distinctly audible; and, ere her words were ended, the same wild sounds were heard echoing along the vaulted passages and spacious halls of the story next beneath. Another moment, and their steps were heard mounting the long sloping passages which, in Egyptian architecture, supplied the want of stairs, affording access to the upper chambers. The door, formed like the walls of the apartment, of polished alabaster, and invisible when closed, was evidently forced; and a group of men, whose Italian complexions and features, prominent and strongly marked, denoted them to be the victors of the world, the iron men of Rome—stood on the threshold. All sheathed in complete armor: not decked, like that of the soft Orientals, with gold and precious stones, but of bronze so brightly polished that it reflected every object; perfect in the accuracy with which it was adapted to their frames, in the facility of motion it left to all their limbs, and in its exquisite finish; with crested casques and crimson tunics, it would have been impossible to conceive more martial figures.

Foremost of all, the conqueror of Actium entered the arena of his triumph; and, in truth, although he could not have sustained a moment’s comparison with his more fortunate rival, he looked—at least, if he were not—the hero. No flush of exultation tinged his complexion, no insolence of victory sparkled in his eye; but, not the less did exultation, insolence, and cruelty live within his breast, although he was sufficiently versed in dissimulation to conceal his odious character beneath a vail of stoical philosophy and magnanimous indifference.

“Hail, emperor!” cried the dying sovereign, confronting him with a demeanor a thousand times more lofty than his own. “Hail, conqueror!”—her countenance alone would have expressed the scorn she felt, had not her tones been such that the cold-blooded despot writhed beneath them.

“Comest thou hither, puissant lord, noble successor of the mighty Julius, comest thou hither to violate the ashes of the dead, or to prove thy virgin valor on a woman? _Macte tuâ virtute!_ On, in thy valor and thy glory! Why—the dead Cæsar was to thee as Omphale to Hercules! We are no Amazon to dare thy valor, O, thou second Thesius! Out with thy broad-sword, Cæsar, _the august_!—and see who first will shrink from it—I, or my dead, yonder?”

“No—by the Faith of Jove!—we would have the superb Cleopatra our friend, as she was our uncle’s,” replied the arch dissembler. “Thou art still free—still Queen of Egypt!”

“By the great gods, I am!—nor is it in thy power to make me other! Free was I born and royal—free will I die and royal! Cæsar—I scorn your mercy as I defy your menace! My fathers left to me a crown: crowned will I go to my fathers! What—think you, Cleopatra will live to be a slave?—will live to _be at all_, at your bidding? Go—trample on the subject necks of Romans! The Egyptian spits at your clemency. Why cling you not to your vaunting motto?—It was Rome’s word of old—

Parcere subjectis et debellare superbos.

And dare you think me subject, or dare you not assail my pride? I tell you, Roman, you can slay men by thousands at a word; but, for your empire, you cannot make one woman live. Away—defile not me with your hangman hands! These are my subjects,” and she pointed to the dying girls around her, “this my empire—this the sepulchre of my forefathers; who were sages, priests, and kings, when yours were robbers and banditti. And this, that but this morning was a man, and now is nothing, this is my idol and my god! Away—one death like this, is worth a thousand abject lives like thine; and one dead, a hundred live Octavii, if ever earth bore aught so base by hundreds. If I betrayed in thy prime, thou mighty one, most dearly—I, upon myself, have I avenged the treason. If I sent thee before me, behold! I follow in thy footsteps! _Manes_ of the dead rejoice—rejoice, ye are avenged!”

Her eyes glared, awful. The death-sweat was already darkening her brow—the death-foam clammy on her white lip. She must have been devoured by the fiercest inward tortures, yet she made them subject to her will; and the veterans of a hundred battles quailed before the edge of her eloquence, more cutting than the mortal sword. She flung her arm toward the astonished tyrant in defiance, folded her garments decently about her limbs, placed the antique diadem of the Ptolmies upon her raven tresses, and, without another word, composed herself on the couch beside him toward whom she had proved her love so fearfully, and closed her eyes for the last time—for ever!

For many minutes longer, while—mute between astonishment, regret at his frustrated triumph, and admiration of her undaunted valor—the cold Cæsar watched her silent agonies, the convulsed heavings of her bosom, and her loud and painful breathings alone told that she lived.

One long and shuddering sigh—one short, sharp spasm—and the dark eyes opened, but their orbs were glazed and sightless—her jaw fell.

And Egypt never more bowed to a native sovereign.

And Rome was never more uncursed by a Cæsar.

* * * * *

=THE TWO BIRDS.—A STREET LYRIC.=

=BY GEORGE H. BOKER.=

Two birds hang from two facing windows;
One on a lady’s marble wall,
The other, a seamstress’ sole companion,
Rests on her lattice dark and small.

