Chapter IV: The Mate's Yarn (2)

"'Oh, Pedro!' continued his sister, 'just think how droll it is to run away with one's lover, and one's brother standing by aiding and abetting! Oh, fie! I'm ashamed of you! There, now, I've fastened this delightful ladder--what next?'

"I ascended, and taking her in my arms, prepared to assist her to the ground.

"'Am I not heavy?' she asked, as she put her arms about my neck.

"My God! boys, I could have lifted twenty of her as I felt then.

"'This is the second time, señor, that you have helped me to the ground within a week; now get me on the water, and I will thank you for all at once.'

"'In a few moments more all danger will be behind us, dearest.'

"Clara leaned upon my arm, enveloped in a boat-cloak, while we rapidly retraced our steps to the boat, which we reached in safety, but, behold, the men whom we had left were missing. Hardly had we made ourselves sure of this unwelcome fact when a file of men, headed by the same officer who had boarded us in the evening, sprang out from behind the molasses-hogsheads. In a moment more a fierce fight had begun. I seized Clara by the waist with one arm, and drew my cutlas just in time to save my head from the sabre of Carlos Alvarez, who aimed a blow at me, crying, 'Now, dog of a Yankee, it is my turn!'

"'In the name of the king! in the name of the king!' shouted the officer--but it made no difference, we fought like seamen. Clara had fainted, but I still kept my hold of her, when suddenly a ton weight seemed to have fallen on my head; my eyes seemed filled with red-hot sparks of intense brilliancy and heat; the wild scene around vanished from their sight as I sunk down stunned and insensible.

"When I came to myself, I was lying in my own berth aboard the ship. I felt weak, faint, and dizzy, and strove in vain to collect my thoughts sufficiently to remember what had happened. My state-room door was open, and I perceived that the sun's rays were shining brightly through the sky-light upon the cabin-table, at which sat Capt. Hopkins, overhauling the medicine-chest, which was open before him. I knew by the sharp heel of the vessel, her uneasy pitching, and the cool breeze which fanned my fevered cheek, that the ship was close hauled on a wind, and probably far at sea. I looked at my arms; they were wasted to half their usual size, and my head was bandaged and very sore and painful. Slowly and with difficulty I recalled the events of the few hours preceding that in which I had lost my senses--then I remembered the _mélée_ on the mole. Evidently I had been severely wounded, and while senseless been brought off to the ship. Then came the inquiry, what had been the fate of Clara and her brother. Were they safe on board, or were they captured or killed in the _fracas_? I hardly dared to ask the skipper who still sat at the table, with a most dolorous face, arranging the vials and gallipots. At last the suspense became intolerable.

"'Captain Hopkins,' said I, but in a voice so weak that it startled me. Faint as it was, however, the worthy skipper started to his feet, and was by my side in an instant.

"'Glory to God!' he shouted, snapping his fingers. 'I know by your eyes that reason has hold of your helm again. You'll get well now! Hurrah! D--n, though I mus'n't make so much noise.'

"'But, Captain Hopkins--'

"'Can't tell you any thing now, you're too weak to bear it; that is--you know, Ben, good news is--ahem! dreadful apt to kill sick people; and you've been horrid sick, that's a fact. I thought four days ago that you had shipped on a voyage to kingdom come, and was outward bound; but you'll do well enough now, if you only keep quiet, and if you don't you'll slip your wind yet. Shut up your head, take a drink of this stuff, and go to sleep.'

"Capt. Hopkins left me, and, anxious as I was, I soon fell sound asleep. When I awoke I felt much better and stronger, and teazed the skipper so much, that he at last ventured to tell me that after I had been struck down by a sabre-cut over the head, Don Pedro, also badly wounded, and Donna Clara, had been captured by the soldiers. The two boat-keepers also were missing, and one of the others left, either dead or badly wounded, on the mole. Our other three men, finding themselves overpowered, succeeded barely in gaining the boat with my insensible form, and pushed off for the ship. Capt Hopkins, upon hearing their story, had no other alternative but to cut and run, and favored by the strong southerly gale, he managed to make good his escape, though fired on by the castle before he had got out of range. In the hurry and confusion my wound was not properly attended to, and a brain fever set in, under which I had been suffering for a week; but the kind care of Capt. Hopkins and Mr. Smith, and the strength of my constitution, at last prevailed over the disease. Dismal as was this story, and the prospects it unfolded, my spirits, naturally buoyant, supported me, and I determined that when the ship should arrive in Boston I would leave her and return immediately to Cuba, to make an effort for the release of my friends. Wild as was this resolve, I grew better upon the hope of accomplishing it; and when we anchored off Long Wharf, after a tedious passage, I was nearly well.

