Chapter VI (1)

“And now, mother, tell me all about the Evanses. Is my flame as foxy as ever? She must be quite a young lady. Heaven forgive me for not being thankful enough for all mercies in general, and for the particular one that I am not obliged to marry red hair.” Thus spoke the fortunate Wilson, the morning after his arrival from New Orleans, bringing the welcome news that his relative was dead, and that he was his heir.

“Don’t be too hasty, Sylvester,” said his mother. “Miss Evans has changed more than any one you ever saw. She is a perfect beauty, bating her freckles. Her hair is no more red than a chestnut. She is plump and round as an apple; she is white as snow, and her eyes are as pretty as possible.”

“Amen, mother! One would think you were her lover instead of your hopeful son. But I will see for myself. I shall not take your word or your bond for that girl’s beauty.”

And so Mr. Wilson, armed for conquest, presented himself before Miss Evans. She had never cared enough for him to be very glad to see him, but she received him politely and kindly, as was her nature. He was a very good-looking, stylish young man, and he talked well on common topics, and soon succeeded in interesting Fanny. He was quite unprepared, notwithstanding all his mother had said, for the beauty that had grown upon Fanny. He loved beauty just as he loved roast pig and canvas-backs—and he was smashed at once—Fanny had made an impression. He asked her to play and sing for her _cidevant_ teacher, and the impression was fixed.

Wilson was sure at the end of an hour that he should marry Fanny Evans; and Fanny thought him a very good-looking, interesting young man, and she rejoiced in his good fortune; their musical tastes formed a bond between them, and it soon seemed very natural and proper to Fanny that she saw young Wilson daily. She was sad, and singing diverted her. His voice was good, and they sung duets. He played finely, and this was very pleasant. She had become estranged from her cousin, and she wanted some company. Fanny had never been so unhappy since she first came to live with her cousin. Finally, Wilson offered himself to her. This was an event to Fanny entirely unexpected.

“Don’t speak of such a thing,” said she, earnestly. “Pray excuse me, Mr. Wilson,” and she went straight out of the room. When she reached her chamber, she felt very sorrowful, and, truth to tell, very sick. She had been worn down by labor and watching during Mr. Evans’s illness, and her sadness in being estranged from him. She had got nervous, and began, for the first time in her life, to have the _blues_. She almost persuaded herself that she was become a burden to her cousin, and that she ought to marry Wilson. She wept till she had a dreadful headache, and when the servant came to call her to make Mr. Evans’s tea, she was really too ill to go down—and with swollen eyes, red face, and dabbled and disarranged curls, she looked into the glass, and dared not present herself before her cousin.

“Tell Mr. Evans that I have a bad headache, and if he will excuse me, I will go early to bed. Make every thing very nice for him, Norah. Were his slippers warm when he came in?”

“I don’t know, Miss, but I will get his supper good”—and she went to carry Fanny’s excuse to Mr. Evans.

“Go back, Norah, quickly, and ask Miss Evans if I may come up.”

Fanny had wheeled her sofa to the fire, and had just buried her face in a velvet cushion to weep as long and as much as she wished. Mr. Evans, in his concern for her, had followed Norah, and stood outside the door.

“Tell him not to trouble himself to come up. I shall do very well as soon as I have slept.”

“If you had asked me to take the trouble to stay down stairs, I might have thought of it; but seeing I am here, it is no trouble to come; and you are so bright and cosy, suppose you let the girl bring the waiter up here and make my tea for me.”

Mr. Evans was quite sure that something beside sickness had happened to Fanny, and he intended to be confessor or doctor, as the case might be.

“Norah, bring Mr. Evans’s supper to my room,” said Fanny, more cheerfully than she would have thought possible a few minutes before. And she passed into her bed-room and bathed her face and her eyes, and arranged her hair, and came back to make tea for Mr. Evans very much improved. But she could not talk—she had fairly lost her tongue.

Mr. Evans seemed more unconstrained and more fully himself than since his unfortunate offer of himself to Fanny.

“Fanny,” said he, after the tea things were taken away, “I would like to ask you what is the matter, if I thought you would like to tell me. It is no common headache that is tormenting you; I would sooner guess it is a heartache.”

“And what if it is a heartache?” said Fanny.

“You mean to ask what I should have to do with the diseases of your heart. I tell you, Fanny, I am not as bad as you may think, or so big a fool either. For instance, though I love you a great deal better than Heaven, and would sooner have you for my wife than an angel, yet knowing that you can’t love an old codger like me, I want to see you happy with the man of your choice, and I tell you now, for the cure of your headache, or heartache, that you have my consent to marry Mr. Wilson.”

Fanny burst into so violent and uncontrolled a fit of weeping, that Mr. Evans was alarmed and puzzled.

“Speak to me, Fanny, tell me what is all this. I thought to give you great joy, and I only set you weeping. Tell me, what does all this mean?”

“Dear Cousin Charles,” said Fanny, “you have given me the greatest joy of my life.”

“Then you love Wilson, as I thought,” said Mr. Evans.

“No, no—not Wilson, but you, Cousin Charles; and you said you would rather have me for your wife than an angel.” And Fanny threw her arms around Charles Evans’s neck; and there is not a shadow of doubt that he would cheerfully have exchanged all the pleasures of his long bachelorate in a lump, for the kisses of the next five minutes.

They were a happy couple that evening; but Wilson’s prospects were worse damaged than his heart.

* * * * *

THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD.