The one, embowered by rare exotics,
Swings in a curious golden cage;
The other, beside a lone geranium,
Peeps between wires of rusty age.

The one consumes a dainty seedling
That, leagues on leagues, in vessels comes;
The other pecks at the scanty leavings,
Strained from his mistress’ painful crumbs.

The lady’s bird has careful lackeys,
To leave him in the cheerful sun;
Upon her bird the seamstress glances,
Between each stitch, till work is done.

Doubtless the marble wall shines gayly,
And sometimes to the window roam
Guests in their stately silken garments;—
But yon small blind looks more like home.

Doubtless the tropic flowers are dazzling,
The golden cage is rare to see;
But sweeter smells the low geranium—
The mean cage has more liberty.

’Tis well to feed upon the fruitage,
Brought from a distant southern grove;
But better is a homely offering,
Divided by the hand of love.

The purchased service of a menial
May, to the letter, fill its part;
But there’s an overflowing kindness
Springs from the service of a heart.

Hark! yonder bird begins to warble:
Well done, my lady’s pretty pet!
Thy song is somewhat faint and straitened,
Yet sweeter tones I seldom met.

And now the seamstress’ bird—Oh, listen!
Hear with what power his daring song
Sweeps through its musical divisions,
Striking each note in rapture strong!

Hear how he trills, with what abundance
He flings his varied stores away!
Bursting through wood and woven iron
With the wild freedom of his lay!

Cease, little prisoner to the lady,
Cease, till the rising of the moon;
Thy feeble song is all unsuited
To the full mid-day glare of June.

Cease, for thy rival’s throat is throbbing
With the fierce splendor of the hour:
His is the art that grasps a passion,
To cast it back with tenfold power.

Cease, until yonder feathered poet
Through all his wondrous song has run,
And made the heart of wide creation
Leap in the glory of the sun!

* * * * *

=MISS HARPER’S MAID.=

It had been a day of boisterous excitement. The gravity of the ship had been strangely disturbed. We had “crossed the line” in the morning, and there had been the usual saturnalia on deck. Of these, as I was returning to India, after a sick furlough, I had been only a spectator; but still, when the evening came, and the fun was at an end, I felt sufficiently weary with the heat and excitement, to enjoy a quiet _causerie_ in my own cool cabin.

My companions were a bottle of “private” claret, and the “chief officer” of the ship. Now this chief officer was an excellent fellow; I think that I never knew a better. His name was Bloxham. He was about eight-and-twenty years of age, with a round, fresh-colored, but intelligent face; bright, laughing eyes, and the whitest teeth in the world. There was in him a rare union of the best parts of the old and the new race of merchant seamen; that is, he had all the openness and frankness, the seaman-like qualities of the old men, without their coarseness and vulgarity; and he had the more refined and gentleman-like manners of the new, without their dandyism and effeminacy. He was in my eyes the very pink and perfection of a sailor.

We discussed the incidents of the day, and discoursed upon the character and objects of the Saturnalia, or rather, as we agreed, the Neptunalia, which we had been witnessing. I have no intention of describing what has been so often been described before. But there is one part of the ceremony on which I must say a few words. Before the unhappy neophyte who has to be initiated into the mysteries of the equator is finally soused in the tub of water, which by a merciful dispensation is made to follow on the begriming and befouling operation of the shaving, he is asked by the operator if he has been “Sworn at Highgate.” Now, to be sworn at Highgate, is to undertake not to do certain things, when you can do better, as “never to drink small beer when you can get strong, _unless_,” (there is always a saving clause,) “unless you like small beer better than strong.” I do not remember all the obligations, though they are not many, named in the recital. But one I have every reason to recollect. Bloxham, with his smiling face and joyous manner, was talking over this part of the ceremony; and when he repeated the words of the Highgate oath, “Never to kiss the maid, when you can kiss the mistress—_unless_, you like the maid better than the mistress,” I could see a significant twinkling in his eyes, which stimulated my curiosity. I asked him what he was thinking of, and he said that he “could believe it very possible to like the maid better than the mistress,” and I said so too. “At all events,” added Bloxham, “it often happens that the maid is the better worth kissing of the two.”

I could see plainly enough from my friend’s manner, that I had not got at the bottom of this roguish twinkling of the eye. His whole face was indeed one bright smile, and there was a world of meaning dancing beneath it. I was determined, as sportsmen say, to “unearth” it; so I said at once, that I should enjoy my claret all the more, if he would impart to it the relish of a good story. Then I took the bottle off the swinging tray, filled our glasses, and told him to “leave off making faces and begin.”

