Chapter V: Act THE SECOND: Scene I.—Preciosa’s Chamber. Morning. Preciosa and Angelica (2)

“I am old,” said the merchant, “and want to be released from toil; Charles Walton is to be the principal in our firm, and we wish to secure your future services, as well as to reward a fidelity which has never once failed in twenty years of duty. Indeed, Mary insisted that her husband should accept no proposition which did not include you. I require no capital from you; the profits arising from your yearly deposit in my hands have swelled your little fund to some ten thousand dollars, which I am ready to pay over to you before commencing our new arrangement.”

“You are kind—very kind, my dear sir,” was Ernest’s reply, while tears filled his eyes, and his emotions choked his utterance; “believe me, I am not ungrateful, and while life and health remain I shall ever be devoted to your service. But I cannot accept your noble offer—let me still be your clerk—your servant, if you will—I am no longer fitted for the responsibilities of a partner.”

“My dear fellow, you are as healthy, active, and industrious as ever you were; you are in the very prime of life, and must not talk of want of fitness.”

“The spring of life is gone,” said Ernest, mournfully, “I have no motive now for exertion.”

“You are dispirited, Ernest—the loss of your mother has saddened and depressed you. Think over my proposition in a calm and dispassionate manner, and I am convinced you will not refuse it.”

Ernest did think long and deeply on the subject, but his decision was unalterable.

“It comes too late; my life is now an aimless one, and riches might only tend to make it a useless one also; there are none to share my fortunes, and why should a solitary and isolated man heap up riches when he knows not who shall gather them? it comes too late!”

Alas! how often has that thought paralized the energies and stricken the heart of the patient sufferer. Even he, who in the flush of manhood can proudly exclaim, “_I bide my time_,” as if in defiance of fortune’s frowns, is often heard, when all was gained, to sigh mournfully in after life over the chilling reflection, “_it comes too late!_"—too late for the fulfilment of hope—too late for the attainment of happiness.

Ernest Melvyn never rose above the station of confidential clerk, but the respect and esteem of his employers testified his integrity and usefulness. Mr. Walton learned to regard him with as much friendship as Mr. Allison, and it was not long before he was as welcome a guest in Mary’s new home as he had ever been in the scenes of her joyous childhood. Whatever might have been her feelings towards Ernest, his perfect self-possession and calm demeanor, by convincing her that he had never loved her, aided her in the subjugation of her own rebellious heart. Her husband was kind, affectionate, and good. She had always respected his talents and esteemed his virtues, and now, as time wove the new and strong ties of parental affection between them, the quiet happiness of domestic life gradually effaced the brightest tints of her youth’s romance. It may be that a shadow rested long on her path—it may be that the spectre of blighted love sometimes stood beside the shrine of her household gods—but Time, the true exorciser of all such ghosts, wrought his work of kindness, slowly but surely, and Mary became a cheerful, useful and happy woman.

Ernest experienced the usual changes which come upon a solitary man. He lived alone among his books, and pictures, and shells, until they became actually objects of tender interest to him. Regularly, every afternoon, he visited Mr. Allison, and read the newspapers for his benefactor, whose failing sight rendered the perusal of his favorite journals a task of some difficulty. This done, Ernest returned to his home and passed the remainder of the evening in study—aimless it is true, but still pleasing; or in a dreamy and vague reverie so enticing to a reserved and imaginative man. But on one certain evening in each week, he always took his seat at Mrs. Walton’s tea-table, and as regularly ensconced himself in the chimney-corner as soon as tea was over. To the isolated man this weekly visit, and those claspings of the hand with which he was always greeted, were as dear as the “memorable kiss” with which the “apostle of passion” fed his wild idolatry; aye, full as precious and far more pure was the joy thus imparted than any refinement of infidel philosophy and illicit love. Mary’s children climbed his knee, even as Mary had done in her own glad infancy, and loved him with all the fervent affection which had once characterized her feelings. Like all old bachelors, he became somewhat of a humorist, and, at last, was voted by the dandies of the rising generation, to be decidedly eccentric. But his kindliness of heart, his firm integrity, and his purity and delicacy of feeling never forsook him.