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

Sweet is the tomb—the all-forgetting tomb—
The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide,
To harrow up the soul, or read a doom,
Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied.
Calm are its slumbers—never more shall pride,
Hatred or malice, wound the sleeping clay;
Wrong not the dead—they should be deified—
They lived and suffered, and have passed away;
Here be all feuds forgot—ye, too, shall have your day.

Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief,
Full of its Marsh-waters must be drained
E’en to the dregs—when ye will need relief
From those upon whose head your lips have rained,
Curses; when they who were by you disdained,
Shall offer in their mockery, to dry
The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained
Through the parched skin. Ah! then, in grief to fly
For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny.

Let the dead rest—if ye must “snarl and bite,”
Turn to the living—there your venom spill;
Put on Deception’s mask, then vent your spite,
Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill—
’Tis a sweet banquet—eat and drink your fill;
Ye can thrive well on malice—but forbear
To stir the ashes of the dead, your skill
Can never fan a glowing ember there,
At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair.

Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail
To think that ye shall be like them one day—
That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail,
Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play
Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray,
To feast upon your rottenness, your hair
Shall drip the sick’ning grave-damps, and the gray,
Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air,
Fill up your nostrils—then by the cold grave _forbear_!

Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form,
Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set
A mystic seal upon you; when the storm
Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet
Your brow; when, like the doom in Venice met,
The walls of your lone chamber seem to close
Upon you, crushed and bleeding, dying, yet
Never to die—from torments such as those,
Would you be free? Withhold—break not the dead’s repose.

* * * * *

FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA.

PARAPHRASE.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

A stalwart blind man trudging through the mud,
O’ertook a cripple; side by side they stood.
“Cripple, you’re stall’d,” cried Blinky, “in this clay.”
Cripple replied, “Can Blinky see his way?”
“Not a d—d inch,” the poor blind man replies,
“But mount my shoulders, boy, lend me your eyes;
Keep them wide open, let their light be mine,
Cling to my shoulders, and my legs are thine.
And with clear eyes, strong shanks and shoulders good
We need no more to travel through this mud.”

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

BY LEN.

A sigh steals down the smiling valley—a gentle sigh of breezes, wafting happiness over the face of nature, and at the sound from out their beds of earth, myriads of things of beauty wake into existence;—meadow and plain and hill-side glisten in fairest verdure—flowers fling their fragrance on the gale—stately trees wave their foliage to the passing wind—while streams beneath dance onward to the ocean—and the dream-like hum that fills the air and swells in chorus to the arch of heaven, tells of the blooming Spring—of the transcendent pleasures of Life.

What a glorious earth has man for a habitation! what scenes surround him to ennoble the soul—what examples to elevate and incite the mind to strive for the goal of Happiness. That goal, alas! how distant and hard to reach; thorns hedge the road the aspiring one would tread, and weeds spring rank and choking in the pathway, or often, when the seeming height is won, the eminence fades to a common level, and Happiness is as distant as ever! But the soul must toil, though success is but a vision—the mind must work, although its labors be fruitless; for there is a Higher power controlling the actions of man—guiding his impulses and passions, and girding him for the conflict around him and within him—the struggle that is ceaselessly waging—the Battle of Life!

How sweet is Fame! Even now, upon men’s tongues there dwells some name whose every syllable is a charm, thrilling to adoration. Here, a patriot spirit, whose fires have smouldered long beneath wrong and malice, rises superior to ills, and grasps—almost the consummation of his wishes; there, a warrior from the laureled field, receives the homage of a grateful people; or some philosopher, with potent wand, discloses to a wondering world a new discovery in Science. They stand aloft upon the pinnacle of Fortune, and eager crowds beneath echo their praises or envy their success; and upward still they gaze, blind to the rugged crags that lie between—blind to the slippery height they covet—blind to the thousands round them on the same great plain, breathless and bleeding from their vain attempts to climb the dazzling steep—or happy in an humbler sphere.

Ah! had they seen that lofty mind on the chill yesterday of Adversity, with naught but obstacles before him; who knew that Country was upon men’s lips only as a substitute for self, and yet heard his own efforts slandered as false and recreant, and whose high purposes had bent before the storm only to rise unbroken—they would not undergo the patriot’s trials, even for his rewards. The soldier’s hardships in the camp, with night’s cold shadows closing round him, and no pillow for his head save the still colder earth; or ’mid the battle’s carnage, or on the ensanguined field, strewn alike with friends and foes, would look not half so pleasant to their eyes as that exulting warrior; or had they watched the student through long years of vain research, poring o’er musty tomes till the stars paled before the light of day, with fevered brow and aching heart, filled with strong hopes that time still dashed to earth—though Time at last was destined to fulfill; the marvels wrought thus dearly, thus hardly given to the world, the car with wings of fire, the thought, borne as on the lightning’s shaft, the shadow that no longer vanishes, when won at such a cost, would lose their value, and the philosopher stand unenvied though pre-eminent.

Men judge too oft by outward show, the glitter hides the dross which lies beneath, the peasant would seek happiness in palaces, the rich, perchance, see pleasures ’mid the poor; all err, all causelessly despond, for place nor circumstance alone can make life happy; there is no lake with breast by winds unruffled, no sea by billows always unconvulsed—even so is it with man. How many noble minds are crushed beneath adversity, and pulses that ere-while warmed with a kindred glow to kindred energies, throb now to sorrow and bereavement? How many hearts that loved—loved, oh, how fondly—are doomed, alas! to live, and live alone? How many breathing beings toil and travail on to gain wherewith they may drag out existence—how many lots that look the brightest, are fraught with bitterest wo!