“Well,” he said, making himself comfortable in a corner of my couch, “I must acknowledge that ‘thereby hangs a tale.’ ‘Never kiss the maid when you can kiss the mistress, _unless_, you like the maid better than the mistress.’ At the risk of your thinking me a low fellow, I’ll give you a chapter of my own experiences, illustrative of this portion of our sailorly interpretation of being sworn at Highgate.

“After the last voyage but one, our good ship went into dock for a thorough refitting, and I had a longer spell at home than I had enjoyed for many years. I would not change this way of life for any in the world; but I was glad for once to stretch my legs fairly on dry land, and see something of green fields, brick and mortar, and my shore-going friends in the neighborhood of Canterbury.

“Among the families in which I was most intimate was that of a Mr. Harper. He had made a comfortable fortune by trade, and now was enjoying his _otium cum dignitate_ in a good house on the outskirts of the city. An only daughter kept house for him; for he was a widower. Now Julia Harper, when I first knew her, was a fine, handsome girl of two-and-twenty; tall, well-made, but on rather a large scale, with bright, restless eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. She had a great many admirers in Canterbury, some of whom, there is every reason to suppose, admired the old gentleman’s money as much as the young lady’s eyes, but they met with no great encouragement. Miss Harper, it was whispered, had determined not to marry a Canterbury man. She wished to see more of the world. Her tastes inclined toward the army or the navy; and it was predicted that some fine day a young officer from one of the regiments in garrison, with an eye to the paternal guineas, would succeed in carrying off the prize. Everybody, however, said that she was heart-whole, when I was first introduced to her, and some of my more intimate friends jestingly said that there was a chance for me. I confess that I was a good deal struck by the girl. The artillery of her bright eyes soon began to do some execution. I liked her open, bold manner. I had very little experience of the sex, and I thought that her candor and unreserve betokened a genuineness of character, and a truthfulness of disposition, very refreshing in such an age of shams. I think I liked the old gentleman, too—I know I liked his dinners and his wines—I was certainly a favorite with Mr. Harper. Whether he ever contemplated the probability of his daughter and myself becoming attached to one another, I do not know; but if he did contemplate it, and with pleasure, it must have been pleasure of the most unselfish kind, for of all his daughter’s admirers, in point of worldly advantages, I must have been the least eligible. However, he had been heard to say, that he did not look for a rich son-in-law, as his daughter would have plenty of money of her own; so, sometimes, I thought it possible that the old gentleman would not close his paternal heart against me, if I were to offer myself as a suitor for the fair Julia’s hand, and a claimant to her heart.

“I often met with Julia at the house of mutual friends. I certainly liked the girl; and my vanity was flattered, because, with so many admirers around her, she showed me, as I thought, a decided preference. She seemed to be never tired of talking about the sea. She wearied me with questions about it; and on more than one occasion said—very unguardedly—that she thought a voyage to India would be the most delightful thing in the world. Of course, I made fitting answer, that with a congenial companion, a voyage anywhere would be delightful; and, more than once, opportunity being favorable, I was on the point of declaring myself, when an internal qualm of conscience arrested the dangerous avowal.

“Affairs were in this state, when an accident befell me which brought matters to a crisis. There was a steeple-chase one day in the neighborhood of Canterbury, which I attended on foot. During the excitement of the race, I attempted a difficult cut across the country, failed at a leap which was beyond my powers, and had the misfortune to sprain my ankle. The injury was a very severe one, and I was laid up for many weeks in my lodgings. You have often laughed at me for taking every thing so coolly. I assure you that I did not take this coolly at all. I chafed, indeed, like a lion in the toils; and was continually arresting the progress of my recovery, by putting—in spite of repeated prohibitions—the crippled member to the ground. At last, I began to learn a little philosophy, and resigned myself to the sofa with a groan.

“The loss of my liberty was bad enough; but the loss of Julia’s society was a hundred times worse. Her father came often to see me, and brought me kind messages from his daughter; but, if I had had no more substantial consolations, I believe that I should have gone mad. Julia did not actually come to see me; but she wrote me repeated notes of inquiry, and often sent me flowers, and books, and other tokens of womanly kindness. The messenger employed on these occasions was Miss Harper’s maid—”

“Ah! sworn at Highgate,” I interrupted; “we are coming to it now. Another glass of claret to improve the flavor of the story.”

He tossed off the bumper I had given him, as though he were drinking devoutly to some lady’s health, and then continued with increased animation.