"Notwithstanding the advice of my friends I made arrangements for an immediate return to Matanzas, but the day before my intended departure the Paragon arrived from that port; and I learned from her officers that Don Pedro was closely confined, awaiting his trial for the murder of Count ----, the result of which would be, without doubt, against him. Clara, believing the general report of my death, had entered the Ursuline Convent to begin her novitiate; and I was told that if I was to be seen in Matanzas, the _garrote_, or chain-gang, was all that I could expect. Your father then told me that if I would consent to accompany Captain Hopkins, he would sail in my place to Matanzas, and do his utmost for his nephew and niece. I could not help but see the wisdom of this arrangement, and acceded to it. We sailed from Boston to Stockholm, from thence to Rotterdam, and from thence to Batavia. A freight offering for Canton, we went to that port, and from thence came home, after an absence of two years and a half. In the meantime Don Pedro had been tried, and sentenced to death; but by the exertions of your father, who wrought faithfully in his behalf, his sentence was commuted, first to twenty, and then to twelve years in the gallies, or, as it is in Cuba, the chain-gang. His efforts to see Clara, in order to disabuse her mind of the belief of my death, was abortive; and she, after finishing her year as a novice, took the veil--and she is now a nun in the Ursuline Convent at Matanzas, while her noble brother is a slave, with felons, laboring with the cursed chain-gang in the same city to which we are bound. Now, boys, do you wonder that when I found myself under orders to go again to the scene of all this misery I was affected, and that a melancholy has possessed me which has increased as the voyage has progressed? I did determine at first that I would leave the ship at Gibralter and go home, but I dreaded to part with my shipmates. I shall not go ashore while we lay at Matanzas for many reasons, though I should incur no risk, I think. Everybody who knew me in Matanzas believes me dead long since; and six years of seafaring life in every climate, changes one strangely. But the wind has veered again and freshened considerably since I began my yarn. It looks some as if we might catch a norther by way of variety. Brewster will have to shorten sail in his watch, I reckon, and maybe keep the lead going if we make much leeway. Come, Bill, it is 4 o'clock, and a little past."

"Eight bells, there, for'ard!" shouted the third mate. "Call the watch! Rouse Brewster, Frank, will you?"

The sleepy, yawning starboard watch were soon on deck, half-dressed, and snuffing the morning air very discontentedly. We of the larboard division went below to our berths.

"Langley," said I to the third mate, while we were undressing, "I've got a plan in my head to get my cousins clear from their bad fix. Will you help me work it?"

"Marry, that I will," answered Langley, throwing himself into a theatrical attitude. "Look here, Frank, this is the way I'll run that bloody Alvarez through the gizzard!"

The last sounds I heard that night were the hurried trampling of feet over my head on deck, and the shouts of the watch shortening sail. I fell asleep and dreamed that I was in the _fracas_ at the end of the mole.

[_Conclusion in our next._

WHITE CREEK.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

[This is a picturesque little stream in Washington county, State of New York. It flows through the broad and beautiful meadows of the Hon. John Savage, late Chief Justice of the State.]

Over the stirless surface of the ground The hot air trembles. In pale glittering haze Wavers the sky. Along the horizon's rim, Breaking its mist, are peaks of coppery clouds. Keen darts of light are shot from every leaf, And the whole landscape droops in sultriness. With languid tread, I drag myself along Across the wilting fields. Around my steps Spring myriad grasshoppers, their cheerful notes Loud in my ear. The ground bird whirs away, Then drops again, and groups of butterflies Spotting the path, upflicker as I come. At length I catch the sparkles of the brook In its deep thickets, whose refreshing green Soothes my strained eyesight. The cool shadows fall Like balm upon me from the boughs o'erhead. My coming strikes a terror on the scene. All the sweet sylvan sounds are hushed; I catch Glimpses of vanishing wings. An azure shape Quick darting down the vista of the brook, Proclaims the scared kingfisher, and a plash And turbid streak upon the streamlet's face, Betray the water-rat's swift dive and path Across the bottom to his burrow deep. The moss is plump and soft, the tawny leaves Are crisp beneath my tread, and scaly twigs Startle my wandering eye like basking snakes. Where this thick brush displays its emerald tent, I stretch my wearied frame, for solitude To steal within my heart. How hushed the scene At first, and then, to the accustomed ear, How full of sounds, so tuned to harmony They seemed but silence; the monotonous purl Of yon small water-break--the transient hum Swung past me by the bee--the low meek burst Of bubbles, as the trout leaps up to seize The skipping spider--the light lashing sound Of cattle, mid-leg in the shady pool, Whisking the flies away--the ceaseless chirp Of crickets, and the tree-frog's quavering note.

Now, from the shadow where I lie concealed, I see the birds, late banished by my form, Appearing once more in their usual haunts Along the stream; the silver-breasted snipe Twitters and seesaws on the pebbly spots Bare in the channel--the brown swallow dips Its wings, swift darting round on every side; And from yon nook of clustered water-plants, The wood-duck, slaking its rich purple neck, Skims out, displaying through the liquid glass Its yellow feet, as if upborne in air.

Musing upon my couch, this lovely stream I liken to the truly good man's life, Amid the heat of passions, and the glare Of wordly objects, flowing pure and bright, Shunning the gaze, yet showing where it glides By its green blessings; cheered by happy thoughts, Contentment, and the peace that comes from Heaven.

THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

GIACOMO, _the Alchemist_,

BERNARDO, _his son-in-law_,

ROSALIA, _his daughter, and Bernardo's wife,_

LORENZO, _his servant_.

SCENE I. FERRARA.

_The interior of Giacomo's house. Giacomo and Lorenzo discovered together. Time, a little before daybreak._

_Gia._ Art sure of this?

_Lor._ Ay, signor, very sure. 'Tis but a moment since I saw the thing-- Bernardo, who last night was sworn thy son, Hath made a villainous barter of thine honor. Thou may'st rely the duke is where I said.