And still the strife goes on, still the throng heaves and swells tumultuously, as waves that surge against the rocks which bind them, and one unceasing current flows turbulently onward, bearing with it the joys and sorrows, the hopes and passions of a world—onward ever, to the trackless ocean of Eternity.

But fields are green and flowers are fair—then is no warfare on the hills, nor in the groves, nor on the plains; the elements break in fearful grandeur above; the seasons come and go—yet sunshine follows storms as day the night, and Winter yields to Spring. No murmur is heard, save that which trembles through the air, of rippling streams and stirring leaves, and songs of sweetest music; and the works of Nature stand forth in majestic harmony, unmoved by the strivings around them, regardless alike of the fears and longings, the griefs and tumults raging in the breasts of men—serene and placid, despite the contest, and at Peace, though amid the throes of The Battle of Life.

* * * * *

FIFTY SUGGESTIONS.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

(_Concluded from page 319._)

26.

The taste manifested by our Transcendental poets, _is_ to be treated “reverentially,” beyond doubt, as one of Mr. Emerson’s friends suggests—for the fact is, it is Taste on her death-bed—Taste kicking in _articulo mortis_.

27.

I should not say, of Taglioni, exactly that she dances, but that she laughs with her arms and legs, and that if she takes vengeance on her present oppressors, she will be amply justified by the _lex Talionis_.

28.

The world is infested, just now, by a new sect of philosophers, who have not yet suspected themselves of forming a sect, and who, consequently, have adopted no name. They are the _Believers in every thing Odd_. Their High Priest in the East, is Charles Fourier—in the West, Horace Greely; and high priests they are to some purpose. The only common bond among the sect, is Credulity:—let us call it Insanity at once, and be done with it. Ask any one of them _why_ he believes this or that, and, if he be conscientious, (ignorant people usually are,) he will make you very much such a reply as Talleyrand made when asked why he believed in the Bible. “I believe in it first,” said he, “because I am Bishop of Autun; and, secondly, _because I know nothing about it at all_.” What these philosophers call “argument,” is a way they have “_de nier ce qui est et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.”[2]

29.

The goddess Laverna, who is a head without a body, could not do better, perhaps, than make advances to “La Jeune France,” which, for some years to come at least, must otherwise remain a body without a head.

30.

Mr. A—— is frequently spoken of as “one of our most industrious writers;” and, in fact, when we consider how much he has written, we perceive, at once, that he _must_ have been industrious, or he could never (like an honest woman as he is) have so thoroughly succeeded in keeping himself from being “talked about.”

31.

H—— calls his verse a “poem,” very much as Francis the First bestowed the title, _mes déserts_, upon his snug little deer-park at Fontainebleau.

32.

K——, the publisher, trying to be critical, talks about books pretty much as a washerwoman would about Niagara falls or a poulterer about a phœnix.

33.

The ingenuity of critical malice would often be laughable but for the disgust, which, even in the most perverted spirits, injustice never fails to excite. A common _trick_ is that of decrying, impliedly, the higher, by insisting upon the lower, merits of an author. Macaulay, for example, deeply feeling how much critical acumen is enforced by cautious attention to the mere “rhetoric” which is its vehicle, has at length become the best of modern rhetoricians. His _brother_ reviewers—anonymous, of course, and likely to remain so forever—extol “the acumen of Carlyle, the analysis of Schlegel, _and_ the style of Macaulay.” Bancroft is a philosophical historian; but no amount of philosophy has yet taught him to despise a minute accuracy in point of fact. His _brother_ historians talk of “the grace of Prescott, the erudition of Gibbon, _and_ the pains-taking precision of Bancroft.” Tennyson, perceiving how vividly an imaginative effect is aided, now and then, by a certain quaintness judiciously introduced, brings this latter, at times, in support of his most glorious and most delicate imagination:—whereupon his _brother_ poets hasten to laud the imagination of Mr. Somebody, whom nobody imagined to have any, “_and_ the somewhat affected quaintness of Tennyson.”—Let the noblest poet add to his other excellences—if he dares—that of faultless versification and scrupulous attention to grammar. He is damned at once. His rivals have it in their power to discourse of “A. the true poet, _and_ B. the versifier and disciple of Lindley Murray.”

34.

That a cause leads to an effect, is scarcely more certain than that, so far as Morals are concerned, a repetition of effect tends to the generation of cause. Herein lies the principle of what we so vaguely term “Habit.”

35.

With the exception of Tennyson’s “Locksley Hall,” I have never read a poem combining so much of the fiercest passion with so much of the most delicate imagination, as the “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship” of Miss Barrett. I am forced to admit, however, that the latter work _is_ a palpable imitation of the former, which it surpasses in thesis as much as it falls below it in a certain calm energy, lustrous and indomitable—such as we might imagine in a broad river of molten gold.

36.

What has become of the inferior planet which Decuppis, about nine years ago, declared he saw traversing the disc of the sun?

37.

“Ignorance _is_ bliss”—but, that the bliss be real, the ignorance must be so profound as not to suspect itself ignorant. With this understanding, Boileau’s line may be read thus:

“Le plus fou _toujours_ est le plus satisfait,”

—“_toujours_” in place of “_souvent_.”

38.

Bryant and Street are both, essentially, descriptive poets; and descriptive poetry, even in its happiest manifestation, is _not_ of the highest order. But the distinction between Bryant and Street is very broad. While the former, in reproducing the sensible images of Nature, reproduces the sentiments with which he regards them, the latter gives us the images and nothing beyond. He never forces us to feel what we feel he must have felt.