“The messenger employed on these occasions was Miss Harper’s maid. She was generally enjoined to deliver the letters and parcels into my own hands, and sometimes to wait for an answer. She came, therefore, into my drawing-room, and if she had occasion to wait, I would always desire her to be seated. The girl’s name was _Rachel_. She might have been old, or ugly, or deformed, for any thing I cared, or, indeed, that I knew about her. I had a dim consciousness that she had a very pleasant manner of speaking; but I give you my word that, after she had been half-a-dozen times into my room, I should not have known her if I had met her in the streets: I regarded her only as an appendage to the fair Julia, whose image was ever before my eyes, shutting out all else from my view.

“This, however, did not last forever. It happened one day, that when Rachel brought me a parcel, I—in my lover-like enthusiasm—started up from the sofa, and incautiously planted my injured foot on the ground. The result was a spasm of such acute pain, that I fell back upon my couch with an involuntary cry, and a face as colorless as marble. Rachel immediately stepped forward; and, with a cordial expression of sympathy, asked if she could do any thing for me, and proceeded, with a light, gentle hand to arrange the pillows under my crippled limb. I felt very grateful for these ministrations, and as I gave utterance to my gratitude, I looked for the first time inquiringly into Rachel’s face. Though she bore a Jewish name, she did not bear by any means a Jewish cast of countenance. She had dark hair and dark eyes, it is true—but her face was round, her nose short, and if any thing, rather _retroussé_; and she had the sweetest little mouth in the world. I thought that, altogether, she was a very pretty girl, and moreover a very genteel one. I observed now, what I had never observed—indeed, had had no opportunity of observing—that she had a charming little figure. Her shawl had fallen off whilst she was arranging my pillows, so that I could now see her delicate waist, and the graceful outline of her lightsome form; and there was something in her movements that pleased me better than all. I was interested in her now for the first time; and was sorry when she took her departure, with the expression of a hope that I might not suffer further inconvenience.

“I hoped that she would come again on the following day, and I was not disappointed. She came with a note and a _boquet_ from Julia; but, before delivering either, she inquired after me, with—what I thought—genuine concern. I answered kindly and gratefully; and before opening her mistress’s note, asked her several questions, and drew her into conversation. The more I saw of her the better I liked her. She was at first a little reserved—perhaps embarrassed; but, after a few more visits, this wore off, and there was a quiet self-possession about her, which pleased me mightily. I could not get rid of the impression that she was something better than her social position seemed to indicate; at all events, she was very much unlike all the waiting-maids I had ever seen. I soon began to delight in her visits. She came almost every day with some letter or message from her mistress. I looked forward to the time of her coming, and felt duller when she was gone. I thought that it would be very delightful to have such a handmaiden always about me, to smooth my pillows, and bring me my meals, and talk to me when she had nothing better to do.

“I was interested in Rachel, and enjoyed her visits; but, believing still in Julia Harper’s fidelity, I was faithful to the core myself. But circumstances soon occurred which shook my faith, and then my love began to dwindle. The first of these was a mere trifle—but it was a suggestive one. Rachel brought me, one day, a note, and a little bundle of flowers, unusually well-arranged. I read the note, and to my astonishment there was a postscript to it in these words—‘I am sorry that I cannot send you a boquet to-day; there is positively not a flower in the garden.’ I mentioned this to Rachel, and asked whence the flowers had come. She blushed, and said with some confusion of manner, that she had picked them in the garden herself.

“The next was something still more demonstrative of the fair Julia’s disregard of truth. Rachel brought me a note one day, and a parcel containing a pair of worsted-work slippers, which her mistress said she hoped I would wear for her sake until I was able to leave my room. She did not actually say, but she implied that she had worked them for me herself. When I said something to Rachel about the time and trouble Miss Harper—I never said ‘your mistress’ now—must have expended on them, I observed a very curious and significant expression on the girl’s face. I had observed it once or twice before, when I had said something indicative of my confidence in Julia’s sincerity. It was an expression partly of pity—partly of disgust; and seemed to be attended, for I could see the compressure of her little mouth, with a painful effort to repress the utterance of something that was forcing its way to her lips. I was thinking what this could mean, when a piece of folded paper fell from the parcel: I picked it up, and found it was a bill—a bill for my slippers, which Miss Harper had bought at the Berlin Repository in the High Street. I knew now the meaning of the look. Rachel saw that I had got a glimmering of the truth, and I thought that she seemed more happy.