To the day of his death he never disclosed the secret of his early love. When the frosts of three-score winters had whitened his locks, the solitary old man withdrew to his lonely room, and there, amid those inanimate objects which had been his solace through so many weary years, he yielded up his gentle spirit to the God who gave it. He was found one morning lying in the quiet sleep of death—his arms crossed upon his breast, his bible on the table at his bedside, and his features settled in such sweet repose that none looked upon them without feeling that Death had indeed dealt mercifully with the righteous.

His will was found in his cabinet, and Mary Walton was made the sole heiress of his little fortune; although no reason was assigned for this exclusive preference. Perhaps the little casket which was discovered in a secret recess of the same cabinet disclosed somewhat of the truth to her conscious heart. It contained a lock of golden hair, marked: “_given me by Mary on her twelfth birthday_,” together with a withered bouquet, which, from the silken band around it, Mary remembered to have given him the night preceding her betrothal, and a penciled sketch in which she had no difficulty to recognize her own girlish beauty.

Reader, does my tale seem tame and trite? it is the history of a blighted heart; and if the secrets of that strange world of mystery were more frequently revealed, many such a tale of simple pathos would enlist the sympathies of the glad and gay. The picture of that self-forgetting being, subduing his love, at first, from the very humility of true affection, and, afterwards, crushing it within his heart lest its living presence should mar the happiness of his beloved, is to me one of ineffable tenderness. That he was mistaken in his views of her happiness does not destroy the beauty of his self-devotion; and what shall we say of the moral courage which could relinquish all claims to _posthumous_ sympathy, by bearing his secret to the grave, lest a shadow from the past should fall upon her present peacefulness?

* * * * *

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o’er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life’s first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age—
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e’er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life’s early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
A gentle murmur of the morning gales,
That sweep the ambrosial groves of that bright shore,
And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?

* * * * *

SKETCH OF A CASE,

OR A PHYSICIAN EXTRAORDINARY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “A NEW HOME,” ETC.

Doctor R—— sat alone in his study when a lady was announced.

“Mrs. Waldorf, sir,” and the doctor laid down his pen and received his visiter very cordially. She was the wife of a rich German merchant, and a distant cousin of his own; a handsome woman of about five and thirty, with sufficient repose of manner, but too spirited an eye to pass for a mere fashionable machine.

“I have come to you, doctor, instead of sending for you,” began the lady, “because I do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know I have thought it necessary to consult you. He is so easily alarmed, that if he knew you had prescribed for me he would watch me so closely and insist so much upon my observance of your directions to the very letter, that I should have no peace.”

The doctor smiled, as if he thought Mr. Waldorf would not be so far wrong as his lady might suppose.

“But what is it, my dear madam?” he said, taking Mrs. Waldorf’s hand and giving a look of professional scrutiny to her face. “You look well, though there is a slight flaccidity about the eyes, and not quite so ruddy a nether lip as one might wish to see. What is it?”

“Oh! a thousand things, doctor; my health is miserable—at least I sometimes think so; I have pains in the right side—and such flutterings at my heart—and such lassitude—and such headaches—and sleep so miserably—”

“Are your pains very severe? are they of a heavy, dull kind, or sharp and darting? and how often do you experience them?”

“They are not very constant—no, not constant, certainly, nor very severe—but, doctor, they fill me with apprehensions of future evil. It is not present suffering of which I complain, so much as a fear of worse to come. I dread lest disease should make such progress, unnoticed, that it will be vain to attempt a cure.” And Mrs. Waldorf’s eyes filled with tears at the very thought of her troubles.

“You are wise to take it in time,” said Doctor R——. “But tell me more of these symptoms. At what time of the day do you generally feel most indisposed?”

“Oh! I can scarcely say. When I wake in the morning, I am always very miserable. My head is full of dull pain, especially about the eyes. My lips are parched; I find it a great exertion to dress myself, and never have the slightest appetite for breakfast.”

“Ah! indeed!” mused the doctor, “you breakfast as soon as you arise, I presume. At what hour do you retire?”

“We make it a rule to be in bed by twelve, unless we happen to be engaged out, which is but seldom. Waldorf detests parties and late hours. We spend our evenings with music or books, very quietly.”