_Gia._ If so--no matter--give me here the light.

[_Exit Giacomo._

_Lor._ (_Alone._) Oh, what a night! It must be all a dream! For twenty years, since that I wore a beard, I've served my melancholy master here, And never until now saw such a night! A wedding in this silent house, forsooth,-- A festival! The very walls in mute Amazement stared through the unnatural light! And poor Rosalia, bless her tender heart, Looked like her mother's sainted ghost! Ah me, Her mother died long years ago, and took One half the blessed sunshine from our house-- The other half was married off last night. My master, solemn soul, he walked the halls As if in search of something which was lost; The groom, I liked not him, nor ever did, Spoke such perpetual sweetness, till I thought He wore some sugared villany within:-- But then he is my master's ancient friend, And always known the favorite of the duke, And, as I know, our lady's treacherous lord! Oh, Holy Mother, that to villain hawks Our dove should fall a prey! poor gentle dear! Now if I had their throats within my grasp-- No matter--if my master be himself, Nor time nor place shall bind up his revenge. He's not a man to spend his wrath in noise, But when his mind is made, with even pace He walks up to the deed and does his will. In fancy I can see him to the end-- The duke, perchance, already breathes his last, And for Bernardo--he will join him soon; And for Rosalia, she will take the veil, To which she hath been heretofore inclined; And for my master, he will take again To alchemy--a pastime well enough, For aught I know, and honest Christian work. Still it was strange how my poor mistress died, Found, as she was, within her husband's study. The rumor went she died of suffocation; Some cursed crucible which had been left, By Giacomo, aburning, filled the room, And when the lady entered took her breath. He found her there, and since that day the place Has been a home for darkness and for dust. I hear him coming; by his hurried step There's something done, or will be very soon.

(_Enter Giacomo. He sets the light upon the table and confronts Lorenzo with a stern look._)

_Gia._ Lorenzo, thou hast served me twenty years, And faithfully; now answer me, how was't That thou wert in the street at such an hour?

_Lor._ When that the festival was o'er last night, I went to join some comrades in their wine To pass the time in memory of the event.

_Gia._ And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with drink?

_Lor._ Indeed, good signor, though the wine flowed free, I could not touch it, though much urged by all-- Too great a sadness sat upon my heart-- I could do naught but sit and sigh and think Of our Rosalia in her bridal dress.

_Gia._ And sober too! so much the more at fault. But, as I said, thou'st served me long and well, Perchance too long--too long by just a day. Here, take this purse, and find another master.

_Lor._ Oh, signor, do not drive me thus away!
If I have made mistake--

_Gia._ No, sirrah, no!
Thou hast not made mistake, but something worse.

_Lor._ Oh, pray you, what is that then I have made?

_Gia._ A lie!

_Lor._ Indeed, good master, on my knees
I swear that what I said is sainted truth.

_Gia._ Pshaw, pshaw, no more of this. Did I not go Upon the instant to my daughter's room And find Bernardo sleeping at her side? Some villain's gold hath bribed thee unto this. Go, go.

_Lor._ Well, if it must be, then it must. But I would swear that what I said is truth, Though all the devils from the deepest pit Should rise to contradict me!

_Gia._ Prating still?

_Lor._ No, signor--I am going--stay--see here--

(_He draws a paper from his bosom._)

Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof in this! This paper as they changed their mantles dropt Between them to the ground, and when they passed I picked it up and placed it safely here.

_Gia._ (_Examining it._) Who forged the lie could fabricate this too:-- But hold, it is ingeniously done. Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well, Let no word pass thy lips about the matter-- [_Exit Lorenzo._ Bernardo's very hand indeed is here! Oh, compact villainous and black! conditions, The means, the hour, the signal--every thing To rob my honor of its holiest pearl! Lorenzo, shallow fool--he does not guess The mischief was all done, and that it was The duke he saw departing--oh, brain--brain! How shall I hold this river of my wrath! It must not burst--no, rather it shall sweep A noiseless maelstrom, whirling to its center All thoughts and plans to further my revenge And rid me of this most accursed blot!

(_He rests his forehead on his hand a few minutes, and exclaims,_)

The past returns to me again--the lore I gladly had forgot comes like a ghost, And points with shadowy finger to the means Which best shall consummate my just design. The laboratory hath been closed too long; The door smiles welcome to me once again, The dusky latch invites my hand--I come!

(_He unlocks the door and stands upon the threshold._)

Oh, thou whose life was stolen from me here, Stand not to thwart me in this great revenge; But rather come with large propitious eyes Smiling encouragement with ancient looks! Ye sages whose pale, melancholy orbs Gaze through the darkness of a thousand years, Oh, pierce the solid blackness of to-day, And fire anew this crucible of thought Until my soul flames up to the result! (_He enters and the door closes._)

SCENE II. _Another apartment in the alchemist's house. Enter Rosalia and Bernardo._

_Ros._ You tell me he has not been seen to-day?

_Ber._ Save by your trusty servant here, who says He saw his master, from without, unclose The shutters of his laboratory while The sun was yet unrisen. It is well; This turning to the past pursuits of youth Argues how much the aspect of to-day Hath driven the ancient darkness from his brain. And now, my dear Rosalia, let thy face And thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles, And naught shall make a winter in our house.

_Ros._ Ah, sir, I think that I am happy.