“She had wished me ‘good morning,’ and was about to depart, but I told her that I could not suffer her to go. It was altogether a deplorable day, what we call in the log _squally_. There was a great deal of wind—a great deal of rain; and, just at this moment, the latter was coming down in torrents. After some persuasion, she consented to remain. Then I asked her if she would do something for me; and, with a bright smile, she answered—‘Yes.’ I had a new silk neckcloth waiting on the table to be hemmed. She took it up, and then turning to me, asked naively how she was to hem it without needle and thread. To this question—for which I was well prepared—I replied, that in the other table-drawer she would find something containing both. She searched, and found a very pretty Russian-leather case, silver-mounted, with all the appliances a seamstress could desire. Then I begged her acceptance of it—said that I had ordered it to be made on purpose for her use, and that I should be bitterly disappointed if she did not accept of it. And she did accept it with undisguised pleasure. And every pleasant thing it was to lie on the sofa, and watch her neat little white hands plying the needle in my behalf. I had been longing to see the hand without the glove, and I was abundantly satisfied when I saw it.

“She had hemmed one side of the handkerchief, and we had conversed on a great variety of topics, when the weather began to clear up, and the sun to shine in at the windows. Rachel rose at once to depart. I said that I was quite sure it must be dreadfully wet under foot, and that I was certain she was thinly shod.

“‘Not very,’ she said.

“But I insisted on satisfying myself, and would not be content until she had suffered to peep out beneath the hem of her gown one of the neatest little patent-leather slippers I had ever seen in my life. I said that they were very dainty little things, but altogether fine-weather shoes, and not meant for wet decks. But I remembered presently that I had seen in her hand, when she entered the room, a pair of India-rubber overshoes, and I reminded her of them.

“‘They are my mistress’s,’ she said: ‘I had been desired to fetch them from the shop.’

“‘Wear them,’ I said, ‘all the same—they will be none the worse, and will keep your little feet dry.’

“‘But how can I?’ she answered with a smile; ‘they will not fit me at all.’

“‘Too _small_?’ I said, laughing.

“‘Yes, sir,’ she said, with another smile, even more charming than the first. I told her that I should not be satisfied until I had decided that point for myself; and at last I persuaded her to try. The little rogue knew well the result. Her feet were quite lost in them.

“If I have a weakness in the world, my good fellow, it is in favor of pretty feet and ankles; so, when Rachel insisted on taking her departure, I hobbled as well as I could to the window to see her pick her way across the puddles in the Close. I satisfied myself that the girl’s ankles were as undeniable as her feet; and she was unequivocally _bien chaussée_. I could not help thinking of this long after she was gone. And then it occurred to me that Julia Harper was certainly on a rather large scale. She had a good figure of its kind, and she had fine eyes; but Rachel’s were quite as bright, and much softer; and as for all the essentials of a graceful and feminine figure, the mistress’s was far inferior to the maid’s. I kept thinking of this all the evening, and after I had gone to bed. And I thought, too, of the very unpleasant specimen of Julia’s insincerity which had betrayed itself in the case of the slippers. But it is astonishing how little it pained me to think that Julia might not be really attached to me, and that our almost engagement might come to naught after all.

“I am afraid that if I dreamt at all about female beauty that night, it was less in the style of the mistress than the maid. Morning came, and with it an eager hope that I should see Rachel in the course of the day; but she did not appear. I never kept such long watches in my life. I got horribly impatient. I left my couch, and seated myself at the window, with a sort of forlorn hope that I might see Rachel pass; but I saw only a distressing number of clumsy feet and thick ankles, and no one remotely resembling Miss Harper’s spicy little maid. Night closed in upon me savage as a bear. But the next day was a more auspicious one. Looking prettier than ever, Rachel came with a note from her mistress. I was in no hurry to open it, you may be sure. I asked Rachel a great number of questions, and was especially solicitous on the score of the wet feet, which I feared had been the result of her last homeward voyage from my lodgings. She had by this time habituated herself to talk to me in a much more free and unembarrassed manner than when first she came to my apartments; and the more she talked to me, the more charmed I was; for she expressed herself so well, had such a pleasant voice, and delivered such sensible opinions, that I soon began to think that the mental qualifications of the mistress (none of the highest, be it said) were by no means superior to those of the maid. Indeed, to tell you the truth, my good fellow, I was falling in love with little Rachel as fast as I possibly could.

“This day, indeed, precipitated the crisis. We had talked some time together, when Rachel reminded me (I thought that there was an expression of mock reproachfulness in the little round face) that I had not read her mistress’s letter. I opened it in a careless manner; and had no sooner read the first line, than I burst out into loud laughter. ‘Bravo! Rachel,’ I exclaimed. ‘You are a nice little messenger, indeed, to carry a young lady’s _billets doux_. You have given me the wrong letter.’ She took up the envelope, which had fallen to the ground, and showed me that it was directed to ‘_Edward Bloxham, Esq._’ ‘All the better, Rachel,’ I said; ‘but this begins ‘_I am so delighted, my dear_ _Captain Cox_—’ Hurrah, for the envelopes!’