“At what hour do you sup?”

“We have nothing like a regular supper, but for mere sociality’s sake we have a tray brought up about ten. I take nothing beyond a bit of chicken or a few oysters, or a slice of cake, and sometimes only a cracker and a glass of wine. You look as if you thought even this were better omitted; but I should scarcely know how to cut off one of my husband’s few social pleasures. He would touch nothing if I did not partake with him. He thinks as ill of suppers as you do.”

“I beg your pardon—I interrupted your detail of symptoms to ask these questions as to the evening. You say you have no appetite for breakfast—how long do these feelings of languor and exhaustion continue to trouble you?”

“Oh! I generally feel better after a cup of coffee; and after practicing at the harp or the piano-forte for an hour or two, or sometimes three when I have new music, I generally drive out, and perhaps shop a little, or at any rate take a turn into the country for the air, and usually return somewhat refreshed.”

“Do you take your airings alone?”

“Yes—perforce, almost. There are none of my intimate friends who can go with me. They drive out regularly, and take children with them, or they have other objects; and one cannot ask a mere acquaintance. So I go alone, which is not very exhilarating.”

“Your own children are not at home?”

“No—if they were, I should need no other company for the carriage. The society of young people is pleasant to me, but Adelaide is at Madame ——’s and Ernest is with a German clergyman, a friend of his father’s. I fancy my rides would be of much greater service to me if I had a pleasant companion or two.”

“Undoubtedly—and I know a lady and her daughter to whom a regular morning airing with such society as that of Mrs. Waldorf would be the very breath of life! What a pity that etiquette comes in the way of so many good things! But go on, I beg.”

“Etiquette! say not another word, doctor—who and where are these friends or patients of yours? I should be happy if I could offer any service. I will call with you on them this very day if you like, and invite them to ride with me daily.”

“Thank you a thousand times, my dear madam,” said Doctor R——, “it is what I could not venture to ask. Yet I am not afraid you will not find my friends at least tolerably agreeable—but will you proceed with the account you were giving me of your daily habits—you dine at four, I believe?”

“That is our hour, but Mr. Waldorf is often detained until five, and I never dine without him. For my own part I should not care if dinner were stricken from the day. I lunch about one, and with tolerable appetite, and I never wish to eat again until supper time. We take tea, however, at seven, and—”

“Green tea, I presume—do you take it strong?”

“Oh! not very, if I take it _too_ strong, I do not sleep at all.”

“You sleep but indifferently, you tell me?”

“Yes, generally; and wake many times in the night; sometimes in the horrors, so that I am full of undefinable fears, and dare not open my eyes lest the objects in the room should assume terrific shapes. The very shades cast by the night-lamp have power at such times to appal me.”

The doctor’s professional inquiries extended to a still greater length, but he had guessed Mrs. Waldorf’s complaint before he arrived at this point in the list. He had found solitude, inactivity, late hours, suppers, coffee, green tea, music and books—with not one counterbalancing item of that labor—effort—sacrifice—which has been affixed as the unchanging price of health and spirits. Mrs. Waldorf was one of the hundreds if not thousands of ladies in our land who walk through the world without ever discovering the secret of life. She had abundant wealth and a most indulgent husband, with all that this world can offer in point of comfort, and she imagined that health alone was wanting to complete her happiness. Passive happiness! what a dream!

Doctor R—— was at the head of his profession, and he had some medicines at his command which are not known at the hospitals. He thought he could cure Mrs. Waldorf, but he hinted that he feared he should find her but a poor patient.

“You do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know you are under my care lest he should object to your neglecting my remedies—”

“Oh, indeed doctor, I shall be very faithful! Try me! You cannot prescribe anything too difficult. Shall I travel to the Pyramids barefoot, and live on bread and water all the way? I am only afraid Waldorf should insist upon my taking odious drugs, and—You know cautions meeting one at every turn are so tiresome!”

“Then you are willing to undertake any remedy which is not at all disagreeable, and which may be used or omitted _à discretion_—”

“No, no—indeed you mistake me. I only beg that it may not be _too_ unpleasant. I will do just as you say.”