39.

In lauding Beauty, Genius merely evinces a filial affection. To Genius Beauty gives life—reaping often a reward in Immortality.

40.

And this is the “American Drama” of ——! Well!—that “Conscience which makes cowards of us all” will permit me to say, in praise of the performance, only that it is not quite so bad as I expected it to be. But then I always expect too much.

41.

What we feel to be _Fancy_ will be found fanciful still, whatever be the theme which engages it. No _subject_ exalts it into Imagination. When Moore is termed “a fanciful poet,” the epithet is applied with precision. He _is_. He is fanciful in “Lalla Rookh,” and had he written the “Inferno,” in the “Inferno” he would have contrived to be still fanciful and nothing beyond.

42.

When we speak of “a suspicious man,” we may mean either one who suspects, or one to be suspected. Our language needs either the adjective “suspectful,” or the adjective “suspectable.”

43.

“To love,” says Spencer, “is

“To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To speed, to give, to want, to be undone.”

The philosophy, here, might be rendered more profound, by the mere omission of a comma. We all know the _willing_ blindness—the _voluntary_ madness of Love. We express this in thus punctuating the last line:

To speed, to give—_to want to be undone_.

It is a case, in short, where we gain point by omitting it.

44.

Miss Edgeworth seems to have had only an approximate comprehension of “Fashion,” for she says:

“If it was the fashion to burn me, and I at the stake, I hardly know ten persons of my acquaintance who would refuse to throw on a faggot.”

There are _many_ who, in such a case, would “refuse to throw on a faggot”—for fear of smothering out the fire.

45.

I am beginning to think with Horsely—that “the People have nothing to do with the laws but to obey them.”

46.

“It is not fair to review my book without reading it,” says Mr. M——, talking at the critics, and, as usual, expecting impossibilities. The man who is clever enough to _write_ such a work, is clever enough to read it, no doubt; but we should not look for so much talent in the world at large. Mr. M—— will not imagine that I mean to blame _him_. The book alone is in fault, after all. The fact is, that “_er lasst sich nicht lesen_”—it will not _permit_ itself to be read. Being a hobby of Mr. M——’s, and brimful of spirit, it will let nobody mount it but Mr. M——.

47.

It is only to teach his children Geography, that G—— wears a boot the picture of Italy upon the map.

48.

In his great Dictionary, Webster seems to have had an idea of being more English than the English—“_plus Arabe qu’en Arabie_.”[3]

49.

That there were once “seven wise men” is by no means, strictly speaking, an historical _fact_; and I am rather inclined to rank the idea among the Kabbala.

50.

Painting their faces to look like Macaulay, some of our critics manage to resemble him, at length, as a Massaccian does a Raffäellian Virgin; and, except that the former is feebler and thinner than the other—suggesting the idea of its being the ghost of the other—not one connoisseur in ten can perceive any difference. But then, unhappily, even the street lazzaroni can feel the distinction.

-----

[2] Nouvelle Héloise.

[3] Count Anthony Hamilton.

* * * * *

MAY LILLIE.

OR LOVE AND LEARNING.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

It was a most provoking thing that young Harry Warren should have fallen in love with pretty May Lillie—he simply a village school-master whom nobody knew—and she the only daughter of the richest and proudest man in the whole county of Erie, whom every body knew! It was not only very provoking, but it was also very unfortunate for the poor fellow, as he might as well have aspired to wed yon bright evening star, as to lead to the altar the daughter of Diogenes Lillie, Esq., Ex. M. C.

See the maliciousness of Fate! If May had been but the child of some poor widow or parson—or had Harry claimed descent from some lordly aristocrat, the course of true love might not have run so crooked. Leander swam the Hellespont to reach his love, breasting bravely the surging billows, which parting before him, bore him exultingly to the feet of Hero—but how shall Harry force the adamantine chains with which Mammon bars the way to happiness! Assist him ye gods of hapless lovers.

My hero was the son of a farmer, more rich in children than in acres, and who could only afford them in schooling, value received for a few bushels of wheat, rye, or potatoes.

Young Harry had no taste for agriculture. The plough furrowed his handsome countenance, and the harrow harrowed his soul. Neither did he fancy mechanics—he turned from the anvil, the carpenter’s bench, the awl, and the scissors, with equal repugnance. Books, books alone were his passion. For these all else were neglected, the cattle strayed loose in the fields, the pigs crept through to the garden, the wheat remained unshocked, and the grass uncut, while Harry under a tree lost himself amid the tattered leaves of an old book, which every breath of wind threatened to sweep far from him. This was a sore trial to his father, but after fruitlessly exhausting all his arguments to dissuade his son from the folly of “_larning_,” he finally gave it up, and left Harry unmolested to follow his bent. The clergyman of the village admiring the perseverance of the young farmer-boy, and wishing to encourage such laudable zeal, kindly volunteered to assist him in his studies, and with unwearied toil by night and by day, Harry Warren was finally prepared to enter college.

At the age of twenty-one he graduated honorably, and left the college walls, his head well-stored with knowledge—a light heart—a lighter purse, and a strong will to persevere in the path he had marked out for himself, a path which, after many crooked windings, was, as his sanguine imagination assured him, to lead him eventually on the high road to fame.

To put a little money in his pocket, and at the same time gain some leisure for study, he offered himself as a candidate for the school in the beautiful village of G——, some fifty miles distant from his native town. He was accepted, and entered upon the duties of his new office with hope and energy. And then—the very first thing he did was to fall in love! foolish fellow—instead of teaching the young idea to shoot—he suffered himself to be shot—through the sparkling roguish eyes of little May Lillie did Cupid aim his dart—_twang_—he was gone!