_Ber._ Happy? Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art! But thou dost sigh and contemplate the floor So deeply, that thy happiness seems rather The constant sense of duty than true joy.

_Ros._ Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to me A riddle is at best--my heart has had No tutor. From my childhood until now My thoughts have been on simple honest things.

_Ber._ On honest things? Then let them dwell henceforth On love, for nothing is more honest than True love.

_Ros._ I hope so, sir--it must be so! And if to wear thy happiness at heart With constant watchfulness, and if to breathe Thy welfare in my orisons, be love, Thou never shalt have cause to question mine. To-day I feel, and yet I know not why, A sadness which I never knew before; A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain, Of something which has been or is to be. My mother coming to me in my dream, My father taking to that room again Have somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe.

_Ber._ Nay, let not that o'ercast thy gentle mind, For dreams are but as floating gossamer, And should not blind or bar the steady reason. And alchemy is innocent enough, Save when it feeds too steadily on gold, A crime the world not easily forgives. But if Rosalia likes not the pursuit Her sire engages in, my plan shall be To lead him quietly to other things. But see, the door uncloses and he comes.

(_Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair._)

_Gia._ (_Not perceiving them._)
Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last!

_Both._ Good-morrow, father.

_Gia._ Ah, my pretty doves!

_Ber._ Come, father, we are jealous of the art
Which hath deprived us all the day of thee.

_Gia._ Are ye indeed? (_Aside._) How smoothly to the air Slides that word _father_ from his slippery tongue. Come hither, daughter, let me gaze on thee, For I have dreamed that thou wert beautiful, So beautiful our very duke did stop To smile upon thy brightness! What say'st thou, Bernardo, didst thou ever dream such things?

_Ber._ That she is beautiful I had no cause to dream, Mine eyes have known the fact for many a day. What villains didst thou speak of even now?

_Gia._ Two precious villains--Carbon and Azote-- They have perplexed me heretofore; but now The thing is plain enough. This morning, ere I left my chamber, all the mystery stood Asudden in an awful revelation!

_Ber._ I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day, But do not overtoil thy brain. These themes Are dangerous things, and they who mastered most Have fallen at last but victims to their slaves.

_Gia._ It is a glorious thing to fall and die
The victim of a noble cause.

_Ber._ Ay, true-- The man who battles for his country's right Hath compensation in the world's applause. The victor when returning from the field Is crowned with laurel, and his shining way Is full of shouts and roses. If he fall, His nation builds his monument of glory. But mark the alchemist who walks the streets, His look is down, his step infirm, his hair And cheeks are burned to ashes by his thought; The volumes he consumes, consume in turn; They are but fuel to his fiery brain, Which being fed requires the more to feed on. The people gaze on him with curious looks, And step aside to let him pass untouched, Believing Satan hath him arm in arm.

_Gia._ Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels? No heroes but among the martial throng? Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped A sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names, Who lived and labored, died and were forgot, And after whom the world came out and reapt The field, and never questioned who had sown.

_Ber._ I did not think of that.

_Gia._ Now mark ye well, I am not one to follow phantom themes, To waste my time in seeking for the stone, Or chrystalizing carbon to o'erflood The world with riches which would keep it poor; Nor do I seek the elixir that would make Not life alone, but misery immortal; But something far more glorious than these.

_Ber._ Pray what is that?

_Gia._ A cure, sir, for the heart-ache. Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane-- Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrusted upward, like a bloody shield! On such an hour the experiment must begin. Come, thou shalt be the first to witness this Most marvelous discovery. And thou, My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower, And I will dream thou'rt lovelier than ever. Come, follow me. (_To Bernardo._)

_Ros._ Nay, father, stay; I'm sure Thou art not well--thine eyes are strangely lit, The task, I fear, has over-worked thy brain.

_Gia._ Dearest Rosalia, what were eyes or brain
Compared with banishment of sorrow? Come.

_Ber._ (_Aside to Rosalia._) I will indulge awhile this curious humor; Adieu; I shall be with thee soon again.

_Gia._ (_Overhearing him._) When Satan shall regain his wings, and sit Approved in heaven, perchance, but not till then.

_Ber._ What, not till then?

_Gia._ Shall he be worthy deemed To walk, as thou hast said the people thought, Arm in arm with the high-souled philosopher:-- And yet the people sometimes are quite right, The devil's at our elbow oftener than We know.

(_He gives Bernardo his arm, and they enter the laboratory._)

_Ros._ (_Alone._) He never looked so strange before; His cheeks, asudden, are grown pale and thin; His very hair seems whiter than it did. Oh, surely, 'tis a fearful trade that crowds The work of years into a single day. It may be that the sadness which I wear Hath clothed him in its own peculiar hue. The very sunshine of this cloudless day Seemed but a world of broad, white desolation-- While in my ears small melancholy bells Knolled their long, solemn and prophetic chime;-- But hark! a louder and a holier toll, Shedding its benediction on the air, Proclaims the vesper hour-- Ave Maria!

[_Exit Rosalia._

SCENE III. _Giacomo and Bernardo discovered in the laboratory._

_Gia._ What say'st thou now, Bernardo?

_Ber._ Let me live Or die in drawing this delicious breath, I ask no more.

_Gia._ (_Aside._) Mark, how with wondering eyes He gazes on the burning crucibles, As if to drink the rising vapor with His every sense.