Mrs. Waldorf now had a fine color, and her eyes sparkled as of old. She had every confidence in the skill of Dr. R——, and the effort of recalling and recounting her symptoms had given an impetus to her thoughts and a quicker current to her blood.

The doctor apologized. He had an appointment and his hour had come.

“But before I leave you thus unceremoniously,” he said, “it strikes me that there is a root in my garden which might be of essential service to you, to begin with at least. You know I have a little spot in which I cultivate a few rare botanical specimens. Might I venture to ask you to search for the root I speak of? It is in that little square compartment in the corner, which appears nearly vacant.”

“Oh, certainly—but had I not better call John, as your own man is going away with you?”

“John! Bless my soul, my dear Madam, there is not a John in the world that I would trust in my sanctum! No hand but mine, and that of a gardener whom I employ occasionally under my own direction, ever intrudes among my pets. Let me entreat you, since I have not another moment to spare, to take this little trowel and search with your own hands until you discover an oblong white root like this—” opening a book of botanical plates and exhibiting something that looked very much like a Jerusalem artichoke—“Take that and have it washed and grated into a gill of Port, of which try ten drops in a little water three times a day. I will see you again very soon—but now I must run away—” and Doctor R—— departed, leaving Mrs. Waldorf in a musing mood.

She cast a look at the garden, which lay just beneath the window, full of flowers; then at the trowel—a strange implement in her hand. She thought Doctor R—— very odd, certainly, but she resolved to follow his directions implicitly. She went down stairs and was soon digging very zealously. Her glove was split by the first effort, of course; for a fashionably fitted glove admits not the free exercise of the muscles—but all was of no avail. Every corner of the little square was disturbed, but no talisman appeared. Weary at length of her new employment, Mrs. Waldorf gave up in despair, and sat down in a little arbor which offered its shade invitingly near her. Here she sank into a pleasant reverie, as one can scarcely help doing in a garden full of sweet flowers, and so pleasant was the sense of repose after labor, that she thought not of the lapse of time until she was startled by the voice of Doctor R——, returned from his visit and exceedingly surprised to find her still trowel in hand.

“Why, my dear Madam,” he exclaimed, “you are forgetting your wish that Mr. Waldorf should not discover your visit to me! If he walks much in town he has had ample opportunity to observe his carriage at my door these two hours. You must learn to carry on clandestine affairs better than this! Have you the medicine?”

Mrs. Waldorf laughed and related her ill success, which the doctor very much regretted, although he did not offer to assist in the search.

“You are feeling tolerably well just now, I think,” he said; “your color is better than when you came in the morning.”

“Oh yes! much better just now! But how charming your garden is! I do not wonder that you make a pet of it. We too have a few square inches of garden, but it gives me but little pleasure, because I have never done any thing to it myself. I think I shall get a trowel of my own.”

“You delight me! You have only to cultivate and bring to perfection a single bed of carnations, to become as great an enthusiast as myself. But it must be done by your own hands—”

“Yes, certainly; but now I must be gone. To-morrow I will hold myself in readiness to call on your friends at any hour you will appoint.”

“What say you to eleven? Would that be too barbarous? The air is worth a good deal more at eleven than at one.”

“At seven, if you like! Do not imagine me so very a slave to absurd fashions! I am determined you shall own me a reasonable woman yet.”

Mrs. Waldorf called from the carriage window—“You’ll not forget to send the medicine, doctor?”

“Certainly not! you shall have it at seven this evening, and I trust you will take it with exact regularity.”

“Do not fear me,” she said, and the doctor made his bow of adieu.

The medicine came at seven, with a sediment which looked not a little like grated potato, and without the slightest disagreeable taste. Accompanying directions required the disuse, for the present, of coffee and green tea; and recommended to Mrs. Waldorf a daily walk and a very early bed-hour.

The lady took her ten drops at nine, and felt so much better that she could not help telling her husband all about her visit to Doctor R——.

The next morning proved cloudy, and Mrs. Waldorf felt rather languid, but, after her dose, found an improved appetite for breakfast. She sat down to her music, but looked frequently at the clouds and at her watch, thinking of her appointment. When the hour arrived the envious skies poured down such showers as will damp any body’s ardor. The drive must be given up for that day, and it passed as usual, with only the interlude of the magic drops.