* * * * *

Diogenes Lillie, Esq., professed to be a very learned man, an immensely learned man, and his library accordingly occupied one whole wing of his large and costly mansion. No one far or near could boast of so many square feet of knowledge. He patronized the arts and sciences, and hinted at many wonderful inventions at work in his brain, which were in time to burst forth and astonish the world. He also courted the muses, and was convinced that should he once plume his flight to Parnassus, there would be an immense fluttering among all soaring poets, whom he should distance at once by his bold and flashing imagery.

Could the eyes of poor old Dominie Sampson have rested upon the countless volumes which like “Alps on Alps” arose to the lofty ceiling, would not his meagre, bony jaws have ushered in—“pro-di-gious!” for there was one compartment devoted to theology, another to geology, and spaces for all the _’ologies_—then there were divisions for astronomy, for botany, for history, for travels—there was the poet’s corner, and the niche of romance. There were books in French, and German, and Spanish, and Russian, and Italian, and a mausoleum for the dead languages. I cannot vouch that “one poor head could carry” all this, that the brain of the great Diogenes contained as many chambers as his library divisions—but it was a very pleasant thing for him to gaze up and down, and down and up, upon their costly gold-lettered backs! Then there were also busts, and statues, and globes, and blow-pipes, and barometers, and thermometers scattered around, and here in this hall of inspiration, devoted to the “sisters three and such branches of learning,” did Mr. Lillie spend the most of his invaluable time.

Now great wisdom is said to bestow upon its possessor a contempt for wealth proportionate, which, by the way, may be the reason why so many learned writers and men of genius have died in a garret. If so—there was no fear that the last breath of Diogenes Lillie, Esq., would be drawn in an attic, for he lost not sight of his gold in the depths of his wisdom, but so skillfully managed his financial concerns, that though apparently paying little heed to business, as he sat there ensconced amid his books and papers, the ball was kept constantly rolling and constantly accumulating.

Yet what militated most against the love of Harry Warren, he had resolved from the time when pretty May slipped her leading-strings, that she should be the wife of some great man wielding authority; and pray what virtue was there in the petty birch-twig, or the twelve inch ruler, which were the only symbols of authority the young school-master wielded!

“However, there is no need of my troubling myself upon that head yet!” would Mr. Lillie year after year say to himself—“May is but a child—it will be time enough years hence to pick out a husband for her.”

_Pick out a husband!_ just as if the bright eyes of May were not capable of selecting for themselves—or that the eyes of sixty could see for those of sixteen.

But there is in reality no need of Mr. Lillie’s troubling himself, for the deed is done, and the little gipsy May engaged in as pretty a flirtation, as ever spread the rosy light of love around the hearts of youth.

* * * * *

Let me exculpate my unfortunate hero from all attempts to win the affections of his beautiful pupil. On the contrary, it seems a mystery that his oddities and awkwardness should have awoke any other emotion than pity in the heart of May—for he was so terribly ungraceful in her presence—why if he merely spoke to her his voice was so low and tremulous, that she had really to approach her little head quite near to catch a word he said—and as for his scholarship, you would have thought him a dunce, so many egregrious blunders did he commit in hearing her recitations—and he could no more guide her little hand in making those pretty and delicate strokes which marked her copy-book, than he could fly to the moon. You would have been amazed that such a fine, handsome young fellow, could have made such a booby of himself!

However, never were scholars blessed with so indulgent a master, and his popularity rose in proportion, while as your lovers are for the most part but little given to the “flesh-pots of Egypt,” he was pronounced by all economical housewives upon whose hospitality he was semi-monthly thrown, to possess the most accommodating taste, and could dine from beef and cabbage, pork and parsnips, peas porridge, or mush and milk, with equal relish.

I am sorry to say, that at first May joined in the laugh with her mischievous school-mates at the oddities of the master, and contrived many little tricks to vex him. Yet if she raised her eyes a moment from her book, she was sure to encounter those of Harry fixed upon her, with an expression so mournful, yet so tender, as bathed her cheek with blushes, and her eyes with tears of contrition. Her frolicks therefore soon yielded to a more pensive mood. She could not tell why, but the thoughtless mirth of her companions vexed and annoyed her—she no longer joined in those idle pranks, which had for their object the ridicule of the master, but gave way to sudden fits of musing and abstraction. When she heard his footstep approaching, her heart beat audibly, and in her class she no longer raised her saucy eyes to _mis_construe her lesson, but scarcely lifted their drooping lids as she answered in faint tones the questions put to her.

In short, Love had conquered the merriest and most mischievous maiden that ever laughed at his wiles!

One day in early spring, ere the snow-drop or the crocus, had dared to lift their pretty heads above the snowy mantle in which old winter had so long kept them snug and warm, May placed in her bosom a bright and beautiful rose-bud. It was the first her little conservatory had yielded, and as she that morning for the first time discovered it peeping through the rich green leaves, she thought she had never seen any thing so fresh and beautiful. Carefully plucking it from the luxuriant branch, she bore off the fragrant trophy to exhibit to her young companions.

Well to be sure it was only a rose-bud—but as Harry descried it sitting so proudly upon its pure and lovely throne, something whispered that with that tiny rose his fate was linked—was it thornless, or should he wounded and complaining henceforth bid adieu to happiness!