_Ber._ Is this the balm thou spak'st of?

_Gia._ Ay, sir, the same.

_Ber._ Oh, would that now my heart Were torn with every grief the earth has known, Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold! Where didst thou learn the secret, and from whom?

_Gia._ From Gebber down to Paracelsus, none Have mentioned the discovery of this-- The need of it was parent of the thought.

_Ber._ How long will these small crucibles hold out?

_Gia._ A little while, but there are two beside, That when thy sense is toned up to the point May then be fired; and when thou breathest their fumes, Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than that Which Helen gave the guests of Menelaus. But come, thou'lt weary of this thickening air, Let us depart.

_Ber._ Not for the wealth of worlds!

_Gia._ Nay, but thy bride awaits thee--

_Ber._ Go to her
And say I shall be there anon.

_Gia._ I will. (_Aside._) Now while he stands enchained within the spell I'll to Rosalia's room and don his cloak And cap, and sally forth to meet the duke. 'Tis now the hour, and if he come--so be it.

[_Exit Giacomo._

_Ber._ (_Alone._) These delicate airs seem wafted from the fields Of some celestial world. I am alone-- Then wherefore not inhale that deeper draught, That sweet nepenthe which these other two, When burning, shall dispense? 'Twere quickly done, And I will do it!

(_He places the two crucibles on the furnace._)

Now, sir alchemist, Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure-- 'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by San John, I'll turn philosopher myself, and do Some good at last in this benighted world! Now how like demons on the ascending smoke, Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame, Filling the room with a mysterious haze, Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air, Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms; And every form is lit with burning eyes, Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows! The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seem To stand upon a reeling deck! Hold, hold! A hundred crags are toppling overhead. I faint, I sink--now, let me clutch that limb-- Oh, devil! It breaks to ashes in my grasp! What ghost is that which beckons through the mist? The duke! the duke! and bleeding at the breast! Whose dagger struck the blow?

(_Enter Giacomo._)

_Gia._ Mine, villain, mine! What! thou'st set the other two aburning? Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last! I should have done the deed--and yet 'tis well. Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood!

_Ber._ Ha! is it so? Then follow thou!

_Gia._ My time Is not quite yet, this antidote shall place A bar between us for a little while.

(_He raises a vial to his lips, drinks, and flings
it aside._)

_Ber._ (_Rallying._) Come, give it me--

_Gia._ Ha, ha! I drained it all!
There is the broken vial.

_Ber._ Is there no arm
To save me from the abyss?

_Gia._ No, villain, sink!
And take this cursed record of thy plot,

(_He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand,_)

And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at Th' infernal gate!

(_Bernardo reads, reels and falls._)

_Gia._ (_Looking on the body._) Poor miserable dust! This body now is honest as the best, The very best of earth, lie where it may. This mantle must conceal the thing from sight, For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shall Be here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the power To do this last stern act of justice. Thou Who called the child of Jairus from the dead, Assist a stricken father now to raise His sinless daughter from the bier of shame. And may her soul, unconscious of the deed, Forever walk the azure fields of heaven.

(_Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a
small golden crucifix in her hand._)

_Ros._ Dear father, in obedience, I have come--
But where's Bernardo?

_Gia._ Gone to watch the stars; To see old solitary Saturn whirl Like poor Ixion on his burning wheel-- He is our patron orb to-night, my child.

_Ros._ I do not know what strange experiment Thou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feel That He, in whose remembrance this was made

(_looking at the cross_)

Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts. Since vesper time--I know not how it was-- I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers.

_Gia._ Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven. Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine, And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest.

(_He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it
to his lips._)

_Ros._ Pray tell me, father, what is in the air?

_Gia._ See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark,
I'll drop a simple essence into each.

_Ros._ My sense is flooded with perfume!

_Gia._ Again.

_Ros._ My soul, asudden, thrills with such delight
It seems as it had won a birth of wings!

_Gia._ Behold, now when I throw these jewels in,
The glories of our art!

_Ros._ A cloud of hues As beautiful as morning fills the air; And every breath I draw comes freighted with Elysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist, In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room. The very walls are melting from my sight, And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead! And on that gentle breeze did we not hear The song of birds and silvery waterfalls? And walk we not on green and flowery ground? Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this, The ducal gardens are not half so fair! Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams, Let us forever make our dwelling here. Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemed The paradise of our first parents, filled With countless angels whose celestial light Thrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song. Look how the long and level landscape gleams, And with a gradual pace goes mellowing up Into the blue. The very ground we tread Seems flooded with the tender hue of heaven; An azure lawn is all about our feet, And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers, Like lovely lilies on a tranquil lake.

_Gia._ Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel ken Far down the shining pathway we have trod, And see behind us those enormous gates To which the world has given the name of Death; And note the least among yon knot of lights, And recognize your native orb, the earth! For we are spirits threading fields of space, Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars! But now, dear love, adieu--a flash from heaven-- A sudden glory in the silent air-- A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approach Of holier guides to take thee into keep. Behold them gliding down the azure hill Making the blue ambrosial with their light. Our paths are here divided. I must go Through other ways, by other forms attended.

LINES TO AN IDEAL.

BY ELIZABETH LYON LINSLEY.

I wandered on the lonely strand,
A setting sun shone brightly there,
And bathed in glory sea and land,
And streamed in beauty through the air!