The next day was as bad, and the day after not a great deal better. Mrs. Waldorf’s pains and palpitations almost discouraged her. She was quite sure she had a liver complaint. But on the fourth morning the sun rose gloriously, and the face of nature, clean washed, shone with renewed beauty. At eleven the carriage and the lady were at Doctor R——’s door.

“Have you courage to see an invalid—a sad sufferer?” said the doctor.

“Oh, certainly! I am an invalid myself, you know.”

“Ah! my dear lady, my invalid wears a different aspect! Yet I hope she is going to recover, and I shall trust to your humanity if the scene prove a sad one. Sickness of the mind was, I think, the origin of the evil, but it has almost overpowered the frail body. This young lady and her mother have been giving lessons in music and in Italian, and have had but slender success in the whirl of competition. As nearly as I can discover, they came to this country hoping to find reverse of fortune easier to bear among strangers; and their course was determined hitherward in consequence of earlier family troubles which drove a son of Madame Vamiglia to America. He was a liberal, and both displeased his father and put himself in danger from government, by some unsuccessful attempt at home. The father is since dead, and the old lady and her daughter, left in poverty and loneliness, determined on following the young man to the new world. But here we are.”

And they stopped before a small house in a back street. Mrs. Waldorf was shown into a very humble parlor, while the doctor went to prepare his patient. He returned presently with Madame Vamiglia, a well-bred woman past middle age. She expressed her grateful sense of Mrs. Waldorf’s kindness, but their communication was rather pantomimical, for the lady found her song-Italian of little service, and the signora had not much conversational English. However, with some French, and occasional aid from Doctor R——, their acquaintance was somewhat ripened before they went to the bedside of the sufferer. Mrs. Waldorf turned pale, and felt ready to faint, at the sight which presented itself.

There was a low, narrow couch in the centre of the room, scarce larger than an infant’s crib, and on it lay what seemed a mere remnant of mortality. Large dark eyes, full of a sort of preternatural light, alone spoke of life and motion. The figure had been always extremely small, and was now wasted till it scarce lifted the light covering of the mattress. Madame Vamiglia went forward and spoke in a low tone to her daughter, and Mrs. Waldorf was glad to sink into the chair set for her by Doctor R——. The ghastly appearance of the poor girl had quite _unwomaned_ her.

The mother introduced her guest to her daughter, who could only look an acknowledgment; and then asked the doctor if he thought it possible that Ippolita could bear the motion of a carriage.

“She seems weaker to-day,” he replied; “very weak indeed. Yet, if Mrs. Waldorf will allow the mattress to be put in, I think we may venture.”

Madame Vamiglia seemed full of anxiety lest the experiment should prove too much for the flickering remnant of life; but, after much preparation, John was called, and the poor sufferer transferred, mattress and all, to the back seat. Mrs. Waldorf and her mother took the front, and in this way they drove slowly out towards the country.

At first the poor little signorina seemed exhausted almost unto death, and her mother watched her with the most agonized solicitude; but after awhile she became accustomed to the gentle motion, and seemed revived by the fresh air. As the road wound through a green lane shaded with old trees, Ippolita looked about her with animation, and made a sign of pleasure with her wasted hand. Tears started to her mother’s eyes, and she looked to Mrs. Waldorf for sympathy, and not in vain.

At length the invalid murmured, “Assia!” and they turned about. When they reached the lodging-house, Ippolita was in a quiet sleep, and they carried her back to her own room almost undisturbed.

“To-morrow at eleven!” whispered Mrs. Waldorf, at parting. Madame Vamiglia pressed her hand, but could not speak.

We need not describe the morning rides which succeeded this auspicious commencement. We need not trace, step by step, the slow amendment of the young Italian, nor attempt to express, by words, the gratitude of both mother and daughter. _They_ felt words to be totally inadequate. We may mention, however, the rapid improvement of Mrs. Waldorf’s health and spirits, which must of course be ascribed to that excellent medicine of Doctor R——’s. This enabled that lady to study Italian most strenuously, both at home and by familiar lessons from Madame Vamiglia and her daughter, during their prolonged excursions. This pursuit was never found to increase the palpitations, and seemed also a specific against headache.