May caught the glance of the master, and blushed and trembled just as if she perfectly comprehended what was passing through his mind, and as suddenly the little rose-bud was invested with new and tenfold value. She would fain have hid it next her heart from the careless gaze of her young associates, for she felt that it had now become a sacred thing which their touch would profane.

Suddenly, May bent her head over her desk, and shook her long raven curls over her blushing cheek, as she heard a well-known step behind her, and felt that the large eloquent eyes of the master were fixed upon her. But for the throbbing of her own little heart, she could have heard the rapid pulsation of his, while his breath almost stirred the beautiful ringlet which rested upon her bosom. Rapidly her little hand now moved over the slate, glancing to the right and left, tracing figure upon figure, as though its mistress had not a thought, but was occupied in deciphering the rules of Coleman. It was a most puzzling sum—never had she attempted one so difficult—in vain she erased—in vain began again. Of course it was all wrong, and so Harry, as in duty bound, took the pencil and sat down by her side to extricate her from her difficulties—as a school-master you know, there was no other way!

But, dear me—instead of looking upon the slate, his eyes never fell a bit lower than that little rose-bud—a pretty teacher, to be sure!

“_Ahem_—that is a beautiful rose, Miss May!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You—you are fond of flowers, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They are a favorite study of mine—are you much versed in the language of flowers, my—_ahem_—Miss May?”

“They always speak to me of God’s love and goodness,” replied May, as demurely as if she had been answering her minister.

“True, dear Miss May,” said Harry. “They are indeed, as the poet says—‘the smiles of angels’ blessing and cheering us on our earthly pilgrimage—but aside from this heavenly mission, the poet has also bestowed upon them another language:

“‘In eastern lands they talk in flowers,
And they tell in a garland their loves and cares,
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,
On its leaves a mystic language bears.’

“Is it so—do you believe this, May?”

May made no answer, but bent her head still lower over the book before her, and the little rose-bud trembled as though moved by some breath of summer.

“The—the rose, May,” continued Harry, “seems to have been ever a favorite and expressive flower of this mystic garland:

“‘The rose is the sign of joy and love,
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn.’”

There was a pause.

“May—May, will you give me the rose?”

May timidly raised her eyes to his—they were filled with tears.

“Will you, May—will you give me the rose?”

The next moment the little bud was in the hand of the transported Harry, accompanied with a look of such innocent, confiding love, as made his heart dance with rapture.

Was there ever in after life a moment of such pure and exquisite happiness as then filled the hearts of the lovers!

But the rose-bud, the poor rose-bud, bitterly did it rue the change from its lovely resting-place to the great hand of the school-master—besides coming very near being crushed to pieces between that and the dainty little fingers of May as she placed it therein!

Well, it must have been a puzzling sum indeed to keep the master so long at May Lillie’s desk! and taking advantage of his inattention, the mischievous scholars carried on a pretty little by-play of their own—there was tittering in corners, and whispering behind torn covers—and soft, soft tiptoeing from one seat to another, and little paper pellets flying like hail-stones from side to side. Ah, dear, happy children—there is no danger—you might knock the master’s head off, and he would never know it!

“Young ladies—children—I give you a holyday,” quoth Harry, rapping his desk with the dread ferule, insignia of his power.

“A holyday—_huzza—huzza_—a holyday!” shouted the girls and boys, rushing from the school-room.

But the older girls looked slyly at each other, and then at the blushing May.

“Look—look!” exclaimed half-a-dozen in a breath. “The master is walking home with May Lillie!”

* * * * *

Diogenes Lillie, Esq., sat in his study. Around him were gathered all those powerful incentives necessary to call forth that great masterly genius which lay hid somewhere in his brain—somewhere—from whence, though many times coaxed and flattered, it had as yet resolutely refused to stir.

Upon the table before him, bearing at each corner respectively a bust of Plato, of Shakspeare, Homer, and Milton, were pamphlets, reviews, folios, quartos and duodecimos, thickly strewn—but what was more to the purpose, there was drawn up close to the elbow of Mr. Lillie, a quire of hot-pressed letter-paper, with edges of gold—a silver standish, bearing the golden pen ingrafted in a feather of pearl, and the cerulean ink with which genius should indite the virgin page, whenever said genius should deign to issue from its dark hiding-place.

The lips of Diogenes were closely pressed together—his eyes upturned with a frenzied glare to the ceiling, and deep indentations, like the rind of a musk-melon, corrugated his brow.

Reader—he was conceiving.

Bringing down his clinched hand with a force which made old Homer nod, he exclaimed:

“I will write. Yes, I will write a poem—I will astonish the world—my talents shall no longer remain under a bushel, but shall go forth like the sword of Gideon to hew down all minor poets! Upon what theme shall I first spend my genius—let me consider,” (drawing the paper still nearer and dipping the golden pen into the flowing liquid,) “gold—the Age of Gold—the Golden Age—yes, ‘The Golden Age’ it shall be. My sublimity shall throw Milton into the shade,” (with a look at the blind bard)—“my glowing pictures of rural life shall startle the lovers of Homer,” (a bow to the god)—“my wit shall cut with the keen sarcasm of Shakspeare,” (looking glorious Will full in the face)—“while the _tout-ensemble_ shall form such a completeness of wisdom, as might honor even the head of a Plato!” (a triumphant glance at the old philosopher.)

And thus encouraged, the gold pen capered, and flashed, and flourished from side to side like a mad thing—pointing notes of admiration here, dotting and scratching there, and then diving deep into the sea of ink, plumed its pearly pinion for new and higher flights.