“I looked into Rachel’s face. It was not easy to read the expression of it. First she seemed inclined to laugh—then to cry. Then she blushed up to the very roots of her hair. She was evidently in a state of incertitude and confusion—puzzled what course to pursue. I folded up the letter, placed it in another envelope—not having, of course, read another word of its contents. What was the cause of Julia’s excessive delight I am not aware up to this moment; but I could not help asking Rachel something about Captain Cox. One question led to another. Rachel hesitated at first; but at last, with faltering voice and tearful face told me the whole truth. She said that she had felt herself, for some time, in a very painful and embarrassing situation. She recognized her duty to her mistress, who had been kind and indulgent to her—but she could not help seeing that much which had been done was extremely wrong. She had all along been ashamed of the duty on which she was employed, and had more than once hinted her disapprobation; but had been only laughed at as a prude. She had often reproached herself for having been a party to the fraud which had been practiced on me. She had not at first fathomed the whole extent of it; but now she knew how bad a matter it was. The truth was, that Miss Harper had for some time been carrying on something more than a flirtation with Captain Cox. But her father disliked the man, who, though very handsome and agreeable, bore any thing but a good character—and, therefore, Julia had acted cautiously and guardedly in the matter, and had feigned an indifference which had deceived Mr. Harper.

“When I first came to anchor at Canterbury, Captain Cox was on ‘leave of Absence;’ and, as he had gone away without making a declaration, it had appeared to Julia that an overt flirtation with me in the captain’s absence—something that would certainly reach his ears—might stimulate him to greater activity, and elicit an unretractable avowal. Her flirtation with me was intended also, to impress on Mr. Harper’s mind the conviction that she was really attached to me, and he ceased, therefore, to trouble himself about Captain Cox. He liked me, and he encouraged me, on purpose that the odious captain might be thrown into the shade. Such was the state of affairs at the outset of Julia’s flirtation with me. But Rachel assured me that I really had made an impression on the young lady’s heart, though she had not by any means given up the gallant captain.

“I asked Rachel how this could be—how it was possible that any heart could bear two impressions at the same time. She said, that she supposed some impressions were not as deep and ineffaceable as others. At all events, she believed that to Miss Harper it was a matter of no very vital concernment whether she married Captain Cox or Mr. Bloxham; but that she was determined to have one or other. The fact is, the girl was playing a double game, and deceiving both of us. All this was very clear to me from Rachel’s story. But she told me it was her own belief, that Julia would determine on taking me, after all—and that for the very excellent reason that Captain Cox was engaged elsewhere. At least, that was the story in the town since his return to barracks.

“Poor Rachel shed a great many tears whilst she was telling me all this. She said that, having betrayed her mistress, she could not think of remaining with her. She was decided on this point. With warm expressions of gratitude, I took her little hand into mine, and said that I would be her friend—that she had done me an inestimable service—that I was glad to be undeceived—that the little incident of the flowers and that of the slippers, had shaken my belief in Miss Harper’s truth, that altogether my opinions had changed, and that I knew there were worthier objects of affection. Then I spoke of her own position—said that of course her determination was right—but that she would confer a very great favor on me, if she would do nothing until she saw me again. This she readily promised; and it was agreed that on the following day, which was Sunday, she should call on me during afternoon service. I pressed her hand warmly when I wished her goodbye, and with greedy eyes followed her receding figure across the Close.

“She came at the appointed hour, looking prettier and more lady-like than ever. She was extremely well-dressed. I shook hands with her and asked her to seat herself upon the couch beside me; and then asked her, laughingly, ‘What news of Captain Cox?’ She said there was not the least doubt that Captain Cox was engaged to be married to a lady in London; and that Miss Harper, on the preceding evening, not before, had been made acquainted with the fact. I then asked Rachel what the young lady had said on receiving back her letter to the captain; and learnt that she had been greatly excited by the discovery, and had been very eager to ascertain how much of the letter I had read. When Rachel told her that I had read only the words, _I am so delighted, my dear Captain_ _Cox_, she somewhat recovered her spirits, but this morning she had pleaded illness as an excuse for not coming down to breakfast, and had not since left her room.

“There was at this time lying unopened on my table, a note from Miss Harper, which had been brought by her father, an hour before. I asked Rachel to give it to me, saying ‘Now let us see, Rachel, whether any new light is thrown upon the subject.’ I think her hand trembled when she gave it to me. I opened and read—

“‘My dear Mr. Bloxham,—Very many thanks to you for your promptitude in returning the note, which, stupid little bungler that I am’ (‘Not so very little, is she, Rachel?’ I paused to remark) ‘I sent you by mistake—I am very glad that I had not sent _the other_ to Captain Cox—for, although it does not much matter if one’s letters to one’s acquaintance fall into the hands of one’s friends, it is not at all pleasant if one’s letters to one’s friends fall into the hands of one’s acquaintance. I wrote to Captain Cox only to tell him how delighted I was to hear of his engagement—for he is going to be married to a Miss Fitz-Smythe—a very lady-like girl, who was spending some time here with the Maurices; and was really quite a friend of my own.’