A playful breeze the waters curled,
Touched their light waves and passed them by,
Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurled
Were waving on the sunset sky!

The bird had gone. The sun had set.
His beams still tipped the hills and trees,
And flung a rainbow radiance yet
On clouds reflected in the seas!

A distant boatman plied the oar,
All sparkling with its golden spray,
His voice came softened to the shore,
Then melted with the dying day!

And when the last bright lines on high
Departed as the twilight came,
A large star showed its lone, sweet eye
All margined with a cloud of flame!

The winds were hushed. Their latest breath
In soft, low murmurs died afar--
The rippling of the wave beneath
Showed dancing there that one bright star!

So fair a scene, so sweet an hour,
Were felt and passed. In stilly calm
They shed around me beauty's power,
Yet gave no peace, and brought no balm.

I was alone! I saw no eyes
With mine gaze on the twilight sea--
No heart returned my lonely sighs--
No lips breathed sympathy with me.

I was alone! I looked above.
That star seemed happy thus to lave
Its fairy light and glance of love
Deep in the bosom of the wave.

I gazed no more! The blinding tear
Rose from my heart, and dimmed my sight.
Had one dear voice then whispered near,
That scene how changed!--That heart how light!

My soul was swelling like the sea!
Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own,
That soul a mirror true to thee
On ev'ry wave thyself had shown!

MRS. PELBY SMITH'S SELECT PARTY.

BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.

"Mrs. Goldsborough's party is to-night, is it not?" said Mr. Pelby Smith to his wife; "are we going my dear?"

"_Apropos_ of parties," returned she, waiving the question; "I don't see how we are to get on any longer without giving one ourselves."

"Why so, my dear? We cannot afford to give a party, and that will be an apology all-sufficient to a woman of Cousin Sabina's sense."

"Cousin Sabina!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith; "as if I, or any one else, ever thought of going to the trouble of a party for a plain old maid, like cousin Sabina Incledon!"

"My dear, I wish you would not speak in that way of Cousin Sabina; she is an excellent woman, of superior mind, and manners to command respect in any society."

"That may be _your_ opinion, Mr. Smith," answered the lady tartly; "mine is that a quiet old maid, from somewhere far off in the country, and with an income of two or three hundred dollars a year, would not make much of a figure in _our_ society. At all events, I shan't make a trial of it."

"I thought you alluded to her visit as making it incumbent on us to give a party," said Mr. Smith meekly; "there is no other reason, I believe."

"You will allow me to have some judgment in such matters, Mr. Smith. I think it is absolutely necessary that we should, that is, if we wish to go to parties for the future. We have been going to them all our lives without giving any, and people will grow tired of inviting us."

"Then, my dear, why not make up our minds to stay at home. I would rather."

"But _I_ would not, Mr. Smith. I shall go to parties as long as possible. My duty to my children requires it."

Mr. Smith opened his eyes as wide as his timidity would let him.

"My duty to my children, I repeat," pursued she with energy; "they will have to be introduced to society."

"Not for seven or eight years yet, any of them," interposed Mr. Smith.

"Sooner or later," continued the lady; "and how is that to be done unless I keep the footing which I have attained--with trouble enough, as I only know, and without any thanks to you, Mr. Smith. If I give up parties, I may fall at once into the obscurity for which you have such a taste. People of fortune and distinction can voluntarily withdraw for a while, and then reappear with as much success as ever, but that is not the case with persons of our position."

"It is only the expense that I object to, my dear; my business is so limited that it is impossible for us to live in any other than a plain, quiet way. The cost of a party would be a serious inconvenience to me."

"The advantages will be of greater consequence than the sacrifices," returned the lady, softening as she saw her husband yielding; "the loss will soon be made up to you through an increase of friends. Party-giving people are always popular."

Mr. Smith saw that his wife was determined to carry her point, which was nothing new. He had learned to submit, and to submit in silence, so, after sitting moodily for a few minutes, he took up his hat to go to his place of business.

"I knew, my dear," said Mrs. Smith smoothly, "that you would soon see the matter in a proper light; and now about Mrs. Goldsborough's party. I shall lay out your things for you. I can go with some satisfaction now that I have a prospect of soon being on equal terms with my entertainers."

Mrs. Smith walked round her two small and by no means elegant rooms, reassuring herself as to the capabilities of her lamps, girandoles and candlesticks, for she had mentally gone through all her arrangements long before; the act of consulting her husband being, generally, her last step toward the undertaking of any important project. She was joined by the object of some of her recent remarks, Miss Sabina Incledon, a cousin of Mr. Smith's, who, until within a few days, had been a stranger to her. She was a plainly dressed person of middle age, with an agreeable though not striking countenance, and unobtrusive, lady-like manners.

"I am sorry you are not going to Mrs. Goldsborough's to-night, Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith; "I have no doubt she would have sent an invitation had she known I had a friend visiting me."

"Not improbable. I do not, however, feel much inclination just now to go to a party. Had it not been for that, I should have sent my card to Mrs. Goldsborough after my arrival. I met her at the springs last summer, and received much politeness from her."

"Mrs. Goldsborough is a very polite woman--very much disposed to be civil to every one," said Mrs. Smith; "by the bye," she added, "Pelby and I have it in contemplation to give a large party ourselves."

"Indeed? I thought you were not party-giving people; Cousin Pelby assured me so."

"And never would be if Pelby Smith had his own way. To be sure, we are not in circumstances to entertain much, conveniently, but for the sake of a firmer place in society, I am always willing to strain a point. As to Pelby, he has so little spirit that he would as soon be at the bottom of the social ladder as at the top. I can speak of it without impropriety to you, as you are his relation, not mine. He has been a perpetual drag and drawback upon me, but, notwithstanding, I have accomplished a great deal. Five or six years ago we were merely on speaking terms with the Goldsboroughs, and the Pendletons, and the Longacres, and the Van Pelts and that set, and now I visit most of them, and receive invitations to all their general parties. I have always felt ashamed of not having entertained them in return, and now I am resolved to do so, as a favorable opportunity offers of doing it advantageously. I mean the coming out of Julia Goldsborough, Mrs. Goldsborough's only daughter. It will be something to say that I have given her a party."

"Do the family expect the compliment of you?" asked Miss Incledon, looking at her in surprise; "I did not know that you were on such intimate terms."

Mrs. Smith smiled in conscious superiority. "Ah, Cousin Sabina!" said she, "you are very unsophisticated. Don't you know that a party goes off with much more _eclât_ for being associated with some name of importance. Now Julia Goldsborough, from her beauty and vivacity, and the fashion and fortune of her family, is to be the belle of the season, and a party got up for her must necessarily make a sensation. All her friends, and they are at the head of society, will attend on her account, if for nothing else, and everybody else will be glad to go where they do. Then the Pendletons and the Longacres and the Van Pelts, several of them, will give her parties--so it is understood--and it will be worth an effort to make mine one of the series."

A faint expression of sarcastic humor passed over the placid countenance of Miss Incledon, but she made no comment.

Mrs. Pelby Smith entered the brilliant rooms of Mrs. Goldsborough that night with an elated spirit, seeing in herself the future hostess of the fashionable throng there assembled. Instead of standing in a corner, listening with unctuous deference or sympathy to any who chanced to come against her, as was her wont, proffering her fan, or her essence-bottle, or in some quiet way ministering to their egotism, she now stepped freely forth upon the field of action, nodding and smiling at the young men to whom she might have been at some time introduced; whispering and jesting with some marked young lady, while she made an occasion to arrange her _berthe_ or her ringlets, and adding herself, as if by accident, to any trio or quartette of pre-eminent distinction. She had at length the anxiously desired opportunity to put out her feelers at Mrs. Goldsborough.

"What a lovely creature Julia has become, Mrs. Goldsborough!" she exclaimed; "it seems but a few months since she was a little fairy only _so_ high, and now she is so well grown and so commanding in her figure! and her manners, they are as pronounced and _distingué_ as if she were twenty-five; they appear the more remarkable for her sweet, youthful face. I have been watching her the whole evening, and seeing every one offering her their tribute, I have gotten quite into the spirit of it myself. I'm sure you will smile at me, for you well know that I am not at all in the habit of such things, but I really must give her a party. I have known her so long, almost since she could first run about, and I always loved the little creature so much! I feel as if I have almost a right to be proud of her myself. Have you any engagements for the beginning of next week? If not, unless you positively forbid it, I shall send out invitations at once."

"You are very kind, indeed, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Goldsborough, smiling cordially, for she was a fond mother, and also was full of courtesy and amiability; "it will be an unexpected compliment to Julia. She will be flattered that your partiality for her is as warm as ever. We have no engagements for the first of next week. The parties with which my friends will try to spoil Julia do not come on so soon."

Her scheme having been not unfavorably received, Mrs. Smith whispered it to one and another, until it was known to half the company before they dispersed that Miss Goldsborough was to be _fêted_ next by Mrs. Pelby Smith.

Our heroine ought to have overheard the conversation which took place at the late breakfast of Mrs. Goldsborough the following morning.

"You could hardly guess whom you have charmed into party intentions toward you, Julia," said Mrs. Goldsborough; "I suppose you have not heard? Mrs. Pelby Smith."

"Defend me from Mrs. Pelby Smith!" laughed Julia; "but are you in earnest, mamma?"

"Certainly, my dear; she told me last night that she intended to give you a party in the beginning of next week."

"That intolerable, toadying Mrs. Pelby Smith!" exclaimed young Frank Goldsborough; "I would not allow her to cover the iniquities of her ambition with my name, Julia, if I were you. Depend upon it, she has some sinister design in this thing."

"I agree with Frank," rejoined Miss Pendleton, Mrs. Goldsborough's sister; "such as elevating herself in society on your shoulders, Julia, or rather those of your family."

"Charity, charity! you know I don't like such remarks," interposed Mrs. Goldsborough, but with little show of severity; "we have no reason to decide that Mrs. Smith does not really mean a kindness. She always seemed very fond of Julia when a child."

"And so she would have appeared, mamma, of any other that might have happened to be a grandchild of General Pendleton and Judge Goldsborough. I had sense enough to understand her even then. She used to call me in on my way to school, to warm my hands, when they did not need it, and inquire after the health of my mother and grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles, and admire my clothes, and wish her little Jane was old enough to run to school with me, and flatter me on the beauty of my hair and eyes and complexion, in such a way that very few children would have been so stupid as not to have seen through it. Could you not have said something to discourage the new idea, ma'ma?"