Before Ippolita had so far recovered as to be independent of the daily airing, Mrs. Waldorf picked up a new object of interest. We say picked up, for it was a road-side acquaintance, and, as Mrs. Waldorf has since observed, one which she never would have made if she had been reading during her ride, as was her custom formerly. She had, every morning for some time, observed a poor woman drawing a basket-wagon of curious construction, in which lay a child much larger than is usually found in such vehicles. The child was pretty, and tastefully, though plainly, drest; but the whole establishment bespoke any thing but abundant means, so that Mrs. Waldorf was puzzled to make out the character of the group. The woman had not the air of a servant, and yet the child did not look as if it could be her child. In short, after seeing the same thing a dozen times, Mrs. Waldorf’s curiosity was a good deal excited.

She did not, however, venture to make any inquiries until it so chanced that, in the very green lane we have spoken of—the favorite resort of the grateful Ippolita—they found the poor woman, with the child fainting in her arms. Grief and anxiety were painted on her honest face, and she was so absorbed in her efforts for the recovery of the child that she scarcely answered Mrs. Waldorf’s sympathizing inquiries.

“Oh don’t trouble yourself, ma’am! It is nothing new! She’s this way very often. It’s the hoopin’-cough, ma’am; and I’m afeard it’ll be the death of her, poor lamb! in spite of all we can do!” And she tossed the child in the air, and fanned its face till the breath returned.

“Is it your own?” asked Mrs. Waldorf.

“No indeed, ma’am! mine are other guess lookin’ children, thank God! This dear babe’s mother is a delicate young lady that lives neighbor to me, as has a sick husband that she can’t leave. I’m a washerwoman, ma’am, if you please, and I have to go quite away down town every day almost, and so I take this poor thing in my basket—it’s large enough, you see—and so gives her a turn in the open air, ’cause the doctor says it’s the open air, if any thing, that’ll do her good.”

“You are very good,” said Mrs. Waldorf, who had listened in a kind of reverie, her thoughts reverting to her lonely rides.

“Oh no, ma’am! it’s far from good I am! The Lord knows that! But a little bit of neighborly kindness like that, is what the poor often does for one another, _and don’t think any thing of it, neither_! To be sure this babe’s mother isn’t the likes of me, ma’am, but she’s far worse off than she has been. Her husband is what they call an accountant—a kind of clerk, like; and he can’t get no employ, and I think it’s breakin’ his heart pretty fast.”

Here Mrs. Waldorf fairly burst into tears. “Tell me where you live,” she said, “and say nothing to this lady you speak of, but come to me to-morrow, will you?” and she put a card into the poor woman’s hand.

“Surely I will, ma’am,” said the washerwoman, “and it’s a kind heart you have!”

Mrs. Waldorf rode home with her heart and head full. “How could I ever content myself with giving _money_,” she said to herself, “when there is so much to be _done_!”

* * * * *

“How do you find yourself, this morning, my dear madam?” said Doctor R——, shortly after this.

“Oh, quite well, thank you!”

“What! no more lassitude! no more headaches.”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you! I never felt better.”

“When did your symptoms abate?”

“I can scarcely tell; I have been too much occupied of late, to think of symptoms. I am so much interested in the study of Italian that I am going to ask Madame Vamiglia and her daughter to come to us for awhile, and we shall have Adelaide at home to take advantage of so good an opportunity for learning to converse.”

“And your ardor in searching out the distressed has been the means of restoring the son to the mother! How happy you must be!”

“That is a happiness which I owe to you! and Mr. Waldorf is going to employ Mr. Vamiglia, who understands and writes half a dozen different languages, and will be invaluable to him. But first the family are to go to the sea-shore for a month, to recruit; and I imagine they will need a good deal of preparation—so that I have really no time to be ill.”

“Then you have given up the going to the Pyramids?”

“Ah! my dear sir! I must thank you for showing me better sources of interest and excitement. I believe it must have been a little _ruse_ on your part—say! was not that famous medicine of yours only a trick—an _inganno felice_?”

“A trick! Oh! excuse me! ‘Call it by some better name!’ I beseech you,” said the doctor laughing, “it was a most valuable medicine! Indeed the whole Materia Medica would be often powerless without the _placebo_! But I confess I could not think of sending you to the Pyramids, when there are not only pyramids but mountains of sorrow and suffering at home, which shun the eye of common charity, but which must be surmounted by just such heads, hearts and purses as those of Mrs. Waldorf!”

* * * * *

THE FIRST AND LAST PARTING.

SUGGESTED BY THE LUCKLESS AMOUR OF A FRIEND.

BY C. F. HOFFMANN.

We parted at the midnight hour,—
We parted _then_ as lovers part.
The stars which pierced that trellis’d bower,
They saw me press her to my heart!
I left her with no fear—no doubt!
I left with her my hopes—my all—
I left her then,—oh! God!—without
A dream of what would soon befall.

I went to toil—far from her sight,
Far from her blessed voice away—
But still she haunted me by night,
Still murmured in my ears by day.
The hours flew by in dreams of her,
Those hours which claimed far other care,
I wasted them—fond worshiper—
In dreams, whose waking was despair!

A month—no, not a month,—by Heaven!
Had fled since she was pledged to me—
Since _I_ love’s parting kiss had given
To seal _her_ vows of constancy!
The very moon was not yet old,
Whose crescent beam our loves had lighted—
Yet ere those few short weeks were told,
She had forgot the faith she plighted!

I heard her lips that faith forswear—
And, while those lips revealed the tale,
My very soul it blushed that e’er
It could have loved a thing so frail!
Yet scorn—it was not scorn that stung—
’Twas pity—horror—grief, that moved me—
I felt the wrong—the shameless wrong,
But spared the heart that once had loved me!

Yes, faithless, false, as now I found it,
That heart had beat against my own,
And I—I could not bear to wound it,
When all its shielding worth was flown.
What though I could believe no more
In _such_ as her own lips revealed her!
Yet still when all Love’s faith was o’er,
Love’s tenderness remained to shield her.

And when the moment came to break
The subtle chain around me cast,
Like me she seemed in soul to ache
At riving of its links at last.
Could they betray my mind once more,
Those pleading looks? yes! even then,
So sweet the guise of truth they wore,
I _wished_ to be deceived again.

Ay! strangely, as at first we met—
There did, by Heaven! around her hover
Such light of warmth and truth, that yet
I, at the last, was still her lover!
And when I saw her brow o’ercast—
Saw tears from those soft eyelids melt,
I recked not, cared not for the past,
But there, adoring, would have knelt!

That moment to her lip and eye
There came that calm and loveless air,
Light Beauty, when its triumph’s nigh,
Will tow’rd its easy victim wear.
No test—no time—no fate had wrought
O’er soul like mine so strong a spell,
As in that moment chilled to naught
Love that did seem unquenchable!

We parted—not as lovers part—
No kind farewell—no fond regret
Was uttered _then_ from either heart—
We parted only to forget!
We parted, not as lovers part,
As lovers we can meet no more.
Let Time decide in either heart
Which most such parting shall deplore.

* * * * *

TO A LADY SINGING.

BY GEORGE HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” “THE RUINS OF ATHENS,” ETC.

When to my closing eye this world
And all its bright illusions fade,
And at my heart the dull, cold hand
Of Death, to still its throb, is laid;
O! Lady, let some voice like thine
Breathe, as from Heaven’s own blissful air,
One cheering tone, and I shall deem
My spirit is already there.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

NO. VIII.—MACBETH.

If man in all ranks is liable to be thus betrayed by appearances, the king is peculiarly exposed to this danger. Nearly all the beautiful forms around him are but the disguises of treachery and selfishness. He is at once master, dupe and victim. All the wisdom and philosophy he can learn from the experience of others, or from his own, are feeble protection against the profound and subtle duplicity which pervades the air he breathes and every moment of his contact with his fellow creatures. A king is as much confined within a certain circle of information and action as the salamander girt with fire. I have heard of the most extraordinary events of public notoriety being concealed from royal knowledge in a manner almost passing credit. In the following passage see how kings are duped:

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