For three weeks did the poet bury himself in his library with dead and living authors.

And every morning he kissed his pretty May-flower as she tied on her little bonnet:

“There, there—go along child; be a good girl and obey the master.”

And then as she came to bid him good-night:

“There, there; go to bed, child, and don’t forget your lessons.”

Not she, bless her! Why she never forgot a single lesson the school-master taught her—she had every word by heart!

At length the Golden Age was ready to burst like a blazing star upon this dull coppery world, and was the most sublime thing, in the opinion of its author, that was ever written—and who, pray, could be a better judge!

Now Mr. Lillie having some conception of the ignorance of the critics, having once (although it is a great secret,) sent a huge MSS. to the Harpers, which was pronounced “_stuff_”—it might have been very good stuff notwithstanding—resolved that ere he essayed the publishers, he would give his unique poem in all its unfledged beauty to his native village. It was a capital idea. It should be delivered before the Lyceum to an astonished audience. He could then have some faint idea perhaps of the applause which awaited its appearance in 12mo., calf and gilt.

One evening he dispatched a hasty note to our young school-master, and requested to see him immediately upon business of a private nature.

Heavens how poor Harry trembled as he perused this terrible summons! All was discovered then—Mr. Lillie knew of his presumptuous love, and had sent to banish him forever from the presence of May. And then our little heroine—into what an agony of doubt and apprehension was she thrown, as she read the billet which Harry contrived to slip into her hand.

At the hour appointed, with an unsteady hand, Harry knocked at the door of Mr. Lillie’s library. The great Diogenes himself appeared at the threshhold—and imagine the surprise of our hero to be greeted with:

“Come in, come in, my dear sir—I am most happy to see you,” (shaking him warmly by the hand.) “Sit down, Mr. Warren,” (motioning to a seat at the table of the gods.) “It has long been my wish to know you better than my very limited time would allow—my pursuits” (glancing complacently around him,) “are a great bar to social intercourse. The muses, Mr. Warren, the muses I find are very jealous ladies—do you cultivate their acquaintance? No? Ah, I am surprised, for I assure you I have formed a very high opinion of your talents.”

Harry bowed, and said something about honor, &c., &c.

“My daughter, Mr. Warren,” (ah! now it is coming! thought poor Harry,) “my daughter, I am inclined to believe, has made great proficiency under your instruction—you have my thanks for initiating her into some of the more abstruse sciences which she never before attended to.”

Did Harry dream, or was the wrath of Mr. Lillie veiled under the most cutting irony! He could only bow, and smile “a ghastly smile.”

“And speaking of the Muses, my dear young sir,” continued Mr. Lillie, “I have just been amusing myself with a trifle—a mere flight of fancy—if you have a few moments leisure now, I will read you a few passages.”

Of course our hero considered himself favored—and accordingly with true bombastic style Mr. Lillie read several stanzas from the closely written pages of his poem. Never had Harry listened to such trash—he could hardly credit his senses that any man should be so inflated with vanity as to deem it even passable!

“Ah, it strikes you I see,” said Mr. Lillie. “I knew it would. Yes, I see it hits your vein exactly—this convinces me that our tastes are congenial.”

Again Harry bowed—not daring to trust his voice, he was forced to nod his head continually like a Chinese mandarin in a toy-shop.

“Mr. Warren,” proceeded the author, wheeling his chair round and regarding our hero with great benignity, “I have imbibed a great regard for you, and mean to make your fortune—to smooth your path to eminence. Yes, I like you, and am convinced there is no one more worthy than yourself to receive——”

Harry started—his face radiant with hope, he bent eagerly forward to catch the rest of the sentence.

“But, by the way, my young friend, this conversation must be strictly confidential.”

“Certainly, my dear sir!” exclaimed Harry, almost breathless.

“Yes, Mr. Warren, there is something about you which pleases me, and therefore I am about to confer upon you a most precious gift—to bestow upon you my—ah, can’t you guess what it is?” smiling archly.

“O, my dear sir,” said Harry, seizing his hand, “if I might dare to hope!”

“Yes, Mr. Warren, I am about to give you my—poem!”

“Your poem!”

“My poem.”

“Your poem!”

“Yes, my poem—that is, the reputation of the thing.”

Harry started up and paced the room as if pursued by all the furies.

“Ah, I thought I should surprise you,” cried Mr. Lillie. “Come, sit down again. I said I would make your fortune, and I will. Now this poem, Mr. Warren, you shall have the honor of delivering before the Lyceum as your own—think of that—as your own production.”

Poor Harry was struck aghast. “But, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I can never consent to such a gross imposition!”

“I honor you the more for your delicacy young man,” replied the poet; “but banish it—there is no need of it between friends, we perfectly understand each other you know—you shall deliver this poem.” (“The Lord deliver me!” mentally prayed Harry.) “Listeners will applaud—copies will be solicited—your fame will reach the city—Morris and Willis will rank you among their favorite young poets—the——”

“But, Mr. Lillie, why not deliver this poem yourself—why not wear your own laurels?” interrupted Harry.

“_Ahem_—Mr. Warren, I am averse to popularity—notoriety of any kind I detest—I prefer to quaff stealthily at the fount of Helicon, and tread with felted footsteps the Parnassian hill—stop, that’s a new idea, I’ll note it. So long as I have the mental satisfaction of knowing the _poem is mine_, what matters it whether you or I have the reputation! Say no more—you accept my proposition of course.”