“I had not patience to read any more. I knew it to be all a lie. So I tossed the letter into the middle of the room, and said, ‘We have had enough of that.’ I was ineffably disgusted. One thing, however, was certain; that Julia Harper, with her £15,000, was now to be had by me for the asking. But I would not have asked, if the money had been told over twenty times.

“I had other views for my humble self. Rachel, I found on inquiry, was the daughter of a Mrs. Earnshaw, the widow of an officer in the Preventive Service. The widow’s means of subsistence were slight, and her daughter had obtained a situation as, what people called, Miss Harper’s maid.

“My good fellow, I can hardly tell you what happened after this; I have a confused recollection of having looked inquiringly into Rachel’s face, read whole chapters of love in it; then threw my arms round her waist, pressed her fondly to my bosom, and whilst I untied her bonnet strings, and removed the obtrusive covering from her head, said to her, ‘We sailors have all been sworn at Highgate—all sworn never to kiss the maid when we can kiss the mistress—_unless we like the maid better than_ _the mistress_, and heaven knows how much _I_ do!’

“After the lapse of two or three weeks, and very delightful weeks they were, too—Rachel Earnshaw became Rachel Bloxham, and I the happiest husband in the world. I have got the very best of little wives, and never, I assure you, for one moment, though we have little enough to live upon, and I cannot bear these long separations, have I deplored the loss of Miss Harper and her fifteen thousand pounds, or regretted that I availed myself of the _saving clause_, when I proved that I had been Sworn at Highgate.”

* * * * *

=“WHATEVER HE DOETH SHALL PROSPER.”=

=BY MRS. MARY ARTHUR.=

I read the records of passing life,
With a careful, earnest eye—
And smiled or wept, as my pulses leapt,
To the scenes that hurried by;
From the busy play of infancy
To the busier care of age—
And nothing so fair as an upright soul
Was traced on the glowing page.

“Whatever he doeth shall prosper well”—
“In his darkness ariseth light”—
So—softly and sweetly a whisper fell,
Like the smile of an angel bright.
Though he win not the glitter of gold or fame,
Yet his wealth shall be far above;
He shall coin it freely of precious words
From the treasure of God’s deep love.

“Whatever he doeth shall prosper well,”
Though his path may be rough awhile,
Enough for him is the lights of truth
And his Father’s ceaseless smile.
He shall grow like a tree by the river-side,
And if tempests sweep around—
Then proved and tried by their searching wrath
Shall the ripened fruit be found.

“Whatever he doth shall prosper well,”
(For he waiteth his Father’s will,)
Though it seems not so in this outer world,
In a better and brighter still.
His leaf shall not wither—it keepeth fair,
Through the cold or gusty blast;
And his fruit shall ripen to holiness
When the season comes at last.

* * * * *

=THE USEFUL ARTS.=

=THEIR ORIGIN AND THEIR EARLIEST HISTORY.=

=BY CHARLES WILLIAMS.=

The origin of the useful arts is not like a spring gushing forth from the earth, a simple and indivisible cause of diversified results; it rather resembles the noble river, whose waters arise and increase from a large confluence of streams.

I. _Endowments for Labor._

How greatly, for instance, are the arts attributable to the human hand! The paw of the beaver is admirably adapted to its habits of masonry, but immensely superior is the organ of prehension with which we are gifted, which readily applies itself to, and securely grasps, bodies of every form and size, capable of being moved by the arms of man. Had the hand been undivided, it could only have held such a portion of any mass as was equal to itself; but now, by separating the fingers, it can encompass one larger than itself; and by compressing two of them together, it can safely hold a minute object. And as some bodies are too large to be held by one hand alone, we are endowed with two, inclining toward, and precisely adapted to, each other. The highest advantages of a single hand of much larger dimensions is therefore gained, without any of the discomforts that would arise from a different arrangement.

The admirable division of the hand, and the exquisite adjustment of its several parts, are consequently indispensable to its perfection. Only take from it one of them, and the efficiency of the whole is seriously impaired. The Roman soldier deprived of his thumb was regarded as unfit for service; and there have been instances in England and other countries of such self-mutilation, as an effectual security against a martial life. The thumb is, indeed, of special use. It is neither situated directly opposite to the fingers, nor in the same plane with them, but obliquely, that it may be brought at pleasure to bear on them all, or on each finger separately. How manifestly superior is it to the rudimental thumb of the ape, which is designed for no such services! In strong contrast to the hand, also, as examination will show, is the lion’s paw, which, though consisting of four fingers and a thumb, is only adapted to very different purposes. In the human feet, where extent of surface is required for support, all the toes, unlike the fingers, are arranged in the same plane.

Were the tips of the fingers of bone, instead of flesh, we could not take up such minute bodies as a millet seed, a thorn, or a hair, which we can now do so readily from their being soft and round. Less soft, or more soft, equal difficulty would arise: the fingers have precisely the degree of consistence which is adapted to their intended use. And that they may hold hard bodies, they are provided with nails, admirable indeed for structure and position: were these placed on the tips of the fingers, power would be lost; but they occupy exactly the situation, and are of just the length, which will insure their utmost efficiency. In almost every art where nicety of execution is required, the nails are continually called into action. Who can, indeed, overrate the value of the hand? Smoothness and roughness, fineness and coarseness, heat and cold, are among the many sensible qualities of matter which it enables us to recognize, from the nerves with which it is so abundantly supplied, while its uses defy enumeration. The cuticle, indeed, becomes hard, thickened, and almost horny, thus suffering a loss of sensibility from years of labor; but in this there is a wise and kind law of Providence, by which the laboring man is fitted for his daily and useful toil. Did his hands thrill with every impression, he would be constantly exposed to pain, and restrained by fear from pursuing as he does now his rugged work. But early use has inured him to labor; he therefore wields the axe, strikes in the spade, or swings over his head the huge hammer, almost unconscious of effort; or, equally unharmed, dips his vessel into the furnace of molten metal when it has attained the intensity of a dazzling and scorching whiteness.

Complicated as the mechanism of the hand appears, when the attention is restricted to its surface, it proves still more so when there is a careful examination of its internal structure; while its complexity can only be adequately regarded as other parts of the physical system are duly considered. The wrist, which forms the base of the hand, is composed of eight small bones compacted together; and having little or no motion, they constitute a solid mass. The wrist is joined to the bones of the fore-arm, the radius, and the ulna, which lie alongside each other, and touch only toward the ends. Only one of them is joined to the upper arm, at the elbow; the other only to the hand, at the wrist. The former, by means of a hinge-joint at the elbow, swings backward and forward, carrying with it the whole fore-arm. As often, too, as there is occasion to turn the palm of the hand upward, the radius rolls upon the ulna by the help of a cavity near each end of one bone, to which, in the other, there is a corresponding tubercle.

Other arrangements are equally worthy of consideration. The bones of the shoulders not only give firm attachment to the upper extremity of the frame, but supply origins to the muscles of the arm and fore-arm. The free use of the hand, and the square form of the chest, are alike greatly owing to the clavicle, or collar-bone, which runs across from the breast-bone to the top of the shoulders. The scapula, or shoulder-blade, which is flat and triangular, lies on the ribs, is cushioned with muscles, shifts and revolves in its place with every movement of the arm, and has the power of moving upward and downward, backward and forward, so that when these motions succeed rapidly, the arm is rotated. The upper arm consists of a single bone, the head of which is hemispherical; standing obliquely backward from the bone, and received into a cavity with which the scapula is provided, it forms a ball and socket-joint. In this arrangement there is a provision for the rotating of the arm-bone on the scapula: thus the guards are made in fencing, and various similar movements are performed. In others the wrist has a finer and easier rolling, but this is from the motion of the radius and the ulna. How exquisite and wondrous, then, are the complicated, yet harmonious arrangements of the organic structure, by which the endless diversity of our manipulations is so effectually and happily secured!

Nor must we pause even here; for what is it that directs the hand? It is the mind. The instruments of sense with which we are provided are employed by a being capable of volition. We thus pass from the palpable to the invisible. For that which feels and acts must be distinct from the body, unless the body itself feels and acts. But in as far as the body possesses a distinct organization of nerves for distinct purposes, as sympathy, feeling, and motion, and all the frame does not act together in feeling and volition, something besides the body must exist and operate. And it is mind which enables the man not only to contrive, but to execute. Without it, how useless; with it, when under the power of disease, how injurious, were the hand! But when mind is in healthy play, much may be effected by one hand, or even when the hands are never possessed or lost. On its due exercise the elevation of man is instrumentally and entirely dependent.

Inferior creatures are endowed with an amazing power. We stand astonished and confounded at the phenomena of instinct. But that power is at once perfected.

“The winged inhabitants of Paradise
Wove their first nests as curiously and well
As the wood-minstrels of our evil day.”