"Not without rudeness, Julia, though, I confess, I would rather it could have been done. Even presuming that she is sincere in her professions of regard, I do not like the thought of a person in her circumstances going to what to her must be serious trouble and expense on our account. The easiest way to reconcile myself to it would be by believing with you all, that she has some personal motive in it."

At that same hour Mrs. Smith was immersed in her preliminary arrangements.

"I shall have to ask you to write some of the invitations, Cousin Sabina," said she to Miss Incledon; "I am not much in the habit of writing, even notes; and Pelby, who has not time to attend to it, says that you write a very pretty hand. Here are pen and paper to make out the list--I will give you the names. In the first place, there are all the Goldsboroughs and Pendletons, and Longacres, and Van Pelts--"

"You forget," interrupted Miss Incledon, "that it is necessary to name them individually."

"True, I had forgotten--I have so many things to think about. Beginning with the Goldsboroughs--Mrs., Miss, and Mr.; then General and Mrs. Pendleton, Miss Pendleton, Mr. and Mrs. John, Mr. and Mrs. Henry, and Mr. and Mrs. James Pendleton;" and so Mrs. Smith kept on in continuous nomenclature for a considerable time. It was only as she came down into the lower ranks of fashion, after a regular gradation, that she hesitated for a moment--and then her pauses grew longer and longer.

"Perhaps I can assist your memory, Cousin Sarah," said Miss Incledon; "I have seen several of your acquaintances, and have heard of a good many more; there is Mrs. Wills, with whom you were taking tea the evening of my arrival."

"I have reflected upon that, and conclude that I shall not ask Mrs. Wills," replied Mrs. Smith; "she is a plain person, and seldom goes to parties, which I can make a sufficient excuse for leaving her out, though, to be sure, she would come to mine, if I invited her; and to prevent her from being offended, I shall send for her a few days after to come socially to tea, with a few others of the same set. There will, of course, be plenty of refreshments left, and it will, therefore, be no additional expense."

"Then Mrs. Salisbury and her two daughters, who called yesterday."

"I believe not; they are not decidedly and exclusively of the first circle, though, as you seemed to consider them, quite superior women--very accomplished and agreeable. They have not much fortune, however, and have no connections here. On the whole, I do not see that any thing could be gained by inviting the Salisburys."

"I have not your neighbor, Mrs. Streeter down," observed Cousin Sabina.

"No; I don't see the necessity for having Mrs. Streeter; she is a good creature--very obliging when one needs a neighbor, in cases of sickness, or the like, but would be far from ornamental. I can have an excuse for omitting her in never having received an invitation from her--she does not give parties. She will be very well satisfied, I dare say, if I send her a basket of fragments afterward. You must understand, Cousin Sabina, that as this is my first party, I mean it to be very select."

"Then you will also, I presume, leave out Mrs. Brownell."

"By no means; I calculate a great deal on Mrs. Brownell. She has the greatest quantity of elegant china and cut-glass, which it will be necessary for me to borrow. My own supply is rather limited, and I must depend chiefly on my acquaintances. It was on that account that I set down the Greelys. They have the largest lot of silver forks and spoons of any family I know--owing, it is whispered, to their having, where they came from, kept a fashionable boarding-house. Also, you may put down Mrs. Crabbe."

"Mrs. Crabbe?--did I not hear you describe her as a very low person?"

"Peculiarly so in her manners--but what am I to do? I must have persons to assist me; and Mrs. Crabbe makes the most beautiful jellies and the most delicious Charlotte-Russe I ever tasted. She has a natural talent for all sorts of nice cookery, and with my little experience in it, she will be of the greatest service to me. It saves a great deal to make every thing except the confectionary at home; and I shall go at once and ask Mrs. Crabbe if she will prepare the materials for my fruit-cake, and mix it up."

"You have said nothing about your Aunt Tomkins, of whom Cousin Pelby has talked to me, and of the different members of her family--they are to have invitations, of course?" suggested Miss Incledon.

"No--that is--I shall attend to it myself--I mean you need not mind;" and Mrs. Smith hurried to the door, beginning to perceive something she would rather escape in the countenance and interrogatories of Cousin Sabina. "Bless me!" she exclaimed, turning back, "I almost forgot--and what a mistake it would have been! put down Miss Debby Coggins; I should never have been forgiven if I had neglected her. She has a great many oddities, but she is related to all the first families, and one must keep on her right side. Have you the name?--Miss Deborah Coggins."

We shall not follow Mrs. Smith into the turmoil of her preparations, which would have been much more wearisome and bewildering, from her inexperience in getting up a large entertainment, had it not been for the good judgment and quiet activity of Miss Incledon, and which the night of fruition at last terminated.

All was ready, even the lighting of the rooms, when Mrs. Smith, before commencing her own toilette, entered the apartment of her guest. Miss Incledon, who considered herself past the time of life for other than matronly decorations of the person, was laying out a handsome pelerine, and a tasteful cap, to wear with a rich, dark silk dress.

"My dear Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith, "do help me out of a difficulty; I have no one to remain on duty in the supper-room, and there certainly ought to be some one to sit there and see that nothing is disturbed--for there is a great quantity of silver there, mostly borrowed, and with so many strange servants about, I feel uneasy to leave it a moment."

"Are you not able to get some one for that service?" asked Miss Incledon.