“Mr. Lillie—”

“Not a word, my dear sir—I will take care that you are invited to deliver the next Lyceum lecture—two weeks hence remember. That gives you ample time to study the poem and conceive my meaning. Come here every evening—you shall have my assistance. I will not detain you longer—good-night. You will find May somewhere—in the drawing-room most probably; she will be glad to see you, for I dare say she is puzzling her little head about something which you can explain. Good-night.”

This latter clause sufficed to check all further opposition from Harry, for the moment at least, and with rapid steps he now sought the drawing-room.

“Dear Harry!” cried May, springing toward him as he entered, and looking up in his face as if to read there the stern mandate which was to separate them forever.

“Dearest May, do not tremble thus,” replied Harry, leading her to a seat; “believe me you have no cause.”

“Ah—does he then approve of our love!” exclaimed May, her sweet young face illumined with hope.

“Your father has been kind, my dear girl, and that he does not even suspect our love I am convinced, or he would have been less so. His kindness, however, if it may be called so,” (and the lip of Harry curled doubtingly,) “has placed me in a most awkward predicament. Listen, dear May, and help me if you can.”

He then as briefly as possible related the conversation he had just held with her father, and the strange proposition made him. No wonder he felt provoked at the merry laugh with which the little maiden closed his rueful communication.

“Confess now, Harry, you deem papa’s poem most execrable stuff!” she said, looking him archly in the face.

“Dear May, you know I—”

“Confess, confess Harry—no equivocation!” cried May, shaking her little finger.

“Well, May, I will be honest then—you know, dear one, I would not for worlds wound your feelings, but really I must confess I never listened to more senseless jargon!”

“That’s excellent—the more absurd the better,” said May, laughing; “and you will deliver it, Harry.”

“May!” exclaimed her lover reproachfully, “_you_ surely cannot ask me to make myself ridiculous!”

“_Hem_—do you love me, Harry?”

“Can you doubt, it dearest May?”

“Then if you love me, as Hamlet says, ‘speak the speech I pray you.’ No doubt it will be hissed—so much the better—you will be laughed at—better still—”

“May, May!” cried her lover, turning away from her, “if you loved me you would not say this!”

“Ah—not if it gains papa’s consent to our union!”

“That indeed—but, dearest May, to become a laughing-stock—to have the finger of derision pointed at one—to feel the lash of the critic, and—”

“To call little May your own!” added the coaxing gipsy.

Who could resist such an appeal from such a pair of rosy lips? or unrelenting behold the mute eloquence of those beautiful eyes! Not Harry; no, nor any other young lover I am sure.

From that evening, dear reader, only imagine my unlucky hero imprisoned hour after hour with the learned author, declaiming that—“infernal poem,” (I quote Harry’s own words.) Do you not pity him?

But then—the stolen half hour below, assisting little May in her lessons—do you not envy him!

In the meantime Mr. Lillie had not been idle. He had forwarded letters to some of the most influential men of the neighboring towns, inviting them to attend the next Lyceum, where as he informed them, a young author, a poet, was to make his _début_ before their intelligent community. In confidence he assured them they would be astonished at the depth and power of his genius. He had himself looked over the poem, and although he would not wish to forestall their admiration, thus much he would say, that he had never read such a production!

* * * * *

The eventful evening arrived, and from every turnpike and cross-road people came flocking in to listen to the young author—some because of the favor of Mr. Lillie, others to compliment their favorite—the school-master.

Escorted by the great and learned Diogenes Lillie, Esq., and a few of the leading members, Harry was conducted to the hall, and seated within the inclosure of the platform.

To depict his feelings would be impossible—he knew he was about to make himself ridiculous, and was tempted more than once to turn his back and quit the scene of his approaching disgrace. Notwithstanding the tempting reward he had in view, the alternative was a hard one—but his eye turned to a distant corner of the hall where the sweet face of May smiled upon him, and her fair hand waved encouragement. He wavered no longer.

Resolving to meet his fate like a hero, Harry now arose, and after a few preliminaries introduced—“The Golden Age.”

The two first stanza elicited a general smile from the audience, the third and fourth exerted a different influence—influenza became universal, to judge from the coughing and _hem-ming_! Between the fifth and sixth, many persons left the house, and as Harry with the energy of despair drew near the close of the first canto, the hissing and hooting of boys outside and in the building was almost deafening, while one of the committee arose and advised the orator to sit down!

With the self-satisfaction of a martyr he was preparing to do so, when his eye suddenly fell upon the _author_, whom he detected at a glance to be the most active in the war of ridicule which was waging against him. Rage for the moment overcame his discretion. Hurling the manuscript upon the floor, he sprang from the desk, made one leap down the steps, and rushed upon his deceitful patron!

“Do you dare to laugh at me!” he exclaimed, pale with anger, “do you dare to utter a word, you—you who are yourself the—”

A little hand was on his arm, and a soft voice whispered:

“Harry, dear Harry, come away.” And obeying the gentle mandate our hero suffered himself to be led from the scene of his mortification.

“Poor fellow!” cried Mr. Lillie, recovering from the alarm of Harry’s onset, “poor fellow, he is almost beside himself I see—well, it is pitiful trash after all, and I fear I gave him too much encouragement, my friendship got the better of my judgment—yet his delivery is the worst—why I am not sure gentlemen but his ranting and mouthing would render even Shakspeare ridiculous. The poem _reads_ well—depend upon it gentlemen there is genius after all where that poem came from.”

When Mr. Lillie reached home he found Harry awaiting him, storming and raving to and fro in the library like a madman. Rushing upon the great Diogenes he seized him by the collar: